Moonlight and Roses. Jackie Braun

“I…no.”

      “Come on. Isn’t that what driven is? Half obsession, half commitment?”

      He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to put him on the defensive, but he felt the need to explain himself. “I want to make a superior product. I want to prove—” He broke off abruptly. He wanted to prove to his father, to Phillip, come to that, to Mira, that his ideas had merit, that he had worth.

      “What do you want to prove?”

      “Nothing.”

      “You know what I want? I want another Judgment in Paris this time with Michigan wines, specifically Medallion wines, taking top honors,” she said, referring to the 1976 blind tasting of California wines by French judges in which they won in every category against French wines.

      “You aim high.”

      “Anything wrong with that?” she asked.

      “Not a thing.”

      Zack started the engine. They arrived at her home barely a minute later. Thanks to moonlight and clever landscape lighting, he was able to admire the architecture inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright, with its wealth of rectangular windows and geometric motifs.

      “I’ve got to tell you, this is a great house.” Zack switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys.

      “Dad liked it.”

      “But not you?” he asked.

      “It’s…big.”

      Something about the way she said it made him think the word was synonymous for lonely.

      “It has seven bedrooms,” she was saying. “My housekeeper is livid. My house only had three.”

      “I’m not following you.”

      “I owned a house on the water, a three-bedroom bungalow with an incredible view of the bay. I sold it and moved in here after…after I inherited the place. I don’t really need all of this space.” She blew out a breath. “But it’s mine now.”

      “I like the way it takes advantage of its setting.” The lower level and a three-car garage protruded from the side of a gently sloped hill. Rocky, terraced flowerbeds lit with small hanging lanterns angled sharply up to a wide, L-shaped porch that was braced with intermittently spaced square columns. “I bet these gardens are something in the summer.”

      “My dad’s doing. He had a real green thumb, whether it was with grapes or herbs or black-eyed Susans.”

      That made twice she’d mentioned Frank. This time, Zack heard the sorrow in her voice. He envied the closeness they’d obviously enjoyed, even if he didn’t envy her grief. Before he could think of something suitable to say, though, she was opening her door and getting out of the car.

      He followed her up the steps to the porch.

      “This is a Craftsman, right?” He’d always been a fan of that style of architecture with its solid look and angular lines.

      “Yes. My dad had it built the year we moved here from the Detroit area.”

      “It’s a very masculine design,” he said.

      “I manage to like it, anyway,” she remarked dryly.

      “It suits you.”

      “Oh?”

      “No offense,” he said quickly. “It’s just that you’re not, well, you’re not a…”

      “A what?” she asked.

      He cleared his throat. “A frilly sort. And neither is the house.”

      “You only say that because you haven’t been inside yet.”

      “Pardon?”

      “You’ll see.”

      Jaye opened the front door, ushered him inside, and Zack understood exactly what she’d meant.

      Beyond the foyer he could see into the formal dining room. Busy floral wallpaper and a cabbage-rose area rug obscured the dark plank flooring and high wood baseboards. Not that either design element had much of a chance to shine in a room that had been stuffed with so much furniture. In addition to a mahogany sideboard and matching server, a massive curved-leg table stood surrounded by a dozen ornately carved, high-back chairs.

      “The decor is very…unexpected,” he managed when he recovered the power of speech.

      “Unexpected? I call it hideous.”

      He let out a discreet sigh of relief. “I was trying to be tactful.”

      “No need. I’m not the one responsible for cluttering up the house’s clean lines with all of these spindly legged antiques. I detest the stuff.” She sloughed off her coat and tossed it over the scrolled arm of the English mahogany hall chair for emphasis.

      “So, the entire place is decorated this way?” Zack hung his on the brass coatrack that stood next to the chair.

      “Every room except the kitchen. Margaret wasn’t much of a cook.”

      “You know, with the right furniture, this house would be a real showplace.” He offered it as a casual observation even as an idea formed and excitement bubbled beneath the surface of his calm facade.

      “Yeah, well, my stuff is in storage at the moment. Once I sell off all of Margaret’s flea-market finds and auction-house antiques, the place will be decorated in a style more suited to its contemporary look.”

      “So you plan to continue living here?” he inquired. “I thought perhaps you would sell it since you don’t need all the room.”

      “I’d like to sell, but I can’t really bring myself to do it. It’s so close to Medallion. It wouldn’t be right to have someone else living here and enjoying the view.”

      He made a little humming noise as he processed her response. It wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear, but he was relieved it wasn’t an outright no. He glanced toward the stairs. “And you said it has seven bedrooms?”

      “Actually, eight. Margaret turned one into a showroom for her dolls. She collects the kind that have eyes that open and close. Thankfully, she took all 212 of them with her when she left. The things gave me the creeps.” Jaye shuddered.

      Zack was only half listening. It just kept getting better and better. Jaye’s house was perfect, absolutely perfect, for his plans to add a sumptuous, spa-style bed and breakfast to the winery.

      He’d tried to convince his family to do something similar with the century-old mansion that had belonged to his great-grandparents. The massive Italian Renaissance–style structure at the southern edge of the vineyard had sat empty for the better part of three decades. It was in need of major repairs and renovations to make it habitable. With a little more investment, though, Zack saw it as a profitable venture. When he pitched the idea of an inn to his father and cousin, though, they’d shot it down quickly.

      “We’re winemakers, Zack, not innkeepers,” his father had said.

      Phillip had stood at Ross Holland’s side, the positioning apropos. The two men always seemed to be in synch, while Zack felt out of step.

      “Why are you constantly trying to push Holland Farms in directions that distract from our product?” Phillip had asked.

      Zack didn’t see the addition of an inn as a distraction. He saw it as a complement, and a necessary one as competition grew fiercer for space on store shelves and in restaurant wine cellars.

      One way or another, Medallion would have an inn, but he didn’t want to cut into the vineyard’s prime acreage to build one. He wouldn’t have to if he could convince Jaye to sell. That realization had him frowning.

      “Have you lost your appetite?” she asked.

      Zack cleared his throat and reined in his thoughts.