Michael's Father

As Blake watched, Cori made a beeline for the steep, sweeping staircase without slowing to take in the bronze and burgundy opulence that still impressed Blake. Of course, she’d grown up in this house and probably took the mix of antique furnishings, original artwork and oriental carpets for granted.

Blake realized she meant to climb the steps in those neck-breaking high heels while holding the kid. So he followed her up the stairs to make sure she wouldn’t fall. Then he had to knock on Sophia’s door for Cori and open it, as well. His mother was undoubtedly praising his manners in heaven.

Blake felt more like the butler—one more reason why he hadn’t called her.

“Mama,” Cori said in a heart-wrenching whisper as she swept past him.

Sophia smiled brilliantly, her expression lighting up the room, and making Blake believe for just a moment that she wasn’t terminally ill, losing a second battle with breast cancer.

Not stopping to put down her son, Cori rushed to her mother’s side despite her heels sinking into the thick taupe carpet. She hung on to the boy as if he were her lifeline.

Blake had once thought he could fill that role. Resolutely, he tugged the door closed, shutting away the scene, and his memories.

“I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE.” Mama’s voice came out in a breathy whisper as she patted the edge of the bed in invitation.

Trying her best to bury her unsettled emotions toward Blake, Cori sat on the rose-patterned brocade bedspread, carefully watching her mother for any sign of pain the jostling might cause. When she didn’t see any, Cori lifted Michael onto her lap so that he could see his grandmother. She took her mother’s thin hand and gave it a tender squeeze. Mama looked terrible, with no luster to her once dark hair, and eyes that were sluggish. Her pale pink satin nightgown was the brightest thing about her appearance.

“You remember Grandma, don’t you, Michael?”

Michael nodded and tucked his head under Cori’s chin.

“Well…” Cori floundered for something to say. She’d stayed in touch with her mother, but only by telephone and over the occasional dinner when Mama came to Los Angeles. They usually filled the time exchanging news and avoiding the issue of Michael’s parentage. Idle chitchat seemed inappropriate now. She glanced around the room, noting the same rose curtains, pine paneling and Queen Anne furniture. Other than a plastic water pitcher, cup and straw on the bedside table, nothing seemed to have changed in the room except her mother’s health.

To keep the conversation from lagging, Cori fell back on good manners. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.” Her mother seemed content just to look at the two of them.

Cori bobbed her head nervously. “You look good. You’ve got color in your cheeks,” she lied. Her mother’s complexion was as white as a lily.

“Maria did my makeup this morning, since you were coming, but she’s no good with hair.” Mama raised a weak hand and touched the thin, gray hair on her head. Cori remembered when it had gleamed as black as night. Now everything about her mother seemed dull.

“I can pull it up, if you like,” Cori offered thickly, uncomfortable when faced with the reality of her mother’s illness. Blake’s doubts about her returned and echoed in her head.

Am I strong enough to help her? The tasks ahead of her were overwhelming. Could she help her mother die and still be a good mom? Cover myriad duties her job required? Be near Blake without letting him know she still loved him?

“Not now. I just want to look at you.” Mama’s dark eyes were large in her pinched face. “Stand up so I can see your dress.”

Cori tried to set Michael down on the floor, but he clung to her leg. She bent to tuck his Digimon T-shirt over the ketchup stain on his denim shorts, wishing she’d remembered to change his shirt as she’d planned before coming upstairs. Her mother hadn’t seen Michael that often, and Cori wanted him to make a good impression.

“Wonderful cut,” Mama murmured, looking first at Cori’s shoes, then at Michael clutching her leg. “What an unusual accessory that little angel is.”

“He’s beautiful.” Cori tousled Michael’s straight brown hair. “A little shy, maybe.”

“Uh-huh,” her mother agreed. “How long are you here?”

“Awhile.” Cori sank back onto the bed and took her mother’s hand.

Mama smiled weakly. “Me, too.”

BLAKE SHUT HIMSELF OUT of the Messina mansion, letting his feet put physical distance between himself and Cori. But thoughts of his old love lingered.

He’d met Salvatore Messina’s granddaughter that first summer he’d worked at Messina Vineyards. Blake and his half sister, Jennifer, had just moved into the house at the back of the property and Blake was struggling to meet the needs of a new, demanding employer. Two years after his mother and stepfather died in a car accident, Blake had worked his way through a few corporate farming jobs. With half a degree and no chip on his shoulder—he couldn’t afford one with a younger sister to care for—Blake had done well. Still, he hadn’t felt good enough for Mr. Messina’s granddaughter. She was the Sonoma County equivalent of royalty.

Blake rounded a bend in the drive and paused, looking out across the successive rows of vines. He imagined that instead of bare wood, the canes were thick with leaves shading clusters of purple grapes, as they had been when he’d first met Cori. The scene painted a rich backdrop to a younger Cori Sinclair, home from college and a nuisance, following him around the vineyard, telling him what he did wrong, showing up in the darndest places—like down by the Russian River in the barest of bikinis.

He’d told Cori to get lost. He’d warned her to stay away from him. After all, she was his employer’s granddaughter. But Cori just laughed and flashed him that dazzling smile of hers, as if he could never hurt her feelings, as if she knew they were destined to be together. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t been so vibrant. Cori’s dark, Italian complexion combined with soft brown eyes and long, wavy blond hair often drew glances. At only five foot four, she’d had the sleek proportions of a model several inches taller. But it was Cori’s bubbly personality that kept Blake’s attention, because Blake had given up on enjoying life after his mother and stepfather died.

Blake sighed, opening the floodgates to more memories.

The summer progressed and things intensified as he and Cori became friends teetering on the edge of something more. Blake lived with the unexpected daily pain of seeing Cori go out with those spoiled rich kids in their foreign sports cars to all those soirees, wine tastings and balls. All dressed up in her fancy clothes, ears and slender neck decked out in expensive jewelry even though she was only a kid—barely nineteen—looking like a delicious piece of eye candy. It hurt to see her go, especially when Cori admitted that she’d rather stay home with him.

As those summer days passed, Blake grew more frustrated because he knew what those rich boys had in mind when they took Cori out. Despite Blake’s best intentions, he’d struggled with the same forbidden desire for Cori Sinclair that he knew the rich kids did. But Blake had two things stopping him from doing anything about his feelings—Salvatore Messina and the need to provide for Jennifer. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. Blake was sure it would take wild horses to get him to touch Cori Sinclair.

In the end, it had taken much less than that.

Blake shook his head, stopping himself from reliving that memory. It was bad enough that Cori still invaded his dreams. He couldn’t have her hovering in his thoughts during the day.

Rather than veer deeper into the vineyards on his rounds, Blake walked farther down the driveway in the dappled shade provided by the oak trees lining the drive. Out of habit, he scanned the neat rows of grapevines as he passed, looking for the impending bud break that signaled spring had arrived in the vineyard, when a new set of duties would face Blake. At this time of year, the grapevines stood bare, unadorned by the heavy foliage that sheltered grape clusters from the sun in early summer.

Not ten steps later, Blake’s thoughts returned to Cori.

The optimistic, naive Cori wasn’t in evidence today. Neither was her heart-stopping smile. This Cori Sinclair was tougher, undoubtedly hardened because the son of a bitch who got her pregnant hadn’t been honorable enough to marry her. He knew Cori. She wouldn’t choose to be an unwed mother.

The image of Cori leaning against her car in the driveway returned. She’d cut her hair so that it fell in tousled, golden waves around her face and shoulders. Having a baby had transformed her sleek frame into a curvy figure. Cori was a knockout in that red dress. It was short enough to make her legs look long, particularly when she’d leaned into the car to pick up the kid. And when the hem had hiked up in front, well…

Blake frowned. Not only was Cori off-limits, then and now, but she’d made it abundantly clear one night, years ago, that Blake wasn’t good enough for her.

The school bus rumbled into the drive of Messina Vineyards, and a moment later, Jennifer stepped off. Fleetingly, Blake wondered if he’d been thinking about Cori to avoid thinking about the problems he was having raising his sister, or the helplessness he suffered when he thought about Sophia dying.

Jennifer looked like any normal almost thirteen-year-old in blue jeans, an Old Navy T-shirt and bulky leather shoes, her long brown hair lifting gently on the breeze. Blake was glad to see her. Glad they had each other. Glad of the choices he’d made to keep them together.

Then Jen opened her mouth.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t need to be picked up at the bus.” Her steps changed to the swagger of a soon-to-be woman and her expression turned sullen.

Blake sighed. “I wanted some company,” he said, realizing it was true. Sophia was having one of her better days, which made the thought of losing her that much harder to bear.

“Huh.”

Jen’s code for “leave me alone.” They headed back to the main house, carefully walking on opposite sides of the road, careful to keep their thoughts to themselves. Blake longed for the days when Jen had slipped her hand into his, chattering freely about her day.

“How’s Sophia?”

Blake read the anxiety Jennifer tried to hide in her voice and felt sorry for her. Sophia Sinclair was like a grandmother to Jennifer, inviting her to fancy dinners, opening the big house to her when Blake traveled for the winery. It was hard enough for a girl to lose her parents when she was four. Why did the only other woman Jen had bonded with have to die early, as well?

“It’s a good day.” Blake wished he could tell her Sophia was getting better. “You’re doing your homework with her, right?”

“Don’t I always?”