Two hours passed before voices outside pulled me away from the paperwork my assistant in L.A. had sent over. I may have delegated most of the day-to-day tasks to others, but the big decisions still lay with me. It was my signature required on contracts.
More and more, I thought about selling the development company that bore my name, but I'd built the business from the ground up, and I wasn't ready to say goodbye to it. Perhaps at the back of my mind was the thought I would pass it to my children one day. They could choose between life on the vineyard or corporate America.
I went to the window. Juliet was in the kitchen garden with Eileen, the two of them crouched over something in the herb bed. Eileen was pointing at something low to the ground. Juliet nodded, reached out, and touched whatever it was, then sat back on her heels and said something that made Eileen laugh out loud.
For longer than I should, I stood at the window and watched them. Eileen was not a woman who warmed to people quickly. Juliet appeared to be the exception.
I returned to my desk as my phone buzzed with an incoming message from Scott. The woman from Chicago had agreed to talk, and he was handling the arrangements. It was good news. If she was willing to go on record, we might have enough to move against Kane. I typed a quick reply and set the phone down.
The next item on my morning's agenda was one I looked forward to, a report on the current state of the winery. The cabernet yield was down slightly from last year, but I'd expected that. The sugar levels were good, and the fermentation was progressing well, so things were going in the right direction.
Ramon had flagged a section of the south-facing vines that needed work before winter, and I made a note to walk it with him later in the week.
By noon, I was done with the most pressing tasks on my list. Something was cooking downstairs, and the smell of it had been drifting up for the past half hour. Shutting down my laptop, I pushed back from the desk and went to find out what the source of the delicious aroma was.
When I got to the kitchen, Juliet was at the stove, her back to me, stirring something that smelled extraordinary. Eileen was at the table with a cup of tea, watching her with quiet approval.
"What is that?" I asked.
Juliet turned. Her t-shirt was damp at the front as if she'd spilled something and tried to wipe it off.
"Bouillabaisse," she said. "I found some fish in the refrigerator. I hope that's okay."
"More than okay." I pulled out a chair and sat down. "Where did you learn to make bouillabaisse?"
"Paris." She turned back to the stove. "I spent a summer there when I was younger. My mother thought I was at a language school." She paused. "I was for about a week."
Eileen raised an eyebrow at me over her teacup.
"Where were you the rest of the time?" I asked.
"In a kitchen in the seventh arrondissement," Juliet said, "learning French cuisine from a very bad-tempered chef named Michel. He told me on the first day that I had no talent, and by the end of the summer, he was trying to convince me to stay."
"And did you consider it?" Eileen asked. "Staying?"
"For about five minutes." Juliet stirred the pot and tasted it, reaching for the salt. "Then I realized my mother would come to Paris and drag me home by my hair. Even the chance to train with Michel wasn't worth the fuss she would kick up."
She became quiet for a moment, adjusting the heat under the pot. She tasted it again, frowned slightly, reached for something on the shelf above the stove.
"What are you adding?" Eileen asked.
"Saffron. Just a little more." Juliet replaced the lid. "It needs another ten minutes."
She turned and leaned against the counter, arms folded.
"Can we do anything to help?" I asked.
Juliet nodded. "You could set the table and maybe find some bread."
While Eileen fetched the silverware and laid it out, I went to the pantry and found a sourdough loaf my aunt had picked up at the farmer's market in Oakridge. Though she dabbled in breadmaking herself, she bought this every time she went to town, claiming she could never come close to replicating its perfect balance between a hard crust and pillowy interior. Then I grabbed a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge.
"Right," Juliet said. "I hope you're hungry." She ladled generous helpings of the bouillabaisse into three bowls. "Sit down, both of you."
Juliet set a bowl in front of each of us and took her seat. I poured the wine and tore off a piece of bread. The afternoon sun had shifted around to the west side of the house, and the kitchen was warm and bright.
After the first mouthful of the delicate broth, I set my spoon down.
"This is exceptional." I meant what I said. My aunt was a great cook, but she tended to stick to fairly simple recipes. They weren't layered with the same complex flavors as this.
