“Hello?”
Emma turned to the male voice.
A man stood there. He looked to be in his fifties and wore a button-up shirt, jeans, and a pair of work boots that were well worn.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Emma smiled and walked toward him. “You must be the foreman.”
He shook her hand when she presented it. “I am. Raul.”
“Emma Rutledge.”
His eyes lit up and he started to shuffle his feet.
“Relax, please.”
“No one said anyone was coming today.”
“Likely because they don’t know I’m here. My mother is at the house. She was showing me around.”
His gaze skirted around her. “Is there a problem?”
“No. I’m . . .” What was she doing? “Can I ask you a few things?”
Raul shifted from one foot to the other. “Sure.”
Emma tapped her sunglasses against her palm. “How long have you worked here?”
“Twenty years.”
“You have a family?”
He nodded. “Four boys, two girls.” He was smiling. “My oldest is about to finish high school. My wife stays home with them.”
“You stayed on after my father bought the place . . . why?”
Raul blinked a few times. “I know the grapes. Jobs like this aren’t available every day.”
Of course. “Forgive me, but I’m not familiar with this property. What can you tell me about the vines?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with variety.”
“We grow zinfandel, Sangiovese, a few acres dedicated to pinot grigio, and the rest are cabernet sauvignon.”
That would explain the different vats in the cellar.
“And R&R comes in and harvests?”
Raul shook his head. “I bring in people and we take the grapes wherever we’re told to.”
“Not always R&R’s production center?”
“The last couple of years . . . yes.”
Maybe it took that long for the harvest to meet R&R standards. “Have there been any problems with disease or insects?”
Raul stood back. “None at all.”
“Why did the previous owners sell? Do you know?”
Raul ran his fingers through his hair. “They were struggling. Production became an expense they couldn’t justify. They cut back the watering. Sold off equipment and eventually put the place on the market.”
“Why were they struggling?”
Raul shuffled his feet. “Their son was sick.”
“Oh . . .” She wasn’t about to ask for more on that subject. Emma turned around and took in the space once more.
“Miss Rutledge?”
“Yes?”
“Do I need to worry about my job?”
Emma blew out a breath. “No. Not that I know of.” What could she tell him . . . that if her mother could convince her father to sell her the place, then Emma was going to be Raul’s new boss? And what would happen if Raul said that to whoever he communicated with at R&R? “I’m simply curious about the property.”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Emma reached her hand out again, giving him no choice but to shake it. “Thank you, Raul. I hope to see you again.”
“Have a nice day.”
Emma left the cellar and went back into the Temecula sun.
She could do this . . . all she needed was her father to get on board.
CHAPTER FOUR
Florence, Italy
Where the Renaissance began and still lived and breathed.
It had been too long.
Gio had spent what he called a summer in the city here when he was thirteen. It wasn’t the entire summer, and it wasn’t exactly in the city. But his parents had shipped him off to visit his grandfather for six weeks.
At thirteen, Gio wanted nothing to do with leaving his friends in San Diego and going somewhere where he didn’t know anyone his age.
Yet somehow, after less than two days, Giovanni D’Angelo found himself beside first cousins, second cousins . . . their friends, neighbors. The Italian he spoke at home sounded a bit clunky when he arrived, and smooth when he left.
The home his grandfather Lorenzo lived in sat just above the Piazzale Michelangelo that overlooked the city. The home had come from Gio’s great-grandparents, and his great-great-grandparents. And while it was family homes and villas that dotted the landscape right next to the city, if you traveled only a few miles away, the hillsides were layered in vineyards.
It was Tuscany. And if there was a word that described the region better than any other, it was wine.
Thirteen-year-old Giovanni had sampled wine on more than one occasion. He was Italian, after all. But it wasn’t the taste of wine at the time that made him fall in love with the long rows of grapes growing in the fields. No. It was the quiet of the fields. The peace of the home on the edge of a vineyard that came to life with the family inside. The way that family came together for a meal that included the fruit of their land.
Gio grew up in a four-story home that housed the family restaurant on the ground floor. As a child, he and his siblings and parents lived on the second floor. The third was guest quarters for family when they visited. And the fourth was a small space used mainly for storage.
When his older brother married, the third floor became his, and the guests were moved to the top floor.
And now . . . Gio lived on that top story with a terrace that overlooked San Diego. Not a bad deal, if he was honest. But not what he wanted.
Tuscany, and the impression of that one summer he spent with his nonno, lived inside his soul.
Yes, Gio worked in the family restaurant, but he didn’t cook. Well, not like his brother and mama. He did, however, know wine. He studied wine. Became a sommelier, which admittedly did very little for the family business. But Gio loved everything about what created the bottled and fermented fruit on the table.
The smile on his face as the taxi drove up to his grandfather’s home was felt deep in his core.
Lorenzo opened the door the moment the cab pulled up to the house.
“Giovanni!”
Lorenzo walked over, kissed one cheek, then the next, and rocked back on his heels. “So good to see you here again.”
They’d just seen each other for Luca’s wedding.
Unfortunately, Lorenzo wasn’t well enough to travel for Chloe’s, which quickly followed. Gio wasn’t surprised to see the added fatigue on his nonno’s face, or the slowing of his step that he’d noticed the last time he’d visited San Diego.
“It’s good to be back,” Gio said.
The taxi driver pulled Gio’s duffel bag from the back of the car and set it to the side.
Gio thanked him in Italian.
When his grandfather reached for Gio’s bag, Gio beat him to it. “I’ve got it.”
With a wink, the older man stood tall and walked toward the front door of his home.
“How is your mother?”
“She’s well. Said to give you a hug.”
Lorenzo smiled as they made it into the house. “I’m so proud of her.”
Gio smiled. “She knows it.”
A simple nod finished that conversation. “So . . . you’re here for a tour of Tuscany.”