I raise my chin in acknowledgement, but I can tell my brother isn’t done yet. “What else?”
“We still have a few other loose ends to tie up.” Armani looks away and clears his throat. “Including the Abbotts.”
My shoulders tense. “Leave them to me.”
“But we were gonna write that off with the rest of the—”
“I said I’ll take care of it.” I slice my brother a look, silencing him. “You can handle the rest, but keep the Abbott debt out of the deal with the Brunos. I’m dealing with the Abbotts myself.”
Our father’s gone. I’m in charge now.
This is one account no one else is going to touch.
1
Frankie
Napa Valley.Gosh, it’s good to be home.
Gentle hills roll around me as I drink in the sights from the back seat of the town car, the distant rows of grapevines lush and green against a lemon drop and tangerine sky. The three years I’ve been gone have flown by, and now that I’m in the welcoming arms of my hometown, it seems almost impossible to believe I’d ever left. My time in Tuscany had been crucial to the future success of our family winery, and I’m glad that I went—I’d go again in a heartbeat—but now I’m ready to get my fill of my family and my home.
Olivia and Charlotte have been texting nonstop since I landed in Oakland, asking for my ETA and sending endless celebratory and heart-shaped emojis. Though my sisters flew out to Italy to visit me a few years ago, I can’t wait to see them again. Livvie turned eighteen while I was away, and Charlie had run off and eloped. Thank goodness for social media so I could keep up with them. Life really does go on when you’re not around, and I clung to every Insta picture they dropped to help me feel like I was still a part of their journeys.
The landscape changes gently as we take the familiar route to our winery. My face is close to the window, my breath fogging the glass. Napa is amazingly similar to Italy—the ordered rows of vines, the commanding vistas, even the architecture of some of the homes are similar—but there’s something about Napa that’s completely its own. Maybe it’s the unique blend of sprawling estates and down-home mom-and-pop places.
The flash of a red and yellow sign up ahead catches my eye and I ask the driver to slow down. The Alvarez fruit stand has been here as long as I can remember, but as we approach, I find it’s very different from when I left.
“Can you pull over, please? I’ll just be a few minutes. You can keep the meter running.”
“No need,” the driver says with a smile. “I’m happy to take a break and get a bite to eat here. Twenty minutes enough time for you?”
“Yes, thank you!”
The car is barely stopped as I open my door and slip out.
Beneath my feet, the hard packed dirt is familiar, along with the sweet and earthy scent of fresh produce. The stand used to consist of a few tables inside an open-face, three-walled shed. Now, it’s been replaced with a much larger enclosure, a pavilion with pink and orange bougainvillea trellising up the poles. I see heaps of fruits and vegetables on display, a cluster of picnic tables, even a gazebo off to the side. A pebble walkway invites guests to wander as they enjoy their treats, while overflowing pots of geraniums and fuchsia hang from tall shepherd’s hooks around the property.
My chest swells as I spot a familiar figure inside the stand. The woman turns as if she knows I’m here, and calls to me before I can beat her to it.
“Frankie Abbott, back from Italy!”
Delores Alvarez comes toward me with open arms, wrapping me in her comforting embrace and giving me the kind of squeeze that used to crush the wind out of me when I was small. I always loved it, though. I still love it now. She was one of my childhood heroes.
“Hi, Mrs. Alvarez.”
She holds me at arms’ length and gives me a sly smile and a once-over. “Oh, Frankie. Tuscany suited you. Look at that tan skin and that sun-kissed blonde hair. So pretty. Even more than usual.”
Heat flares in my cheeks the way it does whenever someone compliments me. “Thank you. I love what you’ve done with the place! When did all this happen?”
“Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”
She shows me the pavilion and the gazebo, and then we wander through the fruit stand to the back room. Nostalgia hits me as I enter. The building may have been expanded, but this room is exactly the same. Shelves piled high with carefully labeled boxes. Produce crates stacked in the corner. Signs on silver metal stakes set against the wall. The air is heavy with the scents of cinnamon horchata, fresh strawberries, and citrus.
“Sit, Frankie, sit.” Mrs. Alvarez waves to the same café table and set of chairs I sat at as a child. I spent many happy afternoon hours in this back room, assembling boxes of produce, making fruit cups with chili pepper, lime juice, and sea salt, and learning the ins and outs of running a thriving business.
As a longtime family friend, Delores always had time for me when my father didn’t, and never once complained when he’d drop me off while he went to run errands. I loved the hustle and bustle of customers lining up to buy groceries or grab a homemade treat. I learned how to interact with customers, how to be charming and unafraid to interact with the public. The hard work and tight margins of running a family business didn’t get past me, either. I took it all to heart and I have Delores to thank for the businesswoman I am today.
One who hopes it’s not too late to turn my family’s winery around.
