The Vineyard at Painted Moon - Susan Mallery Page 0,15
family over the holidays,” Barbara told her. “I’m not sure. I was thinking small, but now I’m leaning toward ostentatious.”
“You should,” Mackenzie told her. “You’re so very much in love. Everyone can see it.”
Barbara’s expression softened. “What a lovely thing to say. Thank you.”
Lori walked in with five folders in her hand. Mackenzie didn’t bother waiting for Barbara’s pointed look. She rose and excused herself.
“I’ll be home right after,” Rhys said, taking the folder from his sister and opening it.
She nodded and waited to see if he would look up from the family’s monthly financial report, but he didn’t.
“Close the door behind you, Mackenzie,” Barbara called.
She did as requested, then retraced her steps to the first floor. As she stepped outside, she calculated how many of those meetings had taken place since she and Rhys had gotten married.
And it was just family. Mackenzie had never attended a single meeting, nor had Jaguar, Four’s husband. Nor Kyle, when he and Stephanie had been married.
She selected a golf cart and drove past the tasting room and onto the private road that led to the compound. Vineyards stretched out for as far as the eye could see. The sight of clusters of hard green fruit filled her with anticipation. In a few short months, the grapes would turn color and ripen, and then they would be harvested. An intoxicating scent would linger over the area, sweet with promise of what was to be.
As she approached the compound of four houses in a loose circle, she paused to collect the mail, then drove toward the house she shared with Rhys. In the distance, she saw Jaguar outside playing with his kids.
Overhead the sky was a perfect blue. The temperature had hit ninety, but it would cool off at night. She hit a button on her key chain, and a golf-cart-size garage door rose slowly, allowing her to zip inside.
The house was still and cool. After taking a glass from a cupboard, she filled it with water and ice, then opened the refrigerator to check what was for dinner.
A baking dish held chicken with sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts. Next to that was a salad. On the counter she found a three-by-five card with heating instructions and a peach pie.
The four families shared the services of a professional chef. Chef Betsy came in five days a week. Dinners were left daily, along with the next day’s lunch.
Mackenzie turned over the card and saw the next day she would be eating a shaved roast beef and arugula wrap with asiago cheese and a horseradish dressing for lunch. She put the card on the counter and took her water with her as she headed upstairs.
Like many of those who worked outside, she showered at the end of the day. As she tossed her clothes into the hamper and pinned up her hair to avoid the spray, she told herself she was really lucky. She had a pretty amazing life. A husband, a beautiful house, family and friends, a job she loved. Even someone else to do most of the cooking. She was truly blessed, in every way possible. As for those times when she found herself wondering if maybe there was something else out there—well, she should just suck it up and get over herself. Nothing could be better than what she had.
five
Stephanie opened the closet by the front door and pulled the rolled decorative flag out of the corner. As she opened the front door, she gave the pole a little shake to unfurl the flag, then stepped onto the porch and slid the pole into place. A light breeze caught the fabric, causing the print of the giant cookie to ripple slightly.
In addition to the six dozen cookies she’d baked for Carson to take with him, she’d made four dozen more for the family. A few years ago, Mackenzie had started the tradition of putting out a flag whenever she baked cookies. Avery and Carson had gone running to grab a few and bring them home. Now that Zeus, Galaxy and Eternity were big enough to roam the compound, they watched for the cookie flag, as well.
Stephanie went back inside and carried two disposable containers up to her son’s room.
Carson’s large suitcase was ready to go. His carry-on backpack stood open on the desk. Her son was stretched out on his bed, his gaze locked on his tablet.
“I made you cookies for the trip,” she said. “And the first few days of camp.”