2
BRYN
Dust engulfs the windshield, and my beacon is the running lights of the SUV in front of me. After passing a large etched-stone sign that reads Dunford, we turn left onto a narrow part-gravel, mostly dirt road, the main driveway of the property we’re about to tour. My car rocks and rumbles on the uneven terrain, turning my Mini Cooper into the Grizzly, the wooden roller coaster at Santa Clara’s Great America. The steering wheel and stick shift become dual purpose, doubling as my oh-shit handles. As we wind our way up a mountain, banked by leafy, large bushes, I grit my teeth and try not to think about getting a flat tire so far away from home.
“I think . . . if you lease here . . . you’ll need to trade in Cooper.” My sister’s voice shakes. Victoria is gripping the actual oh-shit handle above her passenger door with both hands, and the look on her face is one of pure amusement. “We’re not in San Francisco anymore. You’ll need a car with real tires, suspension, and storage for when you have to lug things back and forth from the garden store or for whatever else you have to do out here.”
I let go of the stick shift and pat the top of the dashboard. “Shh. Don’t you listen to her, Coop.”
Vic snickers. “I swear, you are only nice to this car, ate.”
I roll my eyes at her attempt to kiss my ass by calling me big sister in Tagalog. “Because he doesn’t ever talk back. Unlike someone I know.”
She sticks out her tongue at me. Though Vic is a few years younger, and I’m almost to the dreaded big three-oh, whenever we’re together, we’re ten and fifteen again, using our hairbrushes as swords.
“How are you going to expand your blog if you can’t handle a little bit of off-roading?” I yell above the noise of the rocks hitting the underside of my car. My sister’s been beating the streets and reviewing every casual gourmet restaurant from the Bay Area up to Sacramento for her foodie blog, and she wants to broaden her scope.
“I think my completed Junior Ranger booklets prove I’m not above off-roading. It’s this tin can you’re driving that won’t cut it.”
Cooper’s rear bounces up, and for the first time ever, I hit my head on the ceiling and yelp. And now, hearing my sister’s cackles, it’s my turn to stick my tongue out and to flip her off with my trademark minibird—my pinky—to accentuate the point.
“You know what’s way more amazing than that bump knocking some sense into you, ate? That cheesy shirt you have on.”
I growl then, though I refuse to take my eyes off the road to remotely acknowledge that my shirt is hideous and tacky. In my previously drenched state, I hastily picked out the first medium T-shirt on the rack, wanting to get the hell out of the store and past the humiliation and irritation of having coffee dumped on me. On one of the most important days in my life, on the short walk from my car to Rocío Alonzo’s real estate office to let her know we’ve arrived. By a guy coming full speed around the corner with an extra-large drink in a flimsy cup. Why? Why me?
The highlighter-pink shirt has the words I’m a Gold Rush Princess printed on the front with a glittery silver crown around the letter O. God help me. “Stupid jerk,” I spit out.
“Aw, it was an accident.”
“I don’t give a damn. That was a new shirt.”
“No. It was from a used-clothing store.”
“Vintage, Vic. Vintage-clothing store, which means it cannot be replaced.”
“Um . . . it was a plain white button-down.”
There she goes again, being the ever-so-positive person. It’s like when our mother gave birth to us she bestowed upon me all the realism and sass of tequila, and to Vic the idealism and the sweetness of lemonade.
“I’m lucky I didn’t get burned.”
“But you didn’t, and it was a quick change at Rocío’s office. Not like she cares; she almost gave you her shirt. You saying yes to this place will make her freaking year.”
We take a left at a set of overgrown lavender bushes, onto a flat area of land, enough for three cars to park side by side. The red brake lights glow as the SUV in front of us slows, parking in the furthermost space, its nose facing toward a row of boulders, at the edge of what I can tell is an overlook. As I park Cooper on the left of the SUV, my thoughts travel back to the coffee-cup guy. He was tall, built, and broad. Scruffy, hair fluffy all around. But what stood out most were his eyes. They were hazel, clear, with gold flecks. They pricked me with curiosity, with heat. They rendered me speechless.
That is, speechless for an additional reason besides being soaked by black coffee.
The guy also knew where the closest clothing shop was. He comfortably chatted up the T-shirt shop owner, which meant he was a Golden townie, and potentially a future neighbor. Ugh. Not exactly the best way to start with a would-be local customer, if things go well today.
If.
The slam of the SUV’s car door resets my thoughts, and I turn to Vic. She mirrors my feelings with a determined, focused look and a swift nod. I turn off the engine and fly out of my car in all my pink princess glory. Because today is the day.
Today is the day I change my life.
Unlike the inside of the car, with its artificial new-car smell, the outside is refreshing with scents of grass and flowers carried by the light breeze. Only a mile from town but higher in elevation, it’s measurably cooler here.
And it’s green. Everywhere.
“Wow,” is all I can say, because my mouth can’t form the right words to express how spectacular it is. It makes the drive up forgettable. The partial view of Golden below is right out of a postcard, the city seemingly nestled in the plush green of the forest. The red and black tops of buildings and the town hall’s steeple seem to have been painted by an artist’s brush. It’s every bit as beautiful as the real estate website advertised, enhanced even more by the added textures of dirt under my shoes and the crisp Sierra Nevada air against my cheeks.
“Welcome to Dunford Vineyard.” Rocío meets us at the hood of her SUV, fiddling with the keys in her hand. “Isn’t the view of the town beautiful? You’ll get an even better one from the deck of the home. We’re facing west, and the sunsets are amazing.”
“I can put chairs out here. A pergola.” I survey the view and take a panoramic photo with my phone. “What do you think, Vic?”
“This is so romantic.”
“Not romantic. Culinary retreats aren’t for romance. They’re for self-care. To rejuvenate, touch base with one’s spiritual side.”
“Coming from the most type-A person I know? Sure.” She laughs, following Rocío on a path that goes around a bend. Unlike most real estate agents in San Francisco, Rocío is in sensible shoes and jeans, and for good reason. The walk is on an incline, the stones uneven, organic and spectacular with random shades of gray, red, and gold.
I’ve been at it for months, have visited a slew of potential spots for my future business, and while the beginning of every tour had filled me with so much hope, no place had kept my attention.
Except for this one. This site has me taking in every detail: a purposely wild garden that gives off an intoxicating scent, the calming sound of water from the twinkling ribbonlike stream in the distance, handsome wrought iron benches lining the path, and a working three-tier fountain.
I was so focused on the journey that I wasn’t paying attention to what was up ahead until Rocío says, “The house also has a gorgeous view of the vineyard, and toward the east, of the Sierra Nevada.” She points to the right, where beyond the tops of trees are the jutting peaks of mountains. “And here we are. Lavenderhill.”
Now standing in front of the home, I’m caught in the house’s allure. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. My voice chokes as I say, “That’s . . . gorgeous.”
“This home was built over fifty years ago, designed by a midcentury architect from New Mexico. The late Mr. Dunford wanted something unassuming that would blend into the environment, but had all the modern touches. He was a big fan of Frank Lloyd Wright, and this house is inspired by Fallingwater.”
“I’ve been to Fallingwater.” Victoria comes to my side. “And I totally see it. The cascading balconies, how it looks like it’s part of the existing landscape. Except this house is all wood. Fallingwater was made of stone, concrete, steel, and glass.”
“Exactly. I’m so glad you can appreciate it. It’s really quite impressive. The exterior is a sustainable siding, so it requires minimal maintenance, though it looks much like wood.” Rocío turns the lock on the wooden door, inlaid with a rope design and grand like the bar at True North, the restaurant I’ve managed the last several years. She leads us through the entrance. Above hangs a sign etched with the name Lavenderhill. “Seven thousand square feet. Six bedrooms, seven and a half bathrooms, a full gourmet kitchen, basement storage, two living areas, and a wraparound porch. There’s a second house—nine hundred square feet, with two small bedrooms, one bath—just behind this property that you could use as a separate dwelling. It’s also hooked up to water and electricity, has a working kitchen, but has only been used for storage and will need to be updated. Do you mind taking off your shoes? Mr. Dunford—Mitchell—who runs the property now is trying to keep everything as nice as possible while it’s being shown.”
“Oh yeah, sure. That’s the status quo at our house.” I untie my low boot. “We even have house shoes.”
“They’re called tsinelas.” Vic steps out of her flats.
“The word is almost the same in Spanish.” Rocío smiles. “It’s kind of cool how Tagalog is so close to it.”
“Don’t let us fool you. We’re not exactly fluent.” I line my boots up next to Vic’s shoes. “Though we know our curse words. Required learning.”
Rocío points at my feet, at Hello Kitty looking up at me. “Supercute socks.”
“Thanks.”
Vic brushes past me. “And they match that cool shirt of yours.”
“Shut it.”
We meet Rocío in the open-concept kitchen, and I gape at the professional equipment, the industrial-size refrigerator. Deep double stainless steel sinks and a large island. The pièce de résistance? The western view of Golden through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“This also opens.” Rocío unlocks and opens one window—which is actually a door that folds into the panel next to it—and nature’s sounds filter in through the kitchen like its own white noise. My body’s drawn to the threshold and view, and the moment my feet cross over to the deck, my decision’s been made. It’s accompanied by an emotion—nostalgia for a promise I made once. And triumph, because this house and property fulfill the wish list on my business plan that everyone said I could never find.
Except. “What are the terms of the lease?”
“It’s a five-year lease that covers the parking area marked by the lavender bushes, this home and the one out back, the front and back plots, and the nearest fruit orchard. I say that because if you continue higher up that gravel road, there is another home, which is currently occupied by Mr. Dunford. It’s called Mountainridge, and it’s adjacent to the vineyards.” She leads me to the large kitchen window above the sink. “You can see it from here, but otherwise, you’ll find this area private and perfect for your purpose.”
The exterior of Mountainridge is like a barn, with red sides and a tin roof, large square windows, and an oversize front door. Situated higher on the mountain, it seems to tower over Lavenderhill. Grapevines warp in rows of green between strips of brown around it. “You’re not lying—I can see their living room from here.”
“I suppose you can.” She squints. “But you’d have to really look.”
Still, my instincts tell me this could be a good or bad thing depending on how involved this Mitchell Dunford is. I gnaw on my lip. “I’m not so keen about having the landlord right on the property.”
“It will be good when you need something fixed.” Vic runs a hand down the granite island. “Is he a nice guy?”
“They, actually,” Rocío answers. “This property is managed by the three Dunford brothers. Mitchell moved in a couple of weeks ago and took over. He’s in the Army.”
“He’s a soldier.” I flash my sister a look. Something doesn’t sound right. “My cousin’s a soldier, so we know he’s got to move at some point. Will ownership switch if this Dunford has to move?”
“Mr. Dunford transferred into the Army Reserve mid-May, so for the most part, he’s here to stay. And you’re right about the support, Vic. He’ll be available for anything that’s not part of your normal wear and tear or your own doing. Otherwise, he intends to step out of your way.”
“He won’t mind if we turn this place into a retreat? It means customers, construction, and renovations. Since I have to retrofit the kitchen to add another range, maybe extend the island, revive the garden, will there be an option to renew after the five years?”
“This was their family home, but Mr. Dunford knows there will be a greater chance to lease if he offers it commercially, and he says he’s flexible about any renovations as long as they’re within your set property lines. There will be the option to renew, and as it is, this area is already zoned for a business because of the vineyard. It’s move-in ready, essentially.”
She places the stapled flyer in my hand. I flip through glossy photos of every room and bathroom with updated amenities. The pros and cons take sides in my brain, and the uncertainty about the landlord is solidly on the con side. “What kind of protection do I have if there’s a switch in landlords? What if this current Dunford has to deploy again and the new Dunford is a prick?”
My sister hisses. “Sorry. She’s a potty mouth. Today alone, she owes me”—she counts on her fingers dramatically—“three dollars and twenty-five cents. A quarter for every bad word. Explaining what happened to her shirt was two bucks alone.”
Rocío laughs. “No worries. I have two older brothers and nothing shocks me. And your question’s valid, Bryn. When we sign the lease, we’ll address that, ensuring what you agree to is protected even if another Dunford takes over.”
Everything sounds perfect. Seemingly too perfect. Turning the page, I hold my breath for the bottom line. Over my shoulder, my sister gasps when she sees the monthly cost. “Yikes.”
I curse under my breath. Even without the renovation, there’s the garden, the furniture to fill the space. For years, every cent of my salary, of my savings, has gone into this potential dream. To make rent, the retreat would have to be successful from the beginning.
“You’re going to need every dollar of that investment from Pete,” my sister whispers. “This is a huge risk.”
Peter Luna is my silent partner, and I hoped to use his money as little as possible. Yet something else speaks to me. A wild side of me that’s daring, that’s willing to take this on. It’s the voice of the spontaneous, a contrast to my father’s conservative everything-in-moderation point of view. It’s the voice of my ina, my mother.
I don’t register the words until they’re out of my mouth.
“Then again, nothing’s gained without risk, right? I’ll take it.” I meet my sister’s eyes. “I’ll call it Paraiso. ‘Paradise.’ ”