2
BRYN
Dust engulfs the windshield, and my beacon is the running lights of the SUV in front of me. My car rocks on the part-gravel, mostly dirt road, turning my Mini Cooper into the Grizzly, the wooden roller coaster at Great America, and the steering wheel and stick shift become dual purpose, doubling as my oh-shit handles. 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 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. “Because he doesn’t ever talk back. Unlike someone I know.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. Though Vic is a few years younger, and I’m into the downslide to the big three-o, whenever we’re together, we’re nine 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 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 mini bird—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. Of all the most important days in my life, on the shortest walk from my car parked on Second Street to Rocío Alonzo’s real estate office to let her know we’d arrived; of all size drinks—an extra-large in a flimsy cup—from a guy coming full-speed around the corner, why? Why me?
The highlighter pink shirt has the words: I’m a Gold Rush Princess screen-printed on the front with a glittery silver crown over 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 as though when our mother gave birth to us, she bestowed upon me all the realism and tequila, and to Vic all the idealism and 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.”
The red brake lights glow as the SUV in front of us slows, and the terrain turns into a flat meadow. As I follow Rocío’s lead and navigate Cooper to the left, my thoughts rear 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 the proximity to the closest clothing shop. He comfortably chatted up the T-shirt shop owner, which means he is a local, a Golden townie, and potentially a future neighbor. Ugh. Not exactly the best way to make the acquaintance of a would-be local customer—that is, 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 in one swoop, 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 view of the town below is right out of a postcard, making the reds and yellows and black dots of people’s heads seem painted by an artist’s brush. This view is every bit as accurate as what 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 Vineyards.” Rocío Alonzo fiddles with the keys in her hand. “Isn’t it beautiful? This view can be seen from every vantage point in the home.”
“I can put chairs out here. A pergola.” I survey the view, and take a wide 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 the slate path. Unlike most real estate agents in the city, Rocío is in sensible shoes and jeans, and for good reason. The walk is on an incline, the tiles 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 filled me with so much hope, no place has yet kept my attention.
Except for this one. This one has me taking in every detail: a purposely wild garden that gives off an intoxicating scent, a twinkling ribbonlike stream in the distance, wrought iron benches, a fountain on the right, and the calming sound of water even while landlocked on this mountain.
When the path opens up, my voice chokes as I’m caught in the house’s allure. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. “That’s . . . gorgeous.”
“Welcome to Lavenderhill,” Rocío says. “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 mountainside 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—which is inlaid and grand like the bar at True North, the restaurant I’ve managed the last several years—and leads us through the entrance. Above hangs a sign etched with the name Lavenderhill. “Seven thousand square feet. Six bedrooms, seven-point-five 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 and one bath—just behind this property that you could use as a separate dwelling. It’s also hooked up to water and electricity, but has only been used for storage purposes 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 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 view from the dining room of the Sierra Nevada, through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“This actually 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 at the moment my feet cross over to the deck, my mind’s made up. The decision comes with an emotion—nostalgia for a promise I made once. And triumph, because this house and property fulfills 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 three-year lease that covers the driveway, this home and the little one out back, the front and back plots, and the nearest fruit orchard. I say that because if you continue up the driveway, 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’s, with red sides and a tin roof, large square windows, and an oversize front door. The grapevines behind it are in perfect straight lines, rows of green in between strips of brown. “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 marble island. “Is he a nice guy?”
“They, actually,” Rocío answers. “This property is run under the management of 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, 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 and 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. I’d have to retrofit the kitchen to add another range, maybe extend the island. We would have to revive the garden.”
“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 so long as they’re within your set property lines. 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, every 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 draft the lease, we’ll have to 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 out of the starting gate.
“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.’ ”