had sucker punched him, as if he didn’t know what to say. Then he blurted, “I wasn’t expecting a kid, that’s all.”
“His name is Michael,” Cori said through a throat so tight she struggled for air. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see my mother and get settled.”
Cori stepped past Blake and marched with as much dignity as she could muster on high heels while holding thirty-five pounds of angel. She was practically bent over backward to keep her balance.
“Who is that man, Mommy? I don’t like him.”
“No one we need to worry about, Peanut.” Half of her wished Blake had heard her words.
How could Blake not recognize his own son?
BLAKE REACTED to Cori’s walking away instinctively. He hurried around her and opened the front door, ignoring the blank, unwelcome look from the kid and getting a hesitant “thank you” without a smile from Cori. She’d always been unfailingly polite, inspiring the best behavior in him.
Cori Sinclair had come home. With a kid in tow. Blake’s heart stumbled every time he looked at Cori, dropped to his gut every time he laid eyes on her kid.
He should have called her. They’d shared one unbelievable night together, argued and never spoken again. Stubborn, wounded pride had kept him from contacting her. And she hadn’t come back. Until now.
Despite years of service to Messina Vineyards, it was clear Blake was still an outsider. The Messinas were such a private family, they made the Kennedys look like chatterboxes. Blake respected their silence and hadn’t asked about Cori when she hadn’t returned from school. About a year or more after Cori’s graduation, when it seemed the Messinas had accepted Blake, he’d started accompanying Mr. Messina to award dinners, charity events and the like. Only then did he hear snippets of conversation about Cori and Michael. Sophia, especially, was quick to point out to Mr. Messina and Luke, Cori’s brother, how good Michael was for Cori.
All this time, Blake had assumed Michael was Cori’s lover, not her child. He felt so stupid. At least now, he could lay to rest that nagging suspicion that he’d been the reason Cori had never returned to her family.
As Blake watched, Cori made a beeline for the steep, sweeping staircase without slowing to take in the bronze and burgundy opulence that still impressed Blake. Of course, she’d grown up in this house and probably took the mix of antique furnishings, original artwork and oriental carpets for granted.
Blake realized she meant to climb the steps in those neck-breaking high heels while holding the kid. So he followed her up the stairs to make sure she wouldn’t fall. Then he had to knock on Sophia’s door for Cori and open it, as well. His mother was undoubtedly praising his manners in heaven.
Blake felt more like the butler—one more reason why he hadn’t called her.
“Mama,” Cori said in a heart-wrenching whisper as she swept past him.
Sophia smiled brilliantly, her expression lighting up the room, and making Blake believe for just a moment that she wasn’t terminally ill, losing a second battle with breast cancer.
Not stopping to put down her son, Cori rushed to her mother’s side despite her heels sinking into the thick taupe carpet. She hung on to the boy as if he were her lifeline.
Blake had once thought he could fill that role. Resolutely, he tugged the door closed, shutting away the scene, and his memories.
“I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE.” Mama’s voice came out in a breathy whisper as she patted the edge of the bed in invitation.
Trying her best to bury her unsettled emotions toward Blake, Cori sat on the rose-patterned brocade bedspread, carefully watching her mother for any sign of pain the jostling might cause. When she didn’t see any, Cori lifted Michael onto her lap so that he could see his grandmother. She took her mother’s thin hand and gave it a tender squeeze. Mama looked terrible, with no luster to her once dark hair, and eyes that were sluggish. Her pale pink satin nightgown was the brightest thing about her appearance.
“You remember Grandma, don’t you, Michael?”
Michael nodded and tucked his head under Cori’s chin.
“Well…” Cori floundered for something to say. She’d stayed in touch with her mother, but only by telephone and over the occasional dinner when Mama came to Los Angeles. They usually filled the time exchanging news and avoiding the issue of Michael’s parentage. Idle chitchat seemed inappropriate now. She glanced around the room, noting the same rose curtains, pine paneling and Queen Anne furniture. Other than a plastic water pitcher, cup and straw on the bedside table, nothing seemed to have changed in the room except her mother’s health.
To keep the conversation from lagging, Cori fell back on good manners. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.” Her mother seemed content just to look at the two of them.
Cori bobbed her head nervously. “You look good. You’ve got color in your cheeks,” she lied. Her mother’s complexion was as white as a lily.
“Maria did my makeup this morning, since you were coming, but she’s no good with hair.” Mama raised a weak hand and touched the thin, gray hair on her head. Cori remembered when it had gleamed as black as night. Now everything about her mother seemed dull.
“I can pull it up, if you like,” Cori offered thickly, uncomfortable when faced with the reality of her mother’s illness. Blake’s doubts about her returned and echoed in her head.
Am I strong enough to help her? The tasks ahead of her were overwhelming. Could she help her mother die and still be a good mom? Cover myriad duties her job required? Be near Blake without letting him know she still loved him?
“Not now. I just want to look at you.” Mama’s dark eyes were large in her pinched face. “Stand up so I can see your dress.”
Cori tried to set Michael down on the floor, but he clung to her leg. She bent to tuck his Digimon T-shirt over the ketchup stain on his denim shorts, wishing she’d remembered to change his shirt as she’d planned before coming upstairs. Her mother hadn’t seen Michael that often, and Cori wanted him to make a good impression.
“Wonderful cut,” Mama murmured, looking first at Cori’s shoes, then at Michael clutching her leg. “What an unusual accessory that little angel is.”
“He’s beautiful.” Cori tousled Michael’s straight brown hair. “A little shy, maybe.”
“Uh-huh,” her mother agreed. “How long are you here?”
“Awhile.” Cori sank back onto the bed and took her mother’s hand.
Mama smiled weakly. “Me, too.”
BLAKE SHUT HIMSELF OUT of the Messina mansion, letting his feet put physical distance between himself and Cori. But thoughts of his old love lingered.
He’d met Salvatore Messina’s granddaughter that first summer he’d worked at Messina Vineyards. Blake and his half sister, Jennifer, had just moved into the house at the back of the property and Blake was struggling to meet the needs of a new, demanding employer. Two years after his mother and stepfather died in a car accident, Blake had worked his way through a few corporate farming jobs. With half a degree and no chip on his shoulder—he couldn’t afford one with a younger sister to care for—Blake had done well. Still, he hadn’t felt good enough for Mr. Messina’s granddaughter. She was the Sonoma County equivalent of royalty.
Blake rounded a bend in the drive and paused, looking out across the successive rows of vines. He imagined that instead of bare wood, the canes were thick with leaves shading clusters of purple grapes, as they had been when he’d first met Cori. The scene painted a rich backdrop to a younger Cori Sinclair, home from college and a nuisance, following him around the vineyard, telling him what he did wrong, showing up in the darndest places—like down by the Russian River in the barest of bikinis.
He’d