From This Day Forward: Multicultural Romance Page 3

  “But don’t you want a husband again, children, grandbabies?”

  Velma almost choked on her wine. “My eggs are too dried up to even think about children, and I’ll settle on being called second nan-na when Brianna and Terrell get married and have some babies.”

  “You know what I mean, not children I guess, but don’t you get lonely sometimes, Velma?”

  “Sounds more like you’re talking about you than me,” her friend said, peering over her wine glass at her.

  “I guess you’re right,” Loretta said. “Since the children left home, it has been too quiet, you know? When I was raising them, all I could think about was the day they’d be grown and independent. And when it came, Velma, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Well you sure as hell figured it out!” her friend said slapping her own knee. “Look at you, you’ve moved all the way cross-country on a whim.”

  “I guess I did,” Loretta said, smiling. “But you know it wasn’t on a whim. I’d been thinking about it a long time. And thanks to Uncle Charleston, God rest his soul, it was possible.”

  The women chatted more, catching up, before Loretta began telling Velma about the man in the airport.

  “Well if he’s as fine as you say he is, I say, throw on a maid’s uniform, drop the drawers, and do some housekeeping, if you know what I mean,” Velma hooped.

  “You are a plain mess!” Loretta howled, slapping the air at her friend.

  They sat on the porch for a long time, talking. Velma told her friend to just take it easy for as long as she needed to. She said she understood it would take her some time to adjust to not getting up to go to work every day and not being in the familiar surroundings of her neighborhood in Detroit.

  But for Loretta, it was just the opposite. She didn’t miss her old routine -- or Detroit -- one bit. She loved the little quaint village, the small vineyards they’d passed on the way from the airport, and the wide open spaces. And she loved the sound of the Pacific Ocean in the distance.

  In fact, since she’d decided to leave her old life in Detroit, she hadn’t once looked back. And being surrounded by the serenity, the beauty, the charm of the area, she didn’t believe she ever would.

  Bordeaux Valley was home now, her new reality, and she looked forward to starting the second phase of her life right there.

  Chapter 4

  Less than ten miles away, Alonzo Thornton sat on the wide verandah of his columned home on Thornton Vineyard. He gazed beyond the thick, curved balustrades out at the land. Having run the vineyard and onsite winery for almost twenty-five years, he remembered the day when his father trained him to takeover business operations. It seemed like just yesterday, but the years had flown by. Alonzo was now forty-nine years old, and the old man had passed away many years ago. Honoring his father’s wishes, he had accompanied his body back to Italy and buried him next to his mother.

  Alonzo was barely being a teenager when his daddy left their small farm for America. Vincent Thornton had traveled as a passenger on a large cargo ship from Galonias Harbour, a small fishing village on the western coast of Tuscany near the Tyrrhenian Sea. The fever had taken his mother’s life a few years earlier, so Alonzo moved to his Aunt Fiona’s in town near the harbor to wait for his father to send for him.

  After arriving in America, Vincent Thornton had taken on any kind of work he could find so he could save enough money to bring his son to America. Alonzo was a teenager when he was finally sent for him to join him in California. He remembered the two of them living from pillar to post until his father landed a permanent job with a company that provided field hands for the local Napa Valley vineyards.

  Alonzo thought about his own son, Umberto, who was now college-age. If Alonzo had his way, Umberto would be soon standing in his shoes, running the vineyard. As such, he knew he had to figure out how to get the business back on top as the leading luxury wine brand. The vineyard was not struggling by a long shot, but the company’s image had taken a hit because of hasty choices he’d made a few years back.

  Thornton Vineyard had thrived under his guidance for over two decades, but five years ago, things had taken a turn. The California economy had faltered, two of the area’s biggest wine distributers had gone out of business, and it was clear the market for four hundred dollar bottles of wine was just not there at the time.

  Believing the market would come back, Alonzo tried to meet his projected pre-Recession numbers by introducing new wines in a lower-price bracket. But he’d introduced them as secondary brands under the Original Thornton brand, which proved to be a mistake. The competition in the upper market pounced on the opportunity to deflate the infamous Thornton luxury brand. As such, when the market finally did start to turn back around, the damage had already been done.

  His father had always warned him there would be “up times and down times, but a wise man would always stay the course.”

  “I hear you, and you were right,” he said out loud to his father, whose spirit always seemed to be close by. Alonzo took another sip of Thornton Vineyard’s signature crimson liquid from a tall crystal glass.

  ***

  Looking in the direction of the empty restaurant onsite in the distance, Alonzo took in the handsome stone building reminiscent of a Tuscan villa. A late evening mist was hovering in a magnificent haze around the building. The orange tiled roof had been mangled by the earthquake that hit the area several years ago, but the building was still strong.

  Alonzo reflected on the liveliness of the place when his Marissa ran it. Thornton Vineyard’s Italian Eatery had specialized in authentic Italian food, breads, and pastries. Tourists and locals would flock from miles away to frequent the restaurant. But neither the restaurant nor the vineyard could hold Marissa …

  And neither could Alonzo.

  His wife was a young, free spirit, and their marriage had lasted a little less than five years, which was just long enough for her to open the restaurant and give birth to their only child, Umberto.

  Alonzo knew Marissa’s heart had left a year before she did; he could see it. The tourist from Chicago had wooed her away from him— from them.

  Umberto was just a little boy when his mother left with the other man.

  “I am sorry, my love,” she said through full, red lips the evening she left. Her long, dark lashes had flitted uncontrollably as she tried to make him understand.

  Alonzo knew her bags were already packed; he’d discovered them stashed in the northern wing the night before. There was nothing he could do to stop her from leaving the vineyard, leaving Umberto, leaving him. As her husband, he knew she’d fallen in love with the musician from Chicago the last time he was in town. And the man was smitten with her, too; he could see it in his eyes when he looked at his wife.

  But there was a time when she was lovable, wasn’t she? When he thought of her now, he chose to focus on the Marissa he’d been head over heels for as a boy in Italy.

  As innocent as the driven snow, he and Marissa had known each other ever since he could remember. They were born in the same village, and like the wind to the sea, they were a pre-destined matched, promised to each other long before their births by their fathers.

  When Alonzo left for America, as tradition would have it, it was understood he would send for his future wife when it was time to marry. People in their village married as friends, they then became lovers, started a family, and in time, fell in love and created their forever as husband and wife. It was the way things had always been.

  But when Marissa left, Alonzo had to create a new vision for himself and for his son -- in a land that was not his own.

  Throughout the years, he’d thought of his wife often, wondering where she’d landed and if she’d found the happiness, the life, she sought, outside of them.

  Remembering her words hurt.

  “I’m sick of working the land. My papa, my mama, were always working the land. I want to experience something other than farming. America is a big country and
surely it consists of something other than working the land, Alonzo.”

  “But our son, Marissa?” he’d said.

  “Umberto is with you, his father. I know he will be fine. But it’s my heart that’s in turmoil. I’m in love, Alonzo, real love, not the union our parents fantasized about years ago. I have love in my heart for you, but it’s not the same. Don’t you want to know what true love feels like?”

  “I already know,” Alonzo had said, picking up their son. “You and Umberto are my family. I know what true love is, and I thought you did, too.”

  “That’s not fair,” Marissa had spat, knowing she would miss her son. Tears were streaming down her face, but she knew she had to go; she was in love, and she knew Alonzo would not permit her to take Umberto. In her eyes, she had no choice; she had to leave to be with the man she had fallen madly in love with.

  “Go Marissa,” Alonzo said, holding on to the belief that one day soon she would return. He couldn’t help it; he loved his wife.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I hope God keeps you safe and gives you what you seek,” was all he’d said, cradling their crying toddler in his arms as Marissa disappeared down the stairs and hopped into the taxi that had come to take her to the airport.

  That was over two decades ago, and Alonzo hadn’t laid eyes on her since. For years, he hoped she would return and take her place at Thornton Vineyard. After all, she was still his wife, and she’d left a child that needed his mother.

  But Marissa had not returned. She’d called a few times in the first year and a half after she’d left. But afterwards, there had been no more contact, and the phone number she’d provided was no longer reachable.

  He knew she knew where he was, where they were, and if she wanted to come home, she’d find her way. Marissa was that kind of woman. He buried his hurt and his pride and concentrated on the center of his universe, their son.

  With the help faithful servants, most of whom had been with them since his father ran the vineyard, he raised Umberto to be a fine young man. When the boy was old enough to really question him about his mother, Alonzo only knew how to be honest with him.

  “Mama left me and you for another?” his young son had asked, tears spilling from his innocent, dark eyes.

  “No, she didn’t leave us,” Alonzo said, trying to soften the blow of truth. “We will always be in her heart. And she knew we had each other. Another way to look at this, which might make no sense at all, is she had the courage to pursue the life she wanted, right or wrong.”

  Alonzo remembered his son looking at him through confused eyes filled with hurt.

  “I’m sorry son,” Alonzo said. “But I’ll never lie to you. I know it hurts, but I also know your mother loves you and thinks about you every day, wherever she is.”

  “You don’t know any such thing!” Umberto had said, running away from his father to duck into a dilapidated stone cottage near the edge of the trees in the distance, one of his favorite hiding places on the vineyard.

  As Umberto grew, he began to resemble his mother more and more. Eventually, he went away to college, but each time he came home for a visit, Alonzo saw Marissa in him. And just like his mother, he was as stubborn as an ox -- and a romantic to the hilt.

  But Alonzo knew the boy would have to get his head out of the clouds when he finally graduated and came back home to run Thornton Vineyard.

  The land was hard work, and it was no place for romantic or artistic notions.

  Alonzo sighed heavily as he envisioned the chore he’d have getting Umberto to focus on the business of running the vineyard, instead of this notion of becoming a classical guitarist. Though his son was a talented musician and had excelled in his concert studies, Alonzo felt he should be more focused on his business major.

  He shook his head and tried to dismiss the thought, for now. He’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Umberto still had a few more classes to finish before he graduated from UCLA, when Alonzo assumed he’d be coming back home to the vineyard for good. Taking another sip from his wine glass, he tried to focus on his eventual meeting with the potential tenant for the restaurant.

  ***

  Alonzo had just gotten a call the day before from one of his old customers, Velma Jones. She said she had a friend she wanted to bring out to see the place as they began scouting locations over the next couple of weeks. Alonzo hadn’t had the restaurant open in some years, since before the earthquake, but he decided having someone lease the space -- and hopefully getting it open by the fall season -- might be good for vineyard business.

  The building would need some work, he knew that. But if someone was willing to put in some real sweat equity to get the place up running again, he was prepared to offer them a good lease and ample build-out time. Leasing the space had not been on his radar, but he had nothing to lose. Thinking about it more, he decided he’d even offer to help with some of the rehabbing. He’d love getting out from behind operations and actually getting his hands dirty now and then.

  The lady described by Velma sounded like a careful planner, and the idea to re-open an on-site eatery certainly could be a win for the vineyard.

  He couldn’t wait to meet the possible tenant to show her the restaurant space.

  Chapter 5

  A couple of weeks after Loretta’s arrival, she and Velma were on their way to look at a few restaurant spaces that were up for lease in neighboring villages. Velma guided her pickup truck up down and around scenic, winding coastal roads that curved without warning. It was early morning, a little after eight a.m., as Loretta chatted away about the plans for her new restaurant.

  “I don’t want anything too fancy, but I do want a nice place. You know, a cozy, sit-down environment, where people can come in and get a good meal at a decent price. Not white tablecloth, but close, and my menu will be filled with down-home type dishes, you know with a Southern flair, like Grandma Tate used to make.”

  “Your grandmother could cook. I remember coming to your house after school, tearing up some soul food. Where was she from again?”

  “Savannah, God rest her soul.”

  “That’s right,” Velma remembered. “But I don’t know about Southern cooking out here, Loretta. People are more health conscious you know.”

  “Oh, I know, but I’ve thought about that,” Loretta piped up. “Everything on the menu will be healthy -- sea salt instead of regular, virgin olive oil, instead of lard, more salad sides, than rice and potatoes, etcetera.”

  “I see where you’re going,” Velma said as she traversed another winding road.

  “And I’ll decorate the plates and name the dishes so they appeal to the elite, you know, you hoity-toity ones,” Loretta giggled, as her tone became very proper. She lifted her nose in the air and made a fluttery hand gesture pretending to emulate the wealthy.

  “That’s a good idea,” Velma laughed. “And smart, because you’d be hard pressed to get some of my neighbors to order fried pork chops with french fries, but if you termed it a seared, blackened loins dish with, say, a three-green salad, you’d be on to something.”

  “You really think so?” Loretta asked, partly testing the idea out loud on her friend. Though she had done all the research for her business, she was still secretly very nervous. She’d never owned a business before and part of her was scared to death.

  “I know so,” Velma said emphatically, sensing her friend’s nervousness. “Because I, for one, know you can cook. Lord knows I’ve put on a few pounds since you’ve been teetering around in my kitchen the last couple of weeks.”

  “Sorry about that,” Loretta said.

  “I’m not!” Velma laughed. “And I know you’ll be a success because I know you,” Velma said, reaching over to squeeze her friend’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Loretta said, squeezing her hand back. “That means a lot.”

  “No thanks necessary. I mean, we’ve been friends for how long? I know you’re nervous about the business, the move, everything, bu
t I want you to know I admire you for what you’re doing. I don’t know too many people who would like to take the bull by the horn and change their lives on a dime like you’ve done.”

  “You know I’d been unhappy for a long time, Velma,” Loretta said looking out the window. “Well, not really unhappy, just not happy, you know. I was content, but I didn’t enjoy what I spent well over seventy-five percent of my waking hours doing each day. And when I was off on the weekends, I was preparing for the following week. Washing, cooking, cleaning, paying bills, you know, because I knew I wouldn’t have time to do those things during the week.”

  Velma just listened to her friend talk.

  “But I knew deep down life was too precious and too short to live like that.”