The Villa

dark?"
    "Apparently," Pilar murmured. "Helen, she's all right, isn't she? I took this latest business about changing her will and so on as part of this phase she's been in this past year, since Signore Baptista died."
    "As far as I know, healthwise, La Signora is as hale as ever." Helen adjusted her black-rimmed glasses, gave her oldest friend a bolstering smile. "As her attorney, I can't tell you any more about her motivations, Pilar. Even if I completely understood them. It's her show. Why don't we see if she's ready for the curtain?"

CHAPTER THREE
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    La Signora never rushed her cue. She had planned the menu personally, wanting to set the tone for the lavish, and the casual. The wines served were from the California vineyards, both Giambelli and MacMillan. That, too, was meticulously planned.
    She would not discuss business at the meal. Nor would she, much to Gina's annoyance, allow three ill-mannered children at the table.
    They had been sent to the nursery with a maid who would be given a bonus, and Tereza's considerable respect if she lasted an hour with them.
    When she deigned to speak to Rene, it was with chilly formality. Because of it, she felt a grudging admiration for the woman's spine. There had been others, many others, who had withered visibly under that frost.
    Along with family, and Helen, whom she considered one of her own, she had invited her most trusted wine-maker and his wife. Paulo Borelli had been with Giambelli, California for thirty-eight years. Despite his age, he was still called Paulie. His wife, Consuelo, was a plump, cheerful woman with a big laugh who had once been a kitchen maid at the villa.
    The final addition was Margaret Bowers, the head of sales for MacMillan. She was a divorced woman of thirty-six who was currently being bored senseless by Gina's chatter and wishing desperately for a cigarette.
    Tyler caught her eye and gave her a sympathetic smile.
    Margaret sometimes wished desperately for him, too.
    When the food was cleared and the port passed, Tereza sat back.
    "Castello di Giambelli celebrates its centennial in one year," she began. Immediately conversation stopped. "Villa Giambelli has been making wine in the Napa Valley for sixty-four years. MacMillan has been doing so for ninety-two. That is two hundred and fifty-six years combined."
    She scanned the table. "Five generations have been vintners and wine merchants."
    "Six, Zia Tereza." Gina fluttered. "My children give you six."
    "From what I've seen your children are more likely to be serial killers than vintners. Please, don't interrupt."
    She lifted her port, nosing the wine, sipping slowly. "In those five generations we have earned a reputation, on two continents, for producing wine of quality. The name Giambelli is wine. We have established traditions and have blended them with new ways, new technology, without sacrificing that name or what it means. We will never sacrifice it. Twenty years ago, we established a partnership of sorts with another fine vintner. MacMillan of Napa Valley has run side by side with Giambelli, California. The partnership has aged well. It's time for it to be decanted."
    She felt rather than saw Tyler tense. She gave him high marks for holding his tongue, and met his eyes now. "Changes are necessary, and for the good of both. The next hundred years begin today. Donato."
    He snapped to attention. "Si, yes," he corrected, remembering she preferred English at her California table. "Yes, Aunt Tereza."
    "Giambelli, Italy and California have been ran exclusive of each other. Separate. This will no longer be the case. You will report to the chief operating officer of the newly formed Giambelli-MacMillan company, which will have bases in both California and Venice."
    "What does this mean? What does this mean?" Gina exploded in Italian, shoving awkwardly from the table. "Donato is in charge. He is next in line. He carries the name. He is your heir."
    "My heir is who I say is my heir."
    "We give you children." Gina slapped a hand on her belly, then waved an arm in disgust at the table. "Three children, and more will come. No one gives the family children but me and Donato. Who will carry on the name when you're gone if not my babies?"
    "Do you bargain with your womb?" Tereza said evenly.
    "It's fertile," she snapped back even as her husband tried to pull her back into her chair. "More than yours, more than your daughter's. One baby each, that's all. I can have a dozen."
    "Then