The Villa

in Venice. She had another who had died a soldier before he had really lived. She revered his memory, though it was dim.
    _
    And she had a sister she considered foolish at best, who had brought a daughter more foolish yet into the world.
    It had been up to her to continue the family line, the family art. She had done so.
    Her marriage to Eli MacMillan had been carefully considered, scrupulously planned. She had considered it a merger, as his vineyards were prime and nestled below hers in the valley. He was a good man and, more important in her calculations, a good vintner.
    He had cared for her, but other men had cared for her. She enjoyed his company, but she had enjoyed the company of others. In the end, she'd thought of him as the Merlot, the softer mellowing juice blended to her stronger, and admittedly harsher, Cabernet Sauvignon.
    The right combination could produce excellent results.
    Her acceptance of his marriage proposal had been contingent on complex and detailed business arrangements. The arrangements had benefited both their companies, and had contented her.
    But Tereza, who was rarely surprised, had been so, to find comfort, pleasure and simple satisfaction in a marriage now approaching its twentieth year.
    He was a fine-looking man still. Tereza didn't discount such matters, as they spoke of genes. What made up a man was as important, to her mind, as what that man made of himself.
    Though he was ten years her senior, she saw no sign of him bowing to age. He still rose at dawn every day, and would walk with her, regardless of the weather, every morning.
    She trusted him as she had no man since her grandfather, and cared for him more than she had any man not of her blood.
    He knew all of her plans, and most of her secrets.
    "Sophia arrived late last night."
    "Ah." Eli laid a hand on her shoulder as they walked between the rows. It was a simple gesture, and habitual for him. It had taken Tereza some time to grow used to this casual touching from a man, from a husband. A longer time still to come to depend on it. "Did you think she wouldn't come?"
    "I knew she would come." Tereza was too used to being obeyed to doubt it. "If she'd come straight from New York, she would have been here sooner."
    "So, she had a date. Or did some shopping."
    Tereza's eyes narrowed. They were nearly black and still sharp in distance vision. Her voice was sharp as well, and carried the exotic music of her homeland. "Or stopped off to see her father."
    "Or stopped off to see her father," Eli agreed in his slow, comfortable way. "Loyalty's a trait you've always admired, Tereza."
    "When it's earned." There were times, much as she cared for him, when Eli's unending tolerance infuriated her. "Anthony Avano has earned nothing but disgust."
    "A pitiful man, a poor husband and a mediocre father." Which made him, Eli mused, very like his own son. "Yet he continues to work for you."
    "I let him into Giambelli too intimately in those early years." She'd trusted him, she thought, had seen potential in him. Had been deceived by him. That she would never forgive. "Still, he knows how to sell. I use whatever tools perform their task. Firing him long ago would have been a personal satisfaction and professionally unwise. What's best for Giambelli is what's best. But I don't like to see my granddaughter cater to the man. Uh."
    She tossed aside thoughts of her son-in-law with an impatient wave of the hand. "We'll see how he takes what I have to say today. Sophia will have told him I called her home. So, he'll come."
    Eli stopped, turned. "And that's exactly as you wanted it. You knew she'd tell him."
    Her dark eyes glinted, and her smile was cool. "And if I did?"
    "You're a difficult woman, Tereza."
    "Yes. Thank you."
    He laughed and, shaking his head, began to walk with her again. "Your announcements today are going to cause trouble. Resentment."
    "I should hope so." She stopped to examine some of the younger vines supported by trellis wires. Cane-pruning would be required here, she thought. Only the strongest of them would be permitted to grow and to be trained.
    "Complacency becomes rot, Eli. Tradition must be respected, and change explored."
    She scanned the land. The mist was raw and the air damp. The sun would not burn through it that day, she was certain.
    Winters, she thought, grew longer with every year.
    "Some of these vines I planted with my own hands," she continued. "Vines my father brought from Italy. As they grew old, the new was