The Heart Of The Game by Pamela Aares Page A

With seven sisters, perhaps he could be forgiven. But since they’d moved, he’d become intent on finding Zoe a man. He liked California. Loved it already. And was sure that if she met a captivating man, she’d come to like the place too.
    Some days she wished she lived in Adrian’s simple world—do what you love, enjoy every day, display a generous heart. When had she pushed off from the shore of that idyllic island into the murky waters she now inhabited? She knew only too well: the day her mother had taken her last breath in Zoe’s arms. Everything about her life turned on its head that day. But only her father seemed to understand that. Too well in his case.
    “Where’d Papa go off to?” she asked as she piled melon slices and a wedge of omelet on her plate before sitting at the table.
    “London. Or maybe Brussels. I forget.”
    For all the trips her father had been taking, California seemed like a poor choice to call home. The extra six or eight hours of transit had to be wearing.
    Adrian unplugged the toaster, retrieved his now burned bread and waved it at her. “Remember that Gualdieri guy who rode in the polo match two summers ago?”
    She searched her memory. “I can’t say I recall his face, but I do remember his riding. He had a hotheaded hook and rode his horses harder than he had to.”
    “You have a better memory than me, then.”
    Adrian slathered fruit preserves on his toast. “I ran into him at the cafe in town yesterday. Vico. Vico Gualdieri. Seems Papa isn’t the only Roman looking to use the techniques of California’s wine country. He’ll be in our class this morning.”
    She’d forgotten about the viniculture class. “I thought I’d ride out into the west hills and paint this morning—the light is lovely. You could take notes.”
    “No way.” He took a bite of his fruit-slathered toast. Chewed, but didn’t take his eyes off her. He quirked up the corner of his mouth, playing the know-it-all older brother. “We are in this together, Zizi. It’ll do you good to sink your mind into something.”
    Her fork clicked as she lowered it to her plate. Breakfast suddenly held little appeal. One day soon she’d have to face her father and tell him that his efforts to transform her into a vintner were misplaced. Throwing herself into a business she had no passion for wouldn’t accomplish anything. But the time had to be right. He wasn’t back to his usual robust self. Maybe the results of the harvest would cheer him, maybe—
    Adrian sat next to her and patted her arm.
    “Hey, I miss her too. And I miss what we had in Rome. But making a new life here is important to Papa, more than he says.” He swept his arms toward the French doors open to the sun-splashed terrace that provided a view of the oak-dotted hills in the distance. “There’s a whole new world here. I’m finding I’m liking the challenge. You will too. If you give the place a chance.”
    In the face of his attempt at encouragement, she didn’t have the heart to say anything that would dim his enthusiasm. Enthusiasm had once been her strong suit.
    “I can ride later this afternoon. The light will be different, but I’m sure it will be just as lovely.”
    He grinned as if he’d achieved a minor victory. Maybe he had. She lifted a bite of omelet, chewed, but the dryness in her mouth had it tasting like hay.
     

     
    Zoe sipped at tepid coffee and surveyed the classroom. The pale green walls and boxy structure made the space seem more like a hospital than a place to train the future vineyard scions of the world.
    Rapidly spoken Italian had her glancing toward the door. Adrian talked with a tall man with his back turned to her.
    Her brother gestured for her to join them. Carrying her coffee, she made her way to Adrian’s side. She gripped the mug of coffee like a torch, holding it in front of her as if it would light her way.
    The man turned. He was indeed the rider she’d competed against in the polo match two years