learned this morning that Valetti only gave tours and tastings by appointment.
Lyle pulled off at a wide spot on the shoulder with no guardrail and a view of the valley floor far below. Lulled by the afternoon sun and the soft air, he flipped the latches to release the convertible top and pushed the button to power it down. Then he snapped the tonneau in place to cover it.
He should have driven top-down all the way from the City.
God, but this was beautiful country. It had been a few years since heâd done the wine tour, and then heâd been learning how to hold his own in a conversation about varietals and vintage. More camouflage for his past.
Today, he focused on real estate, imagining how a developer might like to scatter mini-mansions all over these foothills. Somewhere up here was not only Villa Valetti but also the land Tony had purchased.
As Lyle was bending to pick up his map from the seat, he happened to glance across the way and saw a side road, marked by a sign for a country inn. Before, heâd been too busy concentrating on avoiding the drop-off.
Back on track, he fired up the engine and pulled across the highway, noting as he did that someone else must have developed respect for the knife-edge; a pair of tire tracks arced from the opposite side of the road directly toward the shoulder.
Come to think, it was hard to imagine whoever did it stopped in time.
Villa Valetti crowned the top of a steep-sided hill. Though the winery had a Web site, the photos did not do justice to the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panoramas.
Lyle enjoyed the view of the Palisades, an amphitheater of lava cliffs dominating the southeast skyline. To the northwest, green mountain meadows crowned Mount Saint Helena. It was hard to believe it was a volcano, yet hot springs and geysers like the tourist trap known as Old Faithful dotted the northern Napa Valley ⦠and old mines, where cinnabar, a mercury ore, had been extracted from the hills. Heâd read about the Silverado Mine, closed by 1880, where Robert Louis Stevenson later honeymooned in one of the mineâs abandoned bunkhouses.
Looking ahead at the central four-story tower with its round windows, surrounded by wooden scrollwork, Lyle admired the mix of Italian, Swiss, and German architecture. A broad lawn stretched away to a man-made pond with ducks and geese. Compared to the farm Lyle grew up on, with its 1920s one-story bungalow and wooden outbuildings faded to gray, Andre and Tony had won the genetic lottery.
Pulling up in front of the guardhouse in the drive, Lyle greeted the uniformed man. Like Andre and Tony Valetti, he looked very Italian. âGood afternoon.â
âTours are by appointment only,â reported the sentry.
Lyle brought up his best grin and a business card. âIâm with the San Francisco District Attorneyâs office. Please let Mr. Valetti know Iâm here.â
Thirty seconds later, Lyle was making a U-turn under the guardâs watchful eye and heading back the way he came. It seemed Mr. Valetti was in the City.
But tomorrow was Saturday, and the way the rejection had been framed suggested Andre might be home for the weekend.
Should Lyle go back to San Francisco? To his loft where he had no Friday night outlet for energy except heading to his health club and trying to tire himself out?
At loose ends, he guided his Mercedes down Valettiâs drive lined with Italian cypress. Through gaps between the trees, he caught glimpses of hills contoured with rows of vines.
Back on the road, he wound down steeply to the little river heâd crossed before and caught sight of another sign, reminding him the Lava Springs Inn offered bed and breakfast.
Lyle took the turn and drew into the graveled drive. Though it was not on the scale of Villa Valetti, the inn bore a Victorian quaintness. Maples on the lawn were turning from green to gold, and above and behind the building was wild country where the redwoods
Lyle pulled off at a wide spot on the shoulder with no guardrail and a view of the valley floor far below. Lulled by the afternoon sun and the soft air, he flipped the latches to release the convertible top and pushed the button to power it down. Then he snapped the tonneau in place to cover it.
He should have driven top-down all the way from the City.
God, but this was beautiful country. It had been a few years since heâd done the wine tour, and then heâd been learning how to hold his own in a conversation about varietals and vintage. More camouflage for his past.
Today, he focused on real estate, imagining how a developer might like to scatter mini-mansions all over these foothills. Somewhere up here was not only Villa Valetti but also the land Tony had purchased.
As Lyle was bending to pick up his map from the seat, he happened to glance across the way and saw a side road, marked by a sign for a country inn. Before, heâd been too busy concentrating on avoiding the drop-off.
Back on track, he fired up the engine and pulled across the highway, noting as he did that someone else must have developed respect for the knife-edge; a pair of tire tracks arced from the opposite side of the road directly toward the shoulder.
Come to think, it was hard to imagine whoever did it stopped in time.
Villa Valetti crowned the top of a steep-sided hill. Though the winery had a Web site, the photos did not do justice to the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panoramas.
Lyle enjoyed the view of the Palisades, an amphitheater of lava cliffs dominating the southeast skyline. To the northwest, green mountain meadows crowned Mount Saint Helena. It was hard to believe it was a volcano, yet hot springs and geysers like the tourist trap known as Old Faithful dotted the northern Napa Valley ⦠and old mines, where cinnabar, a mercury ore, had been extracted from the hills. Heâd read about the Silverado Mine, closed by 1880, where Robert Louis Stevenson later honeymooned in one of the mineâs abandoned bunkhouses.
Looking ahead at the central four-story tower with its round windows, surrounded by wooden scrollwork, Lyle admired the mix of Italian, Swiss, and German architecture. A broad lawn stretched away to a man-made pond with ducks and geese. Compared to the farm Lyle grew up on, with its 1920s one-story bungalow and wooden outbuildings faded to gray, Andre and Tony had won the genetic lottery.
Pulling up in front of the guardhouse in the drive, Lyle greeted the uniformed man. Like Andre and Tony Valetti, he looked very Italian. âGood afternoon.â
âTours are by appointment only,â reported the sentry.
Lyle brought up his best grin and a business card. âIâm with the San Francisco District Attorneyâs office. Please let Mr. Valetti know Iâm here.â
Thirty seconds later, Lyle was making a U-turn under the guardâs watchful eye and heading back the way he came. It seemed Mr. Valetti was in the City.
But tomorrow was Saturday, and the way the rejection had been framed suggested Andre might be home for the weekend.
Should Lyle go back to San Francisco? To his loft where he had no Friday night outlet for energy except heading to his health club and trying to tire himself out?
At loose ends, he guided his Mercedes down Valettiâs drive lined with Italian cypress. Through gaps between the trees, he caught glimpses of hills contoured with rows of vines.
Back on the road, he wound down steeply to the little river heâd crossed before and caught sight of another sign, reminding him the Lava Springs Inn offered bed and breakfast.
Lyle took the turn and drew into the graveled drive. Though it was not on the scale of Villa Valetti, the inn bore a Victorian quaintness. Maples on the lawn were turning from green to gold, and above and behind the building was wild country where the redwoods
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