Page 1 of Love You Too

CHAPTER 1

Beatrix

“Beatrix,can we squeeze in a large party tonight at the restaurant? It’s for the mayor.”

Check!

“Can you make a decision on the fabric for the lobby chairs at the inn? And approve the menu changes at the café? And choose a stain for the floors, but make the work happen while we’re closed?”

Check, check, and OMG, check!

I am the queen of multitasking, the grand dame of juggling, the duchess of details. Really, I should have a crown.

Or a big, fat pillow because I’m freakin’ exhausted.

There’s no crown or flower wreath with ribbons hanging down my back. No long sundress. No casual, easy, relaxed vibe. Design and construction are moving at the pace of an injured slug, and I’m a frazzled, hot mess.

“Will the inn be open in time for my wedding?” My youngersister, PJ—short for Penelope June—twirls her dark, wavy hair around a finger and blinks meaningfully at me as I bury my face in the foam of my latte.

So. Not. Check!

“Hey, do you see that butterfly on the wall over there? Isn’t it pretty?” I point, and her grimace says she’s not falling for my distraction. Her question has only one answer, so I nod and smile, rather than force myself to lie.

Stress etched on her face, she stands in my office above Butter and Rosemary, the gourmet restaurant at our family winery, Buttercup Hill. Her wedding is set for early January, five months from now, and the inn on our property is in shambles. Water damage from a faulty fire sprinkler system ruined furniture, floors, and paint, so we had to shutter one of our best revenue sources. I had the idea of using the repairs as an excuse for a full-scale renovation to make the place a vineyard haven, a gem in the wine country.

Totally on-brand for me. My plate is already full, but I can’t resist a new project. Can’t fight the shiny glimmer of a design challenge.

My hair pulls at my temples in a tight ponytail that’s already giving me a headache. It looks professional, with a couple of intentional loose pieces framing my face to make me appear softer. Kinder. Less likely to bite someone’s head off for placing a fork at the wrong angle next to a plate in our Michelin-starred restaurant. Less likely to bark at my sister, who doesn’t deserve my ire when she’s just stressed and worried about her wedding. Though I do wish she’d have a little more faith in my ability to pull off the wedding of her dreams at the inn.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ve got it covered. Go hug your sweet fiancé, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” My sister leaves, reassured, and I head toward the conference room, where linens are splayed out in a colorful fan of paisley, damask, and ikat prints on the large plank table. The rep for our fabric vendor stands a fewpaces away, holding her breath, waiting for me to point to the prints I want for draperies, sofa coverings, and pillows. With thirty-five rooms to decorate, the decisions will result in thousands of dollars in fabric. I can’t afford to make mistakes.

“I like these.” I point to a family of pale blue and sandy brown tones that will offset the natural wood I selected for the refurbished suites. “And let’s do some kind of accent for the bathroom tile in this blue shade,” I tell my assistant, Julie, whose superpower is her ability to appear when needed. She makes notes in a binder, which doubles as my lifeline—the flimsy tether between the ideas in my head and their eventual execution. I’m too busy thinking three meetings ahead to remember what I’ve decided in the present, so Julie makes sure I have records of everything jotted in color-coded pens. Then she blinks up at me, looking awake, bright, and ready for the next challenge. She’s my other lifeline.

“Blue tile—check. I’ll order samples.”

On a side table in the winery’s main conference room, stacks of Italian- and American-made pottery sit on display. There are plates and bowls painted with colorful images of farm animals, more classic porcelain, and handmade earthenware from a local potter in Sausalito. Each year, I try to change the dinnerware at Butter and Rosemary because returning guests say the design elements are as important as the food. Heaven forbid we just use something for several years in a row, and I maintain a little sanity. Not to mention the sheer wastefulness of starting from scratch.

“I’m tempted to keep what we have,” I tell Julie, feeling the wave of exhaustion that comes with making too many decisions. “We can call it a return to classics.”

“You mean boring.”

I love that Julie doesn’t mince words, but sometimes I wish she wasn’t right about everything. Her messy blond hair, untucked oversized tee, and face devoid of makeup give her theaura of someone who should be skipping among the vineyards, not keeping my to-do lists, but she has a great memory for details, and she works her tail off.

“Fine. Let’s do the one from Sausalito. We can play up the local angle. I’ll feel better about buying new dishes if we’re supporting a Bay Area business.”

Julie makes more notes and dismisses a few more of the vendors she’s assembled for our design meeting. A few minutes later, we’re in my car, headed into downtown Napa, where cute shops line the small streets bisected by the Napa River. Our destination is the Oxbow Public Market, where I want to make sure the jams from Buttercup Hill peaches are prominently displayed in the artisanal section. And going into town will give me an excuse to look around for design inspiration, which I desperately need.

At a stoplight, I rub my temples, trying to ward off an impending migraine. My jaw aches with tension, and my body feels shaky, running mostly on caffeine. I hate the sense that I’m not in control of my emotions, my temper fraying over tiny inconveniences like a woman on her cell phone who doesn’t see the light turn green. I honk and hate myself a little for my lack of self-control.

“Have you eaten today?” Julie’s blue eyes hit me like accusing pinpricks.

“I had coffee.”

“Yeah, that’s not food. You need fuel. You also need to get laid.”

I startle at the non sequitur and then glare at her.

“What?” she asks, matter-of-factly. “You’re thirty years old, and you have nothing in your life but work. You need to get out, be impulsive for five minutes, live a little. Otherwise, you’ll stay wound up, and that’s not good for anyone.”

---