The Italian Groom. Jane Porter
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count sheep.
Some of the tension left her shoulders. Meg drew another deep breath and opened her eyes. She’d woken up feeling blue, and the blue mood quickly turned to irritation. All morning her nerves had been on edge, and Mr. Hunt’s rather long-winded discourse on deadheading had just about driven her mad.
What she needed was action.
She had a hundred and one things to decide, plans to make, and this discussion on gardening chores was getting her nowhere.
What she needed was a new apartment.
She’d been living in a quaint one-bedroom flat across from Central Park for years. The apartment had a squeaky hardwood floor, antiquated plumbing and a charming little terrace with a breathtaking city view. But the apartment barely accommodated her bed and sitting room furniture, much less a crib and changing table.
Yes, she needed a bigger apartment.
She also needed a crib. A car seat. High chair. A layette, not to mention diapers, ointment, powders and so forth.
Babies certainly required a lot of gear.
No wonder her old college friends had complained about babies being expensive. Meg would need a small fortune to outfit the baby’s room, much less pay for child care while she met with clients.
She couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She’d slept with Mark knowing the risks. He’d used a condom, but things did happen and, well, things had happened.
A nerve pulsed at Meg’s temple and she pressed two fingers against the spot, trying hard to stay calm, to sit still.
The truth was, becoming a single mother terrified her.
It was such a huge responsibility, such a crucial role, she couldn’t help being afraid. Meg had made her share of mistakes and she knew she’d make them as a mother. Her baby deserved the very best, but what if Meg wasn’t good enough? Strong enough? Loving enough? What if she said the wrong thing, forgot the right prayer? What if…
“Margaret?” Mrs. Hunt leaned forward to clasp Meg’s hand. “Margaret, dear, are you all right? You’re looking quite pale.”
She was fine. She was just a little nervous. But that was only to be expected. Even for a modern woman, having a baby was quite a big deal.
Niccolo glanced at his watch. The winery co-op council meeting should have wrapped up just after lunch. Instead it threatened to last well into mid afternoon. He shot a quick glance at his watch. He had another hour before he’d have to excuse himself.
The local wineries had formed a co-op to promote northern California wines. The council was in the final stages of planning and implementing an international advertising campaign highlighting Napa’s outstanding red wines.
The television and print advertisements would feature the Italian film star Sonia Carlo sipping a California Cabernet. It was hoped her celebrity endorsement would create excitement in the foreign markets.
At last the discussion came to an end, and Nic politely excused himself, knowing he didn’t have much time if he wanted to make it home to take the conference call with his father.
Yet after reaching his car, he realized he’d left his cell phone behind. With a soft oath, Nic returned to the building and crossed the cool, dark lobby, pungent with the smell of oak, sulfur and fermenting grapes. When he was a boy he’d thought the smell too sour and raw. Now it was comforting. Like coming home.
Opening the door to the wine-tasting room, Niccolo heard Maggie’s name mentioned. He froze, sure he’d been mistaken. But the vintner at the far end of the table repeated himself.
“That’s right. I saw her myself. Maggie Buckner is back, and from what I heard, she’s in some serious trouble.”
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