She turned away. “You will. Like everyone else, you’ll...disappear.” Like her parents. Like Nonno. Like any hope of having someone stay forever.
“Only if you want me to.”
“I do!” she cried, hating the crack in her voice. “I want you to disappear. Now.”
Without a word, he pushed up, the only sound the soft whimper of Isabella’s relief and the rustle of hay under his feet. She didn’t turn to watch him go, but listened to his footsteps through the shelter, the barks of her dogs, and goodbye nays from the girls.
She stayed very still, petting Isabella and the brand new babies, while the sound of his car engine started, then grew quiet as he left her.
Ozzie came prancing over, barking his displeasure.
“I know, Oz.” She kept him away from the stall with one hand, but looked into his sad brown eyes. “I liked him, too.” Too much.
Ozzie made a soft harrumph and flattened on the hay, every bit as broken and bereft as Frankie.
Chapter Twelve
Twenty-one.
There were now twenty-one little cotton balls lined up along Frankie’s soap-making counter. Three weeks’ worth of fragrant messages.
But nothing else.
Agnes and Lucretia flanked her, their pygmy bodies pressed up against Frankie’s knees as she neatly sealed the last of the soap bars for the meeting with Jocelyn that would start in less than an hour. Behind her, the doeling and buckling romped, still a little wobbly and high-pitched, alternating between crazy and exhausted every minute of the day.
She’d named the girl Daisy because of the flower-like white splotch on her forehead. And the buck? She hadn’t named him yet. Still unsure if she could keep two of them here because of the complicated logistics of two bucks on the same little farm, she refused to let herself fall for him by giving him a name.
She just thought of him as Becker’s boy, and that made her think of Becker, and that made her...not completely sad but damn close.
She picked up the cotton ball that had arrived today, hand-delivered by special messenger, who brought one every day when Frankie finished the morning milking. Each one arrived in a plastic box with nothing but a tiny piece of paper bearing a few words.
So now she had twenty-one obscure, impossible messages from Elliott Becker. Was he trying to tell her something or just help her with the soap fragrances he knew she was creating for Casa Blanca?
Hard to say, but with every new arrival, her heart softened ever so slightly. She picked up the one that had arrived today and sniffed it.
The first few had come with names that recapped so much of their time together. The good parts, when they were falling hard and fast. First Kiss. Intimate Moments. Moonlight Madness. Secret Whispers.
The following week, his messages reflected the state of her heart with uncanny accuracy. Tender Ache. Empty Arms. Lonely Days. Sleepless Nights.
What was he trying to tell her with the complex fragrances and cryptic messages? Each one confused and intrigued and delighted her. No phone calls. No texts. No letters or flowers or emails or postcards.
Just glorious fragrances and mystifying messages.
And this week, the tone had changed again. Now, instead of angst, she got...Sweet Anticipation. Hopeful Heart. Counting Hours. And, then, today’s, the most perplexing of them all.
Coming Home.
Home? Her heart raced, but she calmed herself with a slow, deep inhale of the sweetest fragrance he’d sent to date. A marvel of vanilla and oak blend, like nothing she’d ever made before.
Maybe he was sending messages, maybe he was trying to help out, maybe he was the world’s most creative groveler. She didn’t care. The fragrances and names were a gift she gladly accepted. She’d re-created every one up until today’s, producing a total of twenty new fragrances and beautifully packaged sets of soap she’d wrapped and ribboned and turned into a celebration of romance. Jocelyn would love these, use these, and sell these like crazy.
She took a sniff of Coming Home. She’d make that, but maybe save it for herself.
Putting the last of the baskets in the back of her truck, she absently ran a hand over Lucretia’s soft neck, rewarded with a loopy goat smile.
“Wish me luck, girls.”
Before she left she checked on Daisy and...that guy really needed a name. Black and shiny as his father, the little buck had a gleam in his eyes and a constant need for affection. She shouldn’t get attached, but she reached down and gave him a hug anyway, his baby fur tickling her cheek.
“You know I’m going to end up calling you Becker and will regret it every time I have to say the name.”
He whined noisily and stomped his tiny hooves in response. A chorus of goats guided her to the pen gate, but before she left, Frankie stood and looked at her little homestead. Her home. It was, now. And it was time to build La Dolce Vita. The resort would help get people over here, and she’d already talked to the gardener and head chef about using her goat’s milk and selling that, too. First step, today’s sale. Then tonight, she’d be...
Coming Home.
Alone.
She climbed in the truck and drove to Casa Blanca, trying to focus her thoughts on the meeting ahead with Jocelyn, a woman she’d grown to like and trust in the past few weeks. Jocelyn had confided that her father was very sick, with advancing Alzheimer’s, and her dream was for him to live long enough to see her baby. She’d also shared the story of how she’d forgiven her father for the sins of his past, making Frankie think long and hard about letting go of the misplaced anger she harbored against her parents.
They’d only been trying to do the right thing for her. She had to stop blaming them and their careers for dying and remember that they loved her fully and wholly.
The parking lot of the resort was packed, but that wasn’t so much of a surprise. Business in the restaurant, Junonia, was booming, and this late in the day, the promise of a gorgeous sunset brought people all the way from the mainland for cocktails and beach walks. Still, she’d never seen it quite this packed. She had no choice but to use the valet service, otherwise she would have had to cart all those baskets across the lot.
“Here for the event, ma’am?” the valet asked as he opened her door.
“I’m meeting with Jocelyn Palmer, the manager of Eucalyptus.”
“No problem, we’ll park it for you.”
“I need to get those baskets out of the back.”
He helped her take them into the lobby, which was even more crowded than the parking lot, with dozens milling about, sipping champagne, and waiters carrying trays of more flutes and food.