East in Paradise Read online

  I surely didn’t anticipate the noise, the amount of preparation I needed to get on-screen, from the touch of a makeup brush on my nose to is this shirt too sheer for the camera and lights? When I bend down, will my boobs fall out of my tank?

  “Should I have the camera catch the left side or the right side of my face?” Vic puckers her lips Kardashian-style, using her phone to check which side’s her favorite.

  Okay, so maybe it’s only me who’s worried about what I’ve signed up for.

  But this is what I wanted, right? Exposure and cash? The contract requires a short two-month stint on strangers’ computer screens with a potential for a year’s worth of income, with the first payout approximately two weeks after the first day of streaming. The nature of my business would have combined my professional and personal life anyway, and this will just jump-start it. And once the customers start pouring in, after the big reveal, the show will be over.

  Right?

  Mind fuzzy, I head to Laurel, who just hung up. The thought of complete strangers with a window into my life has engulfed me. Even if Laurel has told me we already live a life of semitransparency, I need reassurance.

  “Sorry about that. Crisis,” Laurel says as she sees me approach. She reaches out a hand. “It’s great to finally meet you, Bryn. I’m Laurel Han, as you could have guessed, and this is my assistant, Adeline.”

  I take her hand. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “What do you think so far?” She presents her staff with the flourish of a magician’s flair. “Fast setup, right?”

  I wince. “Actually, I’m a little overwhelmed. Could we go over the live feed schedule again?” This time I turn on my phone and log into the notes section. My head’s spinning from all the information I’ve received thus far via email. I swear I’m forgetting something.

  “Ah, no worries. It feels chaotic right now, but I promise, once we’re out of your hair, you’ll fall right into a routine.” Laurel sweeps her blond-streaked black hair over one shoulder. She’s every bit as fabulous as I imagined she would be, though I underestimated her energy. She’s nonstop and relentless. She reaches out and accepts a piece of paper her assistant pulled from a folder, which holds the inch-thick contract. She scans it briefly. “The crew is on a flex schedule and will come out on your busiest days, during business hours.” She presses her lips together, almost apologetically. “Which means you should really try to group your jobs on those days. Makes for a good feed, you know? And business hours aren’t set, necessarily. For example, you may get a sunset that might make for a gorgeous shot, and that will play into how long the crew is going to be here. The best thing is to keep in touch with me and the crew with what your work schedule’s going to be like. We’ll advertise it on our website so viewers know when to log on.”

  Which basically means they’ll be transmitting whenever. Uncertainty creeps up but I brush it away.

  “What kind of a daily setup should I expect?”

  “Very little. Without getting into major specifics on how this all works, you will have one cameraman, and you’ll be rigged with a hands-free, personal, wireless microphone. The mic is easy to clip on and hide—you’ll get instruction on it the first day.” She winks, then points at the stationary cameras in the kitchen and the living room. “Those are going to be our bread and butter. The combination of the audio from your mic and the feed from the cameras will be transmitted to our equipment in what is now our ‘home base’ ”—she uses air quotes to emphasize the words—“the bedroom of the secondary home out back. There, one of our experts will mix the audio and video. Then it’s transmitted to our server for our audience to view. In virtually real time, and hopefully without lag.”

  “So, it’s not truly real time?”

  “No. Technology is amazing, but so many things have to go perfectly to reduce latency, or delay. How well our equipment works, how fast it’s converted and pushed out by the software, and even how many people are on watching.” She rolls her eyes. “I know, it’s complicated. Just focus on being you, and the crew will take care of the rest.”

  “And when you say crew . . . how many . . . ?”

  “Just three. All capable to work all aspects of the job, though they have their specific roles.”

  “So you won’t be here, with them?”

  “Nope.” She dramatically sets the papers down. “I will be watching in real time, just like everyone else. Don’t worry. We are a fine-tuned machine. The three I’m leaving you with are our best. I’m always on the road, but I’m available through phone calls, FaceTime, texts, the works. And I’ll pop in often. Adeline, get the two Joes and Hank.”

  Her assistant jumps to attention and scurries away, returning seconds later with two men and a woman, all dressed in T-shirts and jeans.

  “This is Josephine Moss, your program director,” Laurel says.

  “I prefer Joey.” The woman offers her hand, which I shake. Her smile is confident. Her hair is curly and unruly, and I see an indentation where I assume her headphones rest. “ ‘Program director’ is just a fancy name to say coordinator. I make sure we have the right angles and shots. You’ll see me come in and out, because at times I’ll need to be at our home base helping the technical director. And oh, I’m also here for crowd control and troubleshooting. A jill-of-all-trades.”

  “Nice to meet you.” My eyes naturally glide to the man on her left with red floppy hair and black-framed glasses.

  “The technical director would be me. I’m Hank Rhodes.” He nods. “All it means is that I’m pushing a lot of buttons. You won’t see me much. I’m mixing your audio and video in the other house.”

  “Great to meet you.”

  “I’m Joel,” the man to the left of Hank says, “your cameraman. Unlike Hank, you will see me often. I apologize for that ahead of time.” With close-cropped dark hair and a beard with a smattering of silver, he’s built, biceps bulging from his T-shirt. A small scar runs across his right cheek.

  I relax at his humor. “Good to meet you, Joel.”

  With a wave, Laurel dismisses them. “It’s going to take some getting used to, having strangers around watching you, but these three are great. They’re respectful, so you needn’t worry about your privacy being breached.” She smiles. “Oh, and yeah, expect complete shots of the house, the garden, and the deck.”

  “Except bedrooms and bathrooms,” I confirm.

  She laughs. “Most definitely not the private areas. We anticipate our viewers will only want to see the renovation. So you should totally geek out on the minutiae. You know, like the reasons you chose this tile or that appliance or whatever color on the walls. What type of soil, fertilizer, and plants, et cetera. Be verbal. Live it out loud.”

  My eyes wander to the open windows, at the gardens I know are going to need a ton of TLC. “Here’s the thing, though. I’m totally a black thumb. The gardening thing will be a huge learning process for me. I’m not an expert, and the viewers are going to know it.”

  “No worries. People want to see you. They know you from True North. You’re that spunky, feisty general manager who’s scary and cute all the same time.”

  Scary? I raise an eyebrow.

  “Now don’t be sensitive, Bryn. Your regulars at True North love you, and you’re a guaranteed fit for live stream. Viewers will connect with your personality because you’re independent and flawed. So play up those times when you don’t know what you’re doing. I would even say you should make a few mistakes. Create situations where you’ve got to turn around and fix it.”

  “But that would be fake.” My sister walks up. She’s given up on the pouty look and is sporting a true, concerned expression. “Hi, I’m Vic, Bryn’s sister.”

  “Nice to meet you, Vic. To your question: Is there anything online that isn’t crafted? Pinterest, Facebook, Instagram. All are supposed to be real, but are they truly?” Laurel shru
gs. “The tricky thing about live is we don’t know what’s going to resonate with the viewers until we get the feedback. And that’s with how many folks we can get to press play and comment. You don’t have to do anything or everything I’ve suggested, but I have a feeling we’ll know soon what viewers will want to see. Speaking of”—she stands and grabs her coat, slung behind her chair, and nods at one of the crew behind me—“permissions. Currently, we have the ability to broadcast you and Victoria, but no one else. We can get away with panning a shot of a random person, but until we can get a signature, you can’t put just anyone in a shot, much less record anything they’re saying.”

  “Yeah. Um . . . sounds fine to me,” I say.

  “Looks like we’re all done for setup here. See you Monday? And when I say that, I mean I’ll see you online. I can see the credits now: Paradise in the Making. I love how that sounds.” She pauses dreamily. “The Two Joes and Hank will be here first thing in the morning—don’t forget that they’ll need keys to the small house to access their equipment. Oh, and may I suggest putting some red on those lips and maybe line the eyes? I love your peach lipstick and your eyeshadow, but the darker the makeup, the easier to see from the other side of the screen.”

  “Keys, lipstick, eyeliner. Check.” Resigned, I follow out the entourage, handing Joey the small house keys, though I’m yearning for some peace and quiet, to think.

  It’s only when the lights of the vans disappear that the muscles in my body relax, but just for a moment, because the gravity of what I signed up for descends like dusk. Starting Monday, my home and my words will be transmitted to the rest of the world.

  Shit. What have I done?

  The sound of gravel crunching from behind makes me turn. It’s Mitchell, walking down the path. He’s in cargo hiking pants and a thin forest-green fleece jacket. His head’s covered with a beanie.

  My heart beat quickens at this fine specimen of a man. I hate to admit it even to myself, because I don’t want to let it show on my face. There’s such a short distance from my brain to my mouth and my expressions, and no filter exists. Or so I’ve been told. To admit he is droolworthy would serve no purpose. As his tenant, I can only show him my professional persona, just as customers saw me as True North’s manager: fair, firm.

  And I bet that he’s firm, in more places than one. My eyes travel the length of his perfectly proportioned body, broad shoulders pulled back with pride. We’ve kept out of each other’s way the last few days, but I’ve watched his daily work with the vines.

  He’s made for a good view in the morning.

  “Ms. Aquino.” He addresses me all businesslike. So I paste on my equally flat poker face and pull my brain from the gutter.

  “Mr. Dunford. Let me guess, you were watching me and didn’t like how I was standing here admiring the trees.”

  “Someone’s got to keep you in check.” He pauses. “I’m here because we need to set some parking rules. You can’t allow your guests to park on Dunford’s main driveway. That’s what the meadow is for. Parking on the driveway keeps any other vehicle from coming up and down the hill safely. So guess whose truck is parked at the bottom? Yep. Mine.”

  “Crap, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” My answer is sincere, but I falter. Yes, yes, it might happen again. Or it will, because Monday the camera crew will be here, along with the contractors and . . . “Actually, Mitchell, that’s something we need to talk about.”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’re gonna be blocking the driveway.”

  “Yes. But only for a short time. Just until we open. And only on certain days where we’ve got contractors and . . . and other people.” My conscience nags at me that this may blow up if I don’t discuss the live stream with Mitchell, but I push it aside. The breakneck speed of today’s events has knocked the wind out of me. I have yet to take out the lease and comb though the stipulations to see if I’m even violating some kind of agreement with Mitchell since the filming will be predominantly done inside. “How about I have some of my folks park at the beginning of the driveway, where it meets the main road to town? But there will be strangers walking up the way, just so you’re aware.”

  He exhales, as if resigned. “Okay.”

  “Great.”

  His gaze moves upward, beyond me. “You’ve pulled the weeds. Did you get help from the lawn and garden shop?”

  “No. They’re all booked until next week. I pulled those babies myself and planted some hardy mums, because they’ll survive the fall, and me.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised. May I?”

  “Oh, um . . . sure.” I step aside and follow behind him as he walks up to the front porch and around to the deck, which faces Golden. “What do you mean you’re not surprised?”

  “You don’t seem like the gardening type.”

  “And what type is that?”

  “Someone who’s patient. Takes their time. Waters and fertilizes. But it all looks great, Bryn.”

  “Thanks.” I pause, measuring my words. “I’m patient, just not with certain things.”

  “Believe me, I’m not judging. I’ve got my own weaknesses.”

  “Yeah? Humor me—like what?”

  “Renovations. I couldn’t do what you’re doing now. I don’t like the upheaval.”

  I cross my arms. “You don’t like change? Aren’t you in the Army? Isn’t it all about change?”

  “Yes, but there are solid things to hang on to. The people, the customs. It’s predictable in a lot of ways. Sort of like being out there in the vines. You still have to pay attention, but there are measures you can manage. A renovation, though? It’s loud, chaotic. And sometimes when it’s finished you end up with something you completely don’t expect, or like. Anyway . . .” He leans over the railing. “You’ve got a better view of the town here than what I have at my place. This is the perfect spot to watch the Fourth of July fireworks.”

  “That’s good to know.” I press my back against the railing so I’m looking at the house. Mitchell’s words are a reminder of his attachment to his home, and I let them settle over me. From this view, Paraiso is grand, beautiful, and suddenly I’m taken aback by the enormity of what I’m going to accomplish. Knowing I’ve got this fantastic home to work with is the one thing I am thankful for. At least I’m not starting with a true fixer-upper. “I know we got off to a pretty rough start, but I do appreciate being here: the house, the property. I meant what I said—I’ll take care of it. If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’m a professional. And I respect this place.”

  He stands and turns to me. Taking a step, he closes the distance between us. A heat shoots down to my core at his proximity. And when he looks down at me, I’m overcome with this need to press myself against him. There’s no way to step back, so instead I make space in my lungs by taking a deep breath. “I know you do. And I apologize, too. Lavenderhill is important to me and my family, and I’m accountable for it. So that makes me a little protective. But I’m glad you’re here. There’s no denying you’ve made this place better already.” He offers his hand. “Truce?”

  “Truce.” My intention is to meet his grip firmly to make up the difference between my barely five-foot-two stature and his what I guess to be a six-foot frame. Except he simply clasps my hand, though a shake doesn’t follow, as if we’re suspended in the moment. I’m caught in his clear eyes, in his soft touch.

  “Hey, where did you put the SkyFlakes crackers . . .” Vic calls from the side door, voice trailing when she sees us.

  It throws me from the moment. Gathering pieces of myself, I let go of Mitchell with a weak smile and brush past him. “They’re in the topmost cupboard. You know I can eat a ton of them if I don’t put them away.”

  I pass my sister, cheeks ablaze, and I know she knows.

  My thoughts were anything but professional.

  8

&n
bsp; MITCHELL

  “Looks like you might have caught it just in time,” Carter Lawton says. Pressed and serious, he’s a general in khaki and jeans with the air of a master shaded under a wide-brimmed hat.

  But as a vineyard consultant, it’s exactly what I expect him to be, especially with the amount of money I’m paying him to give me a second opinion.

  It’s Monday morning and we’re standing at the easternmost row of the lower vineyard. For the last five hours, we walked row upon row, where he inspected the vines, the fruit, the leaf quality. He scooped soil into his fingers, tasted the early fruit, much like I’ve done for the last couple of weeks, looking for answers on how best to take care of them.

  “So they’re salvageable?” Hope courses through me. “Last year yielded half the amount of fruit, and this spring, some look like they’ve withered . . .”

  “I didn’t say all were salvageable now.” His gaze settles upon the upper vineyard, north of Mountainridge. “Your father did a magnificent job out there, managing the dry farming in that area. The roots of those vines have dug deep into the soil. Where it’s situated, I don’t expect you losing yield from any of those at all, since they are mature, healthy vines.”

  “Some are over twenty years old.” Visions of my dad planting the cuttings, establishing temporary irrigation, harvesting the first fruit, flip through my head like a slide show. As the years passed, his leatherlike skin turned into a permanent copper from being out in the sun and bore the markings of a man who was field-born. “Those gave us the best wines.”

  “Yes, Dunford had such a great reputation.”

  It doesn’t get past me that Carter used the word had, rather than has. In my grandfather’s days, Dunford was established as a winery and used its own grapes for wines. But like all businesses, Dunford had to bend. My father’s days saw the winery taking a backseat to the vineyard, producing grapes for other vintners.

  While none of it is a lie—the vineyard’s best times coincided with my father’s living years—it pisses me off anyway. It’s goddamn painful for a stranger to confirm my father’s biggest fear could come to fruition: that we may lose Dunford. My next words are clipped. “And what do you think about the crops right here?”