The common areas, like the broad swatches of irrigated grass that fronted the streets, were groomed to perfection. So each estate was like an individual element within a larger work of art. Nothing like the military housing in which Santana had spent his youth, prior to being accepted into the academy, where experts turned him into a gentleman. But acting like the people who lived in the mansions to the left and right of him was one thing—and being like them was something else. Just one of the reasons why Santana slowed the car as he topped a rise, spotted the house that Vanderveen had described to him, and looked for a spot where he could safely pull off the road. Then, having accessed his luggage, the offi?cer did what any sensible legionnaire would do prior to launching an assault on an enemy-held objective. He took a small but powerful set of binos, waited for a break in traffi?c, and crossed the road. A camera mounted high atop the nearest streetlamp tracked his movements.
The grassy verge sloped up to a waist-high stone wall that served to defi?ne the estate’s boundaries. And, judging from appearances, the Vanderveen property was quite large. As Santana brought the glasses up to his eyes and panned from left to right, he saw rows of meticulously pruned vines that were the ultimate source of the Riesling that the Vanderveen family was so proud of. He could also see some pasture beyond, a white horse that might have been the one the diplomat liked to ride, and a cluster of immaculate outbuildings. The house itself was a straightforward three-story Tudor, and Santana knew that it was within that structure that the woman he loved had been raised, prior to being sent off to a series of expensive boarding schools.
But rather than pursue a career in science or business as she easily could have—Vanderveen had chosen to follow her father into the world of politics and diplomacy. A not especially profi?table career path, but one that Charles Winther Vanderveen could well afford, thanks to his inherited wealth.
Santana heard a whirring sound, felt a puff of displaced air hit the back of his neck, and was already in the process of turning and reaching for a nonexistent sidearm when the airborne robot spoke. “Raise your hands and stay where you are,” the globe-shaped device advised sternly.
“Or I will be forced to stun you consistent with Community S-reg Covenant 456.7.”
Santana raised his hands, and was forced to answer a series of security-related questions before the robot fi?nally offered a pro forma apology and sailed away. The incident was humiliating, and if it hadn’t been for the opportunity to spend time with Vanderveen, the soldier would have left Napa there and then.
Having guided his rental car in between the stylized stone lions that stood guard to either side of the steel gate, Santana was forced to pause while a scanner checked his retinas. Only then was he allowed to proceed up the gently curving driveway that passed between an ornate fountain and the front of the house. Strangely, the mixture of emotions that Santana felt was reminiscent of going into combat. The well-packed gravel made a subtle crunching sound as the tires passed over it, and by the time the vehicle rolled to a stop, a woman dressed in riding clothes was already exiting the front door followed by two human servants and a domestic robot. She had carefully coiffed gray hair, a slim athletic build, and covered the distance to the car in a series of leggy strides.
But what Santana found most striking of all was the woman’s face, which though older, was so similar to her daughter’s that there was absolutely no doubt as to who she was. “Captain Santana!” Margaret Vanderveen said enthusiastically. “We’re so glad you’re here! I hope the trip up from Vandenberg was comfortable.”
Prior to making the journey, Santana had been careful to brush up on proper etiquette, and therefore waited for his hostess to extend her hand before reaching out to shake it. The grip was strong and fi?rm, as was to be expected of someone who worked side by side with the people who tended her vines. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,”
Santana said formally. “I can see where Christina got her looks.”
“Please call me Margaret,” the woman replied easily.
“And I can see how you managed to turn my daughter’s head! Please, come in. Thomas, Mary, and John will take care of your car and luggage.”
Santana wondered which name applied to the robot, as he turned to retrieve a professionally wrapped package from the backseat, before allowing himself to be led inside. A formal entranceway emptied into a spacious great room that looked out over verdant pasture toward a turreted home perched on a distant hill. Though large, the home seemed smaller than it was because of all the artwork that Charles Vanderveen had not only inherited but brought home from a dozen different worlds. All of which had been integrated into an interior that was both eclectic and warm. A tribute to Margaret Vanderveen’s eye—or that of a professional decorator.
“Please,” Margaret Vanderveen said. “Have a seat. What can I get for you? A drink perhaps? I’d offer something to eat, but dinner is only an hour away, and Maria would be most unhappy if I were to spoil your appetite.”
“A drink sounds good,” Santana allowed. “A gin and tonic if that’s convenient.”
“It certainly is,” the matron replied as she rang a little bell. “And I think I’ll join you.”
There was the soft whir of servos as the robot appeared, took their orders, and left the room. Santana took that as his opportunity to present Mrs. Vanderveen with the carefully wrapped box. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “I had this made on LaNor.”
As Margaret Vanderveen accepted the present, she discovered that it was surprisingly heavy. Although hostess gifts weren’t important to her, the fact that the young offi?cer had gone to the trouble of bringing one spoke to his manners, and a desire to make a good impression. Both of which were promising signs. Especially given his roughand-tumble beginnings. “Why, thank you, Antonio! That was unnecessary, but the Vanderveen women love presents, so I therefore refuse to give it back.”
Mrs. Vanderveen was clearly attempting to be nice to him, so Santana allowed himself to relax slightly and wondered where Christine was. Out for a ride perhaps? Or gone shopping? There was no way to know, and he was afraid to ask lest the question seem rude. The wrapping paper rattled as Margaret Vanderveen took it off to reveal a highly polished wooden box. Intricate relief carvings covered the top and all four sides. Later, when the matron had time to examine them more closely, she would discover that they were battle scenes in which her daughter had played a role.
But given the weight of the object, Margaret Vanderveen knew that the box had been designed to contain something more important. Something which, judging from Santana’s expression, he hoped she would like. Having found all of the little brass hooks that held the lid in place, Mrs. Vanderveen pushed each of them out of the way and removed the top. A sculpture nestled within.
“There are some truly remarkable artisans on LaNor,”
Santana explained. “The locals refer to the carvers as ‘wood poets,’ and for good reason.”
As Margaret Vanderveen removed the wood sculpture from its case she found herself looking at a likeness of her daughter’s face that was so lifelike that it took her breath away. And then, before she could clamp down on what her mother would have regarded as an inappropriate display of emotion, tears began to fl?ow down her cheeks. “It’s very beautiful,” the matron said feelingly. “And, outside of Christina herself, perhaps the nicest gift that I have ever received. Thank you.”