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“I’ll never get anything done,” she murmured. “I’ll be drunk on the view night and day.”

“The kitchen’s been redone—it needed it,” Lily added. “And you actually like to cook from time to time.”

Soda bread for the Coopers, Cate thought, still dreaming.

“Pantry’s stocked for when you don’t want to come to the house for meals. Which we hope isn’t often.” Hugh walked over to join her.

She tipped her head to his shoulder. “You may have to come check on me, shake me out of my happy coma. I want to see the kitchen, and the…”

She turned, blinked. “I was so distracted I didn’t see. You opened up some walls.”

And the open floor plan brought the kitchen into view, separating it from the living space with a wide granite counter in myriad shades of gray and silver and hints of blue.

“It’s fabulous. When did you do all this? I love it.”

She walked over, skimmed her fingers over the granite. White cabinets—not sleek and modern but slatted and cottagey, a little distressed—hit just the right note against pale, pale gray walls. They’d gone with white, vintage-style appliances, added glass fronts on a section that held colorful glassware. Gleaming butcher block topped a small work island.

She admired the deep farm sink, opened the slatted door to a walk-in pantry. Stocked, she thought, to hold her through a zombie apocalypse.

She could eat on the rush-topped stools at the counter facing the breathtaking view, or snuggle into the nook with its benches as colorful as the glassware.

“What do you think?”

“G-Lil, I think I win the prize for grandparents.”

“Combo laundry and mudroom through there.” Lily pointed. “And I’m going to warn you, Consuela’s going to come in twice a week to clean and do laundry. No point arguing,” she added. “She’s very adamant. Very.”

“Okay, but I’ll talk her down to once a week.”

“Good luck with that,” Hugh muttered.

“Either way, this is the sweetest kitchen I’ve ever seen. I’d have been happy in the main house, and I’d have felt at home. But this? Well, it’s already home and I haven’t even seen my bedroom.”

“There’s just one more little change down here, before we go up.” Hugh hooked his arm with Cate’s. “You’ve still got the half bath and reading room over there. And over here—”

“We called it the playroom, the older kids called it the dorm.”

“We didn’t think you’d need either of those,” he said as he opened the door.

If she’d been dazzled by the changes so far, this knocked her speechless.

They’d given her a studio, fully equipped, soundproofed, complete with booth. Noise-blocking shades, up now to let in the light and the garden view, the rise of hills beyond, could be rolled down to give her complete silence during recording.

As with her furniture, the equipment she’d packed up, shipped out, wove in with new.

The mics, the stands, even the pop filters, her work comp, the headphones, the works. They’d put in a small, glass-fronted cabinet, stocked it with the water she needed to keep her throat, her tongue lubricated.

They hadn’t missed a trick.

“I’ve got nothing,” she managed. “I’ve got nothing.”

“A professional needs a professional space to work.”

She could only nod at her grandfather’s statement. “And boy, is this one of those. It’s got it all and then some. You even thought of the mirror.”

“You said you practice expressions in character to help find the voice,” Lily reminded her.

“I do.” Stunned, she stepped into the little recording booth, looked at the equipment.

“And if you’re doing a song, or an audiobook, especially, you like more isolation and control.”

She nodded. “Yeah, a little quirk of mine, I guess.”

“An artist isn’t an artist without quirks.”

She turned back to them. “This is the most amazing, most thoughtful, most absolutely loving gift from the best grandparents in the history of grandparents. I need to cry a little.”

“I was hoping you would!”

On a watery laugh of her own, Lily pulled her in.

Cate reached for Hugh, made it a trio.

“And now, I have to squeal.”

She did, added bounces, cried a little more.

And was home.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She hadn’t taken any work, had kept her calendar open for two weeks, calculating the time to settle in, to set up a home studio, check out the studios in Monterey and Carmel.

Now she opened that up by a week, let her agent know she’d be ready for offers. She still wanted the week to just be, to spend real time with her grandparents. To bake that soda bread.

They had a welcome-home dinner, a movie night. She worked out in the gym with her grandfather, who complained about it, but continued to work on strengthening his injured leg.

She worked out because he complained, and he couldn’t shrug off the exercises under her eagle eye.

She walked the beach or just sat on the rocks.

Because it pleased them, she picked tomatoes or peppers, harvested herbs or whatever came to mind to take to the main kitchen for Consuela.

She read over some offers, considered, and decided to take them all. After all, why not? It’s what she did.

One, a voice-over for a book ad, needed a quick turnaround, so she started her setup while her bread baked in the kitchen.

Since the client wanted warm, she chose a dynamic mic, used a pop shield, a shock mount to cut any rumblings. A fifteen-second spot still required all the tools. She mounted her mic, adjusted the angle. Satisfied, she checked her software, her monitors. Set up a second stand for the script.

After rolling down the shades, putting the RECORDING IN PROGRESS sign on the door, locking it just in case, she put on her headphones. Did the first run-through and playback.

Nearly a full second over. She could fix that.

But wow, the sound? Great. She couldn’t have done a better job setting up the studio herself.

She ran through it again, nodded.

Warm, she thought, inviting. You know you want to read me.

She did four takes, punching different words, phrases. Ditched one because she’d gone more sexy than warm.

After two more, she listened to each, and chose what she considered the best three. She labeled them, sent the audio files to the client.

If they wanted a different tone, she’d go back and do it again, but she’d given them warm, female, inviting. And considered her debut in her new studio a success.

Once her bread cooled on the rack, she grabbed a jacket, walked outside.

The breeze, a frisky one, carried the roses and rosemary, the sea and the salt. She wandered back toward where a little vineyard—another new addition—climbed the terraced steps in the cliff, where more roses smothered an arbor with pale peach blossoms and subtle scent as the leaves waved and whispered in the breeze.

Her grandfather sat in the sun. He wore a wide-brimmed hat to protect him against the rays. A mug, coffee no doubt, as no one could convince him to give it up, sat on the steel table beside him.

He had a script in his hands, and his reading glasses on.

“Retired, my butt.”

He looked up, nudged the glasses down to peer at her over them. “Semi. I’m just giving it a read. It’s not green-lit yet. It should be.” But he set it aside. “Want coffee?”

“No, I’m good. God, what a gorgeous day. I hardly ever got up here in the fall. It’s just glorious.” She tipped back her head, closed her eyes, just breathed.

“If Lily sees you out here without a hat, she’ll scold you. Take my word.”

“I’ll remember one next time.”

“Big brim,” he said, tapping his own.