resentful, somehow, of Caroline's success and happiness – just seemed to stay away. So, for the most part, the wonderful estate was left to the care and goodwill of the Trottys, the black couple who'd worked for the family for too many years to count.
Even though she had run away as quickly as she'd been able, Caroline had always felt a special attachment to Virginia. It irked her somewhat that she was still bound to it, but she cared deeply for its beauty, its tie to the old South that was rapidly being eaten away by the encroaching anonymity of Starbucks coffee bars, Gap stores, and Blockbuster monstrosities. She loved the politeness of Virginia and its gentility. Above all, she loved the farm, where she could foxhunt and skeet-shoot and, on the spur of the moment, still pull on a pair of slick, shiny riding boots, leap onto her favorite mare, and go racing across the rolling hills.
They'd been there together many times during the course of their marriage, but Jack had firmly remained a city boy. He believed that if man were intended to get around on horseback, he would never have invented the BMW. He was always ecstatic to see the Manhattan skyline upon their return and it never failed to thrill him when he stepped back into their apartment and onto the terrace overlooking Central Park. Now, there was the perfect melding of man and nature. Good, competitive touch football games in the autumn followed by a cold beer made a hell of a lot more sense to him than spending hours in tight pants and silly little hard hats chasing some poor, terrified fox for miles and miles through the Virginia mud.
At the beginning, when she'd said she'd been thinking about Charlottesville as a location, he'd thought it was a strange choice. But she reminded him that fortunes had been made on such strange choices. No one thought Vegas was a food city before Puck and Emeril opened up there. No one thought rich New Yorkers would venture downtown to Union Square until Danny Meyer decided to open his Cafe there. And their research and marketing people assured him it was the right move. The D.C. intelligentsia and media folk had discovered the town over the past decade. They now had country retreats in the area. Even Hollywood had been coming in droves. A lot of the actors, producers, and directors who kept people's heads swiveling at the Jack's in L.A. and New York were now taking over the culture of the Virginia countryside. As the townspeople became more and more sophisticated, so too did the shops and the local theater. The only thing lagging behind was the food. All food explosions, he knew, followed two trends: coffee and bread. When serious coffee shops opened in a city, followed by upscale bakeries, the market was ready for top-of-the-line chefs. It happened in Seattle exactly that way. And Portland. San Francisco had not only followed that pattern, it had created it. And Charlottesville was filling up with wonderful quirky coffee bars and equally wonderful pastry and bread spots. Had been for a year now. The city was a bonanza waiting to happen for the right restaurant – the right name, the right combination of tastes, the right prices, and the right atmosphere – and Jack's was the perfect fit. Added to all of that, Charlottesville was also a huge tourist center, so close to Monticello, that testimony to the genius of man – or at least one man, Thomas Jefferson.
What pushed Jack into his final decision – although deep down, he'd known as soon as she suggested it that it was as good as done, as soon as he saw the pleasure in her eyes – was that he visited some of the Virginia vineyards and tasted some of the local wine. Not there yet, but getting there. The Alan Kinne Chardonnay was absolutely first-rate, satisfyingly oaky. The Dashiell Pinot Noir was fine, not far behind some of the midrange Washington and Oregon vineyards. And the Barboursville Cabernet was both delicious and a smooth fit with Jack's menu. In another few
Even though she had run away as quickly as she'd been able, Caroline had always felt a special attachment to Virginia. It irked her somewhat that she was still bound to it, but she cared deeply for its beauty, its tie to the old South that was rapidly being eaten away by the encroaching anonymity of Starbucks coffee bars, Gap stores, and Blockbuster monstrosities. She loved the politeness of Virginia and its gentility. Above all, she loved the farm, where she could foxhunt and skeet-shoot and, on the spur of the moment, still pull on a pair of slick, shiny riding boots, leap onto her favorite mare, and go racing across the rolling hills.
They'd been there together many times during the course of their marriage, but Jack had firmly remained a city boy. He believed that if man were intended to get around on horseback, he would never have invented the BMW. He was always ecstatic to see the Manhattan skyline upon their return and it never failed to thrill him when he stepped back into their apartment and onto the terrace overlooking Central Park. Now, there was the perfect melding of man and nature. Good, competitive touch football games in the autumn followed by a cold beer made a hell of a lot more sense to him than spending hours in tight pants and silly little hard hats chasing some poor, terrified fox for miles and miles through the Virginia mud.
At the beginning, when she'd said she'd been thinking about Charlottesville as a location, he'd thought it was a strange choice. But she reminded him that fortunes had been made on such strange choices. No one thought Vegas was a food city before Puck and Emeril opened up there. No one thought rich New Yorkers would venture downtown to Union Square until Danny Meyer decided to open his Cafe there. And their research and marketing people assured him it was the right move. The D.C. intelligentsia and media folk had discovered the town over the past decade. They now had country retreats in the area. Even Hollywood had been coming in droves. A lot of the actors, producers, and directors who kept people's heads swiveling at the Jack's in L.A. and New York were now taking over the culture of the Virginia countryside. As the townspeople became more and more sophisticated, so too did the shops and the local theater. The only thing lagging behind was the food. All food explosions, he knew, followed two trends: coffee and bread. When serious coffee shops opened in a city, followed by upscale bakeries, the market was ready for top-of-the-line chefs. It happened in Seattle exactly that way. And Portland. San Francisco had not only followed that pattern, it had created it. And Charlottesville was filling up with wonderful quirky coffee bars and equally wonderful pastry and bread spots. Had been for a year now. The city was a bonanza waiting to happen for the right restaurant – the right name, the right combination of tastes, the right prices, and the right atmosphere – and Jack's was the perfect fit. Added to all of that, Charlottesville was also a huge tourist center, so close to Monticello, that testimony to the genius of man – or at least one man, Thomas Jefferson.
What pushed Jack into his final decision – although deep down, he'd known as soon as she suggested it that it was as good as done, as soon as he saw the pleasure in her eyes – was that he visited some of the Virginia vineyards and tasted some of the local wine. Not there yet, but getting there. The Alan Kinne Chardonnay was absolutely first-rate, satisfyingly oaky. The Dashiell Pinot Noir was fine, not far behind some of the midrange Washington and Oregon vineyards. And the Barboursville Cabernet was both delicious and a smooth fit with Jack's menu. In another few
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