“You have beautiful hair.”

She squeezed water out of it. “It needs something. A good, professional whack. There are only two people I trust to whack at it. Gino, and the woman I found in New York after many sad and failed attempts.”

She turned, fluttered her eyelashes. “After all, I have a boyfriend now.”

“You couldn’t have chosen better.” Hugh put on a white terry cloth robe.

“Sometimes I think fate did the choosing, but either way.” She circled around to join him, hooked a floral sarong around her waist. “Come to dinner tonight.”

“I’m not horning in on your time together.”

“It’s not horning in if I’m asking you.”

As always, Consuela had already set the table for breakfast. A carafe of juice nestled in an ice bucket, an insulated pot of coffee stood ready.

Cate poured two servings of both.

“I’ll ask Dillon to bring steaks—and your favorite fingerling potatoes if they have any. I could attempt my second soufflé.”

On a happy sigh, Hugh sat. “You had me at ‘steak.’ ”

“Good. He can bring the dogs, and we’ll have ourselves a party.”

“And what are you doing today besides making me dinner?”

“Singing for most of it. You guest starred on that series Caper a couple seasons ago, didn’t you?”

“I did. Retired thief called back into action to help a friend. It’s a solid ensemble show, cleverly done.”

“And they’re doing a kind of musical episode, but it turns out the lead actress can’t carry a tune. Seriously can’t. They’d planned to play that for laughs, but don’t feel it worked. So I’m dubbing her songs. Two solos, a duet, and an ensemble.”

“You’ll have fun with it.”

“I already am. And here comes breakfast.”

Cate’s smile faded when she saw Consuela’s tight-lipped, hard-eyed expression.

“Is everything all right?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” With sharp movements, Consuela set down the tray. Lips compressed, she put two bowls of fruit and yogurt on the table, then the frittata. “But I must tell you.”

Hugh rose, pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Consuela.”

“I can’t sit. I’m too angry to sit.” On a rapid stream of Spanish, she threw up her hands, marched away and back again.

“That was too fast for me,” Hugh admitted, “except for the curse words. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Consuela use those words.”

“It’s about Charlotte. On TV this morning. It’s all right. It won’t matter.”

That brought another spate of furious Spanish. But this time at the end of it, Consuela crossed her hands over her heart, closed her eyes, took several breaths.

“I’m sorry. I will calm. That woman, she was on my morning show with her lies and sad looks, and her pretending to be a good person. She says—announces,” Consuela corrected, “she is—has—established a big—much money—foundation. Her husband’s money because she is a . . .”

Stopping herself, she shook her head. “I will not say the word she is. She makes this for—ah, I’m too upset for English.”

“She’s established a charitable foundation.” Cate translated for Hugh as Consuela spewed in Spanish. “To help women, mothers, who are in or have been released from prison. To help them connect or reconnect with their child or children. Education programs, counseling, drug and alcohol rehabilitation, housing assistance, job training and placement. She’s calling it A Mother’s Heart.

“Yes, Consuela, I understand.”

“But, niña mío, she says how her heart is broken because her daughter has never forgiven her. How this breaks the heart of all mothers. And she hopes to help heal the hearts of mothers who have made mistakes as she did.

“She has tears.” Consuela tapped a finger to her cheek. “Lying tears that would burn her heart if she had one. She has no heart to burn, no heart to break.”

“No, she doesn’t.” Rising, she put her arms around the furious housekeeper. “But you do. You are a mother to me, always. A mother in my heart,” she murmured, kissing Consuela’s cheek. “She’s nothing to us.”

“Te amo.”

“Te amo,” Cate echoed, and kissed her other cheek.

“Your breakfast gets cold. You eat. Both eat. I have work.”

“She’ll clean something within an inch of its life,” Cate commented as Consuela marched off. “That’s what she does when she’s pissed off or upset.”

When she sat, started to put a serving of the frittata on Hugh’s plate, he covered her hand with his. “And you?”

“Me? I’m going to enjoy this excellent breakfast. The hell with her, Grandpa. Just the hell with her. And who knows? If she actually follows through with this, she may—inadvertently—help some women who need help.”

“She’ll make the rounds on this, milk some press out of it.”

“I’m sure she will. I’m sure that’s the point.” She shrugged as she dished up the frittata. “I could do the same thing. I won’t,” she added when she caught Hugh’s stare. “Because I think more of myself and my family than milking cheap publicity. But I’ve thought of it a few times over the years.”

“If you wanted to make a statement—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted. “I made that decision a long time ago, and haven’t changed my mind. And I have thought about it, considered it, weighed the upside of it. The downside, for me, is still heavier. I like the life I’ve built, Grandpa, the one I’m still building. I’m happy in it. And there’s still enough in me to get real satisfaction from knowing she’s not happy, not really, in the life she built.”

“There’s no revenge sweeter than a happy life.”

“I bet she’s not sitting by the pool on this gorgeous morning, with miles of sea and sky all around, smelling the flowers, feeling the ocean breeze. And eating the best frittata in California with someone she loves.”

Cate went to work, miserably botched the first dubbing, and had to walk away, order her head to clear.

Bad enough, she thought, the timing on this song, the actress’s lip movements, posed a challenge without letting Charlotte in.

Using the mirror, she visualized herself as the character, sang it out.

Then she tried again.

Better, not best.

Five takes later, she felt the rhythm click, did two insurance takes. She played all three back, watching the monitor for any misses, decided the first insurance take actually hit the mark best.

Since she felt she’d found the groove, she worked on the second solo—a kind of anthem, lots of movement, considerable drama.

Tricky.

And the trick, Cate reminded herself, was putting herself into the role as much as the song.

By the time she broke for the day, she had three takes of each song performed, edited, and filtered. She sent the files. No point in going forward until she knew the director—and the actress—gave the thumbs-up.

Plus, she needed to pick up the order she’d sent Julia that morning. And she could use an hour at the ranch.