ranch. There, for five miles, she allowed herself one satisfying burst of speed down the private driveway. As she approached the hacienda she passed under an avenue of two widely spaced rows of ancient and noble Moreton Bay figs, natives of New Zealand. There were ten trees in each row, trees so immense that they seemed to come from prehistory, dark olive green trees more than thirty feet in diameter that arched overhead, branching so vigorously that they touched each other and formed an enormous canopy as they led to the courtyard outside of the front entrance.
Although it had been home to the Kilkullen family for more than twelve decades, the hacienda, one of the largest and best preserved of all the surviving landmark California adobes, was still called the Hacienda Valencia and still preserved its basically Spanish ranchero character. The one-story, thirty-five room, whitewashed adobe had a long façade of simple and deeply pleasing proportions. Stretching back from the central structure were two wings separated by a large patio and a central fountain. The dwelling was entirely roofed in old, weathered red tiles; all the main rooms opened onto broad, covered verandas beyond which the patio, with its flower-filled beds, lay under an ever-changing pattern of sun and shadow. The hacienda had always been and still was far more of a manor house, a
casa grande
, than a ranch house.
The hacienda was surrounded by ten acres of famous gardens, first planted by the Valencia wives, and later added to and embellished by the Kilkullen wives, the first two of whom had been of ranchero descent. This oasis was protected by thick plantations of trees that prevented any visible encroachment by the barns and stables that lay beyond their boundaries. The working ranch seemed to exist on a planet other than that green island on which winding, cypress-bordered walks led to a dozen different hidden gardens: a private world where many unexpected fountains played, surrounded by cascades of geraniums growing so rampantly that they almost hid their antique terra-cotta urns.
Jazz parked her car quickly in front of the hacienda and ran inside, delightedly aware of the familiar coolness of the air even in the heat of a California September. There was nothing unfriendly or damp about the slight chill caused by the two-foot thickness of the adobe brick walls for the air was impregnated with nostalgic aromas. In the air floated the immemorial scent of centuries of wood fires. Subtle, spicy fragrances, impossible to pinpoint, but which she had never smelled elsewhere, emanated from the huge Spanish chests, the massive carved sofas and high-backed chairs, the mahogany armoires, some still covered in the original leather, that had been sent to the Valencias on board ships sailing around Cape Horn. Persian rugs that had first covered floors of packed earth, in the earliest days of the hacienda, now lay over tiled and wooden floors. Each generation had added its own furnishings and art to the hacienda, but nothing had ever changed the essentially Spanish Colonial character of the interior, a rustic and solid character that was far more masculine than feminine.
Today, as happened each time she entered the hacienda after being away from it, Jazz was momentarily reminded of nights of her childhood when she lay tucked up snug and warm in a deep brown leather chair in the music room, watching the firelight reflected on the beamed ceiling, while both her parentslistened to Beatles records. How many people felt a prickle of tears at the smell of woodsmoke and the memory of the melody of “Strawberry Fields Forever,” Jazz wondered, and quickly put the thought out of her mind as she went directly to the kitchen to find her friend, the cook, Susie Dominguez.
“Susie, my one and only, how are you?” Jazz demanded, almost lifting her up in the air as she hugged her.
“Overworked for a change,” the tiny woman replied with relish. Susie was of the breed of
Although it had been home to the Kilkullen family for more than twelve decades, the hacienda, one of the largest and best preserved of all the surviving landmark California adobes, was still called the Hacienda Valencia and still preserved its basically Spanish ranchero character. The one-story, thirty-five room, whitewashed adobe had a long façade of simple and deeply pleasing proportions. Stretching back from the central structure were two wings separated by a large patio and a central fountain. The dwelling was entirely roofed in old, weathered red tiles; all the main rooms opened onto broad, covered verandas beyond which the patio, with its flower-filled beds, lay under an ever-changing pattern of sun and shadow. The hacienda had always been and still was far more of a manor house, a
casa grande
, than a ranch house.
The hacienda was surrounded by ten acres of famous gardens, first planted by the Valencia wives, and later added to and embellished by the Kilkullen wives, the first two of whom had been of ranchero descent. This oasis was protected by thick plantations of trees that prevented any visible encroachment by the barns and stables that lay beyond their boundaries. The working ranch seemed to exist on a planet other than that green island on which winding, cypress-bordered walks led to a dozen different hidden gardens: a private world where many unexpected fountains played, surrounded by cascades of geraniums growing so rampantly that they almost hid their antique terra-cotta urns.
Jazz parked her car quickly in front of the hacienda and ran inside, delightedly aware of the familiar coolness of the air even in the heat of a California September. There was nothing unfriendly or damp about the slight chill caused by the two-foot thickness of the adobe brick walls for the air was impregnated with nostalgic aromas. In the air floated the immemorial scent of centuries of wood fires. Subtle, spicy fragrances, impossible to pinpoint, but which she had never smelled elsewhere, emanated from the huge Spanish chests, the massive carved sofas and high-backed chairs, the mahogany armoires, some still covered in the original leather, that had been sent to the Valencias on board ships sailing around Cape Horn. Persian rugs that had first covered floors of packed earth, in the earliest days of the hacienda, now lay over tiled and wooden floors. Each generation had added its own furnishings and art to the hacienda, but nothing had ever changed the essentially Spanish Colonial character of the interior, a rustic and solid character that was far more masculine than feminine.
Today, as happened each time she entered the hacienda after being away from it, Jazz was momentarily reminded of nights of her childhood when she lay tucked up snug and warm in a deep brown leather chair in the music room, watching the firelight reflected on the beamed ceiling, while both her parentslistened to Beatles records. How many people felt a prickle of tears at the smell of woodsmoke and the memory of the melody of “Strawberry Fields Forever,” Jazz wondered, and quickly put the thought out of her mind as she went directly to the kitchen to find her friend, the cook, Susie Dominguez.
“Susie, my one and only, how are you?” Jazz demanded, almost lifting her up in the air as she hugged her.
“Overworked for a change,” the tiny woman replied with relish. Susie was of the breed of
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