Twice in a Blue Moon
Twice in a Blue Moon
Laura Drake
Wanted: one master winemaker Indigo Blue is starting over, again. Following the death of her husband, she's rebuilding her life around her only inheritance–a California winery. There's just one problem: she doesn't know a thing about wine. Enter brooding vintner Danovan DiCarlo.Eager to put his own painful past behind him, Danovan is the perfect partner. And not just in business. As they work side by side, Indigo can feel more than the vineyard coming back to life. Falling for Danovan is a scary prospect. But how do you say no when you find love twice in a blue moon?
Wanted: one master winemaker
Indigo Blue is starting over, again. Following the death of her husband, she’s rebuilding her life around her only inheritance—a California winery. There’s just one problem: she doesn’t know a thing about wine. Enter brooding vintner Danovan DiCarlo.
Eager to put his own painful past behind him, Danovan is the perfect partner. And not just in business. As they work side by side, Indigo can feel more than the vineyard coming back to life. Falling for Danovan is a scary prospect. But how do you say no when you find love twice in a blue moon?
“What’s wrong, Danovan?” She sounded as confused as he felt. “Is it me?”
“It’s not you. Us working together and...being together messes with my head sometimes.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Mixing business and pleasure had destroyed his last life.
“Look, I want you,” he said. “But I’ve also asked you to put a lot of faith in me with the winery. I don’t ever want you to think that I used this—” he waved a hand, indicating them both “—used us, to influence your decision.”
She tilted her head. “I can’t decide if you’re sweet or the most egotistical man I’ve ever met.”
Yeah, join the club. He had never felt so conflicted and unsure of himself. “You are in my blood, Indigo Blue.”
He ran a finger down her throat, to where the first button of her blouse halted his progress.
Dear Reader (#uea21792b-6723-5cfa-8be7-56e671b55b53),
Since Widow’s Grove is surrounded by wineries, one of the books in the series just had to take place on one, right? Except the only thing I know for sure about wine is how to consume it! I enjoyed the research for Indigo’s story and hope you enjoy visiting The Tippling Widow.
If you’re ever in the area, stop by and sample the cabernet—it’s fabulous.
Oh, and watch for the cameo appearances of the characters from the first two books in the series!
The next book? I had readers ask what happened to Bear, the big scary guy from The Reasons to Stay, so the next in the series will be his story.
Stay tuned, ideas are still growing...
Laura Drake
PS I enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me and sign up for my newsletter through my website, lauradrakebooks.com (http://www.lauradrakebooks.com).
Twice in a Blue Moon
Laura Drake
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAURA DRAKE is a RITA® Award-winning author of romance and women’s fiction. She’s a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. Laura’s realized her dream of becoming a Texan and is working on her accent. In the remaining waking hours, she’s a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick. She currently writes for Harlequin Superromance. Find her online at lauradrakebooks.com (http://www.lauradrakebooks.com) and on Twitter, @PBRWriter. (https://twitter.com/pbrwriter)
To my Alpha Dog, who, no matter how fast I pedal, is waving from the top of the next hill, cheering me on.
And telling me to hurry up.
Thanks for always waiting, Babe.
Acknowledgments (#uea21792b-6723-5cfa-8be7-56e671b55b53)
I’m not much different than Indigo; I may know a cab from a zin, but not much more.
A huge thanks to Jeff Wiens of Wiens Family Cellars, who offered to answer this author’s every ignorant question...and even helped on plot points! His family winery in Temecula, California, was my template for The Tippling Widow.
If you’re ever in the area, check out their wonderful wines! Tell Jeff I said, “Hey.”
www.WiensCellars.com (http://www.WiensCellars.com)
Contents
Cover (#u5ea049a2-4b7b-5252-a457-00d27a18567e)
Back Cover Text (#u70073cea-2b33-5e93-bc0d-ee0f3d5e40f5)
Introduction (#u98e58b45-7fb4-5df2-8dc7-a42cf6005e9c)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u05a3cf93-e04d-5d0e-9754-aef191aa3c47)
About the Author (#uaf4ccc1d-49b2-5137-a1b8-4d09a4474859)
Dedication (#u2de3f198-1805-5e95-9b77-2aa2389cbb17)
Acknowledgments
The Hollywood Informer
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Epilogue
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
The Hollywood Informer (#ulink_bea891f0-2583-5fbb-b65f-72b10456b8d8)
Hollywood was rocked last week by the death of our beloved Harry Stone. Undoubtedly one of the most influential personalities in the history of film, Harry was Hollywood’s best-known director and one of the wealthiest filmmakers in the world. We’ll miss him not only for his sparkling genre-bending movies, but for his iconic bigger-than-life personality.
But apparently Harry’s not done rocking the town.
In our EXCLUSIVE interview inside, Harry’s daughter and reality show superstar, Brenda Stone, reveals the juicy details of Harry’s will! And guess who’s not in it? Harry’s four-decades-junior wife, Indigo Blue. Apparently the opportunistic ‘masseuse to the stars’ will have to hit the road with her massage table, because she got nada.
The Informer is gratified to see that sometimes, even in this town, Karma works. Blue dug for gold and came up with rocks. We sincerely hope this is the last time we have to mention her name within these pages. Like Townshend wrote, “Let’s forget you, better still.”
Goodbye, sweet Harry. This town will miss you.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2f5f97c3-fe97-583f-a2ab-9b8bf0ee8553)
“COMEON, BABY BLUE. I may not have Harry’s bucks, but I’ve got a place in Malibu overlooking—”
“You booked a massage, Carlo. I am not on the menu of services.” Indigo Blue grasped the man’s muscular forearm, removed it from around her neck and lowered it to her massage table. Soft light from the matching Tiffany lamps caressed the burnished skin and smooth muscles of Hollywood’s latest action hero, Carlo Bandera. Soothing new-age rainforest sounds flowed from the spa’s hidden speakers.
“I get that you don’t want to commit, babe. That’s cool.”
Pouring coconut oil into her palm, she rubbed her hands to warm it, attempting to ignore the massive boner tenting the towel draped across Carlo’s crotch. Starting at the bottom of his rib cage, she slid the heels of her hands up and across his considerable pecs. She leaned in, adding her weight to release the tension in the huge muscles.
His arms snaked around her and pulled her onto his chest, trapping her hands underneath her. “I’ve got five hundred bucks for a BJ.”
She pushed against him, but his arms were steel bands. He didn’t even flinch. Panic pumped into her bloodstream, impelled by her racing heart.
“Harry Stone could’ve had any broad in town, and he chose you.” He gave her the look she’d seen him use in his last movie. The heavy-lidded, smoky one that liquefied female costars. “You must be incredible—it’d be worth five hundred.”
“Back off, Bandera. Right now.” Adrenaline raced through her, demanding flight or fight. But the caveman Casanova’s balls were out of her knee’s reach.
“Aw, honey, you’ll change your mind once you see the goods...”
When he used one arm to whip off the towel, she twisted away, sliding easily thanks to his oily chest.
“This appointment is over.” She stepped to the door, but her hands were slick. She couldn’t turn the knob.
Bandera sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face, his member throbbing. “From what I hear, you gotta need the money, Blue.” He slid his legs off the table.
She shot a glance around the dim room, looking for a towel to wipe her hands. They lay stacked on the other side of the table. Figures.
He stood. “If you’re that good, I’ll refer my friends.”
Using two hands, tendons in her forearms straining, she twisted the greasy knob. It slipped, but then finally turned. She flung the door open. It hit the wall with a hollow boom. She stalked through the crowd from a just-released rumba class, leaving the door gaping behind her.
Her client’s indignant yell didn’t douse the burn in her gut.
I can’t do this anymore.
Only a week into her old job and this was the third and scariest pass so far. She’d told herself that she’d been spoiled with the cushy life—but it was more than that. Before Harry, the upscale clientele of Las Brisas had at least shown respect for her skills and service. Now she was accosted on a daily basis. She snatched an Egyptian cotton towel from a stack, wiping her hands as she walked through the gym, hyperaware of the curious eyes that followed her.
This was not going to work. She needed a new plan.
As with everything he touched, Harry had changed her. She was no longer the free-spirited, starstruck newbie, grateful for a dream job teaching yoga to starlets and massaging famous muscle. But without Harry’s love and unswerving loyalty, who was she now? She didn’t know.
But she wasn’t this.
A crushing blanket of loss had descended the morning she woke to find the lifeless body of her mentor, her love, her best friend, cooling on the mattress beside her. After that Harry had belonged to everyone: the press, his fans, his daughter. In their hands, the funeral morphed from the quiet family ceremony Harry had wanted into a nightmare of Hollywood proportions complete with limos, television cameras and paparazzi.
Indigo pushed open the door to the women’s locker room, hollow to the marrow of her bones. She put her hands on her knees and leaned over, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. When had she last eaten?
But a decent meal wouldn’t touch this emptiness. The problem was much deeper.
The commune where she’d grown up had been a large sheltering womb that, after high school, had shrunk to the point of claustrophobia. She’d fought her way out, choosing to be born instead between the glamorous thighs of Hollywood.
It was only later she learned her surrogate mother was a narcissistic whore.
That was the last time she’d trusted her gut. Lost, and one bad choice from disaster, she’d met Harry.
“Indigo Blue. It sounds like a streetwalker’s name.” A chalkboard-squeal voice drifted from the first row of teak lockers.
“The only reason anyone invited her to parties at all was because she had Harry wrapped around her ring finger. How do you suppose she did that?”
“See? We’re back to the streetwalker thing.”
Blood pounded up Indigo’s neck, flooding her face with heat. She eyed the exit, but her car keys were in her locker. Tightening her stomach muscles, she walked on. Coming abreast of the lockers, she glanced to the two underwear-clad plastic surgery billboards. “Monica, you may want to stick with those voice lessons.” She covered the bitchy words in fake-sincerity syrup. “You’re still strident, dear.”
That shut them up. She grabbed her stuff and got the hell out.
* * *
TWODAYSLATER, her Louis Vuitton luggage open on the bed, Indigo stood before her walk-in closet, which was bigger than her childhood bedroom. She surveyed the yards of satin, spandex and sequins, seeing her Hollywood life recede like the view in the long end of a telescope.
That’s how it felt—as if, at twenty-seven, she’d already led three separate lifetimes: the tomboy who’d grown up wild on the Humboldt County commune, the star-struck yoga instructor and the celebrity wife of an aging Hollywood icon.
Thanks to her mom and Harry, two of those lives had turned out well. The one in between, the one she’d been in charge of? Epic fail. She turned away from the closet. Whatever lifetime came next, she sure wouldn’t need this wardrobe.
Mom wanted her to come home to People’s Farm, but her experience at the spa had taught her that going backward didn’t work. Thanks to the skills she’d learned there, she could put her portable massage table under her arm and start her next lifetime almost anywhere.
And in the ass-end hours of last night, she’d decided to begin that life at the winery—the one remnant of this life that was truly hers. Maybe she’d find Harry’s spirit where they’d been happiest.
Closing the luggage, she glanced around the bedroom, listening one last time for a whisper of Harry. All she heard was the whine of the pool pump through the open French doors. She now understood the phantom pain that amputees felt for a missing limb, because of the gaping hole in her that Harry had left. What would happen to her now, without his steady guiding hand on her shoulder?
Everyone believed she’d married Harry Stone for his money. Still, she’d thought she’d made a few friends in the four years they’d been married. But the past two months proved that all the naïveté hadn’t yet rubbed off of Indigo Blue. She shook her head, picked up what was left of this life and walked downstairs.
Claws on marble echoed in the two-story vestibule, getting closer. She dropped the load and knelt as Harry’s basset hound, Barnabas, careened around the corner, huge feet pistoning until he gained traction and barreled into her.
“Oof. Well, hello to you too, big guy.” Avoiding drool, she knelt to pet him from soft ears to whipping tail. “The Wicked Witch of the West will be here soon. Let’s spare ourselves that drama, eh?”
“Well, I may be a witch, but that’s not Toto.” Brenda Stone swept in on stilettos instead of a broom. “And you are no Dorothy.” She flipped her salon-perfect blond tresses over her shoulder and strutted over on shapely, tanning-bed-brown legs. “Give me your house key, and open the suitcases.”
Indigo stood, fists clenched at her sides. “You think I’d steal something?”
“Listen up, bitch.” The diva waved a carmine talon in front of Indigo’s nose. “Daddy’s gone. I don’t have to put up with your shit for one more second.” She planted a fist on her hip. “Now, are you going to open up? Or do I call the cops?”
They were once “friends.” That was before Indigo understood the Hollywood definition. She would have accepted Brenda’s aversion to having a stepmother her own age, but Brenda had made it clear that the competition wasn’t for Harry’s love—but for his money.
Indigo spread her arms. “If I’d wanted any of this, I wouldn’t have insisted on a prenup leaving all of it to you.” The only things she wanted from this house were Barney, her wedding rings and a few of Harry’s T-shirts to sleep in.
“Yeah, like anybody believed that story.” Brenda sniffed, her eyes crawling over the luggage. “Open them. Now.”
Indigo bent and popped the locks on the first suitcase, tasting bitterness in the back of her throat. Sure, Brenda was all about money. But Indigo knew that deeper in her hate-shriveled heart lived an insecure, jealous little girl, and that was Indigo’s unforgivable sin. Not that Brenda was that little girl—but that Indigo knew it.
A few minutes more, and you’re done with all this forever.
She flipped open the suitcase. Slapping the drama queen silly would sure feel good but would only supply more fodder for the gossip rags. Harry deserved better. Guts churning, she gritted her teeth and opened the next.
Ten minutes later the inspection was over, leaving Indigo feeling as violated as a cavity search.
“Just because I’m a nice person, and since you didn’t try to steal anything else, I’ll let you keep the Vuitton.” Brenda raked a proprietary gaze over the marbled entryway and the Tara-style staircase, then back. “You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You’re now free to go back to that.” She flicked a hand in Barney’s direction. “You’re taking that filthy animal, right?”
Indigo snapped the last lock shut and looked into Barney’s droopy eyes. “Are you ready?” Taking his tail wag as assent, she stood, grabbed the handles of the suitcases, and left this lifetime behind.
* * *
“I WASSORRY to hear about your baby girl, Danovan.” Reese Winters sat across the executive desk at Winter Wines. His wrinkles were set in nervous lines, as if waiting to get a root canal. With no Novocain.
Danovan DiCarlo felt the same but knew if it showed, this interview would be over. He shut his mind to the words that delivered the brass-knuckle punch to his chest. “You’re aware that I have a degree in agribusiness from UC Davis, and that I worked my way up at Bacchanal Winery to become one of their trusted vintners. But what you may not know is that I single-handedly took their sauvignon line from ten percent of—”
“Danovan.” Reece’s fingers drummed the edge of the desk.
“Yes, sir.” He leaned forward, anxious to make his next point. He was just getting to the good stuff.
“Spare me the résumé. You know I can’t hire you.”
“But, sir, I’m an excellent manager.”
“My respect for your abilities is what got you this meeting. I’d wager you haven’t gotten many others. Am I right?”
“Well, I’m just now starting to—”
“Son, I don’t believe the rumors the family is putting out about you.” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair. “But that doesn’t matter. They buy my grapes.”
“You’re going to let the Boldens dictate—”
“I am. And so is every other winery in the area. What’s more, you knew that when you set up this appointment.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t mean to stand in as your daddy, but it seems somebody needs to.” He put his knuckles on the desk and leaned in. “You got a bad deal. But you have to admit, you had some...input into your situation.”
Danovan shot to his feet. “I didn’t come here to—”
“So, I have to ask you.” He squinted across the desk. “Did you learn anything?”
Heat pounded up Danovan’s neck until his face throbbed, engorged with it.
“No one ever choked to death swallowing his pride, son.”
Sanctimonious sonofabitch. If Winters hadn’t been old enough to sell wine to King Tut, Danovan would have pulled him across the table by the collar of that polo shirt and vent his frustration. Instead, he snatched the file folder of documentation from his chair, retrieved his résumé and dropped it in the folder. Even if all Danovan had left was a string of dynamite-rigged bridges, he couldn’t afford to burn any. Anger drained out of the hole that opened in his guts.
He looked across the desk and saw the truth in those mournful blue eyes. In his own twisted way, the old man was trying to help.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Winters.” He squared his shoulders, did an about-face and marched out of the office, through the huge tasting room and out the front door of the winery. Finally, standing beside his car, he let out the breath he’d been holding.
I’m firmly and durably screwed.
He slammed his hands on the hood. When Winters agreed to see him, he’d had a glimmer of hope that one grower in the valley had a big enough set of balls to stand against the Boldens. But apparently they’d stopped making them that size.
He unlocked his Land Rover with a click. He pulled the door open, and the smell of almost-new car washed over him as he settled into the seat. If he didn’t find a job soon, he’d be forced to sell this last sweet perk of his old life. He inserted the key and fired the engine.
Sure, he could widen his search. He probably should. Napa Valley had more prestige, anyway. But there still would be the issue of a recommendation from his last employer. Who would an owner believe—the largest winemaker in central California, or a prospective hire? He pounded his fist on the burled wood dash, startling a passing tourist.
Besides, dammit, he liked it here. He may have chosen the Central Valley right out of school because it was a small pond he could make a big splash in, but sometime over the past five years, he’d become attached. He liked the quaint small-town feel of downtown Widow’s Grove. He liked the prissy Victorians that lined the King’s Highway into town. But mostly, he loved the land. The rolling, golden hills dotted with live oaks quieted his edgy restlessness.
But not his drive.
Throwing the car into Reverse, he backed out. Goddammit, he wasn’t leaving until he’d interviewed at every winery he could get through the door of. The colossal screwup with Lissette might have trashed his ego, and his daughter’s death, his heart, but the Boldens were not taking his career, too.
It was all he had left.
* * *
INDIGOWANTEDTOgo out the way she came in, so she chose Pacific Coast Highway. It took longer, but she and Barney weren’t in a hurry.
The heavy mantle of Hollywood lightened with each mile of road that passed under her tires. This town wasn’t just a geographical location, but a state of mind—and she was delighted to change states. She played Harry’s favorite CDs, singing along with Van Morrison as the sun tipped over its summit to begin its descent to the sea.
“What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.
But the moment of doubt didn’t stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown. Her Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.
At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she’d return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.
Or maybe she’d use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.
She’d loved Harry’s Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow’s Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry’s projects. They’d sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob’s cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.
Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he’d been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.
It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry’s marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she’d refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.
It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry’s rants, because it didn’t matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he’d lose everything. Bob’s respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry’s courtship.
Uncle Bob’s death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he’d left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who worried about her future.
She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob’s death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.
Now she was going to see if it could be more.
She watched the surf racing to keep pace with her car, realizing her future was in an odd sort of balance. Her first lifetime in northern California as a free-spirited earth child had been the polar opposite of her lifetime in the other end of the state. Like Goldilocks, she could only hope that this one, in the middle, would be just right.
With Santa Barbara in the rearview mirror, champagne bubbles of excitement rose in her chest. As the car blew out of the Gaviota Tunnel, the sun and land exploded in a blaze that burned onto her retinas. The hills flowed away in golden waves and the road wound between them, lazy as a snake in the sun. Old red barns nestled at the bottom of the valleys, and cattle wandered along paths that their forebears had etched into the hillsides.
Peace blew in on the wind, brushing her face, settling on her skin. She smiled.
Almost there.
A little while later she was rolling into Widow’s Grove—and it was like visiting an old friend.
There’s a new antiques shop where the hardware used to be. Oh, Harry, look, there’s Hollister Drug where we got those great strawberry shakes. Remember that waitress with the crystal in her tooth and the ’50s waitress uniform and hot pink hair?
She turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, the precision straight rows of winter-barren grapevines undulating over the hills that she and Barney passed. The basset’s long ears flapped out the open window as he sniffed the air. Indigo tried it, too, pulling in the scent of dirt and growing things. “You remember this, don’t you?”
“Woof.”
“Well, this time we’re here to stay.” She drank in every hill, every landmark and every mailbox on what was, as of today, her road home.
They turned in at the sun-faded sign that read, “Tippling Widow Winery. Home of distinctive wines since 1978.”
“We’ll have to get that sign repainted,” she said. “It doesn’t make a very good impression from the road.” Dead leaves blew across the asphalt as they drove up the wide drive, unpruned denuded vines keeping pace on either side. “I wonder how the harvest was this year.”
The drive opened to a small, deserted parking lot that ended at the tasting room. The steel-roofed wooden building, painted in buff and redwood, was shaded by a wraparound porch. Square wooden tables and chairs rested in its shade. She pulled up and parked.
The place was so empty it seemed abandoned. Weeds grew among the rosebushes at the base of the porch, complete with wind-blown trash accents. What was the manager thinking? This would look awful to potential customers.
Where were the customers? The place should be bustling with tourists this time of year. Warning bells jangled in her head.
When Barney whined, she got out, gathered him in her arms and lifted him down. He wandered off the sidewalk, sniffed, then watered some weeds. As she closed the car door, the fecund scent of fermentation—a sure sign that the crop was being processed—calmed her unease a bit.
Until she walked closer and spied the cobwebs gracing the tables and chairs of the porch. And they were not fake Halloween leftovers.
She pulled the handle of the glass door—it was locked. She cupped her hands and looked in, though she couldn’t see much of the shadowed interior.
What the hell is going on? “Barnabas, come.”
He stopped sniffing and, collar jingling, trotted after her around the building, along the nine-foot-tall solid wood fence, to the working side of the winery. She pulled the metal door at the back of the pole-barn building. At least it was unlocked, and the lights were on. Barney followed her in, and she let the door close. No genteel trappings here—just concrete floors, stainless steel wine fermentation tanks, skylights and industrial lighting overhead.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the high steel ceiling. “Anyone here?” She held out her hand, palm down. “Barney. Stay.”
He sat, plump feet splayed.
She walked farther in, peering around raised fermentation vats and stepping over hoses.
In the last row, a pair of jeans-clad legs stuck out from under a vat, several wrenches spread on the floor beside them. “Hello?”
The legs didn’t move. Had he hit his head? Had something collapsed? Alarm skittered up her spine and scurried along her nerves. Jogging over, she knelt beside the legs and bent to peer under the vat. An old man lay, eyes closed, a tonsure of curly gray hair wild around his head. No blood. She reached out and touched his leg. Then shook it. “Hey, you okay?”
His lips parted, belching a snore.
“What the hell?” She snatched a wrench from the floor and banged it against the metal tank.
With a snort the man woke, jerked and smacked his head on the tank. “Jaysus!” He put a hand to his forehead and glared at her through one bloodshot eye. “Why’d you go and do tha’?”
A miasma of stale wine breath unfurled. She recoiled and stood, then backed up a step.
“Cantcha’ see I’m workin’ here?” The man rolled out from under the vat. “Who the hell’re you?”
“Indigo Blue. The owner.” The remnants of adrenaline in her system congealed to a sticky wad of anger. “You’re not working. You’re shit-faced.”
It took some precarious butt balancing and grunting, but the man eventually sat up. “I’m not. I was resting my eyes. This work isn’t easy, you kn—” He scratched his scalp. “Who’d you say you were, again?”
She didn’t want to ask her next question—didn’t want to know. She put her thumb and forefinger to the ticking bomb behind her eyebrows. “Please. Tell me you’re not the manager.”
He smiled, revealing a missing incisor and delivering another lethal dose of boozy halitosis. “I am.” He stuck out a hand. Then, realizing it held a wrench, he dropped the tool, and winced when it clanged on the cement. “I’m Cyrus Delaney. Proud to meetcha.” He held out his square, dirty hand again.
She shook only the ends of his fingers. The pretty dreams she’d imagined on the drive here detonated, gone in an instant. “Why isn’t the tasting room open?”
“The bitches up and quit, that’s why.”
When he turned to get to his knees, she didn’t slam her eyes closed fast enough. A close-up of his butt crack seared into her brain.
“How long ago?” She moaned.
“Oh, I think it was...uhnn.” He gained his feet. “Around about a couple weeks ago, reckon.”
Questions hit her brain with the heavy thud of bullets hitting raw meat. Then the hollow-pointed one hit. “Why isn’t it cold in here?”
She didn’t know much about making wine, but Uncle Bob always kept this room at a steady sixty degrees. Fermentation might be a natural event, but uncontrolled, it resulted in vinegar, not wine.
He looked around. “Yeah, why in’t it? That’s a good question.” He tottered away, swaying right and left, as if his knees didn’t bend.
God help me. She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and hit speed dial. Then, catching herself, she pushed End.
There was no cell tower where Harry was.
What now? Dread zinged along nerves made brittle by the adrenaline dump.
Who am I to decide?
Oh, sure, she’d made lots of decisions as a married woman in regards to running the household, party planning—the mundane white noise of everyday life. But Harry, or his staff, had taught her all that. And though he was gone now the thought of him, no more than a phone call away if she needed help, still resided in the back of her mind. His presence had always been a comfort. And a safety rope.
She swallowed a burr-edged nugget of fear. This fiasco was hers to fix. There was no one else. The winery had been Uncle Bob’s baby. Harry’s haven. Failure meant she’d always carry the guilt and shame of losing that. It would be like losing them all over again.
She looked up at the metal roof. “Harry, you know I suck at this.”
The only original idea she’d ever had was moving to Hollywood. And if Harry hadn’t stooped to lift her up, dust her off and take her in, no telling where she’d be now. Giving BJs to up-and-coming stars? Worse?
A shudder rattled through her so hard her bones shook. She took a breath, then headed in the direction she’d seen her “manager” take.
She found him fiddling with the thermostat on the wall beside the tasting-room door.
“It’s not coming on.” He frowned at the dial as if maybe he’d merely forgotten how it worked.
Thank God she’d gotten the business checkbook from the accountant before she left LA. “Who do you call when this happens?”
“Never happened before.” He smacked his lips. “I’ll be right back. I need...” He pulled the metal door open, and dim lights came on in the barrel room—a glass-walled display room of oaken barrels of product. He went deeper, into the darkened tasting room, turned the corner and disappeared.
Indigo followed. She could see the sun through the windows out front, but the shaded porch left the tasting room in shadows. What wasn’t hard to see was the gray-on-black form lifting a bottle to his lips. Anger fired in her chest and shot through her so fast that white sparks drifted across her vision. She put her hands on her hips. “We have an emergency here. The entire year’s stock could be destroyed, and you’re drinking? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
The shadow lowered his arm. “Well, I was just gettin’ some fortification, then I was going to—”
“You’re fired.” She might not have the experience to make good decisions, but at least they wouldn’t be clouded by alcohol. She’d seen enough red-veined noses and yellowed eyes to recognize chronic alcoholism when she saw it. “Get your stuff and clear off.” She strode past what she knew to be the long burled-wood bar, with racks of wine behind, to the counter with a cash register next to the door.
“You can’t do that, missy. I been here for a long time.” She heard the slosh of a bottle being lifted.
“Bullshit. I just did.” Where was the phone book? She dug around under the counter. At least the light was better up here. Her intestines gurgled a warning, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now. “Get your stuff and get off this property. Aha.” She pulled out the thin Widow’s Grove phone book. “On second thought, wait right there for a minute. I’m following you out. I want to be sure some of the product is left when you’re gone.”
Once she’d looked up an air-conditioning company, called and extracted a promise that someone would be out right away, she walked to where Delaney stood, grumbling under his breath. “Let’s go.” She led the way into the warehouse and to the back door.
Barney stood when they walked up.
“What kinda dog is that?” Delaney slurred.
Barney sniffed the man’s pants leg then, lip curling, backed up.
“One with good taste.” She held the door and her breath when Delaney brushed by her.
“You won’t get away with this, lady. I’m going to the EDD.”
“You do that. Please. And I’m only guessing here, but I’ll bet when I contact the tasting room staff, they’ll have plenty they’ll want to say to the labor board themselves.” When Barney scooted out behind her, she let the door fall closed.
Delaney walked to the loading zone and turned to go up the hill.
“Hey, where are you going?” She and Barney jogged to catch up.
“To get my stuff. I moved into the cabin.” He huffed, trudging up the hill.
“Bob’s place?” Outrage fisted her hands as she imagined the cozy little log cabin defiled by this drunken slob. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”
“It was sitting empty.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And the bed down there was lumpy.” The cabin came into view as they crested the hill. The grapevines marched right up to the edge of the dusty yard, and the setting sun washed the old log walls golden.
She half expected to see Bob and Harry sitting in the wooden chairs, feet up on the railing, sipping merlot.
But they weren’t. Indigo’s chest squeezed her heart in a painful spasm of nostalgia.
Delaney went on grumbling about the slights he’d borne in his life as they stepped inside.
“Oh, no.” The air went out of her in a whoosh. The bear-tapestry-upholstered couch was sagging and stained. The Navajo rug was pocked with cinder-blackened holes, some possibly as recent as the foot-high ashes that spilled out of the huge fireplace.
Bottles, cups and filthy dishes occupied the low coffee table and graced every flat surface. The air was close and stale, smelling of garbage. Barney snapped at a buzzing fly.
All the pain she’d held inside since Harry’s death gathered, filling every space in her body, pushing, pushing. Every slight, every abuse, every loss started to boil. Her skin tightened in an attempt to contain it, but the pressure built in her soft parts—in her gut, behind her eyes.
She clapped her hands over her ears as the pressure exploded from her in a howl of pain. “Getout-getout-getout. Get out before I kill you!”
Delaney flinched, his mouth open.
Barnabas threw his head back and howled, raising the hair on her arms.
Delaney scrambled, snatching clothes from the furniture, stumbling between the bathroom and the bedroom.
She couldn’t watch. Couldn’t bear seeing the rest of the house just yet. Sinking to her knees, she gathered Barney in her arms, but the dog wouldn’t be consoled. His howls echoed through the large two-story room as if he, too, were pouring out his grief. She rocked him in shaking arms, whispering to him in an attempt to calm them both.
Delaney shuffled back and forth, loaded down with boxes, clothes hanging out of them. She wasn’t letting go of Barney to look through them. Knowing firsthand how demeaning that was, she couldn’t do it to another human being, even someone as useless as this manager.
Besides, everything precious had already been taken.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_437caa29-2da0-5fdc-8da9-9c26f9e87253)
FROMTHEPORCH, Indigo watched the ex-manager’s rattletrap truck pull out onto the road below. “Well, it’s up to you and me now, Barn.”
The dog lifted his mournful face.
“Cheer up, bud. We may suck at making decisions, but we can’t do worse than that guy.”
A lead blanket of responsibility dropped onto her shoulders, making it hard to draw a full breath. No one to look to. No one to call. The success or failure of Harry’s last lifeline was in her hands. Her incompetent hands.
Oh, come on. You’re not totally clueless. After all, you’ve run your own yoga business.
A tattered remnant of a memory floated through her mind, of a carmine-red scrap of a dress that had cost her more than a good chunk of her bank account.
Yes, and that worked out so well. She slammed her mind shut on it.
She should start shoveling out the cabin. Turning, she stepped to the open door, then hesitated. The sun dipped below the edge of the world. The breeze blew colder than it had a moment ago. The dark played in the straggling vines, and she thought she heard the scurrying of rat-like claws in the dirt.
Ghosts whispered from the open doorway.
Blue? She’s a little chit, but I’m just glad to see Harry’s still got the interest.
He’ll tire of her. Smart men always do, once they start thinking with their bigger head.
You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You’re now free to go back to that.
The ghosts chuckled, breathing the smell of boozy sweat-stained sheets and failure into her face. Turning her back on the past, she blindly reached for the knob and shut the door.
She’d deal with the cabin when she felt stronger. “Let’s go, Barn.”
As they walked down the hill to the winery, a white panel van pulled into the parking lot, the name of the air-conditioning company she’d called on its side.
The dog woofed.
“It’s okay, Barn. The cavalry drives panel trucks nowadays.” She unlocked the front doors for the repairman, but that was about all the help she could render, having no idea what a compressor looked like, much less where it was located. She told him where she’d be and left him to it, imagining dollars ticking by on a taxi’s meter.
She and Barn walked through the tasting room and took the door on the left that led the way to the manager’s quarters. She shot a glance to the ceiling. “Oh please, God, I can’t take any more today.” Bracing herself for the worst, she opened the door.
Encouraged by a faint whiff of stale Lysol, she walked down the long hall, opening doors as she went. The first on the left revealed an abandoned office with windows that looked onto the parking lot. The next door was to a long room. Empty barrels and equipment littered the floor. Behind the door on the right stood the industrial washer and dryer, the deep working-man’s sink between them.
The next room on the right was the manager’s living quarters, and their home until the cabin was shoveled out.
She opened the door and sniffed. “It’s safe, Barney. Come on in.” Set up like a room in one of those extended-stay hotels, the apartment had a small kitchen area on the right, a two-person dining table to the left, and a neatly made double bed before her. Crossing the room, she turned left to check out the bathroom. The shower/tub combo, sink and toilet all gleamed.
Thank God the cleaning crew didn’t quit too.
Problems lay tangled in her mind like huge piles of string. She had no idea where to begin unknotting them.
First things first.
A short while later, on her last trip to the car unloading what she and Barney would need for the night, the repairman found her in the hall.
“I’ve cobbled together a temporary fix, ma’am, but frankly, your whole system is held together with bubble gum and cat hair.” He squatted to pat Barney. “It’ll need to be replaced.”
“The whole thing?’ The taxi meter in her head whirred.
“Well, some of the duct work could probably be salvaged.” Head down, he studiously petted an adoring Barney, whose tail whopped the metal doorjamb with a hollow bong.
She didn’t want to know. “How much?”
He named a figure that stole her breath, and a considerable chunk of the business savings account. But you couldn’t make wine without a consistent temperature. Even she knew that. Should she call another company for a second quote? She bit her lip. Businesses would be closed by now. Tomorrow might be too late.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
“Jeez, Barney.” She grabbed his collar and pulled the little traitor away from the door. He’d always liked men better.
What to do? Nothing had gone right since she’d stepped foot on the property. She’d known when she took this path that she’d have to trust in her intuition, but she hadn’t known that the weight of responsibility would be so heavy. It smothered her last flicker of energy. She looked up at the repairman’s young, guileless face. Surely she could trust a face like that. “How long will it take?”
“We don’t have a unit that large in stock. I’ll need to order one. Should take a week to ten days to get here.”
“Will the cat hair hold out?”
He smiled. “If it doesn’t, you call me. I’ll keep it running until then, no charge.”
He should. The price he quoted for labor alone would send his kid to college for a year. What would Harry do? A chill wind filled the place in her chest where Harry used to be, howling around the cracks in her cobbled-together life. She crossed her arms to cover the void and chose the easier option. “Yeah, okay, order the parts.”
She followed him out, locked up behind them, then returned to the manager’s quarters. The bed beckoned. She longed to fall onto it, curl into a fetal ball and welcome sleep’s respite. Instead, after a long, lingering look, she set up her laptop on the kitchen table and fired it up, then wandered into the kitchen area to find a bowl for Barney’s food. Her stomach growled, but the shelves and drawers revealed only dime-store dishes, bent-tined silverware and a few pots and pans. The fridge was empty save a box of baking soda that sure hadn’t been put there by the manager.
She poured Barney’s food into a chipped cereal bowl with Mickey Mouse tap dancing around the rim. She knew she should eat something. The stress of the past month had her jeans gapping, hanging off her hip bones. A bevy of women in Hollywood would kill for a size zero, but they sure wouldn’t want the grief and worry that had gotten her there.
You’ve got to start taking care of yourself. There was no one else to do it.
Tomorrow.
Barney finished his dinner and slopped half the water out of the other dish. Ears dripping, he meandered to the side of the bed and collapsed on the worn braided rug.
They were both out of shape. She’d go to town and stock up on healthy food and restart her yoga routine tomorrow. Plopping into the chair, she jiggled the mouse to refresh her laptop. It would take a lot more than discipline to deal with the rest of the mess that was the winery.
She knew little more about wine than to order white with fish and red with beef. Her education would have to come first. She searched the internet for books on wine making but found most either were for home hobbyists or were way-over-her-head technical. Then she hit pay dirt. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Starting and Running a Winery. “That sounds about right.” With a click, she downloaded it to her e-reader.
The next knot in the pile of tangled string would be trickier. She’d need to find a winery manager who could do it all: vintner, cellar manager and vine steward. Her experience with the “manager” today had been a lesson in what happened when you left precious things in the hands of others. So, he or she would also have to be willing to teach her.
She needed someone she could trust.
She signed on to her simple business accounting software program and subtracted the cost of the new air-conditioning from the checking balance. She swallowed the knot of dread-laced acid at the back of her throat and added one more to the list of job requirements.
The future manager must be willing to work for next to nothing.
“Yeah, that should be an easy ad to write.” She did a search for a central California winery job board, trying to conjure the words to put lipstick on that pig.
* * *
DANOVANSQUINTED AT his computer screen and read the post again, hoping to glean more information.
Wanted: Winery Manager
A great opportunity to get in on the
Grand Reopening of a boutique winery with a solid reputation for outstanding wines.
Great working environment!
Please apply in person to
The Tippling Widow Winery,
Widow’s Grove, California
He’d never heard of The Tippling Widow, but that wasn’t surprising. Mom-and-pop operations lay scattered in the hills all over the valley.
Reading between the lines of the sunny ad, it was clear that this would be a lot of work for little acclaim. He squared his shoulders. This job was far beneath him. He’d been a lead vintner at one of the largest winemakers in all of California.
Had being the key point.
He flipped to the Bacchanal website. His own smile met him. A flashy photo of the favorite son raising a glass of Pan’s Reserve Cab, his father-in-law’s arm around his shoulder.
His breath whooshed out. The family hadn’t changed the website yet. No surprise there. He was still stunned to blasted stillness inside...the family must be too. His daughter’s cherubic smile drifted across his vision, softening the edges, blurring it. He pulled his mind from the darkness. He had to keep moving forward. There was nothing left behind.
Who was he kidding? If the owner of Tippling Widow hadn’t heard of his epic ousting at Bacchanal two weeks ago, a simple phone call to check references would remedy that. Failure bubbled up, turning his skull into a witch’s cauldron of funk. Should he even bother applying?
He glanced at the walls of the crappy apartment he wouldn’t be able to afford next month. What choice did he have? Gathering the scattered chunks of his career, his ego and his regrets, he wrote down the address of The Tippling Widow. He had to try.
When he first pulled into the parking lot, he thought the place abandoned. But a basset hound lumbered around the corner of the covered porch to the front steps and sat down, staring at his car. He shut off the engine.
What are you going to say when they ask about your last job?
“Hell if I know.” His voice bounced off the windows and back at him. He’d just have to dance around the truth. A little. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, then, résumé in hand, stepped out.
Unpruned vines in untidy rows straggled up and down the hills like drunken soldiers.
Well, at least here you’ll be needed. Retucking his custom-tailored dress shirt into his favorite slacks, he smothered the last chance whisper in his mind, slapped on a salesman’s smile and strode toward the porch.
Taking the drooling dog’s thumping tail as a gesture of goodwill, he stepped around it on the way to the door. At the sound of sweeping coming from the right, he turned. A broom appeared from around the corner, followed by a small, thin woman in a faded T-shirt and spandex pants that ended below the knee. Golden-highlighted brown hair escaped a red bandana to fall around her sweaty face.
He might have to give up the Land Rover, but if this was an example of the help around here, at least there’d be some perks to the job. “Excuse me.”
She squeaked and jumped, her Keds actually leaving the porch. She raised a French-manicured hand to her chest, her deep brown eyes huge.
“Could you tell me where I could find the owner?”
She tucked a hank of hair behind her ear and shot a look at the roof of the porch, her lips moving silently. The broom fell with a clatter, and she scrubbed her hands on her slim thighs and extended a hand. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. The working owner,” she said with a blush and an apologetic smile.
He knew that name. His mind sorted data, trying to remember from where. Her hand was soft, warm and fine-boned. She might be a working owner, but with hands like that, she hadn’t been for long. “I’m Danovan DiCarlo. I’ve come to apply for the manager position.”
“I only posted that opening last night. I never dreamed anyone would be by so soon.” Her hand slipped from his. “I’m sorry to be a mess. Please, come in.”
She led him to the front door, stopping to pet the hound. “This is Barnabas. The Tippling Widow mascot.”
He followed her, wishing he could shake the hand of whoever invented spandex. He’d always been a leg man. The muscles in her calves were fluid in flexion. Her thighs were long and firm, and her ass...legendary. Suddenly, the name clicked. That body had graced the cover of the Hollywood rags Lissette consumed like trendy cocktails. This was Harry Stone’s arm-candy wife. What the heck was she doing here?
She led the way through a high-ceilinged, timber-framed tasting room, through a door and into an office. At least, at some point in the past, this space must have been an office. Large arched windows looked out onto the front lawn, and the wood modesty panel told him there was likely a desk under the piles of paper.
She lifted a stack of wine trade magazines from the guest chair. “Have a seat.” She looked around for a place to put the magazines. Not finding room on the desk, she dropped them into a corner. They hit the dirty carpet with a muffled whump. She walked around the desk and lowered herself into a scarred high-backed leather chair as if it were a throne. “I’d apologize for the mess, but I’m afraid once I start, I’d never stop.”
“If everything was shipshape, you wouldn’t need me.” He gave her a salesman’s smile and handed his résumé to her over the paper piles. Given Harry Stone’s money, Danovan figured that finances shouldn’t be a problem. And once he took over, she could go back to Hollywood. This job was looking up.
The light from the dirty window fell on her heart-shaped face as she read. Flawless pale milk skin, her mouth a bit too wide and big, sad eyes. Not just the sad within them, but in their shape, tilting down a bit at the outside edge. She turned the page with long, elegant fingers.
She looked up, and their gazes locked. He recognized the pain in those big eyes from what he saw in the mirror every morning.
Why so sad? He froze for a heartbeat, afraid he’d said it out loud.
* * *
ARROGANT AND FULLof himself. Indigo studied her potential employee, not caring that he stared back. She had nothing to hide. Profiles like his graced Italian coins. He had a spade-shaped face: broad forehead, arresting wide-spaced brown eyes. There was a diagonal line through one of his heavy brows. At first she thought it was a razored fashion statement, but looking closer, she saw it was a scar. It, along with a slightly crooked nose, just made him look rugged. And a strong jaw narrowing to a squared-off chin only added to the effect.
Oh, Harry, your cameras would love this one.
And he knew how good-looking he was. He wore handsomeness as casually as he did his expensive clothes. Hollywood was full of men like this, bursting with charm and hubris. He had no way of knowing she’d been inoculated against that type years ago. “Why would you want this position?” She read from the résumé. “Cum laude in agribusiness from UC Davis, you worked your way up to lead vintner at one of the largest growers in the area within three years.” She dropped the paper and studied the man it supposedly explained. “You are obviously overqualified.”
“Actually, I’m looking to this job as a way of completing my education.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the chair arms. “I need to know how to start up a winery if I hope to own my own someday.” His eyes traveled around the dingy room. “No offense meant.”
“None taken.” She kept the wince on the inside. “I’m hoping our grand reopening will be like a startup.”
“‘Our.’ Do you have a partner?”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Not unless you count Barnabas.” Might as well scare him off before they wasted too much time; she had a lot to do today. “I can’t afford to pay much.”
“What is the salary?”
She told him.
He wasn’t as good at hiding winces as she was. “I have an idea.” His thumbs beat a cadence on the chair arms as he considered. “What if I accept your salary and we work out a percentage split of the profit?”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“If I can’t increase the profitability of your winery, I only receive the salary you’re proposing. But if I succeed, I get, say, fifteen percent of the profit I generate.” He stopped tapping and raised his hands, palms up. “This way you’re assured that I’ll do my best, because I have skin in the game. And you wouldn’t lose anything that you didn’t have to begin with.”
She searched for holes in his logic. “I’d have to think about that.”
He gave her a Hollywood smile. “Fair enough. Why don’t you give me a tour and tell me your plans?”
“Follow me.” She stood and led him to the hallway. “Our wines have enjoyed a solid reputation for years. I hope to continue that.” When she stopped in front of a door, he opened it. “Since I have a background in yoga and massage, I plan to reopen as a boutique winery and spa. I think it would give us a unique twist.”
The room was long and narrow. “This would be great for my yoga classes.” She stepped in and flipped on the lights. “I’ll install mirrors all along this wall and put reflective tinting on the windows for privacy. I’ll wall off a small room at the end for massage and aromatherapy.”
“Really.” He didn’t actually put his nose in the air, but his tone was the auditory equivalent. “I’m not big on all that new-age woo-woo, but you may be right. Rich women love it.”
Great. Arrogant and opinionated. Well, he didn’t need to approve of her—just respect her, as the owner. “Not only rich women. I’m going to encourage the local women to participate as well.” She pulled the door closed and led the way down the hall.
He’s only the first applicant. Hopefully the next will be better.
“These are the manager’s quarters. Barney and I are camping out here until I can get moved into the cabin at the top of the hill.” Glad she’d thought to make the bed this morning, she unlocked the door and stepped in.
He looked around, his gaze lingering on her open suitcase. “Nice.”
Of course her fuchsia underwear lay on top like a Frederick’s of Hollywood advertisement.
Wondering if he referred to the apartment or her underthings, she stepped around him, walked across the room and kicked the suitcase lid closed, sure her face was the same shade as the lingerie.
“Why did you leave your last position?” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.
His assurance faltered as something flashed across his face—shock maybe. But it was gone before she could be sure.
“I’m the lead vintner at Bacchanal.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “They don’t know I’m looking to take my career in another direction, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t contact them. My other references should tell you what you need to know.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_460596a0-5936-5221-8189-6a1213a1712b)
“I SEEYOU’VE worked as an assistant vineyard manager...” She consulted the résumé before her. “...Craig. But I need more than that. I need a generalist.”
The earnest-faced young man leaned forward in the guest chair. “I know. But I learn fast. I thought I could start in the vineyard then advance.”
“I appreciate your aspirations and your attitude. But as you can see—” she spread her arms “—it’s just me. I need someone who knows it all.” And who can teach me. “I’ll hold on to your résumé for when I can affo—expand enough to require a vineyard manager.” She stood. “But thank you for coming by.”
The kid stood and extended a hand. “I hope you do keep me in mind. I’m looking for an opportunity to move up.”
From the office window a few moments later, Indigo watched his car peel out of the parking lot, leaving a haze of dust and desperation.
That was the last interview. The posting had run for a week, and she hadn’t had a call in three days. As Harry would have said, “It’s time to kill the engineer and start production.” But there had only been six applicants, and two had ended the interview when they heard the salary. One had the nerve to chuckle on the way out.
She lifted the three remaining résumés from the desk. The old man would be a great teacher, but with his huge-knuckled, arthritic hands, she had doubts that he could withstand the physical work required. She dropped his résumé in the overflowing trash can. The next looked great on paper, but two of his references had sung the same song about complaints from the serving staff. Sexual harassment complaints. Since the manager would live on the premises and Indigo’s closest neighbor was a half mile away... She shivered, imagining a knock at the cabin door late at night. Or maybe not even a knock. His résumé followed the rest into the trash.
That left one. She studied the heavy ivory paper.
The arrogant Italian.
Yes, his attitude bugged her, but she was used to that. After all, if arrogance was a crime, all of Hollywood would be incarcerated. She’d checked his references. No one had a bad word to say about Danovan DiCarlo, from his expertise to his knowledge to his work ethic.
But something still nagged about him. Like the shredded remnants of a dream upon waking, something lingered, leaving her with an uneasy feeling and the memory of his sad smile. Her hands swept the papers on the desk into stacks, almost without her being aware that she’d done so. Whenever she was upset, her body craved movement, as if action could help sort the knots in her mind.
What was it about him?
For one thing, he’s overqualified. He’ll walk as soon as he gets a better opportunity.
But he already had a better job than she was offering.
How very convenient for him.
Are you looking for reasons not to hire him?
“Yeah, I am, kinda.”
Barney looked up from the blanket that she’d put in the corner for him.
On what grounds? A feeling? What a joke. She was batting O-fer when it came to being able to trust her feelings.
Maybe she should broaden her search to include the entire country. But that would take time, and meanwhile, money was flowing out of the checkbook with damned little coming in.
The chair squealed when she collapsed against the back. In spite of her vow to make her own decisions, and regardless of how it felt to cave this early, she lifted her phone from the desk to call in a lifeline.
Uncle Bob’s baby was just too important to risk on feelings. Especially hers.
“The People’s Farm. This is Sky.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Indigo! How good to hear your voice. Tell me what the winery’s like. Have you settled in?”
Indigo could hear the bustle of the market in the background. The commune had barely been feeding itself when her mother took over and expanded the operation until they had surplus to sell. Her mother was half late-blooming flower child and half drill sergeant. The combination worked, for now the organic farmer’s market she’d begun drew people from three counties.
“Not settled yet, but I’m working on it. First, tell me what’s happening there.” She smiled at her mother’s happy chirping about business and growing things. Wistful thoughts drifted in with her mother’s voice, but Indigo knew that as much as her childhood had been peaceful and pastoral, she’d no longer be happy living that simple existence. Hollywood had stripped her of the innocence required for membership, and like a hymen, once broken, innocence wouldn’t grow back. She shivered.
“Indigo? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Mom, sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” Metal pellets of worry clicked in her voice.
“Not a big deal, I’m just calling for some advice.” She needed a lifeline, not a life preserver—her mother couldn’t save her, only she could do that. “I’m about to hire my first employee. How can I know he’s the right person?”
Her mother chuckled. “Lord knows, I made enough mistakes in the beginning to sink this place.”
“That’s what scares me.” She wriggled in the chair to shake off her body’s craving for movement. “How do you decide?”
“First, do your research. Then you take a leap of faith.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. I always sucked at the broad jump.”
“Indigo Blue. What’s going on?”
She’d never discussed the dirty details of her life in Hollywood with her mother. In the beginning, she’d been too proud and embarrassed to admit that her pretty teenage dream had become a nightmare. After Harry, it had been easier to tell her a version closer to the truth. “Let’s just say I’ve learned some things the hard way, okay?”
“Of course you did. That’s the only way we learn.” Suddenly her voice barked, “No, Moon, not there. Put the radishes beside the arugula. It’s more visually appealing.”
“You’re busy. I’ll let you go.” She didn’t want her mother digging further into her past. Indigo’s stories wouldn’t stand up to more than casual interest.
“Honey, you know how to do this. Go to a quiet place, put on some soothing music and open some lavender oil. Just trust. The answer is inside you.”
“I will, Mom, thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.” She clicked End. Her mother meant well, but meditation wouldn’t fix the winery’s problems—knowledge would.
She’d read through the The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Starting and Running a Winery three times and had learned enough to know that she didn’t know enough. Running a winery from a book was like a blind man attempting brain surgery.
Which led her back to the résumé that lay, front and center, on the newly tidied desk.
“Shit. Why am I putting myself through a mental rat maze? I don’t have a choice.” And that rankled.
* * *
ATTHESOUNDof a car engine, Danovan came back to himself and took a quick glance around the grassy hill dotted with marble rectangles. No visitors marred the perfect green lawn. Thank God. The family might have reclaimed his wife, but damned if they’d keep him from his daughter. He scanned the drive coming up the hill. He wasn’t prepared for another confrontation. The cuts to his soul might have healed, but the scars were red and shiny, too tight.
He bent and placed the nosegay of baby’s breath and tiny white roses on the headstone below the name Esperanza DiCarlo. He’d named her for the hope she’d brought, but the few months between the two dates below her name reminded him that hope was fragile.
“Sleep, cara. I will visit again soon.” He wiped a drop of regret from his eye and turned away.
He opened the door of his Range Rover and dropped onto the seat. The phone rang. “DiCarlo,” he answered.
“Mr. DiCarlo, this is Indigo Blue, of The Tippling Widow Winery. You applied for my generalist position earlier in the week?”
As if he could forget either the job or the husky quality of the owner’s voice. “Yes, Ms. Blue.”
Her laugh was as smoky as her voice. “I think we’d better be on a first-name basis if we’re to work together.”
Thank God. He let out a breath it seemed he’d been holding forever. He’d sweated out the past four days, waiting for both the splash page on the Bacchanal site to be changed, wiped clean, as if he’d never existed. And for a call from Indigo, telling him she’d chosen someone else.
“That is, if you still want the job, based on the terms we discussed.”
“Oh, yes, I want it.” It might not be good form to smile in a cemetery, but his daughter wouldn’t be offended; wine was in her blood on both sides. “I can start tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Don’t you have to give notice at your current position?”
Crap. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t land the job that he hadn’t planned this far ahead. Thoughts ran through his mind in a blur, like a manic news feed. He snatched at one. “I put in notice after my interview with you.”
“A bit sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Her voice might be smoky, but he now remembered that smoke sometime came from ice. Dry ice.
“Oh, no, not at all.” His panicked brain snatched at another speeding excuse. “I’m committed to my new course. If you hadn’t hired me, I’d have looked in Napa.” That was the truth—he’d planned to start looking on Monday.
“I see.”
His gut clenched at the silence on the line. He wanted to jump in, to convince her. But his father had always told him, “When you’re in a hole, stop digging.” So he stopped.
After a lifetime of agonizing moments, she spoke. “How about tomorrow, say, ten?”
“Yes, of course. See you then. Thank you.” He hung up and started the car. If she thought that a vintner’s hours ran on Hollywood time, she had a lot to learn. And for as long as she stayed, he’d teach her.
But he didn’t expect that to be long at all.
He drove down the hill to the exit. Oh, that’s nice.She’s put her trust in you, and you lie to her. When a wasp’s sting of guilt hit, he soothed it with the vow that he’d fulfill his side of the bargain. He’d run the place to the best of his ability after she scurried back to the Cush Life. He owed her that, for giving him a second chance. Even if she didn’t know she had.
He drove to the apartment that would no longer be his home, whistling a Paganini concerto.
This job would be a great do-over. He had every intention of doing it right this time.
* * *
INDIGOSCRABBLEDTHROUGHthe office desk’s lap drawer, searching for the scrap of paper she’d seen among the ancient business cards, crumpled receipts and leaky pens. “You should have started on the cabin yesterday.” Or the day before. Odious as it would be, setting Uncle Bob’s home to rights should be her job alone. But with Danovan reporting for work in the morning, she’d have to vacate the manager’s quarters, and the only other bed on the property was in the cabin. She was out of time and needed help.
“Ah, here it is.” Squinting at the smeared numbers, she dialed.
“Hola,” a lilting feminine voice said.
“Hello. Is this Rosalina?”
“Sí, señora. Can I help you?”
“You own the service that cleans The Tippling Widow, right?”
“Yes.”
Indigo blew out a breath. “We need to talk.”
“We did not do a good job?”
“Oh, no. You’ve done a great job. That’s why I’m calling. I need help cleaning the cabin on the premises. You know, the one at the top of the hill?”
“Sí. Señor Bob’s.”
At the tenderness in the woman’s voice, a bubble of sadness rose into Indigo’s throat. “Yes, that one.” Her voice squeezed around the blockage, coming out skinny.
“But the manager, he no let us in there.”
“He doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. I’ll be living in the cabin, but...” She searched for words that wouldn’t scare the woman off. “It needs a good going over before I move in. Could you send someone today?”
Papers rustled. “No one free today. We can come next week. That’s our normal schedule.”
“No one? Are you sure? Could you check again? I really could use some help.”
“I am so sorry, missus. No one today.”
Her heart shriveled to a small ball. She should have known it would come to this. It was her job to do, really. “You mean you don’t come every week?”
“The manager, he tells us no.”
She couldn’t afford it, but they were making and selling a food product; a clean facility was a must. And her time would be better spent learning than cleaning. She forced the words past the banker side of her brain. “Can I get on a once-a-week schedule, including the cabin?”
When they’d worked out the timing, Indigo thanked her and hung up.
One more call to go. “Cross your toes, Barney.”
The carefree mutt looked up from his blanket and yawned.
“Okay, a good-luck yawn. I can live with that.” But just in case, she threw a prayer to any god listening before dialing the next number.
“Yes?”
“Is this Sandra Vanderbilt?”
“This is Sondra.” She drew out the name, as if chastising the mispronunciation.
“Yes, sorry, Sondra.” She didn’t stretch it. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner of The Tippling Widow. I’m calling to—”
“I wondered when someone would call. Do not ask. I will not work with that vinous degenerate.”
Note to self—search Google for vinous. “If you mean the former manager, that’s no problem. He’s gone. I understand from the records that you are the serving staff manager.”
“I was.” Delicate sniff. “I enjoyed working for Robert, but since his death the place has gone downhill to the point where I was embarrassed to admit I worked there.”
Robert? Uncle Bob was salt of the earth. He was no more a Robert than Indigo was a Bambi. “Well, I intend to change that. I have already hired a new manager, and I was hoping you would agree—”
“Whom?”
“What?”
“Whom did you hire as manager?”
Indigo had heard that I’m-dealing-with-an-idiot tone before, but never from an employee. She might live in the country now, but the taint of Hollywood uppity was still fresh in her nostrils. And it burned. Dammit, she’d come here looking for some respect. Why rehire a snotty employee? Indignation filled her chest, squaring her shoulders. She took a breath to tell Sooondra to pound sand.
Then a shotgun blast of reality hit her inflated chest, and all the indignation bled out. You need this woman. A complete staff turnover was more than The Widow could survive right now. After all, Indigo didn’t know enough about wine to interview, much less hire, competent serving staff, and Danovan wouldn’t have the time to interview or train them. “Danovan DiCarlo is the new manager.”
“Oh, reeeally?”
She would have given quite a bit to know what caused Sondra’s surprise, but damned if she’d ask this woman for gossip. Loosening her jaw muscles, she bit her tongue.
Sondra sniffed. “I suppose I could consider that, though I am contemplating several other opportunities.”
“I plan to honor Bob’s dream to make The Tippling Widow wines the pride of the region. Surely, given your years of loyal service, you’d want to be a part of that?”
“I would. For a ten percent increase in salary.”
You can’t afford it. Besides, she’s bluffing. Indigo’s gut told her she was right. She put a hand to that notoriously unreliable part of her anatomy. But what if she’s not?You sure don’t have the knowledge to do the job. Not yet, anyway.
Sondra broke into her thoughts. “I’m waiting to hear about another position. Why don’t I just call you back next week?”
One big mistake at this point could be the weight that sank The Widow. Figures streamed through Indigo’s mind. “I’ll give you five percent more, but only if you can convince the rest of the serving staff to return.”
Another haughty sniff. “They will follow wherever I lead.”
Without choke collars? “Good. Contact them and all of you report for work at...” Blood pounded to her cheeks. “What time do you usually start?”
“Nine-thirty. The doors open promptly at ten.”
“I’ll see you then, Sand—Sondra.”
“You will.” Click.
Indigo stared at the dead phone, then dropped it onto the desk. Bob had made running the winery seem effortless, yet she’d not encountered one easy task since she’d set foot on the property. Well, hopefully that would change tomorrow when the new manager showed up. She imagined Danovan DiCarlo galloping up the drive on a white steed, skidding to a stop at the porch steps.
She snorted. Like I’m some damsel in distress. She glanced out at the empty porch. The cobwebs swayed in the breeze, and trash fluttered in the weeds. The tasks she was capable of doing could fill several pages of lists, but the ones she was incapable of could fill a book the size of Webster’s dictionary. Okay, so I am in distress. But it’s not going to be a chronic condition.
She’d only need all of them—Danovan, Sondra and her crew—until she got her feet under her and some experience. Then, if any of them weren’t working out, she’d fire them and start over.
The vow soothed her chapped ego. “Hey, Barn. Wake up.”
The dog opened droopy eyes.
“How’d you like a hamburger? We have to shovel out the cabin yet, but we need a break.”
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the gravel parking lot of the barn-red, low-slung building that the wooden sign declared The Farmhouse Café. She parked, turned off the engine, then sat frozen, watching two ghosts walk to the glass entrance door. The painfully young woman smiled up at the much older man as if he held the secret to life and was about to bestow it upon her.
Her savior. Her love. Her Harry.
In the suddenly too-hot car, the older but not much wiser woman sat mesmerized, swamped by yearning.
Harry’s long gray hair was held in his signature ponytail, and his face was saddle-brown with white lines from squinting into location suns. The couple was too far away for Indigo to see his eyes, but she didn’t need to. She remembered the sky-blue sparkle that had always been there just for her.
Harry had never seen her as the tainted mess he’d stumbled upon that horrific morning. He’d just picked her up, washed her clean and treated her like she was something special—like a diamond that someone had dropped in mud. And because he’d believed it, over time, Indigo was able to believe. Because of that look in his eyes.
The python of grief in her chest writhed, constricting her heart, squeezing a sob from her throat. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, trying to charm the snake back to sleep.
A cold nose nudged her elbow, burrowing until Barney’s head lay in her lap. He let out a long sigh that ended in a whine.
She ran her hand over the velvet head. “We are truly a mess, Barn.” She leaned back in the seat. “This place has great cheeseburgers. What do you say we drown our sorrows in some grease?”
When she looked up, the ghosts were gone. She snapped a leash on Barney’s collar, gathered him in her arms and clambered out. Not a graceful exit, but Barney’s legs were too short to jump out on his own. Together they crossed the almost deserted parking lot to the door the ghost couple had entered.
She slipped the leash over a metal post at the entrance. “Sit, Barn. I’ll be back with your burger in a few.”
A bell clanked against the glass door when she pulled it open and stepped into chilled air laden with the smell of bacon. Looking around, she noted the silvered wooden floor, the old pot-bellied stove in the corner—and the fact that she was the lone diner. Except for the ghosts, who sat in the booth by the window.
She turned away and walked to the long Formica bar with chrome and red vinyl stools. The cook’s window framed a happy picture—a large man, white T-shirt riding up his ripped biceps, bent a blonde woman over his arm, kissing her. No, not kissing—consuming her.
Indigo’s heart stuttered, then pounded heat through her: the base of her throat, beneath her breasts, at the back of her knees. A wicked whiplash of jealousy bit deep, and yearning spread, burning like alcohol on the cut.
She must have made a noise, because the couple turned their heads. They separated, and the woman put a hand to her poofed-up French twist.
“Oh, hello.” She trailed long nails down the man’s throat, and Indigo saw his shiver. With a last private smile that said she knew exactly what that did to him, the blonde walked away, entering the restaurant through a swinging door. She smoothed her hands over the too-tight-to-wrinkle white pantsuit, her cheeks only slightly pink. “Hon, before you go getting the wrong idea, we’re married.” She flashed a Hollywood-worthy smile.
Indigo slipped onto a stool. “Hey, don’t mind me.”
“Welcome to the Farmhouse. I’m Jesse, and that sexy hunk back there is Carl.”
The giant waved a hand in her general direction, but ducked his head, suddenly busy, a bit pink in the cheeks himself.
“You’re not from around here, are you, hon?”
“I am now.” Indigo snatched a menu from behind the napkin dispenser.
“Well, Widow’s Grove is a great town. I’ll bet you’ll like it here.” She tilted her head and tapped a long carmine nail on her cheek. “You look familiar.”
“My husband and I used to eat here.” She resisted the urge to glance to the booth behind her. “Years ago.”
“Well then, welcome back...” Jesse raised a blond eyebrow.
“Indigo. Blue.” Seeing the cogs turning in Jesse’s eyes, she ducked her head to scan the menu. “Could I have a veggie omelet?” The smell of bacon taunted her. “No, wait. Make that a bacon cheddar omelet.” She closed the menu, vowing to eat better—tomorrow. “And could I also get a hamburger patty without the bun for my best guy out there?” She glanced to the door, where Barney sat patiently waiting, watching her every move.
“Oh, what a cutie! Of course you can, hon.”
“Coming up,” the giant in the kitchen window said.
“Let me guess. You’re settling in Widow’s Grove because you missed our great cooking, right?” Jesse smiled, leaned a hip on the counter and waited.
Oh, she’s good.
Indigo should know—she’d been grilled by the best reporters in Hollywood. Jesse’s down-home style was much easier to take. She couldn’t help but return the smile. “Only partially. I’m the owner of The Tippling Widow Winery.”
“You are?” Jesse’s full lips pursed. “We were so sorry to lose Bob. He was a good man. One of the old guard around here. Did you know him well, hon?”
“Yes.” Indigo knew a small-town gossip when she saw one. She wasn’t discussing her relations with a stranger. Especially since it would lead back to Harry. The snake in her chest shifted, and she rubbed her breastbone to settle it back to sleep. She took a breath and focused forward instead of back. “I’m going to make The Tippling Widow a winery Bob could be proud of again.” Local rumors spread fastest. The Widow’s troubles wouldn’t be news here.
She looked up just in time to see the tumblers fall into place in Jesse’s eyes. “Oh.” Sympathy replaced curiosity. “Harry Stone is—was—”
“Hamburger’s up, Jess.” The Nordic hunk slid a small plate through the window.
Jesse retrieved the dish and set it on the counter.
“Excuse me.” Indigo grabbed the hamburger patty and hustled out the door to deliver it to Barney.
Dammit, she’d hoped to make a new start here, where no one knew her. She should have known better. Her name was so distinctive and Harry so famous... Squatting, she set the plate in front of Barney. He wolfed the burger, tail whipping.
Funny how it was easier to deal with Hollywood’s ire than to endure sympathy from a well-meaning stranger. On the flipside, if this woman is the gossip you think she is, she’ll pass the word, and at least you won’t have to explain to everyone you meet. She stood and forced herself to grasp the door, wishing she could snatch Barney’s leash and trot to the car.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_97551e00-a6bf-585e-91c5-553e7f92cdb9)
WHENTHEANTIQUEclock over the mantel gonged twice, Indigo dropped the floor brush into the bucket and pulled off her rubber gloves. Two in the morning and I still have to make the bed. She sat back on her heels at the edge of the bathroom floor, then pushed to her feet. At least she had a fresh bed to fall into. She dug a knuckle into the cramping muscle in the small of her back. She’d earned it hauling the mattress in from its airing on the porch.
Her hard work had paid off. She walked into the great room of Uncle Bob’s cabin, proud of the warm glow of lamplight on clean paneling. Someone would have to be hired to haul away the mountain of crap she’d tossed out the back door, but she’d worry about that tomorrow.
Burnished copper-bottom pots once again hung where they belonged over the stove. The starched gingham curtains were pulled back from a window that worked as a mirror, reflecting the room. After a rocky start, losing her breakfast after touring the bathroom this afternoon, her mood had lightened with every room she restored. Her body ached, and she might have to burn these clothes, but she’d been right—this was her job to do.
She ran a hand over the wooden grapes in the hand-carved mantel. “Welcome home, Uncle Bob.”
* * *
ATEXACTLYNINE-THIRTY that morning, a woman strode through the door of the tasting room, two women in her wake.
Sooondra. She was willowy as a Lladró porcelain. Her perfectly straight ash-blond hair fell to the middle of a butt sculpted, no doubt, by hundreds of Pilates sessions. Her tasteful pencil skirt and crisp white tailored blouse were all business, and the high heels that tapped a staccato beat across the wood floor made the elegant line of her leg even longer. Her face was a juxtaposition of soft and hard that made it difficult to look away. Wide-spaced elongated eyes over sleek, soft cheeks ended in a chin that could slice paper. Stopping in front of Indigo, she flipped a sheaf of hair over her shoulder with a smooth, precise move. She looked like an Afghan Hound at a Westminster show: aloof, entitled, untouchable.
She sniffed and glanced around. “Well, it’s still standing.”
Well, la-de-da. Ms. Perky Ass has arrived. Indigo gritted her teeth in what she hoped looked like a smile. “It’s a bit rough, but the cleaning crew won’t be here until next week, so our first job will be getting this place ready for business.”
Sondra looked down her long nose. “You do not expect serving staff to do manual labor.”
Indigo shrugged, holding her hands out to the empty room. “I don’t see any customers to serve, do you?” She dusted her hands, then offered one to shake. “I’m Indigo Blue. You’re Sondra, obviously. Will you introduce me to your coworkers?”
Sondra shook the ends of Indigo’s fingers, then turned, displaying the women behind her with a game show model’s flourish. “This is Natalie Baddorf.” A petite brunette in soft camel slacks and a white blouse just like Sondra’s, tipped her head. “She’s a wine professional and server. Her expertise is eclipsed only by my own.” She turned to her other minion. “And this is Becky Stiles, the salesperson for the gift shop, and my cashier.”
My cashier?
Becky looked like a copper penny among diamonds, a fresh-faced redhead with a dusting of freckles across her nose. She smiled then burst forward to give Indigo’s hand a firm shake. “I’m glad to be back, Ms. Blue.”
This could be a strong team. Sondra and Natalie’s expertise and high class would impress the wine aficionados, and Becky’s charm and girl-next-door looks would keep newbies from being intimidated. “I’m glad to meet you all. We’re going to have to roll up our sleeves because it’s up to us, along with our new manager, to turn The Tippling Widow into a winery Uncle Bob would be proud of.” She lifted from the bar three dark green aprons with the winery’s logo across the breast: the name in script, with the I’s in Tippling and Widow the stem of a wineglass. “And we’re starting today.” She handed out the aprons, then slipped the last one over her own head, crossed the strings behind her and tied them in front.
Sondra’s chin lifted, and she eyed the apron in her fingers with an arched brow.
This was the moment Indigo had worried over. And over. If Sondra wouldn’t follow orders, this wasn’t going to work. What would happen then, Indigo didn’t want to contemplate. Uncle Bob had trusted these women, and Indigo didn’t have the knowledge to even interview for these positions. She stilled herself, though she could almost hear the stress humming through her like electricity in a high line.
Natalie and Becky stood holding the aprons, watching their boss’s cue for what to do next.
Sondra gave a theatrical sigh. “We can’t work in this filth, regardless.” She dropped the apron on the bar. “I won’t need this to supervise.” She glanced at her charges and clapped her hands. “Well, ladies, what are you waiting for? We don’t have a minute to spare if this tasting room is going to be fit for customers.”
Barney’s collar jingled when he trotted into the room.
“Is that a dog?” Sondra made it sound like cockroach.
Barney skidded to a stop at Indigo’s feet, and she leaned over to play with his ears. “This is our mascot, Barnabas. Barney to his friends.”
“Oh, how cute!” Becky bent to pet him.
“Do not touch that. You cannot have an animal in the serving room. It’s a clear health-code violation.”
“It’s an FDA recommendation, not a hard rule. It’s up to the owner’s discretion.” She straightened and leveled a stare at Sondra. “And I’m the owner.”
The area at the base of Sondra’s nostrils went white. Her gray eyes went dark. She stared back.
No one moved, even at the sound of boots clumping across the wooden porch.
“Hey, look who’s here! My old pal Sandy.” Danovan strode up and enveloped Sondra in a huge hug. “I knew there was a beautiful woman missing from my life.”
Sondra air-kissed both his cheeks and smiled up at him. “Danovan DiCarlo, you big flirt. I should have known that if a woman inherited a winery, you’d be working there.”
He released Sondra as if she’d just scalded him. When he turned to Indigo, his cheeks were pink. “Reporting for duty, Ms. Blue. Er—Indigo.”
He wore nothing special: suede boots, chinos and an ivory cotton button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled on his tanned forearms. But he still managed to look like a cover model with his sexy eyes, a crooked smile and the testosterone that he wore like cologne.
Indigo pulled herself from the shock of seeing Sondra tease. “Morning, Danovan. Let’s go to my office to talk.” She turned to Sondra and her entourage. “Nice meeting you, ladies. We’ll catch up later.” She led the way across the floor to the wooden door marked Employees Only. He was there to open it before she could reach for the handle.
She felt back in control once she sat behind her desk. Danovan took the office chair. “You’re a friend of Sondra’s?”
The incredulity must have bled into her tone, because he smiled. “She and I worked together at another winery. Sandy’s a pussycat.”
She blew back her bangs. “So is a panther, but I wouldn’t want to try to pet one.”
He laughed.
With his charm, he probably could tame a wildcat. “Let’s get started.” She gathered her bullet list of questions from the desk. “Since I’m not even sure where to begin, I think it best if I just shadow you for now, don’t you?”
“That’s a good idea.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’d like to inspect the vines first, then move on to the production facility. Before anything else happens, I need to assess where we are so we can put together a plan to get The Widow back on her feet. All right?”
“I’m right behind you.” She stood. “Oh, by the way, the manager’s quarters are clean and ready for you to move in.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that after work today.” He stood and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
* * *
HENOTEDAfine tremor in her hand when she reached for her notes. She hides it well, but she’s nervous.At least I’m not the only one. Hopefully the last-chance jitters he put on with his clothes this morning would wear off as the day went on.
He led the way to the vines, noting the drainage, exposure and sheltering along the tree-lined border. It was obvious that Bob Stone understood grapes. Nurturing delicate vines was a labor of love that required a scientist’s knowledge, a shaman’s intuition and strong parenting skills. He squatted to inspect a vine, gratified to see strong bud nodes and new shoots while his boss rattled off facts she must’ve looked up since he last saw her.
“The vines are a hybrid with the European Vitis vinifera, which I understand to be a good thing.”
“The best. What else do you know?” He dug his fingers into the too-hard soil.
“Our grapes are Cabernet Sauvignon and merlot on the red side, and a Chardonnay on the white. Those are European. Uncle Bob was experimenting with a few American zinfandel varietals before he passed away.”
He grunted a reply and brushed dead leaves from the base of a vine to inspect for bugs.
“I think it looks pretty good out here, no? A little tidying maybe...” Her voice trailed off to a wish.
He brushed the dirt from his hands and straightened. His boss stood pen in hand, ready to make more lists. He hoped she’d brought enough paper. “It looks like nothing has been done since pruning last winter.” He gazed over the messy rows that sprawled down the slope of the hill. “The debris from last year’s crop needs to be removed, and the soil tilled. We’re already late putting up this year’s trellis and tying the tendrils to it. All the support posts need to be tested and loose ones pounded back in. We need to put together a spray schedule for fungus and determine what fertilizer the soil needs. Do you know when the last soil analysis was done?”
She scribbled fast, her tongue caught between her teeth. “Um...soil samples?”
“Never mind. I’ll find them. Let’s go.”
She finished writing then jogged to catch up. He led the way to the covered outdoor grape crush pad and press, noting that they were at least clean. They wouldn’t be used until the crop was harvested in the fall, but all looked in order.
When they reached the production facility, he held the door for her.
She ducked under his arm. “When I arrived ten days ago, the AC was out. Luckily, it had just happened.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The repairman finished replacing the whole thing earlier this week.”
Shiny aluminum ductwork snaked across the ceiling. “What’d it cost?”
She named a figure that was a third higher than it should have been.
He cleared his throat. “That is...”
She scanned his face with a look of innocent hopefulness, like a young girl who just asked for verification that there was a Santa.
“Fine.” He cleared the gruff from his throat. She would have enough to worry about by the time he was done. No need to make her feel bad about a decision that it was too late to rectify.
She led the way through the shipping area. Cardboard boxes stacked on pallets filled the floor.
“Where are your—our warehouse employees?”
She glanced to the empty shipping tables and the abandoned forklift beside them. “We’ll have to hire some.”
“No shippers? Don’t we have orders waiting to be filled?”
“Not so much.” She put her lists and her pen down on a case and turned to him. “Look. I’ll be upfront with you. The last manager was a lazy drunk. The employees quit. I haven’t asked around about our reputation, but the trickle of orders tells me what I don’t want to know.”
She jammed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, which squared her shoulders. And pulled the green apron tight across her chest. “Getting The Widow in shape is going to take a lot of work. I know it. Now you know it.” Her chin came up. “But it’ll be so worth it. I can tell you exactly what it’s going to be like.” She looked off into the warehouse, but he was sure she wasn’t seeing metal walls or new ductwork. “We’ll have a pond in front with those fancy goldfish. Customers sipping wine on the front porch will be able to hear the ornamental waterfall. We’ll have wedding receptions on the lawn. I’ll teach yoga classes and aromatherapy and do massage.” Thick brown hair curtained her face when she ducked her head, but not before he saw her pink-stained cheeks. “I have ideas. I know looking at it now makes all this sound crazy. But this could be so much more than just a place to sell wine.”
“Well, with you and me working together, we’ll make that dream happen.”
She had her aspirations. He had his. He imagined a dark bottle with a black label that read: DiCarlo Select Merlot.
He shook his head. This dreaming thing was contagious. “We’d better get started if we’re going to get all that done.” He smiled at her and got a tentative one in return. She was a naïve dreamer, but damned if she wasn’t a good-looking one.
Rein it in, DiCarlo. That’s what got you in trouble last time. He’d learned the hard way that work and women didn’t mix.
He stopped at the glass wall of his office, overlooking the bottling line. He’d love to begin work in the adjoining lab, but first things first. “I’m going to find those soil sample reports and see what other information was left by the last manager.”
“All right. I’ll be in my office, trying to scare up a couple of warehouse employees.”
“Could we go over the financials later? I need to know where we stand so we can determine how many more employees we can afford to hire.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Hope mingled with the dreams in her brown eyes before she walked away.
Lucky thing she didn’t know what an unlikely hero she’d hired. But Indigo’s enthusiasm was catching. Jitters gone, he walked into his office, his step light.
And for the first time in months, his spirits lifted from the floor of hopeless.
* * *
SEVENHOURSLATER, Danovan returned the test tube of wine to the wire rack and jotted one last note. He’d found the testing equipment dusty and outdated. Apparently the last manager believed that tasting wine in large quantities was superior to using chemistry. And the wine quality showed it.
His stomach growled, protesting his decision to turn down his boss’s lunch offer. But he’d been trying to get his arms around the production end of the business. He closed the spiral notebook. Time to fill her in on his armload of problems.
His steps echoed in the dim production building. No reason to burn lights in a deserted warehouse. The bottling line disappeared into gloom, and the fermenting tanks looked like boulders in a dark canyon. He passed through the barrel room into the lit-up tasting room. The long wood bar gleamed, the slate floor had been washed and there was not a cobweb or speck of dust to be seen. Looked like the retail employees had been busy. He flipped off the lights on his way out.
Pushing open the door to the private wing, he was surprised to find Indigo’s office dark. Had she forgotten they were going to meet? Damn, he’d wanted to review those financials tonight.
As he walked to the door of his quarters, he figured he shouldn’t have expected otherwise from a Hollywood A-lister.
Clang! “Dammit!”
The sound came from across the hall. He pushed open the door to the long storage room.
All he could see of his boss was her jeans-clad legs. The rest was obscured by a stainless cylinder she lugged blindly across the floor.
He stepped forward. “Here, let me have that.”
She squeaked and dropped the fixture.
Luckily he made it there in time to catch it. “What are you doing?” He set the drum on the floor between them.
She put a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.” With her other hand, she swiped hair out of her eyes. “Spring cleaning. This is going to be my yoga studio.”
An imprint of dirt streaked her reddened face and continued down her sweatshirt. Her smell bridged the gap between them—not sweaty, exactly, but more an intensification of her normal scent—earthy, natural. She must have been at this awhile, because the room was empty save this drum. Maybe he should rethink his A-lister assumptions. “Why didn’t you ask for help?”
“Because what you were doing was more important than manual labor, which is about all I’m qualified to do.”
“Well, next time, come get me. This is heavy.” He lifted the drum. “Where do you want it?”
“Just out in the hall for now.” She held the door for him.
He set it to the side of the exit door and dusted his hands. “Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“I’m starving. But it’s too late for a run to town.” He tipped his head to the apartment door. “You leave anything to eat in there?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. I’ll make us something. Come on.” He unlocked the door with the key she’d given him earlier.
She hovered on the doorsill a few seconds. Then, as if making up her mind, she stepped in, brushing by him. “Danovan, why don’t you get your things from your car? By the time you’re done, I’ll have food ready.”
Good as her word, once he’d brought in the last armload of books, Indigo had soup and sandwiches on the small table.
“Looks great. Thank you.” He held out a chair for her then sat opposite.
“It’s just grilled cheese, and soup from a can.”
“Sounds good to me.” He took a bite of the sandwich. The bread was tangy and crunchy, the cheese rich and hot. “Hmm. This doesn’t taste like any grilled cheese I’ve ever had.”
“It’s rye, with sharp cheddar and Swiss cheese. I used to make it all the time for...” Her lips twisted in a spasm. Then it was gone. “I used to make it all the time.”
“Well, it’s damned good.”
“Thanks.” She sipped a spoonful of soup. “I called the unemployment office today, and I’ll have a couple of warehouse workers interviewing tomorrow. I’m hoping one man can handle both stock and shipping. We can’t afford specialists at the moment.”
“Good thinking.”
“How are we doing from your viewpoint?”
He took a bite to avoid answering. He didn’t want to ruin her dinner. Besides, he didn’t have the whole picture yet. He swallowed.
He saw that look of hopeful watching.
She’s your boss. You owe her the facts.
But that look made him hold back.
He couldn’t help it. He loved women. Not necessarily in a lustful way, though there would be many who would dispute that. He just appreciated the gender. From toddlers to little old ladies, he was endlessly fascinated by the way their minds worked, so differently from his. He loved their organizational and multitasking abilities. He loved their delicate bones and envied their mental strength. He loved their softness, their chattiness, their smell.
He loved their smell.
“Well?”
“Do you mind if we discuss that tomorrow after I’ve reviewed the financials? I’d like to have the complete picture before I make suggestions for expenditures.”
Her brows pulled together, a sure sign of the worry he was trying to save her from.
He shifted in the chair.
“Okay. But first thing tomorrow, right?”
With his finger, he traced an X over his heart. “If you’d like, I can make out a list of things to be done.” He knew that would appeal to her bookkeeper soul. “I’ll prioritize it.”
She picked up her spoon. “Good.”
They ate in silence for a minute.
“Why wine?”
He looked up. “You mean, as a career?”
She nodded. “Is your family in the industry?” Her tone was casual, but she didn’t fool him.
She’s digging. She doesn’t trust you.
“Hardly.” He wiped his lips with the napkin. “My father is a federal appeals-court judge, and my mother is the headmistress of a girls’ prep school in Georgetown. My brother is a Wall Street trader, and my sister is a partner in a big CPA firm in Seattle.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, no pressure being the youngest swimming in that gene pool.” Seeing she was done, he lifted both their plates.
She started to rise.
“I’ll get the dishes and cleanup. It’s my apartment now, after all.” He carried the dishes to the sink. “I didn’t like school much as a kid. Didn’t get why I had to know about ancient Greece and quadratic equations.” He located the dish soap under the sink. “But I always loved growing things. My mom says I drove the gardeners nuts, digging up the daffodils as a toddler.” He ran the water until it was hot, then plugged the sink, squirted in some detergent. “The wine bug hit in high school. My parents appreciated a nice red and it turned out I was lucky to be born with a sensitive palate.” He started with their dinner plates. “I was subscribed to Wine Enthusiast by tenth grade and couldn’t wait until I could legally attend wine tastings.”
“I’ll dry.” Indigo walked up, a kitchen towel in her hand. “I’ve heard high school drinking stories, but they didn’t sound like that.”
He rinsed a plate and handed it to her. “You ‘heard.’ Does that mean you didn’t drink in high school?”
“I mean I didn’t attend high school. I grew up on a commune in northern California. I was homeschooled. Nothing but natural, healthy living.”
He started on the soup pot. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. You have a natural look about you. Sounds like an idyllic childhood.”
“It was.” Her smile was happy and sad all at the same time. “But, trust me, I made up for it later.”
“In Hollywood?” He wondered what was behind that bittersweet smile, but it winked out.
“Oh, I almost forgot the financials.” Her words came out snipped off at the ends. She wiped her hands on the towel and dropped it on the counter. “I’ll go get them.”
Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
Well, there’s a no-fly zone if I ever saw one. He finished the dishes and rummaged in the cabinets until he found where they all belonged.
She rapped on the door, pushed it open, but didn’t step in. She reached across the small space to hand him a slim file folder. “Here you go. I’ve got to get back to the cabin and feed Barney. I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned away.
“Hang on. It’s pitch black out there. I’ll walk you home.” He reached for his jacket.
“No, I’ve got it covered.” She waved a flashlight.
“It’s no bother. I don’t feel good about—”
“Look.” She put a hand on her hip. “I’m not helpless, or incompetent. I’m capable of walking a hundred yards in the dark by myself.”
He raised his hands. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned and marched down the hall.
He closed the door. Better this way. He didn’t need to know what shaped the soft and hard edges of Indigo Blue in order to work for her.
But he wondered, just the same.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b1e7afb7-beca-5694-93ae-f311d98546db)
“UNHHH.” INDIGOCOLLAPSED in a heap on her yoga mat, paying for neglecting her morning routine. The Firefly Pose, one of her favorites, was now beyond her.
Barney just watched, head on his thick paws.
She untangled her arms and legs to lay with her head on her hands, two inches from his nose. “That’s it, Barn. Starting today, we’re back on our workouts.”
He licked her face.
She swiped her cheek then sat up. “Yeah, I know you like them.” Why shouldn’t he? She’d logged a ton of miles jogging the Hollywood hills, hauling him behind her in a wagon. “Lucky for you, I found a wheelbarrow in the junk from what will be my yoga room. I actually think it’ll work better than our wagon. We’ll try it out tomorrow.” She pushed herself to her feet. “We’ll get weird looks, but we’re used to that, right?” That was saying something. She’d been considered odd in Hollywood, where eccentricity was an art form.
She padded to the kitchen to make a latte. Luckily, her espresso maker had been a Christmas gift from Harry, so the Wicked Witch couldn’t claim it. Starting today, it would be the only indulgence she allowed herself. She closed her eyes as the milk began to steam, the sound propelling her back to the mornings when she’d make two. She and Harry would drink them while they traded sections of the paper in bed. Her dream ended with a last hiss and sputter.
The coming sun was only an aura on the horizon. As she stepped barefoot onto the wood boards of the porch, the crisp air hit her exposed skin and damp leotard. Shivering, she set the cup on a small wood table and scooted back inside to grab a sweater. Barney trotted ahead on the return trip, then down the stairs to examine the vines that began ten feet from the porch. She settled in the Adirondack chair, pulled her legs up, wrapped the bulky sweater around her knees and took a deep breath of dirt and early morning air.
It doesn’t get any better than this.
She sipped her coffee, and hope rose with the progress of the sun. Doubtless the day would bring more worries to pile on the old. But right now—in this moment—her jumble of emotions bowed before the perfect day. The home that Bob built at her back, Harry’s sweater wrapped around her and the view of the grapevines they’d all loved sent tendrils of peace spreading through her core, unfurling in her dark, empty places. She savored it, trying to trap the feeling inside for later, when she’d need it.
Maybe it would all work out; she just needed to give it time to—
“Holy shitballs!” Danovan popped from behind a grapevine four rows in to her left.
“Jesus, dog!”
* * *
WHENSHERECOVEREDfrom surprise, she called, “Barney, come!” The thump of big feet came closer and, ears flapping, her laughing dog barreled around the last row, vaulted the steps and skidded behind her chair. “What happened?”
Danovan strode to the end of the row, annoyance plain on his face. “Damned dog stuck his cold nose in my crack!”
She couldn’t help it. Hiding her face in a fistful of sweater, she giggled. “Shitballs? Really?”
His face turned a shell pink that matched the last tint of sunrise at the horizon. “Sorry.”
After a final indelicate snort, she forced herself to stop. “Thanks for the laugh. Feels like I haven’t done that in forever.”
Today he wore a blue jacket and his jeans were dark below the knee, stained with dew. He stopped at the rail of the porch and leaned on it. “Can’t you keep that mutt on a leash?”
“Aw, Barney was just being friendly.”
“Well, he and I don’t know each other well enough to be on butt-sniffing terms.” And from his tone, they never would be.
“You don’t like dogs?”
“Not particularly.”
How could you trust a man who didn’t like dogs? “Whyever not?”
“They’re always jumping on you, wanting attention. They’re just so...easy.”
“You have a problem with easy?” Not from the way I’ve seen women react to you.
Though she had to admit, she could understand the attraction. Something about the hardness of the planes of his face and the softness of the look in his eyes as he surveyed the rows tugged at her. That and the sadness clinging to him...
He turned toward her and stared straight at her. There were gold flecks in his eyes. And interest.
She snatched her gaze away. It wasn’t as easy to do as it should have been. “Never mind.” She put her feet down. “You want coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got to get—”
“I’m talking fresh brewed latte.” She waved her cup. Barney walked from behind the chair, tail waving. She put a hand on his silky head. “Besides, Barney insists. He’s sorry.”
The corner of Danovan’s mouth lifted. “Well, maybe one.”
“Come on up and have a seat while I get it.”
Holding the sweater closed, she opened the screen door and stepped in. She kind of owed him after cutting him off at the knees last night. But when he’d pushed...she’d balked. The cabin was so isolated and it had been dark. She didn’t really know Danovan DiCarlo.
She cleaned out the press, refilled it and snapped it back into the machine. While the coffee brewed, she ran to the bedroom and threw on sweat pants, a sweatshirt and fluffy slippers. She refused a look in the mirror on her way out of the bedroom. After all, he wasn’t a guest. He was an employee.
From his glance when she returned, he noticed the quick change. She handed the latte over the porch rail. “Don’t you want to sit?”
The cup almost disappeared in his long-fingered hand. “I’m good here, thanks.”
Had he picked up her fear last night? Or was he worried about keeping a professional relationship? “Any time. Nothing better than enjoying this view with a latte.”
“You’re right about that.” He sipped, studying the vines like a king surveying his kingdom. “I love the peace I get from checking my vines as the sun comes up.”
The willpower she’d discovered this morning gathered in her upper chest, hardening, pushing back her shoulders to make room. His proprietary gaze on her vines flash-froze that willpower into crystals of resolve. His kingdom, only for now. “Can I get those textbooks from you today?”
He turned to her, the tiny tilt of his head conveying surprise. “Sure thing.”
She was eager to discuss the state of the business, but wouldn’t do it in slippers. “I’m going to catch a shower. I’ll meet you in your office in, say, twenty minutes?”
* * *
TWOHOURSLATER, Danovan looked from his list to his boss. The downward tilt of her eyes gave her a perpetually sad look, but as he recited the winery’s long list of problems, her face changed to an expression as mournful as her dog’s.
She dropped her head onto the desk. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it? You can tell me. I can take it.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you look like you can take it. But luckily, you won’t have to. This is all fixable.”
She lifted her head, disbelief narrowing her eyes. “Really?”
“With a lot of work.”
Her shoulders lost some roundness. “I’m not afraid of work.” She leaned back in the chair.
Those smooth, manicured hands were testament to what she considered work. Most likely her former “work” was planning Hollywood parties and supervising housekeeping staff. But that opinion he’d keep to himself. “Good. That’ll help.”
He stood and stepped to the white marker board behind him. He uncapped the black marker and made three columns. “Let’s categorize and prioritize the most time-critical items, so we can make a plan.” He wrote WINE at the top of the first column. “Last year’s product has faults.” He pointed the marker at Indigo. “Not flaws. You’ll learn in the wine chemistry book I loaned you that faults are repairable. Flaws go down the sewer.” He wrote the first bullet point. “Our merlot is not acidic enough, the Chardonnay is too acidic. Thankfully it’s in the final racking stage and not yet bottled. I can fix this in a day. We’ll add more items to this list, but this is the most time-critical.”
He moved to the second column and wrote VINES at the top. “We need to aerate the soil and fertilize. Like, yesterday.” He wrote the bullet point. “I haven’t found any fungus, but we have to keep a close eye on the humidity and the water content of the soil. But first, there’s the cleanup we talked about the other day.” She scribbled more notes. “This should already have been done, and we have no vineyard rats.”
“At least there’s some good news.” She shuddered. “I hate rodents.”
He covered a smile with his strict teacher’s glare. “Those are employees. We call the vineyard workers rats.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “And I suppose we have to pay that species?”
He turned back to label his third column, RETAIL. “Sales are down. We’ll need a marketing plan and an advertising budget.”
She leaned forward in the chair and propped her forearms on the paper-strewn desk. “That’s something I can do.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Marketing or a budget?”
“Both.” She didn’t buff her fingernails on her shirt, but the pride in her voice was the equivalent.
A Hollywood showcase wife/marketing exec/accountant? Either she was delusional, or there was more to Indigo Blue than could be found in a Tinseltown gossip rag.
“I’ll rough out a budget, Danovan, but I’ll need your requirements for the first two columns.” She closed her notebook. “That’ll determine my budget for the last column.”
“What do you say we circle back this afternoon? I’ll do some research and have the numbers for you then.”
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Laura Drake
Wanted: one master winemaker Indigo Blue is starting over, again. Following the death of her husband, she's rebuilding her life around her only inheritance–a California winery. There's just one problem: she doesn't know a thing about wine. Enter brooding vintner Danovan DiCarlo.Eager to put his own painful past behind him, Danovan is the perfect partner. And not just in business. As they work side by side, Indigo can feel more than the vineyard coming back to life. Falling for Danovan is a scary prospect. But how do you say no when you find love twice in a blue moon?
Wanted: one master winemaker
Indigo Blue is starting over, again. Following the death of her husband, she’s rebuilding her life around her only inheritance—a California winery. There’s just one problem: she doesn’t know a thing about wine. Enter brooding vintner Danovan DiCarlo.
Eager to put his own painful past behind him, Danovan is the perfect partner. And not just in business. As they work side by side, Indigo can feel more than the vineyard coming back to life. Falling for Danovan is a scary prospect. But how do you say no when you find love twice in a blue moon?
“What’s wrong, Danovan?” She sounded as confused as he felt. “Is it me?”
“It’s not you. Us working together and...being together messes with my head sometimes.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Mixing business and pleasure had destroyed his last life.
“Look, I want you,” he said. “But I’ve also asked you to put a lot of faith in me with the winery. I don’t ever want you to think that I used this—” he waved a hand, indicating them both “—used us, to influence your decision.”
She tilted her head. “I can’t decide if you’re sweet or the most egotistical man I’ve ever met.”
Yeah, join the club. He had never felt so conflicted and unsure of himself. “You are in my blood, Indigo Blue.”
He ran a finger down her throat, to where the first button of her blouse halted his progress.
Dear Reader (#uea21792b-6723-5cfa-8be7-56e671b55b53),
Since Widow’s Grove is surrounded by wineries, one of the books in the series just had to take place on one, right? Except the only thing I know for sure about wine is how to consume it! I enjoyed the research for Indigo’s story and hope you enjoy visiting The Tippling Widow.
If you’re ever in the area, stop by and sample the cabernet—it’s fabulous.
Oh, and watch for the cameo appearances of the characters from the first two books in the series!
The next book? I had readers ask what happened to Bear, the big scary guy from The Reasons to Stay, so the next in the series will be his story.
Stay tuned, ideas are still growing...
Laura Drake
PS I enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me and sign up for my newsletter through my website, lauradrakebooks.com (http://www.lauradrakebooks.com).
Twice in a Blue Moon
Laura Drake
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LAURA DRAKE is a RITA® Award-winning author of romance and women’s fiction. She’s a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. Laura’s realized her dream of becoming a Texan and is working on her accent. In the remaining waking hours, she’s a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick. She currently writes for Harlequin Superromance. Find her online at lauradrakebooks.com (http://www.lauradrakebooks.com) and on Twitter, @PBRWriter. (https://twitter.com/pbrwriter)
To my Alpha Dog, who, no matter how fast I pedal, is waving from the top of the next hill, cheering me on.
And telling me to hurry up.
Thanks for always waiting, Babe.
Acknowledgments (#uea21792b-6723-5cfa-8be7-56e671b55b53)
I’m not much different than Indigo; I may know a cab from a zin, but not much more.
A huge thanks to Jeff Wiens of Wiens Family Cellars, who offered to answer this author’s every ignorant question...and even helped on plot points! His family winery in Temecula, California, was my template for The Tippling Widow.
If you’re ever in the area, check out their wonderful wines! Tell Jeff I said, “Hey.”
www.WiensCellars.com (http://www.WiensCellars.com)
Contents
Cover (#u5ea049a2-4b7b-5252-a457-00d27a18567e)
Back Cover Text (#u70073cea-2b33-5e93-bc0d-ee0f3d5e40f5)
Introduction (#u98e58b45-7fb4-5df2-8dc7-a42cf6005e9c)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u05a3cf93-e04d-5d0e-9754-aef191aa3c47)
About the Author (#uaf4ccc1d-49b2-5137-a1b8-4d09a4474859)
Dedication (#u2de3f198-1805-5e95-9b77-2aa2389cbb17)
Acknowledgments
The Hollywood Informer
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Epilogue
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
The Hollywood Informer (#ulink_bea891f0-2583-5fbb-b65f-72b10456b8d8)
Hollywood was rocked last week by the death of our beloved Harry Stone. Undoubtedly one of the most influential personalities in the history of film, Harry was Hollywood’s best-known director and one of the wealthiest filmmakers in the world. We’ll miss him not only for his sparkling genre-bending movies, but for his iconic bigger-than-life personality.
But apparently Harry’s not done rocking the town.
In our EXCLUSIVE interview inside, Harry’s daughter and reality show superstar, Brenda Stone, reveals the juicy details of Harry’s will! And guess who’s not in it? Harry’s four-decades-junior wife, Indigo Blue. Apparently the opportunistic ‘masseuse to the stars’ will have to hit the road with her massage table, because she got nada.
The Informer is gratified to see that sometimes, even in this town, Karma works. Blue dug for gold and came up with rocks. We sincerely hope this is the last time we have to mention her name within these pages. Like Townshend wrote, “Let’s forget you, better still.”
Goodbye, sweet Harry. This town will miss you.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2f5f97c3-fe97-583f-a2ab-9b8bf0ee8553)
“COMEON, BABY BLUE. I may not have Harry’s bucks, but I’ve got a place in Malibu overlooking—”
“You booked a massage, Carlo. I am not on the menu of services.” Indigo Blue grasped the man’s muscular forearm, removed it from around her neck and lowered it to her massage table. Soft light from the matching Tiffany lamps caressed the burnished skin and smooth muscles of Hollywood’s latest action hero, Carlo Bandera. Soothing new-age rainforest sounds flowed from the spa’s hidden speakers.
“I get that you don’t want to commit, babe. That’s cool.”
Pouring coconut oil into her palm, she rubbed her hands to warm it, attempting to ignore the massive boner tenting the towel draped across Carlo’s crotch. Starting at the bottom of his rib cage, she slid the heels of her hands up and across his considerable pecs. She leaned in, adding her weight to release the tension in the huge muscles.
His arms snaked around her and pulled her onto his chest, trapping her hands underneath her. “I’ve got five hundred bucks for a BJ.”
She pushed against him, but his arms were steel bands. He didn’t even flinch. Panic pumped into her bloodstream, impelled by her racing heart.
“Harry Stone could’ve had any broad in town, and he chose you.” He gave her the look she’d seen him use in his last movie. The heavy-lidded, smoky one that liquefied female costars. “You must be incredible—it’d be worth five hundred.”
“Back off, Bandera. Right now.” Adrenaline raced through her, demanding flight or fight. But the caveman Casanova’s balls were out of her knee’s reach.
“Aw, honey, you’ll change your mind once you see the goods...”
When he used one arm to whip off the towel, she twisted away, sliding easily thanks to his oily chest.
“This appointment is over.” She stepped to the door, but her hands were slick. She couldn’t turn the knob.
Bandera sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face, his member throbbing. “From what I hear, you gotta need the money, Blue.” He slid his legs off the table.
She shot a glance around the dim room, looking for a towel to wipe her hands. They lay stacked on the other side of the table. Figures.
He stood. “If you’re that good, I’ll refer my friends.”
Using two hands, tendons in her forearms straining, she twisted the greasy knob. It slipped, but then finally turned. She flung the door open. It hit the wall with a hollow boom. She stalked through the crowd from a just-released rumba class, leaving the door gaping behind her.
Her client’s indignant yell didn’t douse the burn in her gut.
I can’t do this anymore.
Only a week into her old job and this was the third and scariest pass so far. She’d told herself that she’d been spoiled with the cushy life—but it was more than that. Before Harry, the upscale clientele of Las Brisas had at least shown respect for her skills and service. Now she was accosted on a daily basis. She snatched an Egyptian cotton towel from a stack, wiping her hands as she walked through the gym, hyperaware of the curious eyes that followed her.
This was not going to work. She needed a new plan.
As with everything he touched, Harry had changed her. She was no longer the free-spirited, starstruck newbie, grateful for a dream job teaching yoga to starlets and massaging famous muscle. But without Harry’s love and unswerving loyalty, who was she now? She didn’t know.
But she wasn’t this.
A crushing blanket of loss had descended the morning she woke to find the lifeless body of her mentor, her love, her best friend, cooling on the mattress beside her. After that Harry had belonged to everyone: the press, his fans, his daughter. In their hands, the funeral morphed from the quiet family ceremony Harry had wanted into a nightmare of Hollywood proportions complete with limos, television cameras and paparazzi.
Indigo pushed open the door to the women’s locker room, hollow to the marrow of her bones. She put her hands on her knees and leaned over, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. When had she last eaten?
But a decent meal wouldn’t touch this emptiness. The problem was much deeper.
The commune where she’d grown up had been a large sheltering womb that, after high school, had shrunk to the point of claustrophobia. She’d fought her way out, choosing to be born instead between the glamorous thighs of Hollywood.
It was only later she learned her surrogate mother was a narcissistic whore.
That was the last time she’d trusted her gut. Lost, and one bad choice from disaster, she’d met Harry.
“Indigo Blue. It sounds like a streetwalker’s name.” A chalkboard-squeal voice drifted from the first row of teak lockers.
“The only reason anyone invited her to parties at all was because she had Harry wrapped around her ring finger. How do you suppose she did that?”
“See? We’re back to the streetwalker thing.”
Blood pounded up Indigo’s neck, flooding her face with heat. She eyed the exit, but her car keys were in her locker. Tightening her stomach muscles, she walked on. Coming abreast of the lockers, she glanced to the two underwear-clad plastic surgery billboards. “Monica, you may want to stick with those voice lessons.” She covered the bitchy words in fake-sincerity syrup. “You’re still strident, dear.”
That shut them up. She grabbed her stuff and got the hell out.
* * *
TWODAYSLATER, her Louis Vuitton luggage open on the bed, Indigo stood before her walk-in closet, which was bigger than her childhood bedroom. She surveyed the yards of satin, spandex and sequins, seeing her Hollywood life recede like the view in the long end of a telescope.
That’s how it felt—as if, at twenty-seven, she’d already led three separate lifetimes: the tomboy who’d grown up wild on the Humboldt County commune, the star-struck yoga instructor and the celebrity wife of an aging Hollywood icon.
Thanks to her mom and Harry, two of those lives had turned out well. The one in between, the one she’d been in charge of? Epic fail. She turned away from the closet. Whatever lifetime came next, she sure wouldn’t need this wardrobe.
Mom wanted her to come home to People’s Farm, but her experience at the spa had taught her that going backward didn’t work. Thanks to the skills she’d learned there, she could put her portable massage table under her arm and start her next lifetime almost anywhere.
And in the ass-end hours of last night, she’d decided to begin that life at the winery—the one remnant of this life that was truly hers. Maybe she’d find Harry’s spirit where they’d been happiest.
Closing the luggage, she glanced around the bedroom, listening one last time for a whisper of Harry. All she heard was the whine of the pool pump through the open French doors. She now understood the phantom pain that amputees felt for a missing limb, because of the gaping hole in her that Harry had left. What would happen to her now, without his steady guiding hand on her shoulder?
Everyone believed she’d married Harry Stone for his money. Still, she’d thought she’d made a few friends in the four years they’d been married. But the past two months proved that all the naïveté hadn’t yet rubbed off of Indigo Blue. She shook her head, picked up what was left of this life and walked downstairs.
Claws on marble echoed in the two-story vestibule, getting closer. She dropped the load and knelt as Harry’s basset hound, Barnabas, careened around the corner, huge feet pistoning until he gained traction and barreled into her.
“Oof. Well, hello to you too, big guy.” Avoiding drool, she knelt to pet him from soft ears to whipping tail. “The Wicked Witch of the West will be here soon. Let’s spare ourselves that drama, eh?”
“Well, I may be a witch, but that’s not Toto.” Brenda Stone swept in on stilettos instead of a broom. “And you are no Dorothy.” She flipped her salon-perfect blond tresses over her shoulder and strutted over on shapely, tanning-bed-brown legs. “Give me your house key, and open the suitcases.”
Indigo stood, fists clenched at her sides. “You think I’d steal something?”
“Listen up, bitch.” The diva waved a carmine talon in front of Indigo’s nose. “Daddy’s gone. I don’t have to put up with your shit for one more second.” She planted a fist on her hip. “Now, are you going to open up? Or do I call the cops?”
They were once “friends.” That was before Indigo understood the Hollywood definition. She would have accepted Brenda’s aversion to having a stepmother her own age, but Brenda had made it clear that the competition wasn’t for Harry’s love—but for his money.
Indigo spread her arms. “If I’d wanted any of this, I wouldn’t have insisted on a prenup leaving all of it to you.” The only things she wanted from this house were Barney, her wedding rings and a few of Harry’s T-shirts to sleep in.
“Yeah, like anybody believed that story.” Brenda sniffed, her eyes crawling over the luggage. “Open them. Now.”
Indigo bent and popped the locks on the first suitcase, tasting bitterness in the back of her throat. Sure, Brenda was all about money. But Indigo knew that deeper in her hate-shriveled heart lived an insecure, jealous little girl, and that was Indigo’s unforgivable sin. Not that Brenda was that little girl—but that Indigo knew it.
A few minutes more, and you’re done with all this forever.
She flipped open the suitcase. Slapping the drama queen silly would sure feel good but would only supply more fodder for the gossip rags. Harry deserved better. Guts churning, she gritted her teeth and opened the next.
Ten minutes later the inspection was over, leaving Indigo feeling as violated as a cavity search.
“Just because I’m a nice person, and since you didn’t try to steal anything else, I’ll let you keep the Vuitton.” Brenda raked a proprietary gaze over the marbled entryway and the Tara-style staircase, then back. “You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You’re now free to go back to that.” She flicked a hand in Barney’s direction. “You’re taking that filthy animal, right?”
Indigo snapped the last lock shut and looked into Barney’s droopy eyes. “Are you ready?” Taking his tail wag as assent, she stood, grabbed the handles of the suitcases, and left this lifetime behind.
* * *
“I WASSORRY to hear about your baby girl, Danovan.” Reese Winters sat across the executive desk at Winter Wines. His wrinkles were set in nervous lines, as if waiting to get a root canal. With no Novocain.
Danovan DiCarlo felt the same but knew if it showed, this interview would be over. He shut his mind to the words that delivered the brass-knuckle punch to his chest. “You’re aware that I have a degree in agribusiness from UC Davis, and that I worked my way up at Bacchanal Winery to become one of their trusted vintners. But what you may not know is that I single-handedly took their sauvignon line from ten percent of—”
“Danovan.” Reece’s fingers drummed the edge of the desk.
“Yes, sir.” He leaned forward, anxious to make his next point. He was just getting to the good stuff.
“Spare me the résumé. You know I can’t hire you.”
“But, sir, I’m an excellent manager.”
“My respect for your abilities is what got you this meeting. I’d wager you haven’t gotten many others. Am I right?”
“Well, I’m just now starting to—”
“Son, I don’t believe the rumors the family is putting out about you.” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair. “But that doesn’t matter. They buy my grapes.”
“You’re going to let the Boldens dictate—”
“I am. And so is every other winery in the area. What’s more, you knew that when you set up this appointment.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t mean to stand in as your daddy, but it seems somebody needs to.” He put his knuckles on the desk and leaned in. “You got a bad deal. But you have to admit, you had some...input into your situation.”
Danovan shot to his feet. “I didn’t come here to—”
“So, I have to ask you.” He squinted across the desk. “Did you learn anything?”
Heat pounded up Danovan’s neck until his face throbbed, engorged with it.
“No one ever choked to death swallowing his pride, son.”
Sanctimonious sonofabitch. If Winters hadn’t been old enough to sell wine to King Tut, Danovan would have pulled him across the table by the collar of that polo shirt and vent his frustration. Instead, he snatched the file folder of documentation from his chair, retrieved his résumé and dropped it in the folder. Even if all Danovan had left was a string of dynamite-rigged bridges, he couldn’t afford to burn any. Anger drained out of the hole that opened in his guts.
He looked across the desk and saw the truth in those mournful blue eyes. In his own twisted way, the old man was trying to help.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Winters.” He squared his shoulders, did an about-face and marched out of the office, through the huge tasting room and out the front door of the winery. Finally, standing beside his car, he let out the breath he’d been holding.
I’m firmly and durably screwed.
He slammed his hands on the hood. When Winters agreed to see him, he’d had a glimmer of hope that one grower in the valley had a big enough set of balls to stand against the Boldens. But apparently they’d stopped making them that size.
He unlocked his Land Rover with a click. He pulled the door open, and the smell of almost-new car washed over him as he settled into the seat. If he didn’t find a job soon, he’d be forced to sell this last sweet perk of his old life. He inserted the key and fired the engine.
Sure, he could widen his search. He probably should. Napa Valley had more prestige, anyway. But there still would be the issue of a recommendation from his last employer. Who would an owner believe—the largest winemaker in central California, or a prospective hire? He pounded his fist on the burled wood dash, startling a passing tourist.
Besides, dammit, he liked it here. He may have chosen the Central Valley right out of school because it was a small pond he could make a big splash in, but sometime over the past five years, he’d become attached. He liked the quaint small-town feel of downtown Widow’s Grove. He liked the prissy Victorians that lined the King’s Highway into town. But mostly, he loved the land. The rolling, golden hills dotted with live oaks quieted his edgy restlessness.
But not his drive.
Throwing the car into Reverse, he backed out. Goddammit, he wasn’t leaving until he’d interviewed at every winery he could get through the door of. The colossal screwup with Lissette might have trashed his ego, and his daughter’s death, his heart, but the Boldens were not taking his career, too.
It was all he had left.
* * *
INDIGOWANTEDTOgo out the way she came in, so she chose Pacific Coast Highway. It took longer, but she and Barney weren’t in a hurry.
The heavy mantle of Hollywood lightened with each mile of road that passed under her tires. This town wasn’t just a geographical location, but a state of mind—and she was delighted to change states. She played Harry’s favorite CDs, singing along with Van Morrison as the sun tipped over its summit to begin its descent to the sea.
“What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.
But the moment of doubt didn’t stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown. Her Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.
At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she’d return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.
Or maybe she’d use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.
She’d loved Harry’s Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow’s Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry’s projects. They’d sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob’s cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.
Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he’d been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.
It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry’s marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she’d refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.
It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry’s rants, because it didn’t matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he’d lose everything. Bob’s respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry’s courtship.
Uncle Bob’s death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he’d left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who worried about her future.
She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob’s death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.
Now she was going to see if it could be more.
She watched the surf racing to keep pace with her car, realizing her future was in an odd sort of balance. Her first lifetime in northern California as a free-spirited earth child had been the polar opposite of her lifetime in the other end of the state. Like Goldilocks, she could only hope that this one, in the middle, would be just right.
With Santa Barbara in the rearview mirror, champagne bubbles of excitement rose in her chest. As the car blew out of the Gaviota Tunnel, the sun and land exploded in a blaze that burned onto her retinas. The hills flowed away in golden waves and the road wound between them, lazy as a snake in the sun. Old red barns nestled at the bottom of the valleys, and cattle wandered along paths that their forebears had etched into the hillsides.
Peace blew in on the wind, brushing her face, settling on her skin. She smiled.
Almost there.
A little while later she was rolling into Widow’s Grove—and it was like visiting an old friend.
There’s a new antiques shop where the hardware used to be. Oh, Harry, look, there’s Hollister Drug where we got those great strawberry shakes. Remember that waitress with the crystal in her tooth and the ’50s waitress uniform and hot pink hair?
She turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, the precision straight rows of winter-barren grapevines undulating over the hills that she and Barney passed. The basset’s long ears flapped out the open window as he sniffed the air. Indigo tried it, too, pulling in the scent of dirt and growing things. “You remember this, don’t you?”
“Woof.”
“Well, this time we’re here to stay.” She drank in every hill, every landmark and every mailbox on what was, as of today, her road home.
They turned in at the sun-faded sign that read, “Tippling Widow Winery. Home of distinctive wines since 1978.”
“We’ll have to get that sign repainted,” she said. “It doesn’t make a very good impression from the road.” Dead leaves blew across the asphalt as they drove up the wide drive, unpruned denuded vines keeping pace on either side. “I wonder how the harvest was this year.”
The drive opened to a small, deserted parking lot that ended at the tasting room. The steel-roofed wooden building, painted in buff and redwood, was shaded by a wraparound porch. Square wooden tables and chairs rested in its shade. She pulled up and parked.
The place was so empty it seemed abandoned. Weeds grew among the rosebushes at the base of the porch, complete with wind-blown trash accents. What was the manager thinking? This would look awful to potential customers.
Where were the customers? The place should be bustling with tourists this time of year. Warning bells jangled in her head.
When Barney whined, she got out, gathered him in her arms and lifted him down. He wandered off the sidewalk, sniffed, then watered some weeds. As she closed the car door, the fecund scent of fermentation—a sure sign that the crop was being processed—calmed her unease a bit.
Until she walked closer and spied the cobwebs gracing the tables and chairs of the porch. And they were not fake Halloween leftovers.
She pulled the handle of the glass door—it was locked. She cupped her hands and looked in, though she couldn’t see much of the shadowed interior.
What the hell is going on? “Barnabas, come.”
He stopped sniffing and, collar jingling, trotted after her around the building, along the nine-foot-tall solid wood fence, to the working side of the winery. She pulled the metal door at the back of the pole-barn building. At least it was unlocked, and the lights were on. Barney followed her in, and she let the door close. No genteel trappings here—just concrete floors, stainless steel wine fermentation tanks, skylights and industrial lighting overhead.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the high steel ceiling. “Anyone here?” She held out her hand, palm down. “Barney. Stay.”
He sat, plump feet splayed.
She walked farther in, peering around raised fermentation vats and stepping over hoses.
In the last row, a pair of jeans-clad legs stuck out from under a vat, several wrenches spread on the floor beside them. “Hello?”
The legs didn’t move. Had he hit his head? Had something collapsed? Alarm skittered up her spine and scurried along her nerves. Jogging over, she knelt beside the legs and bent to peer under the vat. An old man lay, eyes closed, a tonsure of curly gray hair wild around his head. No blood. She reached out and touched his leg. Then shook it. “Hey, you okay?”
His lips parted, belching a snore.
“What the hell?” She snatched a wrench from the floor and banged it against the metal tank.
With a snort the man woke, jerked and smacked his head on the tank. “Jaysus!” He put a hand to his forehead and glared at her through one bloodshot eye. “Why’d you go and do tha’?”
A miasma of stale wine breath unfurled. She recoiled and stood, then backed up a step.
“Cantcha’ see I’m workin’ here?” The man rolled out from under the vat. “Who the hell’re you?”
“Indigo Blue. The owner.” The remnants of adrenaline in her system congealed to a sticky wad of anger. “You’re not working. You’re shit-faced.”
It took some precarious butt balancing and grunting, but the man eventually sat up. “I’m not. I was resting my eyes. This work isn’t easy, you kn—” He scratched his scalp. “Who’d you say you were, again?”
She didn’t want to ask her next question—didn’t want to know. She put her thumb and forefinger to the ticking bomb behind her eyebrows. “Please. Tell me you’re not the manager.”
He smiled, revealing a missing incisor and delivering another lethal dose of boozy halitosis. “I am.” He stuck out a hand. Then, realizing it held a wrench, he dropped the tool, and winced when it clanged on the cement. “I’m Cyrus Delaney. Proud to meetcha.” He held out his square, dirty hand again.
She shook only the ends of his fingers. The pretty dreams she’d imagined on the drive here detonated, gone in an instant. “Why isn’t the tasting room open?”
“The bitches up and quit, that’s why.”
When he turned to get to his knees, she didn’t slam her eyes closed fast enough. A close-up of his butt crack seared into her brain.
“How long ago?” She moaned.
“Oh, I think it was...uhnn.” He gained his feet. “Around about a couple weeks ago, reckon.”
Questions hit her brain with the heavy thud of bullets hitting raw meat. Then the hollow-pointed one hit. “Why isn’t it cold in here?”
She didn’t know much about making wine, but Uncle Bob always kept this room at a steady sixty degrees. Fermentation might be a natural event, but uncontrolled, it resulted in vinegar, not wine.
He looked around. “Yeah, why in’t it? That’s a good question.” He tottered away, swaying right and left, as if his knees didn’t bend.
God help me. She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and hit speed dial. Then, catching herself, she pushed End.
There was no cell tower where Harry was.
What now? Dread zinged along nerves made brittle by the adrenaline dump.
Who am I to decide?
Oh, sure, she’d made lots of decisions as a married woman in regards to running the household, party planning—the mundane white noise of everyday life. But Harry, or his staff, had taught her all that. And though he was gone now the thought of him, no more than a phone call away if she needed help, still resided in the back of her mind. His presence had always been a comfort. And a safety rope.
She swallowed a burr-edged nugget of fear. This fiasco was hers to fix. There was no one else. The winery had been Uncle Bob’s baby. Harry’s haven. Failure meant she’d always carry the guilt and shame of losing that. It would be like losing them all over again.
She looked up at the metal roof. “Harry, you know I suck at this.”
The only original idea she’d ever had was moving to Hollywood. And if Harry hadn’t stooped to lift her up, dust her off and take her in, no telling where she’d be now. Giving BJs to up-and-coming stars? Worse?
A shudder rattled through her so hard her bones shook. She took a breath, then headed in the direction she’d seen her “manager” take.
She found him fiddling with the thermostat on the wall beside the tasting-room door.
“It’s not coming on.” He frowned at the dial as if maybe he’d merely forgotten how it worked.
Thank God she’d gotten the business checkbook from the accountant before she left LA. “Who do you call when this happens?”
“Never happened before.” He smacked his lips. “I’ll be right back. I need...” He pulled the metal door open, and dim lights came on in the barrel room—a glass-walled display room of oaken barrels of product. He went deeper, into the darkened tasting room, turned the corner and disappeared.
Indigo followed. She could see the sun through the windows out front, but the shaded porch left the tasting room in shadows. What wasn’t hard to see was the gray-on-black form lifting a bottle to his lips. Anger fired in her chest and shot through her so fast that white sparks drifted across her vision. She put her hands on her hips. “We have an emergency here. The entire year’s stock could be destroyed, and you’re drinking? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
The shadow lowered his arm. “Well, I was just gettin’ some fortification, then I was going to—”
“You’re fired.” She might not have the experience to make good decisions, but at least they wouldn’t be clouded by alcohol. She’d seen enough red-veined noses and yellowed eyes to recognize chronic alcoholism when she saw it. “Get your stuff and clear off.” She strode past what she knew to be the long burled-wood bar, with racks of wine behind, to the counter with a cash register next to the door.
“You can’t do that, missy. I been here for a long time.” She heard the slosh of a bottle being lifted.
“Bullshit. I just did.” Where was the phone book? She dug around under the counter. At least the light was better up here. Her intestines gurgled a warning, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now. “Get your stuff and get off this property. Aha.” She pulled out the thin Widow’s Grove phone book. “On second thought, wait right there for a minute. I’m following you out. I want to be sure some of the product is left when you’re gone.”
Once she’d looked up an air-conditioning company, called and extracted a promise that someone would be out right away, she walked to where Delaney stood, grumbling under his breath. “Let’s go.” She led the way into the warehouse and to the back door.
Barney stood when they walked up.
“What kinda dog is that?” Delaney slurred.
Barney sniffed the man’s pants leg then, lip curling, backed up.
“One with good taste.” She held the door and her breath when Delaney brushed by her.
“You won’t get away with this, lady. I’m going to the EDD.”
“You do that. Please. And I’m only guessing here, but I’ll bet when I contact the tasting room staff, they’ll have plenty they’ll want to say to the labor board themselves.” When Barney scooted out behind her, she let the door fall closed.
Delaney walked to the loading zone and turned to go up the hill.
“Hey, where are you going?” She and Barney jogged to catch up.
“To get my stuff. I moved into the cabin.” He huffed, trudging up the hill.
“Bob’s place?” Outrage fisted her hands as she imagined the cozy little log cabin defiled by this drunken slob. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”
“It was sitting empty.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And the bed down there was lumpy.” The cabin came into view as they crested the hill. The grapevines marched right up to the edge of the dusty yard, and the setting sun washed the old log walls golden.
She half expected to see Bob and Harry sitting in the wooden chairs, feet up on the railing, sipping merlot.
But they weren’t. Indigo’s chest squeezed her heart in a painful spasm of nostalgia.
Delaney went on grumbling about the slights he’d borne in his life as they stepped inside.
“Oh, no.” The air went out of her in a whoosh. The bear-tapestry-upholstered couch was sagging and stained. The Navajo rug was pocked with cinder-blackened holes, some possibly as recent as the foot-high ashes that spilled out of the huge fireplace.
Bottles, cups and filthy dishes occupied the low coffee table and graced every flat surface. The air was close and stale, smelling of garbage. Barney snapped at a buzzing fly.
All the pain she’d held inside since Harry’s death gathered, filling every space in her body, pushing, pushing. Every slight, every abuse, every loss started to boil. Her skin tightened in an attempt to contain it, but the pressure built in her soft parts—in her gut, behind her eyes.
She clapped her hands over her ears as the pressure exploded from her in a howl of pain. “Getout-getout-getout. Get out before I kill you!”
Delaney flinched, his mouth open.
Barnabas threw his head back and howled, raising the hair on her arms.
Delaney scrambled, snatching clothes from the furniture, stumbling between the bathroom and the bedroom.
She couldn’t watch. Couldn’t bear seeing the rest of the house just yet. Sinking to her knees, she gathered Barney in her arms, but the dog wouldn’t be consoled. His howls echoed through the large two-story room as if he, too, were pouring out his grief. She rocked him in shaking arms, whispering to him in an attempt to calm them both.
Delaney shuffled back and forth, loaded down with boxes, clothes hanging out of them. She wasn’t letting go of Barney to look through them. Knowing firsthand how demeaning that was, she couldn’t do it to another human being, even someone as useless as this manager.
Besides, everything precious had already been taken.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_437caa29-2da0-5fdc-8da9-9c26f9e87253)
FROMTHEPORCH, Indigo watched the ex-manager’s rattletrap truck pull out onto the road below. “Well, it’s up to you and me now, Barn.”
The dog lifted his mournful face.
“Cheer up, bud. We may suck at making decisions, but we can’t do worse than that guy.”
A lead blanket of responsibility dropped onto her shoulders, making it hard to draw a full breath. No one to look to. No one to call. The success or failure of Harry’s last lifeline was in her hands. Her incompetent hands.
Oh, come on. You’re not totally clueless. After all, you’ve run your own yoga business.
A tattered remnant of a memory floated through her mind, of a carmine-red scrap of a dress that had cost her more than a good chunk of her bank account.
Yes, and that worked out so well. She slammed her mind shut on it.
She should start shoveling out the cabin. Turning, she stepped to the open door, then hesitated. The sun dipped below the edge of the world. The breeze blew colder than it had a moment ago. The dark played in the straggling vines, and she thought she heard the scurrying of rat-like claws in the dirt.
Ghosts whispered from the open doorway.
Blue? She’s a little chit, but I’m just glad to see Harry’s still got the interest.
He’ll tire of her. Smart men always do, once they start thinking with their bigger head.
You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You’re now free to go back to that.
The ghosts chuckled, breathing the smell of boozy sweat-stained sheets and failure into her face. Turning her back on the past, she blindly reached for the knob and shut the door.
She’d deal with the cabin when she felt stronger. “Let’s go, Barn.”
As they walked down the hill to the winery, a white panel van pulled into the parking lot, the name of the air-conditioning company she’d called on its side.
The dog woofed.
“It’s okay, Barn. The cavalry drives panel trucks nowadays.” She unlocked the front doors for the repairman, but that was about all the help she could render, having no idea what a compressor looked like, much less where it was located. She told him where she’d be and left him to it, imagining dollars ticking by on a taxi’s meter.
She and Barn walked through the tasting room and took the door on the left that led the way to the manager’s quarters. She shot a glance to the ceiling. “Oh please, God, I can’t take any more today.” Bracing herself for the worst, she opened the door.
Encouraged by a faint whiff of stale Lysol, she walked down the long hall, opening doors as she went. The first on the left revealed an abandoned office with windows that looked onto the parking lot. The next door was to a long room. Empty barrels and equipment littered the floor. Behind the door on the right stood the industrial washer and dryer, the deep working-man’s sink between them.
The next room on the right was the manager’s living quarters, and their home until the cabin was shoveled out.
She opened the door and sniffed. “It’s safe, Barney. Come on in.” Set up like a room in one of those extended-stay hotels, the apartment had a small kitchen area on the right, a two-person dining table to the left, and a neatly made double bed before her. Crossing the room, she turned left to check out the bathroom. The shower/tub combo, sink and toilet all gleamed.
Thank God the cleaning crew didn’t quit too.
Problems lay tangled in her mind like huge piles of string. She had no idea where to begin unknotting them.
First things first.
A short while later, on her last trip to the car unloading what she and Barney would need for the night, the repairman found her in the hall.
“I’ve cobbled together a temporary fix, ma’am, but frankly, your whole system is held together with bubble gum and cat hair.” He squatted to pat Barney. “It’ll need to be replaced.”
“The whole thing?’ The taxi meter in her head whirred.
“Well, some of the duct work could probably be salvaged.” Head down, he studiously petted an adoring Barney, whose tail whopped the metal doorjamb with a hollow bong.
She didn’t want to know. “How much?”
He named a figure that stole her breath, and a considerable chunk of the business savings account. But you couldn’t make wine without a consistent temperature. Even she knew that. Should she call another company for a second quote? She bit her lip. Businesses would be closed by now. Tomorrow might be too late.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
“Jeez, Barney.” She grabbed his collar and pulled the little traitor away from the door. He’d always liked men better.
What to do? Nothing had gone right since she’d stepped foot on the property. She’d known when she took this path that she’d have to trust in her intuition, but she hadn’t known that the weight of responsibility would be so heavy. It smothered her last flicker of energy. She looked up at the repairman’s young, guileless face. Surely she could trust a face like that. “How long will it take?”
“We don’t have a unit that large in stock. I’ll need to order one. Should take a week to ten days to get here.”
“Will the cat hair hold out?”
He smiled. “If it doesn’t, you call me. I’ll keep it running until then, no charge.”
He should. The price he quoted for labor alone would send his kid to college for a year. What would Harry do? A chill wind filled the place in her chest where Harry used to be, howling around the cracks in her cobbled-together life. She crossed her arms to cover the void and chose the easier option. “Yeah, okay, order the parts.”
She followed him out, locked up behind them, then returned to the manager’s quarters. The bed beckoned. She longed to fall onto it, curl into a fetal ball and welcome sleep’s respite. Instead, after a long, lingering look, she set up her laptop on the kitchen table and fired it up, then wandered into the kitchen area to find a bowl for Barney’s food. Her stomach growled, but the shelves and drawers revealed only dime-store dishes, bent-tined silverware and a few pots and pans. The fridge was empty save a box of baking soda that sure hadn’t been put there by the manager.
She poured Barney’s food into a chipped cereal bowl with Mickey Mouse tap dancing around the rim. She knew she should eat something. The stress of the past month had her jeans gapping, hanging off her hip bones. A bevy of women in Hollywood would kill for a size zero, but they sure wouldn’t want the grief and worry that had gotten her there.
You’ve got to start taking care of yourself. There was no one else to do it.
Tomorrow.
Barney finished his dinner and slopped half the water out of the other dish. Ears dripping, he meandered to the side of the bed and collapsed on the worn braided rug.
They were both out of shape. She’d go to town and stock up on healthy food and restart her yoga routine tomorrow. Plopping into the chair, she jiggled the mouse to refresh her laptop. It would take a lot more than discipline to deal with the rest of the mess that was the winery.
She knew little more about wine than to order white with fish and red with beef. Her education would have to come first. She searched the internet for books on wine making but found most either were for home hobbyists or were way-over-her-head technical. Then she hit pay dirt. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Starting and Running a Winery. “That sounds about right.” With a click, she downloaded it to her e-reader.
The next knot in the pile of tangled string would be trickier. She’d need to find a winery manager who could do it all: vintner, cellar manager and vine steward. Her experience with the “manager” today had been a lesson in what happened when you left precious things in the hands of others. So, he or she would also have to be willing to teach her.
She needed someone she could trust.
She signed on to her simple business accounting software program and subtracted the cost of the new air-conditioning from the checking balance. She swallowed the knot of dread-laced acid at the back of her throat and added one more to the list of job requirements.
The future manager must be willing to work for next to nothing.
“Yeah, that should be an easy ad to write.” She did a search for a central California winery job board, trying to conjure the words to put lipstick on that pig.
* * *
DANOVANSQUINTED AT his computer screen and read the post again, hoping to glean more information.
Wanted: Winery Manager
A great opportunity to get in on the
Grand Reopening of a boutique winery with a solid reputation for outstanding wines.
Great working environment!
Please apply in person to
The Tippling Widow Winery,
Widow’s Grove, California
He’d never heard of The Tippling Widow, but that wasn’t surprising. Mom-and-pop operations lay scattered in the hills all over the valley.
Reading between the lines of the sunny ad, it was clear that this would be a lot of work for little acclaim. He squared his shoulders. This job was far beneath him. He’d been a lead vintner at one of the largest winemakers in all of California.
Had being the key point.
He flipped to the Bacchanal website. His own smile met him. A flashy photo of the favorite son raising a glass of Pan’s Reserve Cab, his father-in-law’s arm around his shoulder.
His breath whooshed out. The family hadn’t changed the website yet. No surprise there. He was still stunned to blasted stillness inside...the family must be too. His daughter’s cherubic smile drifted across his vision, softening the edges, blurring it. He pulled his mind from the darkness. He had to keep moving forward. There was nothing left behind.
Who was he kidding? If the owner of Tippling Widow hadn’t heard of his epic ousting at Bacchanal two weeks ago, a simple phone call to check references would remedy that. Failure bubbled up, turning his skull into a witch’s cauldron of funk. Should he even bother applying?
He glanced at the walls of the crappy apartment he wouldn’t be able to afford next month. What choice did he have? Gathering the scattered chunks of his career, his ego and his regrets, he wrote down the address of The Tippling Widow. He had to try.
When he first pulled into the parking lot, he thought the place abandoned. But a basset hound lumbered around the corner of the covered porch to the front steps and sat down, staring at his car. He shut off the engine.
What are you going to say when they ask about your last job?
“Hell if I know.” His voice bounced off the windows and back at him. He’d just have to dance around the truth. A little. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror, then, résumé in hand, stepped out.
Unpruned vines in untidy rows straggled up and down the hills like drunken soldiers.
Well, at least here you’ll be needed. Retucking his custom-tailored dress shirt into his favorite slacks, he smothered the last chance whisper in his mind, slapped on a salesman’s smile and strode toward the porch.
Taking the drooling dog’s thumping tail as a gesture of goodwill, he stepped around it on the way to the door. At the sound of sweeping coming from the right, he turned. A broom appeared from around the corner, followed by a small, thin woman in a faded T-shirt and spandex pants that ended below the knee. Golden-highlighted brown hair escaped a red bandana to fall around her sweaty face.
He might have to give up the Land Rover, but if this was an example of the help around here, at least there’d be some perks to the job. “Excuse me.”
She squeaked and jumped, her Keds actually leaving the porch. She raised a French-manicured hand to her chest, her deep brown eyes huge.
“Could you tell me where I could find the owner?”
She tucked a hank of hair behind her ear and shot a look at the roof of the porch, her lips moving silently. The broom fell with a clatter, and she scrubbed her hands on her slim thighs and extended a hand. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. The working owner,” she said with a blush and an apologetic smile.
He knew that name. His mind sorted data, trying to remember from where. Her hand was soft, warm and fine-boned. She might be a working owner, but with hands like that, she hadn’t been for long. “I’m Danovan DiCarlo. I’ve come to apply for the manager position.”
“I only posted that opening last night. I never dreamed anyone would be by so soon.” Her hand slipped from his. “I’m sorry to be a mess. Please, come in.”
She led him to the front door, stopping to pet the hound. “This is Barnabas. The Tippling Widow mascot.”
He followed her, wishing he could shake the hand of whoever invented spandex. He’d always been a leg man. The muscles in her calves were fluid in flexion. Her thighs were long and firm, and her ass...legendary. Suddenly, the name clicked. That body had graced the cover of the Hollywood rags Lissette consumed like trendy cocktails. This was Harry Stone’s arm-candy wife. What the heck was she doing here?
She led the way through a high-ceilinged, timber-framed tasting room, through a door and into an office. At least, at some point in the past, this space must have been an office. Large arched windows looked out onto the front lawn, and the wood modesty panel told him there was likely a desk under the piles of paper.
She lifted a stack of wine trade magazines from the guest chair. “Have a seat.” She looked around for a place to put the magazines. Not finding room on the desk, she dropped them into a corner. They hit the dirty carpet with a muffled whump. She walked around the desk and lowered herself into a scarred high-backed leather chair as if it were a throne. “I’d apologize for the mess, but I’m afraid once I start, I’d never stop.”
“If everything was shipshape, you wouldn’t need me.” He gave her a salesman’s smile and handed his résumé to her over the paper piles. Given Harry Stone’s money, Danovan figured that finances shouldn’t be a problem. And once he took over, she could go back to Hollywood. This job was looking up.
The light from the dirty window fell on her heart-shaped face as she read. Flawless pale milk skin, her mouth a bit too wide and big, sad eyes. Not just the sad within them, but in their shape, tilting down a bit at the outside edge. She turned the page with long, elegant fingers.
She looked up, and their gazes locked. He recognized the pain in those big eyes from what he saw in the mirror every morning.
Why so sad? He froze for a heartbeat, afraid he’d said it out loud.
* * *
ARROGANT AND FULLof himself. Indigo studied her potential employee, not caring that he stared back. She had nothing to hide. Profiles like his graced Italian coins. He had a spade-shaped face: broad forehead, arresting wide-spaced brown eyes. There was a diagonal line through one of his heavy brows. At first she thought it was a razored fashion statement, but looking closer, she saw it was a scar. It, along with a slightly crooked nose, just made him look rugged. And a strong jaw narrowing to a squared-off chin only added to the effect.
Oh, Harry, your cameras would love this one.
And he knew how good-looking he was. He wore handsomeness as casually as he did his expensive clothes. Hollywood was full of men like this, bursting with charm and hubris. He had no way of knowing she’d been inoculated against that type years ago. “Why would you want this position?” She read from the résumé. “Cum laude in agribusiness from UC Davis, you worked your way up to lead vintner at one of the largest growers in the area within three years.” She dropped the paper and studied the man it supposedly explained. “You are obviously overqualified.”
“Actually, I’m looking to this job as a way of completing my education.” He leaned back, resting his hands on the chair arms. “I need to know how to start up a winery if I hope to own my own someday.” His eyes traveled around the dingy room. “No offense meant.”
“None taken.” She kept the wince on the inside. “I’m hoping our grand reopening will be like a startup.”
“‘Our.’ Do you have a partner?”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Not unless you count Barnabas.” Might as well scare him off before they wasted too much time; she had a lot to do today. “I can’t afford to pay much.”
“What is the salary?”
She told him.
He wasn’t as good at hiding winces as she was. “I have an idea.” His thumbs beat a cadence on the chair arms as he considered. “What if I accept your salary and we work out a percentage split of the profit?”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“If I can’t increase the profitability of your winery, I only receive the salary you’re proposing. But if I succeed, I get, say, fifteen percent of the profit I generate.” He stopped tapping and raised his hands, palms up. “This way you’re assured that I’ll do my best, because I have skin in the game. And you wouldn’t lose anything that you didn’t have to begin with.”
She searched for holes in his logic. “I’d have to think about that.”
He gave her a Hollywood smile. “Fair enough. Why don’t you give me a tour and tell me your plans?”
“Follow me.” She stood and led him to the hallway. “Our wines have enjoyed a solid reputation for years. I hope to continue that.” When she stopped in front of a door, he opened it. “Since I have a background in yoga and massage, I plan to reopen as a boutique winery and spa. I think it would give us a unique twist.”
The room was long and narrow. “This would be great for my yoga classes.” She stepped in and flipped on the lights. “I’ll install mirrors all along this wall and put reflective tinting on the windows for privacy. I’ll wall off a small room at the end for massage and aromatherapy.”
“Really.” He didn’t actually put his nose in the air, but his tone was the auditory equivalent. “I’m not big on all that new-age woo-woo, but you may be right. Rich women love it.”
Great. Arrogant and opinionated. Well, he didn’t need to approve of her—just respect her, as the owner. “Not only rich women. I’m going to encourage the local women to participate as well.” She pulled the door closed and led the way down the hall.
He’s only the first applicant. Hopefully the next will be better.
“These are the manager’s quarters. Barney and I are camping out here until I can get moved into the cabin at the top of the hill.” Glad she’d thought to make the bed this morning, she unlocked the door and stepped in.
He looked around, his gaze lingering on her open suitcase. “Nice.”
Of course her fuchsia underwear lay on top like a Frederick’s of Hollywood advertisement.
Wondering if he referred to the apartment or her underthings, she stepped around him, walked across the room and kicked the suitcase lid closed, sure her face was the same shade as the lingerie.
“Why did you leave your last position?” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.
His assurance faltered as something flashed across his face—shock maybe. But it was gone before she could be sure.
“I’m the lead vintner at Bacchanal.” He slipped his hands into his pockets. “They don’t know I’m looking to take my career in another direction, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t contact them. My other references should tell you what you need to know.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_460596a0-5936-5221-8189-6a1213a1712b)
“I SEEYOU’VE worked as an assistant vineyard manager...” She consulted the résumé before her. “...Craig. But I need more than that. I need a generalist.”
The earnest-faced young man leaned forward in the guest chair. “I know. But I learn fast. I thought I could start in the vineyard then advance.”
“I appreciate your aspirations and your attitude. But as you can see—” she spread her arms “—it’s just me. I need someone who knows it all.” And who can teach me. “I’ll hold on to your résumé for when I can affo—expand enough to require a vineyard manager.” She stood. “But thank you for coming by.”
The kid stood and extended a hand. “I hope you do keep me in mind. I’m looking for an opportunity to move up.”
From the office window a few moments later, Indigo watched his car peel out of the parking lot, leaving a haze of dust and desperation.
That was the last interview. The posting had run for a week, and she hadn’t had a call in three days. As Harry would have said, “It’s time to kill the engineer and start production.” But there had only been six applicants, and two had ended the interview when they heard the salary. One had the nerve to chuckle on the way out.
She lifted the three remaining résumés from the desk. The old man would be a great teacher, but with his huge-knuckled, arthritic hands, she had doubts that he could withstand the physical work required. She dropped his résumé in the overflowing trash can. The next looked great on paper, but two of his references had sung the same song about complaints from the serving staff. Sexual harassment complaints. Since the manager would live on the premises and Indigo’s closest neighbor was a half mile away... She shivered, imagining a knock at the cabin door late at night. Or maybe not even a knock. His résumé followed the rest into the trash.
That left one. She studied the heavy ivory paper.
The arrogant Italian.
Yes, his attitude bugged her, but she was used to that. After all, if arrogance was a crime, all of Hollywood would be incarcerated. She’d checked his references. No one had a bad word to say about Danovan DiCarlo, from his expertise to his knowledge to his work ethic.
But something still nagged about him. Like the shredded remnants of a dream upon waking, something lingered, leaving her with an uneasy feeling and the memory of his sad smile. Her hands swept the papers on the desk into stacks, almost without her being aware that she’d done so. Whenever she was upset, her body craved movement, as if action could help sort the knots in her mind.
What was it about him?
For one thing, he’s overqualified. He’ll walk as soon as he gets a better opportunity.
But he already had a better job than she was offering.
How very convenient for him.
Are you looking for reasons not to hire him?
“Yeah, I am, kinda.”
Barney looked up from the blanket that she’d put in the corner for him.
On what grounds? A feeling? What a joke. She was batting O-fer when it came to being able to trust her feelings.
Maybe she should broaden her search to include the entire country. But that would take time, and meanwhile, money was flowing out of the checkbook with damned little coming in.
The chair squealed when she collapsed against the back. In spite of her vow to make her own decisions, and regardless of how it felt to cave this early, she lifted her phone from the desk to call in a lifeline.
Uncle Bob’s baby was just too important to risk on feelings. Especially hers.
“The People’s Farm. This is Sky.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Indigo! How good to hear your voice. Tell me what the winery’s like. Have you settled in?”
Indigo could hear the bustle of the market in the background. The commune had barely been feeding itself when her mother took over and expanded the operation until they had surplus to sell. Her mother was half late-blooming flower child and half drill sergeant. The combination worked, for now the organic farmer’s market she’d begun drew people from three counties.
“Not settled yet, but I’m working on it. First, tell me what’s happening there.” She smiled at her mother’s happy chirping about business and growing things. Wistful thoughts drifted in with her mother’s voice, but Indigo knew that as much as her childhood had been peaceful and pastoral, she’d no longer be happy living that simple existence. Hollywood had stripped her of the innocence required for membership, and like a hymen, once broken, innocence wouldn’t grow back. She shivered.
“Indigo? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Mom, sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” Metal pellets of worry clicked in her voice.
“Not a big deal, I’m just calling for some advice.” She needed a lifeline, not a life preserver—her mother couldn’t save her, only she could do that. “I’m about to hire my first employee. How can I know he’s the right person?”
Her mother chuckled. “Lord knows, I made enough mistakes in the beginning to sink this place.”
“That’s what scares me.” She wriggled in the chair to shake off her body’s craving for movement. “How do you decide?”
“First, do your research. Then you take a leap of faith.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. I always sucked at the broad jump.”
“Indigo Blue. What’s going on?”
She’d never discussed the dirty details of her life in Hollywood with her mother. In the beginning, she’d been too proud and embarrassed to admit that her pretty teenage dream had become a nightmare. After Harry, it had been easier to tell her a version closer to the truth. “Let’s just say I’ve learned some things the hard way, okay?”
“Of course you did. That’s the only way we learn.” Suddenly her voice barked, “No, Moon, not there. Put the radishes beside the arugula. It’s more visually appealing.”
“You’re busy. I’ll let you go.” She didn’t want her mother digging further into her past. Indigo’s stories wouldn’t stand up to more than casual interest.
“Honey, you know how to do this. Go to a quiet place, put on some soothing music and open some lavender oil. Just trust. The answer is inside you.”
“I will, Mom, thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.” She clicked End. Her mother meant well, but meditation wouldn’t fix the winery’s problems—knowledge would.
She’d read through the The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Starting and Running a Winery three times and had learned enough to know that she didn’t know enough. Running a winery from a book was like a blind man attempting brain surgery.
Which led her back to the résumé that lay, front and center, on the newly tidied desk.
“Shit. Why am I putting myself through a mental rat maze? I don’t have a choice.” And that rankled.
* * *
ATTHESOUNDof a car engine, Danovan came back to himself and took a quick glance around the grassy hill dotted with marble rectangles. No visitors marred the perfect green lawn. Thank God. The family might have reclaimed his wife, but damned if they’d keep him from his daughter. He scanned the drive coming up the hill. He wasn’t prepared for another confrontation. The cuts to his soul might have healed, but the scars were red and shiny, too tight.
He bent and placed the nosegay of baby’s breath and tiny white roses on the headstone below the name Esperanza DiCarlo. He’d named her for the hope she’d brought, but the few months between the two dates below her name reminded him that hope was fragile.
“Sleep, cara. I will visit again soon.” He wiped a drop of regret from his eye and turned away.
He opened the door of his Range Rover and dropped onto the seat. The phone rang. “DiCarlo,” he answered.
“Mr. DiCarlo, this is Indigo Blue, of The Tippling Widow Winery. You applied for my generalist position earlier in the week?”
As if he could forget either the job or the husky quality of the owner’s voice. “Yes, Ms. Blue.”
Her laugh was as smoky as her voice. “I think we’d better be on a first-name basis if we’re to work together.”
Thank God. He let out a breath it seemed he’d been holding forever. He’d sweated out the past four days, waiting for both the splash page on the Bacchanal site to be changed, wiped clean, as if he’d never existed. And for a call from Indigo, telling him she’d chosen someone else.
“That is, if you still want the job, based on the terms we discussed.”
“Oh, yes, I want it.” It might not be good form to smile in a cemetery, but his daughter wouldn’t be offended; wine was in her blood on both sides. “I can start tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Don’t you have to give notice at your current position?”
Crap. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t land the job that he hadn’t planned this far ahead. Thoughts ran through his mind in a blur, like a manic news feed. He snatched at one. “I put in notice after my interview with you.”
“A bit sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Her voice might be smoky, but he now remembered that smoke sometime came from ice. Dry ice.
“Oh, no, not at all.” His panicked brain snatched at another speeding excuse. “I’m committed to my new course. If you hadn’t hired me, I’d have looked in Napa.” That was the truth—he’d planned to start looking on Monday.
“I see.”
His gut clenched at the silence on the line. He wanted to jump in, to convince her. But his father had always told him, “When you’re in a hole, stop digging.” So he stopped.
After a lifetime of agonizing moments, she spoke. “How about tomorrow, say, ten?”
“Yes, of course. See you then. Thank you.” He hung up and started the car. If she thought that a vintner’s hours ran on Hollywood time, she had a lot to learn. And for as long as she stayed, he’d teach her.
But he didn’t expect that to be long at all.
He drove down the hill to the exit. Oh, that’s nice.She’s put her trust in you, and you lie to her. When a wasp’s sting of guilt hit, he soothed it with the vow that he’d fulfill his side of the bargain. He’d run the place to the best of his ability after she scurried back to the Cush Life. He owed her that, for giving him a second chance. Even if she didn’t know she had.
He drove to the apartment that would no longer be his home, whistling a Paganini concerto.
This job would be a great do-over. He had every intention of doing it right this time.
* * *
INDIGOSCRABBLEDTHROUGHthe office desk’s lap drawer, searching for the scrap of paper she’d seen among the ancient business cards, crumpled receipts and leaky pens. “You should have started on the cabin yesterday.” Or the day before. Odious as it would be, setting Uncle Bob’s home to rights should be her job alone. But with Danovan reporting for work in the morning, she’d have to vacate the manager’s quarters, and the only other bed on the property was in the cabin. She was out of time and needed help.
“Ah, here it is.” Squinting at the smeared numbers, she dialed.
“Hola,” a lilting feminine voice said.
“Hello. Is this Rosalina?”
“Sí, señora. Can I help you?”
“You own the service that cleans The Tippling Widow, right?”
“Yes.”
Indigo blew out a breath. “We need to talk.”
“We did not do a good job?”
“Oh, no. You’ve done a great job. That’s why I’m calling. I need help cleaning the cabin on the premises. You know, the one at the top of the hill?”
“Sí. Señor Bob’s.”
At the tenderness in the woman’s voice, a bubble of sadness rose into Indigo’s throat. “Yes, that one.” Her voice squeezed around the blockage, coming out skinny.
“But the manager, he no let us in there.”
“He doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. I’ll be living in the cabin, but...” She searched for words that wouldn’t scare the woman off. “It needs a good going over before I move in. Could you send someone today?”
Papers rustled. “No one free today. We can come next week. That’s our normal schedule.”
“No one? Are you sure? Could you check again? I really could use some help.”
“I am so sorry, missus. No one today.”
Her heart shriveled to a small ball. She should have known it would come to this. It was her job to do, really. “You mean you don’t come every week?”
“The manager, he tells us no.”
She couldn’t afford it, but they were making and selling a food product; a clean facility was a must. And her time would be better spent learning than cleaning. She forced the words past the banker side of her brain. “Can I get on a once-a-week schedule, including the cabin?”
When they’d worked out the timing, Indigo thanked her and hung up.
One more call to go. “Cross your toes, Barney.”
The carefree mutt looked up from his blanket and yawned.
“Okay, a good-luck yawn. I can live with that.” But just in case, she threw a prayer to any god listening before dialing the next number.
“Yes?”
“Is this Sandra Vanderbilt?”
“This is Sondra.” She drew out the name, as if chastising the mispronunciation.
“Yes, sorry, Sondra.” She didn’t stretch it. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner of The Tippling Widow. I’m calling to—”
“I wondered when someone would call. Do not ask. I will not work with that vinous degenerate.”
Note to self—search Google for vinous. “If you mean the former manager, that’s no problem. He’s gone. I understand from the records that you are the serving staff manager.”
“I was.” Delicate sniff. “I enjoyed working for Robert, but since his death the place has gone downhill to the point where I was embarrassed to admit I worked there.”
Robert? Uncle Bob was salt of the earth. He was no more a Robert than Indigo was a Bambi. “Well, I intend to change that. I have already hired a new manager, and I was hoping you would agree—”
“Whom?”
“What?”
“Whom did you hire as manager?”
Indigo had heard that I’m-dealing-with-an-idiot tone before, but never from an employee. She might live in the country now, but the taint of Hollywood uppity was still fresh in her nostrils. And it burned. Dammit, she’d come here looking for some respect. Why rehire a snotty employee? Indignation filled her chest, squaring her shoulders. She took a breath to tell Sooondra to pound sand.
Then a shotgun blast of reality hit her inflated chest, and all the indignation bled out. You need this woman. A complete staff turnover was more than The Widow could survive right now. After all, Indigo didn’t know enough about wine to interview, much less hire, competent serving staff, and Danovan wouldn’t have the time to interview or train them. “Danovan DiCarlo is the new manager.”
“Oh, reeeally?”
She would have given quite a bit to know what caused Sondra’s surprise, but damned if she’d ask this woman for gossip. Loosening her jaw muscles, she bit her tongue.
Sondra sniffed. “I suppose I could consider that, though I am contemplating several other opportunities.”
“I plan to honor Bob’s dream to make The Tippling Widow wines the pride of the region. Surely, given your years of loyal service, you’d want to be a part of that?”
“I would. For a ten percent increase in salary.”
You can’t afford it. Besides, she’s bluffing. Indigo’s gut told her she was right. She put a hand to that notoriously unreliable part of her anatomy. But what if she’s not?You sure don’t have the knowledge to do the job. Not yet, anyway.
Sondra broke into her thoughts. “I’m waiting to hear about another position. Why don’t I just call you back next week?”
One big mistake at this point could be the weight that sank The Widow. Figures streamed through Indigo’s mind. “I’ll give you five percent more, but only if you can convince the rest of the serving staff to return.”
Another haughty sniff. “They will follow wherever I lead.”
Without choke collars? “Good. Contact them and all of you report for work at...” Blood pounded to her cheeks. “What time do you usually start?”
“Nine-thirty. The doors open promptly at ten.”
“I’ll see you then, Sand—Sondra.”
“You will.” Click.
Indigo stared at the dead phone, then dropped it onto the desk. Bob had made running the winery seem effortless, yet she’d not encountered one easy task since she’d set foot on the property. Well, hopefully that would change tomorrow when the new manager showed up. She imagined Danovan DiCarlo galloping up the drive on a white steed, skidding to a stop at the porch steps.
She snorted. Like I’m some damsel in distress. She glanced out at the empty porch. The cobwebs swayed in the breeze, and trash fluttered in the weeds. The tasks she was capable of doing could fill several pages of lists, but the ones she was incapable of could fill a book the size of Webster’s dictionary. Okay, so I am in distress. But it’s not going to be a chronic condition.
She’d only need all of them—Danovan, Sondra and her crew—until she got her feet under her and some experience. Then, if any of them weren’t working out, she’d fire them and start over.
The vow soothed her chapped ego. “Hey, Barn. Wake up.”
The dog opened droopy eyes.
“How’d you like a hamburger? We have to shovel out the cabin yet, but we need a break.”
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the gravel parking lot of the barn-red, low-slung building that the wooden sign declared The Farmhouse Café. She parked, turned off the engine, then sat frozen, watching two ghosts walk to the glass entrance door. The painfully young woman smiled up at the much older man as if he held the secret to life and was about to bestow it upon her.
Her savior. Her love. Her Harry.
In the suddenly too-hot car, the older but not much wiser woman sat mesmerized, swamped by yearning.
Harry’s long gray hair was held in his signature ponytail, and his face was saddle-brown with white lines from squinting into location suns. The couple was too far away for Indigo to see his eyes, but she didn’t need to. She remembered the sky-blue sparkle that had always been there just for her.
Harry had never seen her as the tainted mess he’d stumbled upon that horrific morning. He’d just picked her up, washed her clean and treated her like she was something special—like a diamond that someone had dropped in mud. And because he’d believed it, over time, Indigo was able to believe. Because of that look in his eyes.
The python of grief in her chest writhed, constricting her heart, squeezing a sob from her throat. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, trying to charm the snake back to sleep.
A cold nose nudged her elbow, burrowing until Barney’s head lay in her lap. He let out a long sigh that ended in a whine.
She ran her hand over the velvet head. “We are truly a mess, Barn.” She leaned back in the seat. “This place has great cheeseburgers. What do you say we drown our sorrows in some grease?”
When she looked up, the ghosts were gone. She snapped a leash on Barney’s collar, gathered him in her arms and clambered out. Not a graceful exit, but Barney’s legs were too short to jump out on his own. Together they crossed the almost deserted parking lot to the door the ghost couple had entered.
She slipped the leash over a metal post at the entrance. “Sit, Barn. I’ll be back with your burger in a few.”
A bell clanked against the glass door when she pulled it open and stepped into chilled air laden with the smell of bacon. Looking around, she noted the silvered wooden floor, the old pot-bellied stove in the corner—and the fact that she was the lone diner. Except for the ghosts, who sat in the booth by the window.
She turned away and walked to the long Formica bar with chrome and red vinyl stools. The cook’s window framed a happy picture—a large man, white T-shirt riding up his ripped biceps, bent a blonde woman over his arm, kissing her. No, not kissing—consuming her.
Indigo’s heart stuttered, then pounded heat through her: the base of her throat, beneath her breasts, at the back of her knees. A wicked whiplash of jealousy bit deep, and yearning spread, burning like alcohol on the cut.
She must have made a noise, because the couple turned their heads. They separated, and the woman put a hand to her poofed-up French twist.
“Oh, hello.” She trailed long nails down the man’s throat, and Indigo saw his shiver. With a last private smile that said she knew exactly what that did to him, the blonde walked away, entering the restaurant through a swinging door. She smoothed her hands over the too-tight-to-wrinkle white pantsuit, her cheeks only slightly pink. “Hon, before you go getting the wrong idea, we’re married.” She flashed a Hollywood-worthy smile.
Indigo slipped onto a stool. “Hey, don’t mind me.”
“Welcome to the Farmhouse. I’m Jesse, and that sexy hunk back there is Carl.”
The giant waved a hand in her general direction, but ducked his head, suddenly busy, a bit pink in the cheeks himself.
“You’re not from around here, are you, hon?”
“I am now.” Indigo snatched a menu from behind the napkin dispenser.
“Well, Widow’s Grove is a great town. I’ll bet you’ll like it here.” She tilted her head and tapped a long carmine nail on her cheek. “You look familiar.”
“My husband and I used to eat here.” She resisted the urge to glance to the booth behind her. “Years ago.”
“Well then, welcome back...” Jesse raised a blond eyebrow.
“Indigo. Blue.” Seeing the cogs turning in Jesse’s eyes, she ducked her head to scan the menu. “Could I have a veggie omelet?” The smell of bacon taunted her. “No, wait. Make that a bacon cheddar omelet.” She closed the menu, vowing to eat better—tomorrow. “And could I also get a hamburger patty without the bun for my best guy out there?” She glanced to the door, where Barney sat patiently waiting, watching her every move.
“Oh, what a cutie! Of course you can, hon.”
“Coming up,” the giant in the kitchen window said.
“Let me guess. You’re settling in Widow’s Grove because you missed our great cooking, right?” Jesse smiled, leaned a hip on the counter and waited.
Oh, she’s good.
Indigo should know—she’d been grilled by the best reporters in Hollywood. Jesse’s down-home style was much easier to take. She couldn’t help but return the smile. “Only partially. I’m the owner of The Tippling Widow Winery.”
“You are?” Jesse’s full lips pursed. “We were so sorry to lose Bob. He was a good man. One of the old guard around here. Did you know him well, hon?”
“Yes.” Indigo knew a small-town gossip when she saw one. She wasn’t discussing her relations with a stranger. Especially since it would lead back to Harry. The snake in her chest shifted, and she rubbed her breastbone to settle it back to sleep. She took a breath and focused forward instead of back. “I’m going to make The Tippling Widow a winery Bob could be proud of again.” Local rumors spread fastest. The Widow’s troubles wouldn’t be news here.
She looked up just in time to see the tumblers fall into place in Jesse’s eyes. “Oh.” Sympathy replaced curiosity. “Harry Stone is—was—”
“Hamburger’s up, Jess.” The Nordic hunk slid a small plate through the window.
Jesse retrieved the dish and set it on the counter.
“Excuse me.” Indigo grabbed the hamburger patty and hustled out the door to deliver it to Barney.
Dammit, she’d hoped to make a new start here, where no one knew her. She should have known better. Her name was so distinctive and Harry so famous... Squatting, she set the plate in front of Barney. He wolfed the burger, tail whipping.
Funny how it was easier to deal with Hollywood’s ire than to endure sympathy from a well-meaning stranger. On the flipside, if this woman is the gossip you think she is, she’ll pass the word, and at least you won’t have to explain to everyone you meet. She stood and forced herself to grasp the door, wishing she could snatch Barney’s leash and trot to the car.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_97551e00-a6bf-585e-91c5-553e7f92cdb9)
WHENTHEANTIQUEclock over the mantel gonged twice, Indigo dropped the floor brush into the bucket and pulled off her rubber gloves. Two in the morning and I still have to make the bed. She sat back on her heels at the edge of the bathroom floor, then pushed to her feet. At least she had a fresh bed to fall into. She dug a knuckle into the cramping muscle in the small of her back. She’d earned it hauling the mattress in from its airing on the porch.
Her hard work had paid off. She walked into the great room of Uncle Bob’s cabin, proud of the warm glow of lamplight on clean paneling. Someone would have to be hired to haul away the mountain of crap she’d tossed out the back door, but she’d worry about that tomorrow.
Burnished copper-bottom pots once again hung where they belonged over the stove. The starched gingham curtains were pulled back from a window that worked as a mirror, reflecting the room. After a rocky start, losing her breakfast after touring the bathroom this afternoon, her mood had lightened with every room she restored. Her body ached, and she might have to burn these clothes, but she’d been right—this was her job to do.
She ran a hand over the wooden grapes in the hand-carved mantel. “Welcome home, Uncle Bob.”
* * *
ATEXACTLYNINE-THIRTY that morning, a woman strode through the door of the tasting room, two women in her wake.
Sooondra. She was willowy as a Lladró porcelain. Her perfectly straight ash-blond hair fell to the middle of a butt sculpted, no doubt, by hundreds of Pilates sessions. Her tasteful pencil skirt and crisp white tailored blouse were all business, and the high heels that tapped a staccato beat across the wood floor made the elegant line of her leg even longer. Her face was a juxtaposition of soft and hard that made it difficult to look away. Wide-spaced elongated eyes over sleek, soft cheeks ended in a chin that could slice paper. Stopping in front of Indigo, she flipped a sheaf of hair over her shoulder with a smooth, precise move. She looked like an Afghan Hound at a Westminster show: aloof, entitled, untouchable.
She sniffed and glanced around. “Well, it’s still standing.”
Well, la-de-da. Ms. Perky Ass has arrived. Indigo gritted her teeth in what she hoped looked like a smile. “It’s a bit rough, but the cleaning crew won’t be here until next week, so our first job will be getting this place ready for business.”
Sondra looked down her long nose. “You do not expect serving staff to do manual labor.”
Indigo shrugged, holding her hands out to the empty room. “I don’t see any customers to serve, do you?” She dusted her hands, then offered one to shake. “I’m Indigo Blue. You’re Sondra, obviously. Will you introduce me to your coworkers?”
Sondra shook the ends of Indigo’s fingers, then turned, displaying the women behind her with a game show model’s flourish. “This is Natalie Baddorf.” A petite brunette in soft camel slacks and a white blouse just like Sondra’s, tipped her head. “She’s a wine professional and server. Her expertise is eclipsed only by my own.” She turned to her other minion. “And this is Becky Stiles, the salesperson for the gift shop, and my cashier.”
My cashier?
Becky looked like a copper penny among diamonds, a fresh-faced redhead with a dusting of freckles across her nose. She smiled then burst forward to give Indigo’s hand a firm shake. “I’m glad to be back, Ms. Blue.”
This could be a strong team. Sondra and Natalie’s expertise and high class would impress the wine aficionados, and Becky’s charm and girl-next-door looks would keep newbies from being intimidated. “I’m glad to meet you all. We’re going to have to roll up our sleeves because it’s up to us, along with our new manager, to turn The Tippling Widow into a winery Uncle Bob would be proud of.” She lifted from the bar three dark green aprons with the winery’s logo across the breast: the name in script, with the I’s in Tippling and Widow the stem of a wineglass. “And we’re starting today.” She handed out the aprons, then slipped the last one over her own head, crossed the strings behind her and tied them in front.
Sondra’s chin lifted, and she eyed the apron in her fingers with an arched brow.
This was the moment Indigo had worried over. And over. If Sondra wouldn’t follow orders, this wasn’t going to work. What would happen then, Indigo didn’t want to contemplate. Uncle Bob had trusted these women, and Indigo didn’t have the knowledge to even interview for these positions. She stilled herself, though she could almost hear the stress humming through her like electricity in a high line.
Natalie and Becky stood holding the aprons, watching their boss’s cue for what to do next.
Sondra gave a theatrical sigh. “We can’t work in this filth, regardless.” She dropped the apron on the bar. “I won’t need this to supervise.” She glanced at her charges and clapped her hands. “Well, ladies, what are you waiting for? We don’t have a minute to spare if this tasting room is going to be fit for customers.”
Barney’s collar jingled when he trotted into the room.
“Is that a dog?” Sondra made it sound like cockroach.
Barney skidded to a stop at Indigo’s feet, and she leaned over to play with his ears. “This is our mascot, Barnabas. Barney to his friends.”
“Oh, how cute!” Becky bent to pet him.
“Do not touch that. You cannot have an animal in the serving room. It’s a clear health-code violation.”
“It’s an FDA recommendation, not a hard rule. It’s up to the owner’s discretion.” She straightened and leveled a stare at Sondra. “And I’m the owner.”
The area at the base of Sondra’s nostrils went white. Her gray eyes went dark. She stared back.
No one moved, even at the sound of boots clumping across the wooden porch.
“Hey, look who’s here! My old pal Sandy.” Danovan strode up and enveloped Sondra in a huge hug. “I knew there was a beautiful woman missing from my life.”
Sondra air-kissed both his cheeks and smiled up at him. “Danovan DiCarlo, you big flirt. I should have known that if a woman inherited a winery, you’d be working there.”
He released Sondra as if she’d just scalded him. When he turned to Indigo, his cheeks were pink. “Reporting for duty, Ms. Blue. Er—Indigo.”
He wore nothing special: suede boots, chinos and an ivory cotton button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled on his tanned forearms. But he still managed to look like a cover model with his sexy eyes, a crooked smile and the testosterone that he wore like cologne.
Indigo pulled herself from the shock of seeing Sondra tease. “Morning, Danovan. Let’s go to my office to talk.” She turned to Sondra and her entourage. “Nice meeting you, ladies. We’ll catch up later.” She led the way across the floor to the wooden door marked Employees Only. He was there to open it before she could reach for the handle.
She felt back in control once she sat behind her desk. Danovan took the office chair. “You’re a friend of Sondra’s?”
The incredulity must have bled into her tone, because he smiled. “She and I worked together at another winery. Sandy’s a pussycat.”
She blew back her bangs. “So is a panther, but I wouldn’t want to try to pet one.”
He laughed.
With his charm, he probably could tame a wildcat. “Let’s get started.” She gathered her bullet list of questions from the desk. “Since I’m not even sure where to begin, I think it best if I just shadow you for now, don’t you?”
“That’s a good idea.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’d like to inspect the vines first, then move on to the production facility. Before anything else happens, I need to assess where we are so we can put together a plan to get The Widow back on her feet. All right?”
“I’m right behind you.” She stood. “Oh, by the way, the manager’s quarters are clean and ready for you to move in.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that after work today.” He stood and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”
* * *
HENOTEDAfine tremor in her hand when she reached for her notes. She hides it well, but she’s nervous.At least I’m not the only one. Hopefully the last-chance jitters he put on with his clothes this morning would wear off as the day went on.
He led the way to the vines, noting the drainage, exposure and sheltering along the tree-lined border. It was obvious that Bob Stone understood grapes. Nurturing delicate vines was a labor of love that required a scientist’s knowledge, a shaman’s intuition and strong parenting skills. He squatted to inspect a vine, gratified to see strong bud nodes and new shoots while his boss rattled off facts she must’ve looked up since he last saw her.
“The vines are a hybrid with the European Vitis vinifera, which I understand to be a good thing.”
“The best. What else do you know?” He dug his fingers into the too-hard soil.
“Our grapes are Cabernet Sauvignon and merlot on the red side, and a Chardonnay on the white. Those are European. Uncle Bob was experimenting with a few American zinfandel varietals before he passed away.”
He grunted a reply and brushed dead leaves from the base of a vine to inspect for bugs.
“I think it looks pretty good out here, no? A little tidying maybe...” Her voice trailed off to a wish.
He brushed the dirt from his hands and straightened. His boss stood pen in hand, ready to make more lists. He hoped she’d brought enough paper. “It looks like nothing has been done since pruning last winter.” He gazed over the messy rows that sprawled down the slope of the hill. “The debris from last year’s crop needs to be removed, and the soil tilled. We’re already late putting up this year’s trellis and tying the tendrils to it. All the support posts need to be tested and loose ones pounded back in. We need to put together a spray schedule for fungus and determine what fertilizer the soil needs. Do you know when the last soil analysis was done?”
She scribbled fast, her tongue caught between her teeth. “Um...soil samples?”
“Never mind. I’ll find them. Let’s go.”
She finished writing then jogged to catch up. He led the way to the covered outdoor grape crush pad and press, noting that they were at least clean. They wouldn’t be used until the crop was harvested in the fall, but all looked in order.
When they reached the production facility, he held the door for her.
She ducked under his arm. “When I arrived ten days ago, the AC was out. Luckily, it had just happened.” She pointed to the ceiling. “The repairman finished replacing the whole thing earlier this week.”
Shiny aluminum ductwork snaked across the ceiling. “What’d it cost?”
She named a figure that was a third higher than it should have been.
He cleared his throat. “That is...”
She scanned his face with a look of innocent hopefulness, like a young girl who just asked for verification that there was a Santa.
“Fine.” He cleared the gruff from his throat. She would have enough to worry about by the time he was done. No need to make her feel bad about a decision that it was too late to rectify.
She led the way through the shipping area. Cardboard boxes stacked on pallets filled the floor.
“Where are your—our warehouse employees?”
She glanced to the empty shipping tables and the abandoned forklift beside them. “We’ll have to hire some.”
“No shippers? Don’t we have orders waiting to be filled?”
“Not so much.” She put her lists and her pen down on a case and turned to him. “Look. I’ll be upfront with you. The last manager was a lazy drunk. The employees quit. I haven’t asked around about our reputation, but the trickle of orders tells me what I don’t want to know.”
She jammed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, which squared her shoulders. And pulled the green apron tight across her chest. “Getting The Widow in shape is going to take a lot of work. I know it. Now you know it.” Her chin came up. “But it’ll be so worth it. I can tell you exactly what it’s going to be like.” She looked off into the warehouse, but he was sure she wasn’t seeing metal walls or new ductwork. “We’ll have a pond in front with those fancy goldfish. Customers sipping wine on the front porch will be able to hear the ornamental waterfall. We’ll have wedding receptions on the lawn. I’ll teach yoga classes and aromatherapy and do massage.” Thick brown hair curtained her face when she ducked her head, but not before he saw her pink-stained cheeks. “I have ideas. I know looking at it now makes all this sound crazy. But this could be so much more than just a place to sell wine.”
“Well, with you and me working together, we’ll make that dream happen.”
She had her aspirations. He had his. He imagined a dark bottle with a black label that read: DiCarlo Select Merlot.
He shook his head. This dreaming thing was contagious. “We’d better get started if we’re going to get all that done.” He smiled at her and got a tentative one in return. She was a naïve dreamer, but damned if she wasn’t a good-looking one.
Rein it in, DiCarlo. That’s what got you in trouble last time. He’d learned the hard way that work and women didn’t mix.
He stopped at the glass wall of his office, overlooking the bottling line. He’d love to begin work in the adjoining lab, but first things first. “I’m going to find those soil sample reports and see what other information was left by the last manager.”
“All right. I’ll be in my office, trying to scare up a couple of warehouse employees.”
“Could we go over the financials later? I need to know where we stand so we can determine how many more employees we can afford to hire.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Hope mingled with the dreams in her brown eyes before she walked away.
Lucky thing she didn’t know what an unlikely hero she’d hired. But Indigo’s enthusiasm was catching. Jitters gone, he walked into his office, his step light.
And for the first time in months, his spirits lifted from the floor of hopeless.
* * *
SEVENHOURSLATER, Danovan returned the test tube of wine to the wire rack and jotted one last note. He’d found the testing equipment dusty and outdated. Apparently the last manager believed that tasting wine in large quantities was superior to using chemistry. And the wine quality showed it.
His stomach growled, protesting his decision to turn down his boss’s lunch offer. But he’d been trying to get his arms around the production end of the business. He closed the spiral notebook. Time to fill her in on his armload of problems.
His steps echoed in the dim production building. No reason to burn lights in a deserted warehouse. The bottling line disappeared into gloom, and the fermenting tanks looked like boulders in a dark canyon. He passed through the barrel room into the lit-up tasting room. The long wood bar gleamed, the slate floor had been washed and there was not a cobweb or speck of dust to be seen. Looked like the retail employees had been busy. He flipped off the lights on his way out.
Pushing open the door to the private wing, he was surprised to find Indigo’s office dark. Had she forgotten they were going to meet? Damn, he’d wanted to review those financials tonight.
As he walked to the door of his quarters, he figured he shouldn’t have expected otherwise from a Hollywood A-lister.
Clang! “Dammit!”
The sound came from across the hall. He pushed open the door to the long storage room.
All he could see of his boss was her jeans-clad legs. The rest was obscured by a stainless cylinder she lugged blindly across the floor.
He stepped forward. “Here, let me have that.”
She squeaked and dropped the fixture.
Luckily he made it there in time to catch it. “What are you doing?” He set the drum on the floor between them.
She put a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.” With her other hand, she swiped hair out of her eyes. “Spring cleaning. This is going to be my yoga studio.”
An imprint of dirt streaked her reddened face and continued down her sweatshirt. Her smell bridged the gap between them—not sweaty, exactly, but more an intensification of her normal scent—earthy, natural. She must have been at this awhile, because the room was empty save this drum. Maybe he should rethink his A-lister assumptions. “Why didn’t you ask for help?”
“Because what you were doing was more important than manual labor, which is about all I’m qualified to do.”
“Well, next time, come get me. This is heavy.” He lifted the drum. “Where do you want it?”
“Just out in the hall for now.” She held the door for him.
He set it to the side of the exit door and dusted his hands. “Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“I’m starving. But it’s too late for a run to town.” He tipped his head to the apartment door. “You leave anything to eat in there?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. I’ll make us something. Come on.” He unlocked the door with the key she’d given him earlier.
She hovered on the doorsill a few seconds. Then, as if making up her mind, she stepped in, brushing by him. “Danovan, why don’t you get your things from your car? By the time you’re done, I’ll have food ready.”
Good as her word, once he’d brought in the last armload of books, Indigo had soup and sandwiches on the small table.
“Looks great. Thank you.” He held out a chair for her then sat opposite.
“It’s just grilled cheese, and soup from a can.”
“Sounds good to me.” He took a bite of the sandwich. The bread was tangy and crunchy, the cheese rich and hot. “Hmm. This doesn’t taste like any grilled cheese I’ve ever had.”
“It’s rye, with sharp cheddar and Swiss cheese. I used to make it all the time for...” Her lips twisted in a spasm. Then it was gone. “I used to make it all the time.”
“Well, it’s damned good.”
“Thanks.” She sipped a spoonful of soup. “I called the unemployment office today, and I’ll have a couple of warehouse workers interviewing tomorrow. I’m hoping one man can handle both stock and shipping. We can’t afford specialists at the moment.”
“Good thinking.”
“How are we doing from your viewpoint?”
He took a bite to avoid answering. He didn’t want to ruin her dinner. Besides, he didn’t have the whole picture yet. He swallowed.
He saw that look of hopeful watching.
She’s your boss. You owe her the facts.
But that look made him hold back.
He couldn’t help it. He loved women. Not necessarily in a lustful way, though there would be many who would dispute that. He just appreciated the gender. From toddlers to little old ladies, he was endlessly fascinated by the way their minds worked, so differently from his. He loved their organizational and multitasking abilities. He loved their delicate bones and envied their mental strength. He loved their softness, their chattiness, their smell.
He loved their smell.
“Well?”
“Do you mind if we discuss that tomorrow after I’ve reviewed the financials? I’d like to have the complete picture before I make suggestions for expenditures.”
Her brows pulled together, a sure sign of the worry he was trying to save her from.
He shifted in the chair.
“Okay. But first thing tomorrow, right?”
With his finger, he traced an X over his heart. “If you’d like, I can make out a list of things to be done.” He knew that would appeal to her bookkeeper soul. “I’ll prioritize it.”
She picked up her spoon. “Good.”
They ate in silence for a minute.
“Why wine?”
He looked up. “You mean, as a career?”
She nodded. “Is your family in the industry?” Her tone was casual, but she didn’t fool him.
She’s digging. She doesn’t trust you.
“Hardly.” He wiped his lips with the napkin. “My father is a federal appeals-court judge, and my mother is the headmistress of a girls’ prep school in Georgetown. My brother is a Wall Street trader, and my sister is a partner in a big CPA firm in Seattle.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, no pressure being the youngest swimming in that gene pool.” Seeing she was done, he lifted both their plates.
She started to rise.
“I’ll get the dishes and cleanup. It’s my apartment now, after all.” He carried the dishes to the sink. “I didn’t like school much as a kid. Didn’t get why I had to know about ancient Greece and quadratic equations.” He located the dish soap under the sink. “But I always loved growing things. My mom says I drove the gardeners nuts, digging up the daffodils as a toddler.” He ran the water until it was hot, then plugged the sink, squirted in some detergent. “The wine bug hit in high school. My parents appreciated a nice red and it turned out I was lucky to be born with a sensitive palate.” He started with their dinner plates. “I was subscribed to Wine Enthusiast by tenth grade and couldn’t wait until I could legally attend wine tastings.”
“I’ll dry.” Indigo walked up, a kitchen towel in her hand. “I’ve heard high school drinking stories, but they didn’t sound like that.”
He rinsed a plate and handed it to her. “You ‘heard.’ Does that mean you didn’t drink in high school?”
“I mean I didn’t attend high school. I grew up on a commune in northern California. I was homeschooled. Nothing but natural, healthy living.”
He started on the soup pot. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. You have a natural look about you. Sounds like an idyllic childhood.”
“It was.” Her smile was happy and sad all at the same time. “But, trust me, I made up for it later.”
“In Hollywood?” He wondered what was behind that bittersweet smile, but it winked out.
“Oh, I almost forgot the financials.” Her words came out snipped off at the ends. She wiped her hands on the towel and dropped it on the counter. “I’ll go get them.”
Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.
Well, there’s a no-fly zone if I ever saw one. He finished the dishes and rummaged in the cabinets until he found where they all belonged.
She rapped on the door, pushed it open, but didn’t step in. She reached across the small space to hand him a slim file folder. “Here you go. I’ve got to get back to the cabin and feed Barney. I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned away.
“Hang on. It’s pitch black out there. I’ll walk you home.” He reached for his jacket.
“No, I’ve got it covered.” She waved a flashlight.
“It’s no bother. I don’t feel good about—”
“Look.” She put a hand on her hip. “I’m not helpless, or incompetent. I’m capable of walking a hundred yards in the dark by myself.”
He raised his hands. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned and marched down the hall.
He closed the door. Better this way. He didn’t need to know what shaped the soft and hard edges of Indigo Blue in order to work for her.
But he wondered, just the same.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b1e7afb7-beca-5694-93ae-f311d98546db)
“UNHHH.” INDIGOCOLLAPSED in a heap on her yoga mat, paying for neglecting her morning routine. The Firefly Pose, one of her favorites, was now beyond her.
Barney just watched, head on his thick paws.
She untangled her arms and legs to lay with her head on her hands, two inches from his nose. “That’s it, Barn. Starting today, we’re back on our workouts.”
He licked her face.
She swiped her cheek then sat up. “Yeah, I know you like them.” Why shouldn’t he? She’d logged a ton of miles jogging the Hollywood hills, hauling him behind her in a wagon. “Lucky for you, I found a wheelbarrow in the junk from what will be my yoga room. I actually think it’ll work better than our wagon. We’ll try it out tomorrow.” She pushed herself to her feet. “We’ll get weird looks, but we’re used to that, right?” That was saying something. She’d been considered odd in Hollywood, where eccentricity was an art form.
She padded to the kitchen to make a latte. Luckily, her espresso maker had been a Christmas gift from Harry, so the Wicked Witch couldn’t claim it. Starting today, it would be the only indulgence she allowed herself. She closed her eyes as the milk began to steam, the sound propelling her back to the mornings when she’d make two. She and Harry would drink them while they traded sections of the paper in bed. Her dream ended with a last hiss and sputter.
The coming sun was only an aura on the horizon. As she stepped barefoot onto the wood boards of the porch, the crisp air hit her exposed skin and damp leotard. Shivering, she set the cup on a small wood table and scooted back inside to grab a sweater. Barney trotted ahead on the return trip, then down the stairs to examine the vines that began ten feet from the porch. She settled in the Adirondack chair, pulled her legs up, wrapped the bulky sweater around her knees and took a deep breath of dirt and early morning air.
It doesn’t get any better than this.
She sipped her coffee, and hope rose with the progress of the sun. Doubtless the day would bring more worries to pile on the old. But right now—in this moment—her jumble of emotions bowed before the perfect day. The home that Bob built at her back, Harry’s sweater wrapped around her and the view of the grapevines they’d all loved sent tendrils of peace spreading through her core, unfurling in her dark, empty places. She savored it, trying to trap the feeling inside for later, when she’d need it.
Maybe it would all work out; she just needed to give it time to—
“Holy shitballs!” Danovan popped from behind a grapevine four rows in to her left.
“Jesus, dog!”
* * *
WHENSHERECOVEREDfrom surprise, she called, “Barney, come!” The thump of big feet came closer and, ears flapping, her laughing dog barreled around the last row, vaulted the steps and skidded behind her chair. “What happened?”
Danovan strode to the end of the row, annoyance plain on his face. “Damned dog stuck his cold nose in my crack!”
She couldn’t help it. Hiding her face in a fistful of sweater, she giggled. “Shitballs? Really?”
His face turned a shell pink that matched the last tint of sunrise at the horizon. “Sorry.”
After a final indelicate snort, she forced herself to stop. “Thanks for the laugh. Feels like I haven’t done that in forever.”
Today he wore a blue jacket and his jeans were dark below the knee, stained with dew. He stopped at the rail of the porch and leaned on it. “Can’t you keep that mutt on a leash?”
“Aw, Barney was just being friendly.”
“Well, he and I don’t know each other well enough to be on butt-sniffing terms.” And from his tone, they never would be.
“You don’t like dogs?”
“Not particularly.”
How could you trust a man who didn’t like dogs? “Whyever not?”
“They’re always jumping on you, wanting attention. They’re just so...easy.”
“You have a problem with easy?” Not from the way I’ve seen women react to you.
Though she had to admit, she could understand the attraction. Something about the hardness of the planes of his face and the softness of the look in his eyes as he surveyed the rows tugged at her. That and the sadness clinging to him...
He turned toward her and stared straight at her. There were gold flecks in his eyes. And interest.
She snatched her gaze away. It wasn’t as easy to do as it should have been. “Never mind.” She put her feet down. “You want coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got to get—”
“I’m talking fresh brewed latte.” She waved her cup. Barney walked from behind the chair, tail waving. She put a hand on his silky head. “Besides, Barney insists. He’s sorry.”
The corner of Danovan’s mouth lifted. “Well, maybe one.”
“Come on up and have a seat while I get it.”
Holding the sweater closed, she opened the screen door and stepped in. She kind of owed him after cutting him off at the knees last night. But when he’d pushed...she’d balked. The cabin was so isolated and it had been dark. She didn’t really know Danovan DiCarlo.
She cleaned out the press, refilled it and snapped it back into the machine. While the coffee brewed, she ran to the bedroom and threw on sweat pants, a sweatshirt and fluffy slippers. She refused a look in the mirror on her way out of the bedroom. After all, he wasn’t a guest. He was an employee.
From his glance when she returned, he noticed the quick change. She handed the latte over the porch rail. “Don’t you want to sit?”
The cup almost disappeared in his long-fingered hand. “I’m good here, thanks.”
Had he picked up her fear last night? Or was he worried about keeping a professional relationship? “Any time. Nothing better than enjoying this view with a latte.”
“You’re right about that.” He sipped, studying the vines like a king surveying his kingdom. “I love the peace I get from checking my vines as the sun comes up.”
The willpower she’d discovered this morning gathered in her upper chest, hardening, pushing back her shoulders to make room. His proprietary gaze on her vines flash-froze that willpower into crystals of resolve. His kingdom, only for now. “Can I get those textbooks from you today?”
He turned to her, the tiny tilt of his head conveying surprise. “Sure thing.”
She was eager to discuss the state of the business, but wouldn’t do it in slippers. “I’m going to catch a shower. I’ll meet you in your office in, say, twenty minutes?”
* * *
TWOHOURSLATER, Danovan looked from his list to his boss. The downward tilt of her eyes gave her a perpetually sad look, but as he recited the winery’s long list of problems, her face changed to an expression as mournful as her dog’s.
She dropped her head onto the desk. “It’s hopeless, isn’t it? You can tell me. I can take it.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you look like you can take it. But luckily, you won’t have to. This is all fixable.”
She lifted her head, disbelief narrowing her eyes. “Really?”
“With a lot of work.”
Her shoulders lost some roundness. “I’m not afraid of work.” She leaned back in the chair.
Those smooth, manicured hands were testament to what she considered work. Most likely her former “work” was planning Hollywood parties and supervising housekeeping staff. But that opinion he’d keep to himself. “Good. That’ll help.”
He stood and stepped to the white marker board behind him. He uncapped the black marker and made three columns. “Let’s categorize and prioritize the most time-critical items, so we can make a plan.” He wrote WINE at the top of the first column. “Last year’s product has faults.” He pointed the marker at Indigo. “Not flaws. You’ll learn in the wine chemistry book I loaned you that faults are repairable. Flaws go down the sewer.” He wrote the first bullet point. “Our merlot is not acidic enough, the Chardonnay is too acidic. Thankfully it’s in the final racking stage and not yet bottled. I can fix this in a day. We’ll add more items to this list, but this is the most time-critical.”
He moved to the second column and wrote VINES at the top. “We need to aerate the soil and fertilize. Like, yesterday.” He wrote the bullet point. “I haven’t found any fungus, but we have to keep a close eye on the humidity and the water content of the soil. But first, there’s the cleanup we talked about the other day.” She scribbled more notes. “This should already have been done, and we have no vineyard rats.”
“At least there’s some good news.” She shuddered. “I hate rodents.”
He covered a smile with his strict teacher’s glare. “Those are employees. We call the vineyard workers rats.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “And I suppose we have to pay that species?”
He turned back to label his third column, RETAIL. “Sales are down. We’ll need a marketing plan and an advertising budget.”
She leaned forward in the chair and propped her forearms on the paper-strewn desk. “That’s something I can do.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Marketing or a budget?”
“Both.” She didn’t buff her fingernails on her shirt, but the pride in her voice was the equivalent.
A Hollywood showcase wife/marketing exec/accountant? Either she was delusional, or there was more to Indigo Blue than could be found in a Tinseltown gossip rag.
“I’ll rough out a budget, Danovan, but I’ll need your requirements for the first two columns.” She closed her notebook. “That’ll determine my budget for the last column.”
“What do you say we circle back this afternoon? I’ll do some research and have the numbers for you then.”
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Laura Drake
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Wanted: one master winemaker Indigo Blue is starting over, again. Following the death of her husband, she′s rebuilding her life around her only inheritance–a California winery. There′s just one problem: she doesn′t know a thing about wine. Enter brooding vintner Danovan DiCarlo.Eager to put his own painful past behind him, Danovan is the perfect partner. And not just in business. As they work side by side, Indigo can feel more than the vineyard coming back to life. Falling for Danovan is a scary prospect. But how do you say no when you find love twice in a blue moon?