by Jo McNally
She wasn’t the one who should be giving apologies. She’d been set up.
“Have you heard those words from Helen and Vickie?”
Her eyes widened. “From Helen, yes. We talked it out this morning before she went to church.”
“Helen went to Mass today?” Luke wondered how Father Joe would deal with that little surprise. Helen hadn’t exactly been a regular since Joe’s arrival at St. Vincent’s last year.
“Yes. Why do you sound surprised? She and Tony always went.”
“Yeah. Of course.” Molly stretched and yawned at their feet. “Hey, about yesterday...don’t be too upset with your aunt. I’m sure Vickie strong-armed her into it. She likes to think she’s the great mastermind behind a lot of things. And if you were drinking on an empty stomach, that explains...a lot.”
It explained the bright shine she’d had in her eyes, and the pretty giggle on her lips. It probably explained the way she’d sassed him playfully, instead of with her usual sharpness. It did not explain how much he’d enjoyed those things, despite his annoyance with her. It also didn’t explain the burn of anger he’d felt when he’d heard the way her light laughter mingled with that of another man.
“So... I’m forgiven?”
He couldn’t resist yanking her chain one more time.
“I wouldn’t go that far...” He relented when her eyes narrowed dangerously. “It’s all good. Forget about it, okay?”
She nodded, apparently satisfied, looking around the wine barn. “What are you doing up here? It’s Sunday, right?”
“This wine ferments every day, so I’m here every day.”
“But what are you doing?”
Making her feel better about what happened was one thing. Letting Whitney get involved in his work was another. “Why do you care? Don’t you have numbers to crunch somewhere?”
“What I care about is my family’s winery.” The familiar snap returned to her voice, and her hands hit her hips. “I’m trying to learn about the business.”
He turned his back on her and headed for the large tank in the back corner, stepping over cables and drains, checking gauges and recording the numbers in his notepad. Just as he’d feared when she arrived, she was after something. She was staking her claim as Helen’s family. Fine. He was staking his claim as the guy in charge. Not her. Whitney hurried behind him, watching every move he made.
“I’m serious!” She was a little out of breath from trying to keep up. “Helen is my...”
He spun before she could talk herself into some really dangerous territory.
“I know who Helen Russo is.” He gestured in the direction of the main house. “The last I knew, hers was the only name on the deed to this place. Hers is the only name on my paychecks.” When he got a paycheck. “And everything I do here is for her. So before you start throwing the word family around... I’ve been more family to that woman since Tony died than anyone, especially you. Don’t try to set yourself up as some heir apparent. It ain’t happening.”
He could see it in her eyes—his words had hit home, and he couldn’t decide if she was feeling offended or guilty. Maybe a bit of both. She stepped up so close he could see the individual flecks of gold in her eyes. Her finger waggled threateningly under his nose.
“I’m not ‘setting myself up’ as the heir apparent...” Each word came at him like a bullet. “I am the heir apparent. I’m the closest blood relative Helen has.” He liked to think it didn’t matter, but blood was blood. He was like family to Helen, but he wasn’t actual family. If Whitney wanted to, she could make things uncomfortable for him here.
She moved up against him, her eyes boring into his. Her woodsy, mossy perfume curled around his nostrils. “But I’m not here to steal the winery from her. I’m here to help her save it, you idiot. And if this Blessing of the Grapes thing can do that, then you and I will be seeing a lot more of each other. And you’re going to teach me the wine business.”
She stalked off, and Luke wondered what the hell just happened. She had a way of making down seem up and in seem out. Being around her was like riding the world’s scariest amusement park ride.
You and I will be seeing a lot more of each other...
Luke’s mouth went dry. She could make things uncomfortable for him in more ways than one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS DAYS WENT by and temperatures climbed, Whitney needed something other than office clothes and cruise wear. She took a much-needed break from the paper avalanche in the dining room and went shopping.
Helen gave her a list of supplies needed from the box store up in Geneva, then gave Whitney a stern command to go into Rendezvous Falls on the way home to check the shops there. Whitney protested that she wasn’t looking to buy vacation souvenirs, but Helen didn’t let up until she promised.
It was just as well, since she was starving by the time she got back to town. The back of her SUV was packed with bags containing practical shorts, jeans, T-shirts, work shoes, and various house and yard supplies. She turned off Route 14 at the corner with the big black-and-orange Victorian, and drove into the town center.
Flags fluttered from every old-timey lamppost on Main Street, probably left over from the Americana festival, which had taken place over Independence Day weekend. Whitney remembered going to see the fireworks as a child. Helen said there was a festival of some kind in Rendezvous Falls every month these days. The Americana festival was still their largest, with parades, fireworks and a giant antique show.
She parked in front of a small restaurant named simply The Spot. The bright colors in town were even wilder than she remembered as a child. Most of the buildings were clapboard, with Victorian gingerbread trim and sharp peaks. Even the brick ones had colorful painted doors and window frames. Pink, green, blue, yellow, red—it was like walking through an explosion of paint samples at a home store. The town’s over-the-top homage to all things bright and fanciful made Whitney smile. No wonder the place had become such a popular tourist destination. It was a kaleidoscope marriage of history museum and Disney World, and...it worked.
The Spot had neon orange benches outside the cornflower blue building, with white lace cafe curtains inside the window. Gold leaf outlined the white lettering on the windows. An older couple came out the door, and the delicious smell of something grilling propelled Whitney inside. She sat at the counter that ran down the right side, rather than sit at one of the booths alone.
“Be right with you, hon!” A large woman with salt-and-pepper hair was at the far end of the counter, wiping the surface with a towel and chatting with an older man eating the biggest piece of cherry pie Whitney had ever seen.
“I got it, Mama!” A woman closer to Whitney’s age, maybe younger, with a figure that had enough curves to stop traffic, came out of the kitchen and nodded in Whitney’s direction. “Coffee? Iced tea? Soda?”
“Iced tea sounds perfect. No sugar.”
The woman slapped a glass down in front of Whitney, along with a menu encased in heavy plastic. Her name tag identified her as Evie. There was a bright pink streak in her thick dark hair which was pulled back in a messy knot under a hairnet. A tattooed flock of small birds wound its way up her left arm from her wrist to disappear under the rolled-up sleeve of her shirt. Another unidentifiable tat peeked out from under her collar. She pointed to the blackboard above the cash register. “Those are today’s specials, but we’re out of the salmon melt. We can make one with tuna, though, and honestly, it’s just as good. If you’re vegan, we have a soy burger melt with fake cheese, and if you like your protein on the hoof, we’ve got beef patty melts with cheddar and onion. I don’t know what’s up with our cook, but everything’s melting in this place today. What can I getcha?”
“A beef melt sounds great.”
Evie nodded in approval. “A meat eater like me. These days it feels like we’re the minority, right?” She turned and tucke
d the order slip in an old-fashioned metal carousel in the opening in the wall, spinning it toward the kitchen and rapping her knuckles on the metal counter. She turned back to Whitney. “I swear, eighty percent of the tourists these days don’t eat any real food. It’s a pain in the—”
“Evelyn!” The older woman stood nearby, arms folded, glaring at Evie. “We don’t discuss personal opinions with customers.”
“Sorry, Mama.” The waitress looked down in chagrin, turning so only Whitney saw her wicked wink. Whitney fought to keep a straight face so “Mama” wouldn’t know she was being disrespected.
Evie’s mother, whose name tag read “Evelyn”...wait... Evie caught the look and grimaced.
“Yup. That’s my mom, Evelyn, and I’m her daughter, also Evelyn. But she’s the only one who calls me that.”
Her mom frowned. “I call you Evelyn because that’s your name, mija. And my name, and your abuela’s name, and her mother’s name. You’re the first one to ever be embarrassed by it.”
“I’m not embarrassed by it. I just prefer my more modern version.” Evie folded her own arms to mirror her mother’s pose. “And now who’s sharing personal opinions in front of customers?”
Evelyn harrumphed and stomped away. Whitney should have come into town sooner—she’d been missing all this entertainment!
Evie grabbed Whitney’s order from the cook and set the plate in front of her. “Sorry for the family squabble. It’s been one of those days, but Mama’s right. We shouldn’t bother tourists and I talk too much. Enjoy your lunch.”
She started to turn away, but Whitney reached out to stop her. She liked the smart-mouthed, quick-witted waitress. And she hadn’t enjoyed a good girl talk in ages.
“I’m not a tourist.” She rushed on when Evie gave Whitney’s expensive linen suit an arched look. “I know, I know—I’m overdressed. I’m working on that. My name’s Whitney, and I’m visiting my aunt, Helen Russ—”
“Helen Russo?” Evie rested her arms on the counter and smiled.
Whitney nodded as she picked up her sandwich, which smelled too good to ignore, and took a bite.
“How is Helen?” Evie asked. “We’ve missed her since Tony died. They used to sit in that booth right there for breakfast a couple times a week.”
Whitney glanced over at the booth. Something caught in her throat, and she blinked a few times. Luke had said Helen “clocked out” after Tony’s death. If she was going to help the winery get back on its feet, she should help Helen do the same.
“What else did Helen used to do?”
Evie considered for a minute while Whitney ate.
“When I think of Helen, I always think of Tony and Helen together. Those two were practically joined at the hip, you know? Always holding hands and stuff like that, which is super cute in older couples. I even saw them kissing on the sidewalk—you gotta love senior citizen PDA! Helen used to come in with her gal friends, too. Haven’t seen her with them lately, though. They have a book club or something. Iris Taggart at the inn started it, and let’s see...” Evie tapped the counter with bright green fingernails. “Victoria Pendergast is in it, of course. And everyone’s favorite grandma, Cecile... Oh, and Lena Fox. She’s an artist, and she makes these amazing tribal masks. And that Rick guy who teaches at the college.”
Whitney stifled a laugh at the matter-of-fact way Evie described everyone. She seemed pretty well connected in this little town.
“I met Vickie Pendergast over the weekend. What’s her story?”
Evie straightened with a laugh. “You saw her on a weekend, huh? Let me guess—her hair was perfect, her makeup was flawless and she was wearing Gucci sunglasses. Her accent was somewhere between eastern Connecticut and London. Did she happen to mention any of her three or four husbands?”
Whitney laughed. “No mention of husbands, but you get an A on all the rest. She was trying to hook me up with her neighbor, Mark Hudson.”
Evie went still. “Mark? Mark’s back in Rendezvous Falls?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Wiping the counter with sudden vigor, Evie shrugged, all laughter gone from her voice. “I thought I did. A long time ago. But I was wrong.” There was a beat of silence before Evie gave her a sardonic smile. “Anyone else you want to know about?”
Luke Rutledge’s name was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back. She’d asked for enough local gossip for one conversation.
“My aunt’s been alone a lot. If I wanted to get her back out and active in town again, where would you suggest I start?”
Evie turned to look at a colorful July calendar on the wall near the front window. It had a close-up photo of a bright pink-and-white Victorian turret, with scalloped shingles.
“Well, you missed Americana Days, but the summer ArtFest is coming up. I don’t know if Helen was ever big into art, but she’s friends with Lena Fox, and Lena runs the thing, so she’d probably like to go.”
“Oh, yes. That must be the one Mark was talking about.”
“Mark was talking about art?” Evie’s eyes were wide, and her grip tightened on the blue dishcloth in her hand until droplets of water hit the counter.
“Yeah, he quit accounting and paints landscapes or something.”
Evie stared off toward the windows, but Whitney was pretty sure she wasn’t seeing anything but memories. A soft smile played on Evie’s lips, and she made a small sound of pleasure.
“His grandmother must be having a cow. Good for Mark.”
Whitney pulled her wallet from her bag. “I have to get back to the winery. But if you think of anything else Helen might enjoy, or that I might enjoy for that matter, let me know, okay? Here’s my card...” She pulled out one of her old business cards and scratched a big X across the KTM Accounting information. “I don’t suppose you’d know where a gal can go for some night life around here?”
Evie chuckled. “In the summer, everything’s geared to the tourists. There’s a decent place on the waterfront by the marina. And, of course, there’s the Purple Shamrock. That’s the townie bar. The music is hit-or-miss these days, but you won’t have some married asshat from Indiana laying bad pickup lines on you.”
Whitney laughed. “I know what you mean. I always avoided the tourist bars in Chicago. But I’d feel like a fraud going to a townie bar. Especially alone. Want to join me?”
Evie nodded. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at eight. It’s up on the highway.”
* * *
LUKE WINCED WHEN the “band” started warming up. He wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first gig the four pimple-faced teens ever had. If Patrick McKinnon were still alive, he’d never have signed these guys, especially during the summer when there was no hope of drawing college students in. Luke lugged another case of beer out and finished stocking the ice-filled cooler behind the bar at the Purple Shamrock Pub. The name was supposed to be a nod to the grape growers in the area. Luke’s two or three nights bartending every week helped cover his rent with Helen and added a little to the rainy-day fund Tony had set up years ago. And the tips put spare change in his pockets.
The guitar player turned to face the amplifier while he tuned up, causing an ear-splitting screech of feedback. Luke motioned with his hand for the kid to turn around. If only all problems were that easy to solve.
Sam Vrabel from the wine trail commission had called today. The commission was working on their website for the fall, and Sam was skeptical the winery could meet their stated goals.
“I drove up there on Wednesday,” Sam said, “hoping to see you or Helen, but the place looked deserted. There was a huge pile of stone in the middle of the driveway, and the tasting room needs paint, at the very least.” The older man’s disapproval came through loud and clear. “Tony Russo never would have let people see the place looking like that.”
Sam wasn
’t wrong there, but what the hell was Luke supposed to do? He started stacking glasses on the shelves behind the bar. He was one man, working two real jobs and half a dozen under-the-table ones to make ends meet. He’d explained to Sam, as calmly as possible, that the crushed stone was just delivered on Tuesday, and would be used to repair and expand the parking lot. He had the paint for the carriage house, and was waiting until he had the time to use it. The winery would be open six days a week by the time the festival arrived in September, and it would once again proudly join the ranks of Seneca Lake’s finest wineries. He did his best to sound convincing, and Vrabel, with a few grumbles, had agreed to put Falls Legend on the organization’s fall calendar for the wine trail.
He served a few drinks to the customers starting to file in for tonight’s so-called “music.” This was a younger crowd than Patrick McKinnon went after when he was alive. His daughter, Bridget, was working the kitchen tonight, filling in for yet another cook who’d quit under her hypercritical watch. Bridget hadn’t figured out yet that this wasn’t the fancy restaurant she’d left behind in Boston. This was strictly a wings-and-fries crowd.
The Purple Shamrock wasn’t his concern, though. Falls Legend Winery was his life’s work, and he was going to have to figure out a way to get that stone spread and the buildings repaired, the landscaping fixed, and the wine made. All while he balanced this job and his other odd jobs.
Lena Fox had Luke working on her outdoor studio, leveling paving stones so she could have classes in the fresh air. He had to finish adding the last layer of binding sand this weekend. Couldn’t do it tomorrow—Saturday was the winery’s only open day. Maybe he could spread some of the driveway stone between greeting customers. He pulled another glass of dark beer from the tap. That wouldn’t work. He couldn’t be all sweaty and dirty while trying to sell wine. If only there was someone else to pick up the slack once in a while.
