Slow Dancing at Sunrise

by Jo McNally

  “I didn’t care what our image was after Tony was gone. I was determined not to change a single thing, because I saw Tony in all of it.” She reached out to take Whitney’s hand, her eyes brightening. “Maybe we should shake things up a bit.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, Helen. We’ll give Rendezvous Falls something they’ll never expect!”

  It was only fair, since the town had already delivered a few surprises to Whitney. Including a scruffy-but-sexy winemaker who wouldn’t leave her dreams at night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HELEN CALLED A special meeting of the book club as soon as Whitney and Lena were ready to reveal the new Falls Legend logo. Rick and Jayla were the last to arrive, and Jayla rushed to apologize.

  “I’m so sorry! My husband called from our condo in Boca Raton.” She blinked. “I mean, my ex-husband called from his condo in Boca. ‘Jayla, how do I set the thermostat?’ ‘Jayla, where should I order dinner from?’” She sat down with a heavy sigh, showing more emotion than Helen had seen from the normally reserved doctor. “Honestly, it’s like the man has never been there before, and we’ve owned the place for ten years! It was extremely satisfying to tell him he’d have to figure it out for himself.” Jayla noticed Whitney sitting at the table. “Oh, hi—I didn’t know we had a guest. I’m sorry for just barging in here and venting.”

  Cecile laughed. “That’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say in one sitting, Jayla! I’m impressed!”

  “That’s nothing,” Rick said. “I’ve been listening to this tirade all the way here. She hasn’t stopped for a breath since she got into my car.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. “I suspect there are some unresolved issues from the divorce.”

  Jayla put her hands to her cheeks and closed her eyes. “Argh! The man infuriates me. He never appreciated the way I took care of things when we were married, and now he thinks I’m going to keep doing it? He has another thing coming if—”

  “Jayla and Rick, this is my niece, Whitney. She’s already met everyone else.” Helen attempted to bring the gathering back on track. “She and Lena have been working on some marketing designs this week and would like our feedback.”

  Jayla gathered herself together and extended a hand to Whitney with a warm smile. “Pay no attention to me tonight. I’m Dr. Jayla Maloof, and it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Helen has told us so much about you.”

  Whitney gave a short laugh. “So I gathered, since you’re all determined to help my love life along.”

  Helen shifted in her chair. She knew Whitney wasn’t thrilled with the whole matchmaking deal, but she was being a good sport about it. “The reason Whitney’s here tonight is because she thought our marketing image needed an update. Tony had the same idea before he...” Helen wondered if she’d ever be able to speak of his loss without it hitting her heart like a sledgehammer. “Tony and Lena were working up some designs a couple years ago, so here we are for the unveiling of a new Falls Legend Winery logo. They’d like our thoughts on a few details.”

  Lena walked to the easel near the window. Her arms, as always, jangled with gold and silver bracelets. She wore a flowing caftan of soft yellow, which glowed against her dark skin. Lena put her hand on the white cloth draping the easel.

  “I’m more into tactile arts like pottery than graphic design. But I was honored when Tony asked for my help with a new logo. He already had the concept. I just put it on paper. It was nearly done—” she glanced at Helen “—when he left us. He loved the initial sketches. Whitney suggested doing the logo in brush and ink to make it more contemporary, and I agreed. So...what do you think?”

  She pulled the cloth away with a magician’s flourish, and everyone let out a little gasp. Cecile started to applaud. Helen had already seen it, of course, but she studied it afresh. It was Rendezvous Falls—the waterfall, not the town. A solid swoosh of water came over the edge of the cliff, with tall trees on the far side of the pond. On the near side were the outlines of two deer—a large stag and a doe—standing side by side and looking at the water. The ground beneath them was drawn to look like a feather, giving a nod to the legend’s Native American origin.

  Vickie was the first to speak. “It’s perfect, Helen. I mean, this is Falls Legend Winery, and now your logo shows the legend of the falls right there. Great job, Lena!”

  “You should pick up a brush more often.” Rick rocked back in his chair. “That’s damn good.”

  Whitney looked relieved. “Thanks, everyone. Now we need your ideas on colors. We printed up some mock labels for the bottles. Which colors do you like best? Do you like the winery name over or under the logo? Don’t be shy—you’re the only marketing research we’ve got.”

  Whitney tossed color prints onto the table and everyone started talking at once, laughing as they argued over which was best. But Helen already knew which one would be used. Tony told Lena he wanted shades of blue to reflect the water of the falls and of Seneca Lake. When Whitney first showed her the soft blue label with a silver foil edge, Helen knew it was the one. Lena explained that the silver foil would add expense to the labels, but Helen didn’t care. Tony would have loved that hint of bling on his bottles, and she’d find the money somewhere.

  Fortunately, her friends agreed the blue was the prettiest. They’d use different shades for the different varieties—darker on the white wines and lighter on the dark for contrast. Cecile picked up a bottle of pinot noir and frowned.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with losing the Russo crest?”

  Whitney replied before Helen could. “The crest will be on the back label.” She handed Cecile a sample label. “See it there in the background? It’s a watermark behind the printed words. We didn’t want to lose Uncle Tony’s love of his family legacy.”

  “That’s right,” Helen said. “We’ve renamed our cabernet-merlot blend ‘Legacy Red’ to honor Tony.” That had actually been Luke’s idea a few months ago, when he’d been trying to cheer her up. God bless Luke, who’d worked so hard to keep this place afloat. He’d been less than enthusiastic about the logo change, but mainly because of the extra work it would create.

  “Okay.” Whitney scooped up all the color prints from the table. “We have a winner. Blue it is.” She glanced around the table with a sly smile. “It’s nice to see you all using your powers for good instead of...well, you know.”

  Rick barked out a laugh. “Be patient, Whitney, we’re new at this matchmaking business. I tried to tell them it was a bad idea.”

  Vickie arched a brow in his direction. “Maybe so, but weren’t you the guy who set her up with that crazy old coot Leonard Milroy? Is he still trying to convince the college to spend millions on moving the campus?”

  Rick winced and nodded. “I honestly thought he was younger than that. Sorry.”

  Whitney waved him off. “He’s a nice man. You guys may not be the greatest Cupids in town, but that’s okay, since I’m not really looking for romance.”

  Cecile looked around the table. “Does anyone have any new prospects?”

  Whitney recoiled at the word choice, but Jayla jumped in. “One of my lab techs broke up with his girlfriend last month, and I think he’s starting to date again. Kyle’s around your age, and he’s a very pleasant man. Let me ask him if he’d like to meet someone.”

  Helen worried that “pleasant” was too close to the “nice man” description her niece had used for Leonard, but Whitney gave Jayla a game smile.

  “I’d be happy to meet him. I need a break from staring at spreadsheets, and coffee with a pleasant man sounds nice.” She met Helen’s gaze and gave her a wink. It was clear Whitney was doing this only for her. Whitney wagged a finger at the book club members in warning. “But don’t get your hopes up, guys. I’m not in the market for a soul mate.”

  * * *

  LUKE STOOD AND STRETCHED, groaning a little as he did, soaking up the warmth of the sun o
n his back. This wasn’t easy work, checking for new roots from the grafted vines that were always trying to connect with the earth rather than rely on their host roots. Then again, none of the work here was easy. He and Steve had worked on trimming the canopy leaves for the past two days to bring more sun to the cab franc berries. At the same time, they’d cut away any smaller berry clusters that might pull too much energy from the more productive vines.

  A movement caught his eye. Whitney was walking in his direction. He sighed. She’d been a royal pain in his ass this week. Helen had taught her just enough about wine to make her hungry for more knowledge. Knowledge he didn’t have time to impart. She and Helen had shown the new logo to him a few days ago. What did he know about color and font? The deer were pretty.

  He’d said as much, thinking it was a compliment. But Whitney had rolled her eyes in disgust. Were those deer going to sell more wine? Probably not. But if they made Helen happy, then he was happy. End of story. With Whitney, though, there was never an end of story. She was tenacious. To her credit, though, she was working hard to try to help her aunt. Two days ago she’d rearranged the utility closet in the tasting room. The day before, she’d raked the lawn that stretched down to the road. She might be a pain, but he wasn’t so proud that he’d turn down an extra set of hands around here. And hey—she was easy on the eyes.

  As she got closer, he could see she’d been doing more manual labor today. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she was dressed in denim shorts and a dark red Falls Legend T-shirt knotted on the side, showing off a narrow expanse of skin at her midriff. She had on sturdy work shoes and carried leather work gloves in one hand and two bottles of water in the other. She tossed a bottle of water his way.

  “Helen thought you could use something to drink.”

  “Helen was right. Thanks.” He drained half the bottle in one swig and wiped his mouth with a satisfied sigh.

  “What are you doing up here?” Here came the twenty questions. He’d never met someone so eager to absorb information.

  “Are you always this curious about everything?”

  Her eyes went wide, and she thought about it. “Well, yeah. I like to know things. That’s what makes me good at my job. I decipher fact from fiction.” She smiled. “Besides, we’re a team now, remember? Helen said so.”

  Right. Compartmentalization and multitasking. He needed to compartmentalize his physical attraction to her and focus on the task at hand.

  “I’m trimming vines.” He saw a random woody root growth stretching for the ground and bent over to snip it off with the small razor-sharp pruner from his pocket.

  “Those look more like roots. Aren’t roots good?”

  Answering one question with this woman always led to another question. “Remember how I told you the vines are European varietals grafted onto native roots?”

  Whitney took a drink of water and wiped her forehead, then scratched her arm absently. “The European grapes are the vinifera ones, right? They get some disease from American soil that kills them, so the vineyards started grafting them onto roots of native grape vines, and it worked. The roots act as host plants for the grapes.”

  He was impressed, but he did his best not to show it. She had enough ego as it was. “Exactly. The problem is, those vinifera vines want to take root here. If they connect, it could kill the vine. So I cut them off before they can.”

  Whitney was scratching at some red lines on her stomach, then reached around to scratch her back. “Seems like you spend more time cutting things off the vines than growing them.”

  “Yup. Vineyard management is basically deciding what to cut and what to save. This is where wine is really made—right here on the vine. Every decision can make or ruin a vintage.” He lifted a bunch of grapes gently and checked for any signs of problems. “This feels like a battlefield sometimes. The vines want to kill themselves. The wine wants to be vinegar. It’s my job to keep everything going in the right direction.”

  She was scratching her forearm again, but she didn’t seem to notice, looking around at the vines. “That’s quite a speech for you, Luke. I’m not used to you speaking in multiple sentences.”

  He ignored the barb, not wanting to examine why he opened up to her more than anyone else. She was leaving red marks on her skin from her fingernails digging in. “What have you been doing?”

  “Helen wanted to clean things up around the carriage house, so I tackled that mess along the driveway side. There were vines crawling up the trees.” She reached up to scratch her neck, but Luke grabbed her hand.

  “Did you pull those vines down? Dressed like that?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is there a particular dress code for doing yard work?”

  Luke took off, tugging her behind him toward the wine barn. “There is if the yard work involves poison ivy vines.”

  Cleaning those vines out—carefully—was one of those things that kept sliding down his to-do list. It’s not like customers walked near that side. It never occurred to him Little Miss Tasky here would wade in with all that skin exposed and start pulling on freaking poison ivy.

  He was practically dragging her down the hill now, ignoring her protests. Time was of the essence. And he felt responsible.

  “How long ago did you handle the vines?”

  “A couple hours maybe?” She was jogging to keep up with him. “I trimmed the bushes and raked after that. God, am I going to die or something?”

  He pulled her inside the barn, to the hose that was coiled on the wall for cleaning the tanks. A large drain grate was in the floor a few feet away.

  “You won’t die, but you might want to if your skin is covered with oozing blisters of pus.” He grabbed the hose. Whitney’s eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. He had her attention now. He turned on the hose, set to lukewarm. “You need to wash the oil off your skin, Whitney, and the faster the better. I know what I’m doing. Let me help you, okay?”

  “Okay, fine.”

  She let out a yelp when the water hit her, though. He grabbed her hand, knowing the water would be cool at first. It was a little like washing Molly, holding on and aiming the hose at her like a firefighter on a mission.

  “Holy... Does it have to be freaking ice-cold?”

  “It’ll warm up. Close your eyes.” She surprised him by complying right before he sprayed her in the face. Having her eyes closed didn’t do anything to improve her temper. The curses she hurled his way were impressive. He slapped a bar of soap in her hand and released her.

  “Lather up.” She stared at the soap blankly, blinking away the water. He’d turned the hose to the side, leaving it running to warm it up. “Tick tock, Whit. You only have a small window of time to get that oil off your skin.”

  That got her moving. She started scrubbing every inch. She skipped over her wet shirt, and he shook his head. “Soap it all up. The oil could be on your clothes, too. I should probably make you strip...”

  She sudsed up her shirt and shorts furiously, kicking her work boots toward the door as her eyes slammed into his. She let out a sharp, angry snort.

  “Yeah, I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” She glared at him through strands of dark, wet hair.

  He didn’t trust himself to answer that question. “You ready for a rinse? The water should be warm by now.”

  Whitney straightened, stoic and silent, closing her eyes and holding her arms straight out. He started at her head and worked down, hoping for her sake the oils from the poison ivy were washing away with the soapy water that swirled around the drain. She turned without being asked, and he continued with the hose until he’d drenched every shapely inch of her. Nope. Not gonna think about her gentle curves and all that glistening wet skin. Not gonna do it. This was strictly a humanitarian mission. He turned off the water and grabbed a roll of paper towels from the shelf. After yanking four or five feet of it for himself, he ha
nded the roll to Whitney.

  “It’s the closest thing to towels I have out here. Don’t rub—just pat yourself dry.” He started drying her upper arms while she tore off a length of paper towels and patted her chest. Really not helping. “You should go to the house and take a real shower. Throw those clothes in the wash.” He inspected her forearm. “Looks like you have some scratches there that could turn into a rash. Helen probably has some calamine lotion to control the itch. Don’t you know what poison ivy looks like?”

  “Uh, no. My tenth-floor apartment didn’t have any ivy issues of any kind, so excuse me if my horticulture skills are lacking.”

  The comment was an unwelcome, but healthy, reminder that any attraction to Whitney was wasted. She was way out of his league, with her fancy former job and tenth-floor apartment. She stopped patting her stomach and looked to where her arm rested in his hand. Her gaze rose to meet his, and he realized how close they were standing. So close he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. So close he could see those eyes go dark and wide. Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue tracing her top lip.

  His voice was raspy in his own ears. “You should...um...dry off...and...”

  Too close. They were much too close. But he was caught up in her gravity field now, and couldn’t step away. He took the wadded-up towels in his hand and touched them to her waist, allowing his fingers to trace across her skin.

  Stupid move. Really stupid move.

  He did it again.

  He wasn’t sure how, but now they were standing even closer than before. Her eyes dilated to pure black, and her pulse fluttered at the base of her neck, where her skin was soft and white. Her voice turned soft and breathy.

  “I thought you were supposed to pat it dry.”

  He blinked, his fingers moving on her skin again, as if he had no control of them.

  “What?”