Carmen shook her head miserably. She couldn’t keep up the lie. “I did. I thought you’d be more sympathetic to an emergency.”
Felicity threw up her arms. “You lied?”
Carmen nodded glumly. “Yes. The truth is that my dad has Alzheimer’s and his neighbor has talked him into selling his vineyard, and I’m pretty sure if my dad lost his vineyard it would kill him.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m sorry I said he had a heart attack. I was nervous.”
“And nobody else can help your father?”
“No.”
“Don’t you have two sisters?”
It shocked Carmen that Felicity remembered anything about her family, although she’d probably filed it away for a moment like this one.
“Yes.”
Felicity tilted her head. “Sounds like you have a little bit of a Jesus complex.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help my father.”
“Of course not. But you have responsibilities here and I want you to think long and hard about them before you ask me to take a week off. If you want to schedule a week off in advance with HR, like everyone in this company does, that’s fine. But if you keep wasting my time asking for special vacations, you won’t have a job. Do I make myself clear?”
Carmen thought about pointing out again that it wasn’t a vacation, but Felicity wouldn’t listen. There was no point. This had all been decided before she’d even opened her mouth. “Yes.”
Carmen’s heart was thumping. She swallowed and stood, nearly tripping on a chair on her way out the door.
Deena gave her a sympathetic look as she sat down, tears blurring her vision. Taking three deep breaths, she called Stella.
“How’d it go?” Her friend’s voice was reassuring.
“She said I had a Jesus complex.”
“I wish. Then you could make water into wine. Did she give you the time off?”
“She threatened to fire me.”
“Carmen, come home. Come home and be around semi-normal people. You can help your dad and go out with me. We’ll get tipsy and gossip about who’s gotten fat since high school, present company excluded.”
For a half hour Carmen sat, staring at her computer screen, thinking about Papi signing away the vineyards. She called him three times, but he never picked up the landline that rang in the winery office and Orchard House. Calling again, she listened to his voice message, still thick with his Mexican accent. Imagined him sitting across the kitchen table where she’d done her homework, facing that Microsoft millionaire and his slick attorney, signing papers he’d never bother to have checked by his own attorney. Being duped out of millions on the vines he’d labored his entire life to bring to fruition. Making up her mind, she went back into Felicity’s office.
Felicity looked up from her computer. “Seriously? Another fake illness?”
Carmen didn’t bother sitting. “I know you won’t understand this, but my dad is losing his memory and I have to go take care of him.”
Felicity sighed. “We’re back to this?”
“He’s my father.”
“And this is your job.”
Carmen shrugged. “Then I quit.”
“You can’t quit, because I’m firing you.”
“You can’t fire me, because I just quit.”
They looked at one another for a long second. Carmen could hear the traffic, cars honking, in the distance. She felt let down. This was a big moment and yet it felt… blank.
“You finally grew some balls,” Felicity spit out.
Carmen was incredulous. “That’s a completely sexist thing to say. You’re a bully, Felicity. Grow up.”
Felicity turned sheet-white. Carmen stood up, clenching her fists to stop trembling. She couldn’t believe the words that had come out of her mouth. They were the kinds of things she normally thought of on the way home.
Carmen strode out of the white office with her head held high.
Felicity yelled behind her, “You’re going to regret this!”
Deena stood up, smiling broadly. “No, she’s not!” She sat down, whispering to Carmen across the half wall. “I’m so jealous.”
Every eye in the office was on Carmen. People with whom she’d shared triumphs and failures. Her team. Late night cram sessions and bleary morning meetings ticked through her brain. Blood pounded in her temples. She’d poured years of her life into this place. Her career. What had she just done?
Three
Alvarez Wines
Five boxes. That was all it took to leave Seattle after six years. Carmen had paid her rent until the end of the month. Her roommate, whom she barely saw, had left Carmen a note, scrawled on the back of a grocery receipt. Good luck. At least, that’s what she thought it said. Her handwriting was worse than Carmen’s. Hard to believe she could live with someone for two years and this was the first time she’d seen her handwriting.
Carmen had parked her car in a loading zone. She’d packed everything into her Toyota within the allotted half hour. Her car was dusty with lack of driving. Two hundred and fifty bucks a month for a parking spot for a car she never drove.
Goodbye Seattle, I can’t afford you anymore, she thought as she pulled into the city’s infamous traffic.
By the time Carmen reached Blewett Pass, winding her way into the green foothills of the Cascade mountains, the tightness in her shoulders had loosened. She’d stopped seeing Felicity’s pinched face every time her mind drifted. Stopped imagining the worst when she reached home. Whatever greeted her when she walked in the door to the old Alvarez house, she’d handle it. How was it that the three sisters hadn’t managed to keep better track of their father? How was it that they’d all gotten so absorbed into their own lives that they’d assumed someone else was watching Papi? How was it that it that they’d let their father drift so far into his disease that he might have sold his vineyards?
After crossing Blewitt Pass through the Wenatchee Mountains, she took the freeway exit to the 97, the cloverleaf loop that circled around, passing through an industrial stretch of apple warehouses and RV lots until the Columbia River stretched, jade green and swollen, on the right. Canyon walls bordered the river and the railroad was visible, sometimes spotted with mountain goats. The grassy lawns at Rocky Reach Dam were damp from early evening sprinklers. Under the shrubs, Carmen could see the shapes of little brown bunnies waiting for dusk.
It was all so familiar, so comforting. Carmen rolled down her window, smelling the minerals of the river; the dry, sage-scented air.
Carmen and her sisters used to play a game when they were kids, coming home in the back of the car. First one to spot the lake. Even when she was exhausted after a shopping trip in Wenatchee or a longer excursion to Seattle, she used to squish into the middle seat with her sisters’ long black hair blowing into her face, eager for the first glimpse. The road rose up the mountain, passing through the tunnel where they held their breath for good luck, through the scrubby patch of farms with barking dogs running the fence. Once they’d crested the hill and began the long, slow descent, before they hit the vineyards, they’d all search the spot above the road for the first peek of Lake Chelan. Her sisters would push toward the middle of the car.
“I see it! I see it!”
The game never got old. The blue of the lake was their reward, glittering like a turquoise gem in the distance.
“I saw it first!” one of the sisters would scream, even when Carmen knew she’d seen it first, holding it like a secret.
It meant they were home.
Carmen remembered all those trips, the thrill of spotting the lake.
Today was no different. The lake was there for her, glittering, inviting. Signaling life lived at slower speed. Time for swimming. For lazy picnics. For burgers at the Lakeside. For the shared craziness of the harvest.
Home.
She took a left at Pat and Mike’s gas station, where they used to jump out of the truck, hopping th
eir way across the hot asphalt, and push into the cool store to sweet-talk Papi, paying at the register, into buying them cones. To the right was the fruit stand where each girl used to pick out a free piece of fruit. The lake shone on Carmen’s right as the road hugged the shore. When she was a kid the houses had been much smaller, but as Washington State—and Seattle in particular—had grown in wealth, the lake houses had been snapped up and remodeled, growing up and out. Someone once told her that it was a status symbol to have a lake house nicer than your Seattle house, confirming that these new people were loco.
At night, the southern part of the fifty-one-mile-long lake lit up more every year with house lights. But no matter how crowded the lake grew, every winter the summer people left, the vines were pruned, and everyone settled into a deep snowy calm.
This was, for Carmen, when the lake revealed its true self, whispering its wintery secrets into the ears of those who stood still long enough to listen. Every winter, to give his wife some peace and quiet, and then, after she died, Papi would take any of his daughters willing to hike through the snow up to the trails past the snowmobile park. He’d park his truck, fortifying his girls with a small cup of steaming cocoa from his huge thermos, promising more after their hike. They’d set out on a trail heading for a ridge, keeping an eye out for snowy owls hunting in daylight, for eagles, red foxes like flames against the snow. By the time they’d worn themselves out, they’d reached the ridge. Below them spread the lake, rimmed with ice, sparkling in the winter sun. It ran the length of the valley, disappearing as it turned, outlined with forests and hills, majestic in the weak winter sun.
“Qué hermoso,” their father would always pronounce, a slight catch in his breath. How beautiful. They’d stand quietly for as long as three little girls could possibly stay still, watching their breath puff in the brittle air. Carmen had known her father was sharing something important. His love of the land. Love of place. The beauty of the lake that was for everyone. Far from the hot Mexican sun.
Now, the turquoise lake glittered in the late afternoon sun. It was as if she’d never left. Five cardboard boxes, a lifetime of bad boss stories. She’d been so busy working, logging long hours at Felicity’s whim, eating lunch over her keyboard. Still, it had felt strange leaving with nothing before her but an ailing father, a vineyard piled high with debt. She’d never quit a job in her life without two weeks’ notice. She’d worked twelve-hour shifts in freezing cold apple warehouses during high school and college, washed dishes in her dorm dining hall at Washington State University, and never once called in sick. Since she’d been a teenager, she’d always had a job, a regular paycheck.
She’d had to call Stella several times to reassure herself she’d done the right thing.
Running the vineyard was out of the question. As much as she loved Chelan, Carmen couldn’t image returning to small town life. Or running a complex agricultural business full of seasonal variables and challenges. Drought. Wildfires. Pests. Stiff competition in the Washington market with large vineyards. A small grower had to produce stellar wines that would attract notice by merit alone.
But.
Her father wouldn’t even consider selling the vineyard if he were at all capable.
So, who could run the vineyard?
The question nagged her as she drove the last mile home. It was her favorite part of the drive and she barely noticed the scenery. Who could run the vineyard? Who would her father, a perfectionist with high standards, tolerate running the business he’d spent his life cultivating?
She ran down a shortlist of possibilities in her mind. She couldn’t come up with one person who could do it.
She enjoyed wine, but her palate wasn’t sophisticated. She knew next to nothing about her parents’ life work.
For someone who had grown up on a vineyard, it was embarrassing.
Every year, like clockwork, Carmen’s father repainted the Blue Hills Vineyard sign on Lakeside Drive. It was a rendition of the now iconic Blue Hills label. It was the first impression; he told his daughters. And first impressions were “muy importante.” As a girl, Carmen had trailed her father down the drive, holding the paintbrushes, listening to his lecture on appearances. Of course, the first thing was the wine. Always the wine. Then, he’d say, holding up a paint brush layered with just the right amount of paint, came appearances.
Carmen loved when he’d tell the story of hiring a famous local artist to sketch the label for their first wine. She had been very well known, more than they could afford. “We’d eaten beans and rice for weeks to pay for it,” Papi laughed. But when he offered her the hefty check, the artist ripped it up, telling him that she could tell she was talking to another artist. She took her commission in wine from their first harvest.
The first thing Carmen noticed when she slowed to take a left onto their property now was the faded sign. She’d always taken the blue and gold sign for granted. One of the million things her father took care of, that nobody thought to question. He just did them. Carmen drove up the long driveway through the apple orchard. Potholes, typically graded and filled every year, pocked the drive. The grass under the trees was overgrown. Some of the tree branches touched one another, the neat rows looking scraggly. Carmen continued up the hill. The flowerbeds flanking Orchard House, normally overflowing with blossoms, were empty. A few dried weeds poked out. The lawn furniture was dirty, left outside over the long winter.
Carmen got out of the car, turning to look down onto the lake. Normally the view cheered her, but today she couldn’t enjoy the beauty. The house didn’t look right.
She heard voices and walked around the gravel path, opening the squeaking metal gate. Weeds poked up between the flagstones. As she rounded the corner, she saw her father, still in his work clothes, sitting at a dirty metal table. Across from him was a handsome man in his thirties. He stood, looking Carmen up and down with appreciation. Her father stood, too.
“Carmen! You didn’t tell me you were coming!” He stepped forward.
“Papi, I did.”
Her father shook his head, looking puzzled, his eyes slightly clouded by confusion. He wore the same style of indestructible Carhartt pants he’d worn since she was little, fabric so strong she remembered seeing them half-standing on their own in the laundry room, caked with dirt. They were the exact color of the soil in his vineyards. “You did? When?”
“I called you this morning.” And last night.
A rush of love overcame Carmen. Her father, the man who answered all the questions, who had swung her from his solid arms, was failing. The weight of it made her want to collapse on the tile floor.
“Oh.” He sounded so sad.
Carmen hid her feelings, her longing to share what had happened at work, and smiled brightly, squeezing his hand. “Never mind.” She stepped forward to give him a hug. His mustache was a little grayer, his thick wavy hair longer.
Her father looked down at his clothes. “I’m still in my work clothes.”
She gave him a solid hug anyway, relieved by his bulk. At least he was still eating.
The younger man stepped forward, offering his hand. “I’m Evan Hollister, your dad’s neighbor.”
Carmen gave him a cold look, pretending not to notice his proffered hand. Still, Stella wasn’t wrong. Evan Hollister was tall, broad-shouldered and green-eyed. A fat Omega watch encircled his wrist. He looked like a man used to getting what he wanted. Well, sorry, Evan Hollister, this vineyard isn’t for sale. “I know who you are.”
Evan raised one eyebrow. He lowered his hand, seemingly not bothered by the obvious snub. “I see.”
“You’re the one trying to buy the vineyard out from under my father.”
Evan scratched his forehead. “Out from under? Where’d you hear that?”
Carmen’s father went to fetch another glass from the kitchen. As he passed his daughter, he gave a hushed reminder, “Be nice, daughter. He’s our neighbor.”
Evan watched the exchange between the two with silent
amusement.
“This is a small town, Mr. Hollister. Word travels.”
Evan Hollister pulled out a chair for Carmen.
She stayed standing. “I’m fine,” she said. “Long drive.”
“You’re the daughter from Seattle.”
“And you’re the neighbor who wants my dad’s vines.”
Evan took a conciliatory tack. “Carmen, look, I know you probably think I’m taking advantage of your father because of his age.”
Carmen snorted, making sure her dad was inside before she spoke. “You live next door, watching Blue Hills slowly deteriorate. You notice that each harvest there’s fewer and fewer pickers. You hear that the wine master that’s worked for my dad for years has left. What would make me think that?”
Evan gazed out at the lake. “I’m not trying to displace him. Just cultivate his vines. I don’t know if you know, but your dad is having a hard time managing all this. I thought he might want to retire.”
“Blue Hills isn’t for sale.”
Evan took a sip from his wineglass, his voice low and annoyingly calm. “That’s not what your father says.”
It was, Carmen thought, the voice of someone with nothing to lose. No skin in the game. A rush of hate flooded Carmen. Sure, it was easy to come in here with millions, taking what you wanted and not bothering with the little guy who’d spent his life building up those vines. They could easily be bought. A lifetime of work disappearing in the time it took to write a check. Suddenly Evan Hollister, with his fancy car and his expensive aftershave, stood for everything that was happening to Chelan. Carmen’s small town was changing, and she wanted it back. She wanted to be able to walk into restaurants and know people. To cross the street and not worry about being run over by some sixteen-year-old in a BMW.
Evan Hollister wasn’t just a symptom. He was the problem.
Carmen’s father returned to the patio from the back door. Orchard House, like everything else, needed painting. Carmen waited until her father had poured her wine to finally sit, pointedly, to join him—not Evan.
Summer at Orchard House: An utterly compelling and heart-warming summer romance (Blue Hills Book 1) Page 3
