Summer at Orchard House: An utterly compelling and heart-warming summer romance (Blue Hills Book 1)

by Ellyn Oaksmith

  “If I don’t get your fields, I’ll get the surrounding fields. I’ll buy water rights; I’ll operate on all sides until I squeeze Blue Hills right out of existence. You’ll be wishing you could have the deal I’m offering you right now, but your land won’t be worth as much. It will be a tiny piece in the middle of my winery. And your father will lose because you let him.”

  Carmen’s body went utterly still, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “Carmen, this is just business.”

  Carmen considered what he was saying. The leather laces on her gladiator sandals were drying, cutting into her ankles. She put the wine on the table and unlaced the sandals, taking them off and dropping them in the stainless patio trash can. Evan watched her impassively.

  She straightened up. She thought about losing the land and what her father had told her about wine being in her blood. This wasn’t about their land. If they lost and she ended up with nothing, no career, no prospects, then she would at least have fought hard. Even if Evan stranded Blue Hills and Orchard House as an island in his empire, he still wouldn’t have the mineral-rich soil that made their wines so elegant and unique. They’d won medals all over the country. Her father had built a legacy. She wouldn’t let that die just because some tech millionaire refused to accept that his vineyard needed time. Papi had explained that the Hollister Estate soil needed amendments. Evan should truck in soil that had to be worked into the existing dirt, coaxed into the vines and allowed time to mature. His vines were young and required nurturing. But rather than let time work its magic, he wanted to take her father’s land. Shortcuts, in a business that worked in decades.

  She lifted the wineglass in her hand.

  Evan’s smile brightened, clearly anticipating a deal, her capitulation. He lifted his glass with a broad smile.

  She held her glass aloft, enjoying the way his smile faltered when she didn’t clink her glass to his. “The only people who lose are the ones who give up.” Carmen poured the entire contents of her glass down the wet bar sink.

  Game.

  Set.

  Match.

  “Honestly, I think you should bury the hatchet before anyone gets hurt,” said Stella, taking an enormous bite of her salad. They were on the patio of Campbell’s after the lunch rush.

  “Do you mean give up? He won’t stop until he gets our land.”

  Stella looked at a leaf suspiciously. “Is this a dandelion leaf? Did someone just go pick my lunch from the cracks in the sidewalk?”

  Carmen shot her friend a look. “Seriously? That’s your response?”

  Stella took a long drink of iced tea before responding. “I don’t know how it looks from the inside, but from the outside we’ve got people coming into town and talking about these weddings. You know how people talk. They say you’re going to keep going until you burn your businesses to the ground. Things like this don’t take down the target. They take down everyone. It’s a race to the bottom.”

  Stella shook her head. “Right. So just give up?”

  “Stop trying to ruin him.”

  “He’s trying to ruin us.”

  “If you want to save the winery, you’ve got to come up with something else.”

  Carmen opened her computer, turning it towards Stella. “I have.”

  Stella studied the screen for a long time, squinting.

  Carmen smiled tentatively. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think? I think you’re a genius. This is exactly what I’m talking about.” Stella pointed at the screen. “‘Enjoy fresh air and exercise as you learn winemaking from the field. Pick grapes as part of a crew of like-minded wine lovers, picnicking in the field and sleeping under the stars. Enjoy evening concerts…’” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Those guys that play at Senor Frog’s.”

  “‘Yoga classes with a view of the lake…’” Stella looked up.

  “The orchard. Hopefully the skunks won’t show up.”

  “Yoga with adorable woodland creatures…” Stella smiled. “This is wonderful. People chained to their desks might think manual labor is actually fun.”

  “Fresh air, swimming in the lake at night.”

  “Ooooh. Put that in there. Pull out that float and have towels down by the water. I love this. Now you’re using your imagination instead of focusing all your anger on one person.”

  Carmen raised her eyebrows. “One person who deserves it.”

  Stella sighed. “Car, I know you don’t want to hear this but whatever you two have going on…”

  Carmen shook her head emphatically. “Nothing is going on.”

  “Hear me out. You need to stop antagonizing one another. Make nice.”

  “Why on earth should I try to make nice with someone who is trying to ruin me?”

  “Well, for one thing, so you can keep tabs on him. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  Carmen took a long sip of her iced tea. “Whoever said that must have been in the wine business.”

  “You want pickers for free, is that it?” said Lucy Connor, manager of the Manson Villas. Carmen had inserted herself into the monthly Chelan Hotel Association luncheon to showcase her new scheme, Winemaking at the Roots. The hope was that the hotels would offer it as part of their guest programs.

  “It’s not winemaking really, is it? It’s more picking the grapes,” said Honore Sullivan, guests’ programs manager at the sprawling Campbell’s Resort. Honore was the big fish of hotel managers. In high school, she’d been a mean girl. Not much had changed.

  Carmen steeled herself. Lola had already played the devil’s advocate with such questions, grilling her for hours on how she’d convince people to do work for free that migrant laborers had done for pay. Dirty, backbreaking labor. Carmen pointed out that they’d offer short shifts, lots of refreshment, entertainment, music, canopies that moved with the pickers. She’d honed her arguments and was ready.

  “Honore, what we have to remember is that I’m creating an experience. You and I both think of picking grapes as something dirty and difficult.” In high school, Honore had sneered at anyone with brown skin, calling them wetbacks or pickers. “I have lots of things ready to make the experience fun and interesting. People love the farm-to-table world, and I’ll not only have the harvesting experience, they’ll get to taste wine, meet local cheesemakers and learn about their craft. It will be like an outdoor school for people passionate about what they eat and drink. And don’t forget, these people are in good shape. They’re used to CrossFit and yoga. They’ll finish picking and go for a swim or yoga class, or both. It’s going to be a totally immersive experience. There’s nothing like it out there for your guests.”

  “I don’t doubt that!” chortled Ike Bukasia. He’d hated everything that came out of Carmen’s mouth since she’d shot him down for junior prom.

  Carmen mentally thanked horrid Felicity for creating such a boot camp, competitive workplace. Her marketing skills were laser sharp. “If you understand millennials, you’ll know that they crave authentic experiences. It isn’t enough to have wine tastings and massages. I’m offering a day of harvesting the fruit and eating in the fields. Cheese platters made by the people serving them. This is something they’ll tell their friends about, over a bottle of wine they helped create. People crave something different, and by offering this to your guests, you’ll be on the cutting edge of hospitality.”

  Ike sat back, taking one of the brochures Carmen passed around the room.

  “Any questions?”

  Pale Honore sat back, crossing her bony arms. “Isn’t this just an ingenious runaround to find pickers in a tight market?”

  Carmen gave her a tight smile. “I wish I was that ingenious, Honore. No, this is another way we’re trying to grow the Blue Hills Vineyard brand. It’s not enough to make the wine anymore, it’s about experiences.”

  Celia Diaz, hospitality director at Wapato Point Resort shook her hand, thanking her for the opportunity. The other hotel managers st
retched their legs, getting water and coffee. Carmen heard herself saying that this was just the beginning of Blue Hills Vineyard experiences. “I can see us opening tasting rooms, a restaurant in the cave, classes. This is just the beginning.”

  Celia nodded enthusiastically. “That’s amazing. I am so happy that you’re back here and taking this on. Your dad must be so proud.”

  Carmen nodded. “Actually, he is. He always wanted one of us to keep Blue Hills going and, you know, I’m as surprised at the next person, but it looks like it’s me.”

  Celia glanced away. “Hey, can I ask you something personal?”

  Carmen followed as Celia moved to the side of the room. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Do you know Evan Hollister very well?”

  Carmen felt suddenly alert. What had Evan said about her? “Yes. Not well, but yeah, I know him.”

  “He’s single, right?”

  Carmen nodded. “Yes.”

  Celia’s face relaxed. “Okay, good. I mean, I barely know the guy, but he’s been in a few times at the wine bar at work. He asked about you and I just wondered if you two were dating now.”

  “What did he ask?”

  “Nothing very much. I think he met someone who asked if he was neighbors with you. Evan said you were nice and wanted to know if you were seeing anyone.”

  Carmen felt absurdly pleased before she tamped down her feelings. Whatever Evan might have felt for her at one point was now extinguished by the last few weddings. Ironic. “Well, he doesn’t think I’m nice anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Celia looked pleased.

  “No. It’s fine. We have some business, um, disagreements.”

  “Well then, you don’t mind if I…?” Celia bit her lip uncomfortably.

  Carmen looked more closely at Celia, who was normally very chill. “If you what?”

  “Well, since he’s single…”

  Carmen’s eyes went wide. “Oh, right. I get it. You wanted to see if he was… I get it.”

  Celia blushed furiously. “Thanks. Anyway, I’m going to put the brochures in the rooms for sure. Having guests harvest the fruit, it’s a cool idea.” She whispered, “Don’t listen to them. They’re going to promote you because it’s good for their guests, they just have to get their digs in, you know.”

  Carmen nodded. They’d both survived the same slights in high school. Wetback. Spic. Picker. Although they weren’t good friends, there was a bond. “I know.”

  After the two women said goodbye, Carmen made her rounds, unable to rid herself of the sinking feeling in her stomach. Why should she care if Evan went out with anyone else? He was ruthless, selfish, egotistical, and mostly, he hated her. She certainly didn’t want him. But she didn’t want anyone else to have him either.

  The idea of Evan and Celia together.

  Perfectly sweet Celia, who’d gone out of her way to be nice to her today.

  Why on earth should she be feeling jealous?

  Because that was the word, Carmen realized, as she got into her overheated car.

  She was jealous.

  Carmen covered her face with her hands before placing them on the steering wheel and staring out at the lake. This was getting way too complicated.

  Twelve

  Crushing

  Paolo was FaceTiming with a woman in Italian, making furious hand gestures and sipping his wine. If he were any more hysterical, Stella thought, he’d be crying into his glass. The woman, from what Stella could see, was beautiful, seated on a patio not unlike the one at Hollister Estate. She was dressed in white, with brown curls blowing in her face. Occasionally, she’d sweep the curls out of her large green eyes with a decidedly ring-free hand. Just to be sure, Stella checked her other hand. A couple of stylish stacked bands, but nothing that smacked of matrimony.

  No wonder Paolo missed his home country.

  Stella was waiting for Carmen, who had taken her father to the doctor and was meeting Stella for drinks after she’d driven him home. Meanwhile, Stella was perfectly happy sipping her rosé, listening to what must be the most beautiful language in the world. The language of love.

  Or was Spanish called that?

  Stella couldn’t remember, but whatever language this man spoke had to be the language of love. He was yummy.

  And, tragically for her, missing his girlfriend.

  If Stella knew anything about Italians, his girlfriend probably wouldn’t pine too long for her missing boyfriend. She might have already replaced him. The idea cheered Stella, who’d taken to leaving church early, before all the eager middle-aged ladies could shove their awkward sons in her path. Boys who, years earlier, had shot spitballs into her hair and chased her with grass snakes.

  Paolo closed his computer screen, gazing mournfully into his glass of Pinot Grigio. Stella took this as her opportunity, moving near his table. “Must be hard to have a girlfriend so far from home.”

  Paolo’s black eyebrows shot up. “My girlfriend?”

  She pointed at his computer.

  “Oh, she. My sister.”

  Stella beamed, pointing at the chair across the table from the handsome Italian. “Oh, sister. Nice. Mind if I sit?”

  Paolo jumped up as if electrified, darting around the table to pull the chair out for Stella, who completely lost what little chill she had around this enticing creature.

  “Oh, wow, nice.” Stella settled into her chair happily. “I can’t remember the last time anyone did that for me.”

  Paolo shook his head. “The men here need some lessons in the love-making.”

  Stella giggled. “Well, maybe not that.”

  Paolo pushed his thick black hair from his eyes. “No, not like that. I mean, just the nice things. Like the chair, the pouring the wine, opening the door. You don’t make love just like”—he waved his hand in the air—“one way. It’s many ways. It’s treating the girl like the princess. You know?”

  Stella sighed. Being treated like royalty sounded right up her alley. “I wish I knew.”

  Paolo sipped his wine. “This wine. Not so fine. You know, if you come to my country, I could show you what the Pinot Grigio tastes like when it’s got the minerals. You know?”

  It was Stella’s turn to shake her head. “I don’t know very much about wine.”

  Paolo snapped his fingers. “I teach you.”

  Stella blinked in disbelief. Dating to Stella meant burgers at the Lakeside, listening to Bobby or Billy or Steve blather endlessly about rebuilding a Camero, or how the guys at the shop were a bunch of sticky-fingered douche bags.

  A cloudy film fell off Stella’s eyes. This was happening.

  Paolo waited on her to respond to his offer.

  “I would love that!” Stella replied breathlessly.

  “He’s single!” Stella crowed on the phone. “I could listen to him read a menu. The way he rolls his R’s. My goodness Car, I never thought a man’s voice would drive me nuts like this. Plus, he says he wants to cook for me. Risotto. That takes a long time to cook, so we’ll be drinking wine and talking. Can you believe I said talking, instead of making out? I actually want to get to know him.”

  Carmen was happy for her friend. Or she wanted to be happy. She couldn’t quite sum up the energy after her morning. Although people were signing up to harvest the grapes, she was having a hard time juggling the day-to-day running of the winery with the harvest and preparing to care for and feed guest harvesters. To make matters worse, they had the First Crush Festival, whose organizers had just informed them that everyone working the booths needed a food permit, for which they’d have to travel into Wenatchee. Immediately, if they wanted them in time for the festival.

  The third wedding they’d hosted had gone off without a hitch, infusing the winery with enough cash to update. Plastic tubing needed replacing; deep cleaning was necessary. One wrong microbe would ruin an entire cask. Microbes, Carmen had learned, traveled in packs. And they loved the fermenting process.

  Carmen checked on the grapes every nigh
t, enjoying the cool night air, the moist red dirt under her sandals, the distant glitter of the lake. She’d gotten better at measuring the brix level of the grapes. They were so close now. She needed at least twenty more harvesters. And tents, sleeping bags, food and towels. Endless lists on her phone.

  Stella had been babbling on about Paolo’s many charms, but Carmen was having a hard time paying attention. “Does he talk much about wine?”

  “A little. He really wants to teach me about wine, which is fun. He freaked out when I told him I loved wine from a can. I really need to clean. He’s coming to my place. To cook pasta and fish. Pasta Pescatore.” Stella bounced the syllables off her tongue, mimicking Paolo. “Sounds much better in Italian. Cooking for me at my apartment. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Very,” Carmen said absently, wondering if she should place a Craigslist ad for pickers.

  “He has six toes on each foot. Isn’t that sexy?”

  Carmen didn’t hear. “Mmmm-hmmm. Yeah.”

  Stella laughed. “You’re not listening. I said he has six toes on each foot.”

  “Extra toes? That’s so—oh right. That was a test. I’m sorry.” Carmen felt guilty. She should be happier for her friend. Stella had kissed a lot of toads. Been set up, knocked down and run away from dates gone sour. Now a handsome Italian man with an esteemed profession was interested in her.

  “Stell, I’m really, really happy for you. I am. It’s a bit tricky because Paolo and I didn’t hit it off.”

  “Yeah, we need a re-do. I’ll make him play nice.”

  “He’s really not a fan.”

  “Tough luck. You’re my best friend. We’re a package deal.”

  Carmen winced. Stella had just met someone completely thrilling and was ready to throw him over if he didn’t like her. “It’s fine. It was about him teaching me the wine business. Apparently, I’m a little too American. Or something.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “I suppose.”