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

by Ellyn Oaksmith

  Fury drove Carmen through a morning of organizing the harvesters, delivering water, and eying the steady rows of identically straw-hatted workers who moved like an army through Hollister Estate vineyards. She trudged back to the Orchard House, ignoring the tightness in the pit of her stomach and the thought that these people, these lovely, sweet, good-intentioned people, weren’t going to last. By ten o’clock they were gulping water, going pink in the heat, wincing at cuts on their fingers.

  And the comments.

  “Wow, this is so much harder than I thought!”

  “My arms feel like they’re going to fall off.”

  “Do you think we could take a break and swim?”

  Carmen would have loved to take a break to drown Evan Hollister in his own pool. She’d march over there and ask him how he could have looked into her eyes, pressed his legs against hers and had what she’d thought was a real, meaningful connection, all while he was plotting to steal her cooks. Everyone knew that a crew ran on its stomach. He wanted to cut them off—her off—at the knees.

  By the time she reached the kitchen she’d fortified herself with rage. “Thank you for staying!”

  Nathalie looked up at her from a chopping board. She was crying.

  “What? What is it? I’ll pay you more. I’ll double what I’m paying you.”

  Nathalie shook her head.

  “I can’t offer more than double.”

  Nathalie wiped her eyes. “It’s the onions.”

  Carmen could have kicked herself. Of course, it was the onions. How could she have not noticed the smell? She was too busy hating Evan. Better to funnel her anger into something creative.

  “What are you making?”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “You do that for dinner. If I can have some of these onions, I’ll make the famous Alvarez enchiladas. This crew needs something to get them going.” She didn’t want to hurt Nathalie’s feelings, so she added. “That’ll give the marinara time to cook, okay?”

  Nathalie nodded eagerly. “That would be awesome. I’ve been staring down the clock all morning, worried that I couldn’t get it done. I keep thinking about all those people working in the fields all morning. They’ll be starving by lunch. I really didn’t want to make them wait.”

  Carmen swept the onions into the huge pot her mother had once used to make her green enchilada sauce. Before she went out to pick tomatillos from the kitchen garden, she turned to Nathalie, hunched over a recipe on her phone. The girl looked exhausted.

  “Why don’t you get that sauce simmering and take a siesta?”

  Nathalie shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, you could. Have some lunch and go upstairs. I’ll do the clean-up. Okay?”

  Nathalie looked relieved. “That would be amazing.”

  Carmen wondered how she was going to pay the girl double now that she’d offered it. She decided to worry about it later. Cooking her mother’s recipe always brought back sweet memories. Picking the sweet oregano, papery tomatillos and tiny orange peppers made her happy. Her crew would enjoy a taste of home. Her home. Fragrant Mexico, grown in Chelan.

  Outside in the garden, Carmen heard a high humming noise coming from the lake.

  A large military green helicopter. A familiar sight in the summertime. She lifted her basket of herbs, shielding her eyes from the sun. The helicopter flew north, diving towards the lake in a low arc. Hanging from four thick cables was a large canvas carrier that the crew carefully lowered into the water as the helicopter hovered. Carmen could see the pilot signaling with his fist. The helicopter waited until the canvas was filled before lifting off, heading up-lake. Carmen watched until the helicopter and its load of water disappeared around a sloping hill.

  Gathering the tomatillos warming in the growing heat, she noticed her harvesters looking up at the lake, talking amongst each other. Walking into the house, Carmen’s worry spiked.

  Forest fires.

  Sixteen

  Bunking Down

  The group coming out of the fields for dinner was different from the jovial troupe who’d gone into the vineyard that morning. After work, they went straight to the lake, dove in, then trudged back up the dusty driveway, marginally refreshed, and sat down to dinner with little conversation. Carmen had tried to make the scene as picturesque as possible, with lights strung between trees, mason jars of flowers and potted succulents scattered across the long table. But the conversations ended. Cutlery clattered.

  The change made Carmen nervous. One day had woken her guests up to the reality of agricultural work. It wasn’t tourism. It was backbreaking labor that only undocumented workers would undertake. There was a reason for the shortage of workers.

  Carmen hoped she hadn’t misled them, but then again, who could really know how hard it was until they’d spent hours hunched over in the blazing heat? Her father had always told them that he’d worked so hard all his life so his children wouldn’t have to labor in the fields.

  When the yoga teacher appeared, asking how many people would make it for yoga, only six raised their hands. Sheila, the teacher, who had hired a babysitter for the night, raised an eyebrow at Carmen before clapping her hands. Her day job was as a teacher at the high school and she wouldn’t let people out of class without a fight. “Come on now. You’ve just knotted up all kinds of muscles. Who wants to stretch them out?”

  The math teacher raised his hand. “I don’t know if I can last another day if I don’t do something. I’ll give it a shot.”

  Carmen saw nods of agreement in the group. She and Lola exchanged alarmed looks.

  Lola jumped up from her chair. “Look, I know it’s hard work. We really appreciate that you’re doing this. We’ve got all kinds of cool things planned, and I hope you stay around for them. Not just for the harvest—getting to know you guys is fun. I’m hoping you’ll be the charter members of Friends of Blue Hills Vineyard.”

  She looked at Carmen, who raised both eyebrows as her baby sis went off-script, curious to see where this was heading. “We’re hoping to build a community of people who care about making wine by hand, in a family and community-based setting. This our kickoff event. I know this is hard, but it’s getting us off the ground. If you stay, the rewards will be huge. We’ll have annual tastings for our members. Enchilada bake offs, where we send you home with our homemade sauce made with vegetables grown right here on the property.” Lola moved over to Carmen, slinging an arm around her sister as if they’d hatched this together.

  “We want Blue Hills Vineyard to become a place where you feel ownership. Taste wines that you’ve had a part of making. We want you to get married here. Celebrate here and join us in making some of the best wines in the world. I know it’s tough and right now you’re exhausted, but this is a chance to be part of a community of people like yourselves. And honestly, you guys are amazing.”

  There was an exhausted silence. Carmen and Lola stood on the patio, waiting to see the reaction. Lola reached over and took her sister’s hand, squeezing it in a gesture that brought tears to Carmen’s eyes. Both had dirt under their nails and aching muscles. They’d come this far together using creativity, sweat and grit. If this was all they accomplished, they’d done well. Together. That was the important part. Carmen thought of Mami, never happier than when the family was united over a meal.

  The math teacher, quickly emerging as group spokesman, stood up. “You know what? This isn’t what I envisioned when I first came here. It’s hot. My back is killing me. I’m pretty sure I kept everyone awake snoring.”

  Carmen felt herself sinking into despair.

  “But…” The math teacher raised his glass. “I’m in. I tell kids in school every day not to give up. It’s so easy to say no. How often are we asked as adults to stretch ourselves? What would I be saying to my students if I gave up? ‘Yeah, I tried this really cool thing but it was too hard, so I quit.’ Everything is rough in the beginning. But you gotta start somewhere, right?”

  One b
y one, people stood, stretching their arms and legs. One woman joked she was in if she could get the enchilada recipe.

  “It’s yours!” Carmen said with a giddy laugh. It would have made Mami so happy. A Blue Hills cookbook had been Mami’s dream, showing people how to pair wine, not beer, with Mexican food.

  Everyone drifted off to their rooms to get ready for yoga in the orchard. Now their complaints about aches and pains sounded like badges of honor. Lola had shifted their outlook. They were part of something bigger. Their pain had meaning.

  Carmen leaned into her sister, whispering. “When did you come up with that?”

  Lola winked. “On the spot.”

  “Pretty inspired.”

  Lola started clearing the table. “Desperate times and all that.”

  “But it’s a really good idea.”

  Lola stacked plates like a seasoned waitress, nodding at the leafy vineyard. “We can’t do this alone.”

  As the group of harvesters assembled on the patio in their yoga gear, Carmen nodded. “Agreed, but we can’t keep offering them stuff.”

  Lola moved towards the kitchen with her arms full of dishes, turning around to her sister. “No. We just have to keep them happy.”

  Carmen studied the neat rows of vines and full crates of deep purple fruit. Keeping people happy was complicated. Then again, nothing about saving Blue Hills Vineyard was simple.

  The sun had set on the orchard. Deep grasses and leafy trees offered ample shade and cooling ground cover. Twenty-eight harvesters settled on their mats for the last third of their workout, cooling down by deep breathing, legs crossed, eyes closed.

  “Oh! What’s that?!” a girl in bright purple leggings and a lime green crisscrossed top cried out.

  Everyone opened their eyes. The long grass was alive with hopping creatures. A woman screamed as a fluffy brown mouse jumped onto her mat. The tiny creature looked equally horrified. Mice leaped out of the grass and onto the mats at alarming frequent intervals.

  “What do we do?”

  “They’re everywhere!”

  “What are they doing?”

  The math teacher was the only one who remained calm. “They’re mating.”

  “Right now?” asked the first woman to scream.

  The math teacher nodded, calmly observing. “Not mid-air. It’s more like they’re, um, enthusiastic.”

  “Why do they have to do it now?” said a panicked girl with a bun that had unraveled into her face.

  The math teacher shrugged. “They’re mice.”

  Sheila took stock of her panicked yoga students, feeling responsible and yet unsure what to do. Everywhere she looked, the field was alive with mice. It was unbelievable how high they could jump. It was funny, unless of course you were stuck with two dozen terrified city folk who liked their mice in children’s books.

  Sheila clapped her hands. Surprisingly, it got their attention. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Roll up your mats and make a line. We’ll go single file and hopefully the mice will leave us alone.”

  “And what if they don’t?” said a girl who spoke in short gasps, possibly experiencing a panic attack.

  “You’ll bump into a mouse,” said the math teacher.

  The girl turned an alarming shade of grey.

  Then she fainted.

  Landing on a mouse.

  By the time the ambulance arrived, the young girl was alert, drinking juice and mortified that an ambulance had been called.

  “We had to call them,” Lola explained, making a face at Carmen that said, back me up, I’m winging it again.

  “Protocol,” Carmen said, nodding sagely, as if there was some rodent winery health protocol.

  Sheila had made everyone promise not to tell the girl that she’d landed on a mouse. Most people were more concerned about the mouse, who had been fine, thanks to the soft covering of the tall grass. Everyone but the girl saw the mouse scamper off when she sat up. A few people had gasped, but Sheila had immediately launched into a loud speech about drinking enough water. It distracted the girl, avoiding a second fainting spell. They’d all agreed, she didn’t need to know she’d came into direct contact with an amorous mouse.

  By the time the medics had finished, Carmen had talked them into a plate of enchiladas to go, and returned to the girl.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her name was Ellie. She was a diabetic who, it turned out, shouldn’t have gone without snacks during the day and needed to up her water intake. Also, she was terrified of rodents.

  Carmen patted her shoulder. “Don’t be sorry. You worked so hard today. Thank you.”

  Ellie sniffed, tearing up. “I should just go home.”

  Carmen sat down with her, offering a refill of water. “For one thing, you shouldn’t drive. But if you want to go home tomorrow, then what you’ve already done is wonderful. You know we don’t expect people to take yoga with mice.”

  “I’ve always been like this. The idea of touching one scares me to death.”

  Carmen prayed that nobody would tell her the truth. “I don’t imagine it’s something you have to worry about in Seattle.”

  Ellie shook her head. “No. But listen, if I rest tomorrow, can I stay and help?”

  Carmen broke into a wide grin. “Oh. Wow. If you’re sure, we’d be honored.”

  Ellie looked relieved. “I like it here. What Lola said at dinner was amazing. Also, I love your dad. He’s really cool.”

  Carmen couldn’t wait to tell Lola and Adella. A twenty-three-year-old hipster with a food blog called Graze thought their craggy old father was cool. “Yeah, I never thought about it before, but I guess he is.”

  The nice thing about the emergencies, Carmen thought as she tidied up the kitchen, was that they kept Evan Hollister out of her mind. She shut off the lights, wondering if not thinking about someone was just a way of keeping them in mind. Oh well. It didn’t matter. She’d be down here in eight hours making waffles for twenty-eight either way. Right now, Evan Hollister was the least of her problems.

  Seventeen

  The Italian Next Door

  “Everything is going to be so perfect!” Paolo touched his fingers to his lips, moving like a dancer through Stella’s kitchen.

  The man could cook. He could dance. He’d swivel his hips like Shakira while singing random pop songs with a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder. He liked hiking and kayaking, but could also spend an entire Sunday on a dock putting sunscreen on Stella’s back.

  In other words, he was perfect.

  Which was a problem.

  Stella did not want to fall in love with a man who lived on another continent. As sexy as she found him, with his irresistible accent, his attentiveness and his skills in the kitchen—and the bedroom—she knew this was a dead-end romance. She knew her place. Right here, on the southern tip of the most beautiful lake in the world. Chelan was home and Dorothy had gotten it right.

  There is no place like home.

  Paolo had shopped at the Manson Farmers’ Market for the food for tonight’s dinner, collecting admiring glances and free samples with each stop. Nobody got more free ripe cherries, pie wedges or flirtatious glances than him. Stella felt like she had to insert herself into every transaction until Paolo took her aside, kissed her and told her that in Italy, flirting was like breathing.

  “You don’t need to breathe all over everyone,” she’d grumbled.

  He’d lifted her chin, looked into her eyes and promised that if it was bothering her, he’d stop.

  He couldn’t stop, she thought. He’d changed. Her sunny smile had melted the grumpy expatriate routine. He’d started appreciating the good things about Chelan.

  To be fair, he flirted with everyone: from the old woman selling pastry from her truck, to the little girls in braces who turned bright red when he bought some of their braided bracelets.

  He was a man meant to be adored.

  As her apartment filled with the smell of roasting tomatoes, fresh herbs and garlic, Stella set the tab
le on the back porch, calling into the kitchen, “How’s the harvest going? I tried calling Carmen but she’s not answering. I guess she’s rushed off her feet.”

  Paolo brought her a glass of red wine, enjoying the sun setting behind the hills bordering town. It promised to be another spectacular sunset, thanks to the forest fires nearby. Her clients had been talking about the fires nonstop. It made Stella slightly nauseous, thinking of the chaos two summers ago when the entire town had been evacuated. She’d rounded up pets from people unable to shelter them, driving them to homes and schools where volunteers had taken care of the scared little animals.

  Paolo wiped the sweat from his forehead. Stella’s apartment was old and spacious but didn’t come with air conditioning. “Your friend next door? You know she tried the experiment but is not going so good. Her tourists? They’re getting tired. They don’t know speed, you know? They waste time dumping the baskets at the end of every row. They need to take their slower pickers and have them be runners. And they should already be crushing the fruit they picked. Not letting it ripen.”

  Stella’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh no.”

  “Sí. I wish I could tell her something, but Evan, he watches me. He wants that land. He wants that land more than he wants the air. You know? To breathe. It’s crazy.”

  Stella took a sip of the wine. She didn’t know much about wine, but this tasted of summer, of long warm nights, of boat rides on the lake. How silly was that? If she was a wine critic, nobody would understand what she was talking about. “But does it matter that much? Can’t he just buy someone else’s vineyards or grapes?”

  Paolo nodded enthusiastically as if he’d already given it thought. “Yes and no. If he buys fruit, it is always different. The grapes next door, they are right. And they have the soil, the acid, from the minerals. It’s like the lovers. The chemistry has to be perfect for the blend to work. Winemakers want to grow their own grapes. And Evan? He wants those good Blue Hills grapes.”