One Perfect Year

by Melinda Curtis

Gage ignored Grandpa. His black brows drew low. “You called me Dead Gage?”

  She swallowed the bread and lifted her chin unapologetically. “You left without a word and never looked back. You might just as well have been dead and buried in the cemetery, too.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  Shelby gave no ground. “So is the way you dumped me.”

  “That’s it!” Grandpa’s white haystack hair quivered angrily as he stood. “I’m going to eat outside with Mushu. At least she can forgive me for ignoring her sometimes.”

  The screen door banged. The kitchen became oppressively silent.

  Shelby pushed spaghetti around her plate. Ignoring? Gage had gone beyond ignoring her. He’d ended contact completely.

  The nausea of loss rose in her throat.

  Breathe, girl. Breathe.

  Her grandfather was right. Friends knew when their friends were going through a tough time. They made allowances. They forgave. They mended fences.

  Much as she didn’t want to mend things with Gage for fear he’d just desert her again, she still cared for the man. She set down her fork, smoothed her black sweater over her hips and cast about for something to say.

  Grandma Ruby used to say it was hardest to extend an olive branch when you were in the wrong.

  Shelby sighed. She hated being wrong. “The Dead Gage label might have gone a bit far.”

  His eyes had never seemed so unforgivingly black. “You think?” He said it with just the right amount of anger and disbelief to make her feel worse.

  She swallowed back two years of hurt, and gripped the arms of her chair with both hands. “You know how I struggled to keep friends while I was growing up.” Before cell phones and social media made it easier to keep in touch.

  “I was in a dark place, Shel.”

  She waited for him to say more. The Gage she’d known had been reticent, but not purposely uncommunicative. When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Do you remember that time I dropped my science homework in your bull’s pen?”

  He nodded, his face a study of sharp edges. He used to be strong and brave, not hard and unyielding.

  “You jumped in, grabbed my homework and jumped back out before that old bull ever saw you.” Before Shelby had a chance to be scared for him. Tentatively, she reached across the table and touched his shoulder. “That day, I realized you’d do anything for me. To me, that’s what friendship is all about.” Her throat threatened to close at the memory, as if admitting its significance exposed her to too much hurt.

  Gage leaned in, covering her hand with his. “Your friendship was important to me.”

  Past tense. She had to swallow twice to speak. “Can’t you tell me why you left?”

  He withdrew—shuttered his eyes and dropped her hand, expelled a breath that seemed to cool the very air between them. “Shelby, I...”

  Gage wasn’t ready to tell her the truth, she realized. He might never be ready. To reforge their friendship, Shelby would have to rely on blind trust. But a relationship built without truth had a weak foundation. She wasn’t sure she had enough trust left inside her for that.

  “After I check on the dog in the morning, I’ll drive to Davis to get my things.” His black gaze collided with hers, sending her a confusing rush of signals too overwhelming to separate and decipher. “I’ll move in tomorrow night.”

  He’s staying.

  Hope inside her chest expanded at his words, like a tulip stem breaking through a layer of snow, determined to blossom despite the harsh conditions.

  He might not come back tomorrow.

  A warning. A warning her heart wanted to ignore.

  * * *

  THE TRUCE THEY’D come to was fragile and hung heavily in the air.

  After Shelby did the dinner dishes, she rounded a corner in the hallway and bumped into Gage coming out of the bathroom in only a towel.

  Apologies were quickly exchanged and they gave each other a wide berth.

  With a hand on her bedroom doorknob, Shelby glanced over her shoulder at a retreating Gage, and gasped. “What happened to you?”

  The lower half of his back was like an impressionistic painting in purplish red and black. It wasn’t normal. She’d seen Gage’s bare torso many times before. Their raft had drifted into brambles once. Gage got the worst of it. Shelby had removed the thorns and cleaned out his wounds.

  Shelby rushed toward him. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been injured? You shouldn’t have been harvesting last night.”

  Gage put his discolored back to the wall. Clutching the towel with one hand, he held her off with the other. “It’s nothing. I got a little love tap from a mare.”

  “Let me see.” She reached out.

  He drew back. “Don’t worry, Shelby. It happened days ago. It’s just a hazard of the job.”

  Disaster seemed to be lurking everywhere. “This isn’t like a mosquito biting a gardener.” Shelby’s voice was near hysteria. And yet, she felt as if the world was spinning downward. “A kick like that could paralyze you.” Fear gripped her throat, making further speech impossible.

  What if she lost Gage, too?

  Her vision blurred around the edges, tunneling to Gage’s bare, muscular chest.,

  “Shelby!” Gage’s voice sounded far away.

  And in that faraway place, Shelby dreamed of Gage’s lips pressed to her forehead, of him tenderly whispering her name.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “HERE SHE COMES.” Dr. Wentworth sat in a chair at the end of Shelby’s bed amidst suitcases and wardrobe boxes. “You see it in their eyes first.”

  Shelby’s eyes were indeed fluttering.

  Gage forced himself to loosen his grip on her hand. As she’d dropped to the worn avocado carpet, so had his heart and his towel. He’d been cradling her, nearly naked, when Doc emerged from his bedroom. Back spasming in protest, Gage had carried Shelby to bed before hastily pulling on his clothes. “Breathe deep, Shel.”

  Shelby did as he asked, her chest rising and falling regularly. Her face was pale against her pink flowered sheets. Her eyes inched open, a deep blue, deeper than usual given her pupils were dilated.

  “Atta girl,” Dr. Wentworth said gruffly. “You shouldn’t scare me like that.”

  Shelby smiled weakly. Her gaze drifted toward Gage. She reached a hand toward his chest, grabbing a fistful of T-shirt. “You put a shirt on.”

  “Well, yeah. It upset you to see me half-naked.” Gage tried to joke, more worried about her than Sugar Lips’s love tap. He squeezed Shelby’s hand. “It upset me to see you pass out.”

  She blinked. Sat bolt upright. Almost fell over. Her steadying grip on his shirt was so tight the cotton stretched. “You were nearly killed.”

  Gage slipped an arm around her shoulders, lengthening sore muscles in his back that didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “Today?” Her grandfather’s bushy white eyebrows pinched together.

  She shook her head, which caused her to teeter again.

  “Easy,” Gage whispered, pulling her closer. She smelled like sweet nectar and fall leaves. “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t ever tell me you’re fine again,” she snapped, scowling as she looked at her grandfather. “Did you see his back?” And then she raised her head up to look at Gage. “Is that an everyday thing?”

  Gage tried to make light of his injury by bringing out The Smile. “Horses kick sometimes.”

  “Horses kick you!” She poked his chest repeatedly. “What if that was your head?” She crossed her arms and looked at him menacingly. “Your smile won’t work on me.”

  The need to kiss away both their fears was nearly overwhelming. Gage drew a deep breath. “My head’s not good for much anyway.”

  “How can you joke about this?”

>   Because he didn’t want her to worry. He should have known it was the wrong approach. “Doc, can you get Shelby some water?”

  “You should listen to him, honey.” The old man stood, bobbing like a rowboat on rough seas until he found his balance. “A horse kick? It’s as common as a dog bite to me.”

  “I’m surrounded by adrenaline junkies.” Shelby closed her eyes.

  Gage waited until the old man left the room. He eased Shelby back on the pillows, brushing a short lock of blond hair off her forehead. “As your friend, I appreciate your concern. But this type of incident doesn’t happen often. How often do you pass out?”

  “Incident? You think that’s what this was?” Her pupils were returning to near normal size. “No, Dr. Jamero. I’m not in the habit of passing out.”

  He nodded, unable to resist stroking the back of his hand across her cheek. When he spoke, he kept his voice soft and steady, as if he was talking to Sugar Lips, a high-strung mare who felt things had gotten out of control. “I’m good at what I do, Shel. Yes, sometimes the mare gets the best of me, but it’s a chance I have to take when a foal’s life is in danger.”

  “Promise me—” her voice took on that small fragile quality that had the strength to tug his heart “—you won’t put yourself at risk like that again.”

  The urge to please her was strong. “I can’t. No more than I can promise you a long and happy life. We both know that things can go bad in seconds. I take precautions, but that’s all I can do.”

  She tugged his shirt once more. “It’s not fair.”

  He tightened his arm around her shoulder, intending to kiss her forehead. Instead, Doc’s return had Gage sitting back in his chair. But in his mind, he imagined pressing his lips to Shelby’s in a gentle kiss that lingered, and healed, and made the unfair world a little more bearable.

  * * *

  SUNDAY MORNING SHELBY turned into the winery’s gravel driveway lined with palm trees. Ryan’s vehicle was just ahead of her. The sun crept above Parish Hill and peeked through the palm fronds. They’d been blessed with fair weather, no rain. An early frost or significant precipitation at this point would be disastrous to the Cabernet grapes. Though the mornings were growing colder, the grapes wouldn’t need much more time on the vine.

  As disastrous as her preoccupation with Gage, she’d woken to an image of him kissing her. His lips had been as gentle as his voice had been last night. She couldn’t let herself be lulled by his kindness. As surely as the sun rose every morning, he’d leave eventually and wouldn’t look back.

  She parked her small white SUV in front of the two story tasting room, beside Ryan’s old gray truck. The weather vane on top of the main building—a running horse, the winery’s logo—turned lazily as she and Ryan got out of their vehicles.

  “Over here,” Christine called from the farmhouse. She waited until they joined her, then led them to the back of the property, blond braided hair swinging with each step. “I’ve got an idea about a permanent wine cellar. I’m interested in your opinions.”

  Shelby needed to pull herself together. She’d be managing two wine cellars soon. Not one. Two! She walked faster. But not even the excitement of potentially setting up a second cellar could completely elbow away lingering thoughts of Gage.

  He’d left this morning, claiming he’d return as soon as he’d spoken to his boss at the equine hospital and collected his things.

  Would he return? Or disappear as he’d done after Nick’s funeral? Did she want him to come back?

  Hard as Shelby tried, she couldn’t shake how secure it felt to have Gage’s arms around her when she collapsed. Her overactive imagination insisted he’d whispered her name as if she was the most important person in the world to him.

  Shelby knew better.

  So she rejected the idea that she was starting to fall for Gage. She was a young widow, and he was the only man to have come close enough to have that effect on her since Nick died. Despite what Mae had said, friends were only friends. If they were to rekindle their friendship, Shelby would have to overcome the worry that one distraction, one mistake, one mistimed blink, would make Gage permanently gone.

  Oblivious to her turmoil, Ryan questioned Christine with his usual forthright manner. “We’re sacrificing grapevines for a wine cellar? How much will that decrease our tonnage?”

  “It depends on how large a wine cellar we build.” Christine looked to Shelby. “I have enough bottling permits to expand production from five thousand cases to eighty. Slade, Will and Flynn are willing to invest in further expansion if it creates more jobs. In order to do so, we can’t compromise on quality and we have to raise capital with the unused permits.” The government regulated how much wine could be produced in each region by issuing permits with production limits.

  “Will you lease or sell the permits?” Shelby asked, finally kicking thoughts of Gage to the curb.

  “Lease. When the world sees we’re making stellar wine and comes clambering for more, I’d like to have the capacity to produce eighty thousand cases a year.” It sounded like a big number, but Shelby knew many wine brands available in grocery stores sold millions of cases. Christine pointed toward the gravel entry. “Months ago, we were considering building a wine cellar across the road with an underground piping system. Mayor Larry owns that land. But the slope between here and there is uphill and works against us.”

  Poor Mayor Larry. That’s twice he’d lost out on a sale.

  “The property has a natural drainage toward the river back here.” Shelby walked into a sloping row, trying to envision the size needed for such a large storage facility. Grapevine creepers bent toward her in the breeze, their leaves browner than even two days ago. “Anything we build behind the main facility will capitalize on gravity.”

  “Anything we build here will mean sacrificing grapes,” Ryan pointed out. Shelby nodded absently, engrossed in the square footage calculations.

  “Don’t worry, Ryan,” Christine said. “Not only does my new growth plan include buying an additional fifty acres, but it includes hiring a vineyard manager.” She beamed like a kid in a pet shop about to adopt a cute little puppy. “Anytime I suggest hiring someone, my fiancé gets behind the idea.”

  Ryan brightened. “Gotta love a winery backed by the fortunes made in the tech world. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

  “Consensus. Love it.” Braid swinging, Christine led them toward the tasting room. “That’s one thing off my list. I’ll call a couple of architectural firms tomorrow to get some quotes. Between planning and city approvals, it’s going to take at least a year.”

  They climbed the narrow stairs to the office. It was a decent space with dormer windows and swag curtains. Shelby had been given a small table in one corner. Christine sat at her desk, indicating Shelby and Ryan should sit across from her.

  “If we’re pursuing new construction, we’ll need to be more visible about town. Get folks on our side. Explain all the positives of expanding the operation here. It took months to get the town council to approve this little winery to start with.” Christine tapped a pad of paper covered in scribbles with a stubby pencil. “I need both of you to network. Make friends. Be helpful. Put a strong face to the winery so that people will support us building a wine cellar.

  “First order of business is Mae,” Christine continued. “Shelby, I want you to keep Mae happy. We can’t afford the sale to fall through. We’ll need that space in both the short and long term.” Christine printed Shelby’s name next to Mae’s on her to-do list.

  “But-but-but...” Shelby sounded like a sputtering motorboat. “How would I do that? Besides, I’m just not...uh, the hearts and rainbow girl who appreciates Mae’s romanticism.”

  Ryan sniggered. Shelby scowled at him.

  “And Ryan.” Christine raised her voice sweetly, ignoring Shelby’s protest. “I�
�m assigning you to the ladies on the town council.”

  “I’ll take care of Mae,” Ryan blurted, jerking back in his seat. “Or Mayor Larry.”

  “No, you won’t.” Christine shook her head. “I’ll work with the mayor. He and I do yoga every morning and given all the property he owns, economic growth is in his best interest.”

  Ryan turned to Shelby, “Wanna trade?”

  “Ryan!” Christine’s glare was positively icy, but seemed to have no effect on Ryan.

  “Why don’t you want to work with the town council?” Shelby asked, suspicious of her coworker’s reason for a trade.

  Ryan stared out a dormer window, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “They think I’m cute.”

  Christine snickered.

  “It’s not funny.” Ryan ran a hand through his shaggy locks.

  Christine laughed harder. “It’s your own fault.”

  “That’s the worst part.” He slumped. “It is. I should never have let them feed me.” Ryan’s honesty was part of his boyish charm. Shelby couldn’t help but smile.

  “Those meals you mooched weren’t the problem.” Christine pointed her finger at him. “It was the mending. And the laundry. And those truck repairs.”

  Ryan cast Shelby a hangdog glance. “Word of advice. Always check with Mildred before you take your car in for service. Because she used to be a race car driver, she can diagnose a problem just by listening to your engine.”

  Shelby was skeptical, recalling Mildred’s unfocused vision in El Rosal. “Isn’t Mildred legally blind?”

  “She doesn’t need to see anything.” Ryan nodded morosely. “She’s a savant. If she was sixty years younger, I’d marry her.”

  “All right,” Christine said. “All kidding aside, you’ll do it. Those three old ladies adore you.”

  “I’m a grown man. They treat me like I was six.” With the fight back in him, he turned to Shelby. “When Agnes brought sandwiches the other night, she tried to put a napkin inside my shirt. Like a bib.”

  Shelby hid a smile behind her hand.

  Ryan winced. “I’m doomed.”