Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  Slade put down his drill and took her by the shoulders. “Christine, none of those things are happening.”

  “But a permit this size is too valuable to sit idle. If we’re not filling capacity ourselves, whether you want to sell or not, companies will start to call and offer to buy it. Do you know how much this permit is worth?”

  “No.” He looked surprised that he didn’t know. “Don’t worry. Someone would have to offer us an obscene sum of money. And I don’t mean what I would consider obscene, but a dirty, obscene amount of money that the partnership would be foolish to refuse.”

  “That doesn’t reassure me.” She stared at the permit, trying not to think about how reassuring it felt to be held by him, trying to focus on what this meant to her career. If...if...if...

  She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  “Touch my tie,” he said softly.

  “I don’t wanna.” She’d started to read a copy of his application the day the mayor surprised her in the tasting room. She should never have set it aside. She wouldn’t have felt so betrayed. She wouldn’t have kissed him. “You should have told me you’d submitted it for this amount.”

  “I didn’t even tell my business partners I changed the number on the application. Christine, it was a gamble, designed to position us for growth.” He sighed and pulled her close. “Now, touch my tie. It’s Italian. You’ll feel better.”

  Christine touched the red silk, just below the knot, and ran her hands down its length. It was simply smooth, nothing like the man it kept locked in.

  “Feel better?” He stroked her hair.

  “Yes.” But she was still convinced he’d sell something.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “We’re not selling the permit. We’re not selling the winery.” He pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead. “Now, get back to work. We want our first five thousand cases to be fantastic.”

  It was a dream come true—building a winery exactly how she wanted, making high-end, limited-quantity wine with the possibility to grow.

  But experience had taught Christine how easily dreams became nightmares.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “YOU LIKE HER.” Faith’s dimple accented her smile.

  “We like her,” Grace seconded.

  Slade tried not to grin and failed. He couldn’t get used to the girls easily smiling and talking to him. And he did like Christine. A lot. When he wasn’t focusing on the girls, he thought of little else but Christine. About how lucky he was that she hadn’t quit and didn’t run away every time he tentatively touched her hand, her shoulder, her bright blond hair. He’d settle for friendship if that was what she wanted. Who was he to ask for more?

  “You girls are right. Look at your dad, smiling like it’s Christmas morning.” Phil peered in Slade’s direction from over the edge of his newspaper. The hands that held the paper shook. He may have been the town barber, but you’d risk your ears requesting a cut. “I like the way you operate, Slade. And your girls are cute as plums, but your partnership promised the town you wouldn’t sell. And just now, you promised that little winemaker the same thing. Wouldn’t do to lie to the woman you love.”

  Love?

  It was too soon for that, not to mention too optimistic. Between having his daughters with him, the support of his friends in town, and Christine, he’d been thinking this was about as good as life got. Why swing for the fences and strike out?

  “We’re not selling.” Slade leaned on the back of the barber chair the twins occupied. “Thank you for telling me you like Christine.”

  “Are you going to marry her?” Grace unwound the orange headband she was wearing and wrapped it triple around Faith’s wrist. She angled her back toward Faith. “French braid, please.”

  “We approve.” Faith started finger combing Grace’s hair.

  Grace put her small palms on either side of Slade’s cheeks. “You need someone nice.”

  “To make you smile.” Faith didn’t take her eyes off her work.

  Grace wobbled his head ever so gently. “Because you don’t smile enough.”

  “And we should know. Our newest step-dad...” Faith stopped braiding to look at him. She rolled her eyes. “He says we don’t smile enough.”

  “And Mom always says we got your smile.” Grace removed her hands from his face and folded them in her lap. “And that our smile is pretty.”

  It was the longest conversation they’d had to date. Slade imagined his grin stretched from ear to ear.

  “Well?” Grace said, staring pointedly at him.

  “Well, what?” Slade was confused.

  “Are you going to marry Christine?” Faith repeated her sister’s question.

  Phil angled forward, aiming his good ear in Slade’s direction.

  That was all Slade needed—for the local rumor mill to go off half-cocked about him and Christine. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in her, but that was nowhere close to marriage. For anyone to be in a relationship with him long-term, they had to trust he could hold it together. That was a whole lotta trust to ask of someone, even if Slade was convinced suicide wasn’t the answer to overwhelming problems.

  “Dad,” Grace whispered.

  “We’ll see,” Slade said quickly, because he feared the whispers would deteriorate to twin speak once more.

  “That means no.” Faith shrugged when he looked at her. “That’s what it means when Mom says it.”

  “Those girls are smart.” Phil raised his paper in front of his face.

  Slade’s cell phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Mr. Jennings, I’m Tom Bartlett.” The man’s tone was so perfectly pitched, Slade could see him sitting at a large mahogany desk in a heavily carpeted room. “I represent several firms that are interested in bottling permits in Sonoma County.”

  The hair on the back of Slade’s neck went up, exactly how it did when he noticed a big opportunity to make money.

  “We hear that you’ve just received a moderate bottling permit, but that you haven’t completed your winery yet. In fact—” papers shuffled in the background “—you have yet to install a bottling line.”

  “How do you know that?” Now the hair on the back of Slade’s neck rose for an entirely different reason.

  “I’m prepared to offer your company a substantial sum of money for that bottling permit to be transferred to us. In return, we’re prepared to offer—” He named an obscene sum. “And we’ll bottle your small lots of wine every harvest for the next five years. No charge.”

  Slade gripped the chair tighter. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “We’d like to meet.”

  “I’m sure you understand, Tom. We’re a partnership. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  With a refusal, right?

  * * *

  SLADE WAS IN JAIL.

  He sat on the floor in the corner of the small, dusty cell in the sheriff’s office.

  Nate was sanding the rust off the cell bars. Flynn and Will were framing windows with wide rolls of painter’s tape in preparation for painting. Will was struggling to tape in a straight line. The girls played hopscotch on the sidewalk with Truman.

  “This will be the first of many offers we’re going to receive.” Slade knew what he had to do—advise his partners as to what was best for the firm. Based on what Christine said, he had a sinking suspicion that more offers would be forthcoming. Likely more lucrative offers and ones that extended to include not just the permits but the entire winery.

  “Rose predicted this would happen, remember?” Will applied a strip of tape on the window’s edge, examined his work, and peeled it up to try again. “We were just at the Lions Club meeting.”

  “That’s right.” Flynn unrolled a long strip of tape bet
ween his hands. “And we told them we wouldn’t sell.”

  Slade couldn’t believe that less than an hour ago he’d been happier than he’d been in years. He’d promised Christine they weren’t interested in selling. But that was before he counted six zeroes behind a number. What they decided to do with the permit would either be seen as the savviest business move or the biggest miscalculation he’d ever made. It was no longer about personal promises—it was about a successful business venture.

  “It’s my job to advise you that this offer almost covers the cost of our investment here so far. The offers are likely going to increase, until as the partnership’s CFO, I’ll have to propose we sell.” Two months ago, those words would have brought Slade relief. Now they sickened him. What would happen to Christine and the tentative balance they’d achieved? She’d have no reason to stay in Harmony Valley. And neither would he.

  Too late, he realized he’d grown to love the quirky little town.

  “I thought you were all gung ho on the winery.” Nate stopped sanding, the unusually sharp tone in his voice reminding Slade that Nate’s job hinged on the partnership’s ability to attract people to town. “Of the three of you, you can’t stop talking about it.”

  “The problem,” Will said, “is that Slade likes to make money.”

  “Or prove to someone who doesn’t believe in us that we can make money,” Flynn added.

  Slade smoothed his tie, his hand lingering over the knot, thinking of Christine’s fingers on his silk and how they’d unraveled him. “What can I say? Some people get paid to swing a bat. I get paid to watch the bottom line.” And despite the promise of Christine’s wine-making skill, despite the high-tech equipment they’d invested in, despite the cache making money in the wine world would bring, Slade knew a check with at least seven zeroes behind an eye-popping number would be the safer investment.

  “We gave our word.” Will stopped trying to get his tape properly lined up on the window.

  “Yep,” Flynn seconded, eyeing Will’s work with a frown.

  When it came to programming, his partners were geniuses. When it came to money, not so much. “We have to be accountable for our bottom line.”

  “There are plenty of examples of people who didn’t sell and held on to their investment only to see its value increase even more,” Will pointed out.

  “Why would you keep me in this partnership if you’re going to ignore my advice?” There. He’d said out loud what he’d been worried about for months. It didn’t make him feel better. His words agitated the anxiety that rode most days in his stomach.

  “We’re not going to buy you out just because we disagree with you.” Will crossed his arms over his chest, a ping of annoyance in his voice. “What’s going on with you?”

  Slade noticed he didn’t say they’d never buy him out.

  “We came here to recharge,” Will continued. “But we stayed to help revitalize the town.”

  “I never wanted to help.” Slade spun his pinky ring. “You know I never wanted to help.”

  “But you have been helping,” Will said quietly. “And it seems like you enjoy it.”

  What he was enjoying was Christine’s company and striving toward the goal of making a name for them in the wine world. There’d be great buzz in financial circles if they sold their winery for a profit before they ever bottled a drop, adding to their partnership’s worth. They’d be seen as golden boys who could do no wrong. Let the next company that came in deal with Mayor Larry. Their future would be set. It was what he’d been working so hard to prove. He wasn’t a fluke or a failure. He could make his fortune again and again. Overcome stress and odds and stand tall while doing it.

  Nate leaned down and tapped Slade’s shoulder. “Look at the girls. They love it here.”

  Faith was giving Truman a piggyback ride. Grace skipped alongside. They were planning a campout in Flynn’s yard tonight.

  “But they aren’t going to stay.” The words felt heavy and full of regret.

  “I promised my grandfather.” Flynn visibly struggled to say more. “I promised him...this winery would benefit Harmony Valley. I can’t sell out and just leave.”

  Every fiber of Slade’s being returned to that terrible November day eight years ago. He felt again the debilitating grief.

  “If an offer comes in that I think is perfect and I’m outvoted on accepting it,” Slade said slowly, “I’m going to leave the partnership.”

  Because if they received an outrageously large offer for every tank, forklift, and wine barrel, Slade could finally say he’d done it, he’d cleared his debt to his father.

  He could sell the Death and Divorce House and move on.

  Dinner tonight?

  CHRISTINE LEFT SLADE’S text message unanswered. She listened to the installer go over how to operate the crusher and stem remover. Ryan filmed the man with his cell phone so they could review it again later.

  Other than the bottling line, the main installations were complete. The winery was beautiful. Maybe not as luxurious as one of the showplaces in Napa, but no one could say that they’d cobbled together this winery. When the buyers came, as she knew they would no matter what assurances Slade had given her earlier, they’d be impressed.

  Maybe she’d get a bigger termination bonus than her contract stipulated.

  Christine hadn’t thought she’d grow so attached to the winery, the town, or the man who’d brought her here, in so short a time. Leaving would be harder than the last time. In fact, every position she left was harder to leave than the last. She wanted to set down roots. She wanted the chance to extend herself and grow.

  Cami’s bitter words came back to her: Your family isn’t known for its loyalty.

  Was that who she’d become? A fair-weather winemaker? Moving on at the first sign of trouble like her dad, rather than sticking through the challenging times like her mom?

  Her phone buzzed again: I understand.

  Christine sighed and texted back: Busy. Wait.

  Did she want to have dinner with Slade and the girls again?

  Nana would speculate.

  Heck, Christine would speculate. And what about the deal they’d made to respect each other’s boundaries?

  Boss-boss-boss. How hard could it be to remember Slade was her boss?

  Pretty hard when she considered that gentle kiss on her forehead this afternoon, adding it to her memories, right next to the one of their first kiss.

  She could take Nana along. Her grandmother was good with children. It probably helped that she was their size and had such an easygoing temperament.

  She’d go if it was a working dinner. Was there any reason to call this a working dinner? She could take a couple of pictures of the new equipment with her phone and show them to Slade. She’d received new templates to review for the website. He hadn’t seen any of them. And the problem of how to harvest the grapes without a crew remained.

  Mentally, she could handle a business dinner. Emotionally, she wasn’t so sure.

  Her phone rang.

  Her grandmother rarely raised her voice, but she practically shouted in her ear, “Why didn’t you tell me Slade proposed?”

  “What?”

  Nana bulldozed right over her. “My friend Rose is always harping on about how Emma is marrying a millionaire. Well, now I can shove that right back at her. You should have told me first thing.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “What kind of ring did he get you? Emma’s sporting a beautiful three-carat diamond surrounded by pink sapphires. But I’d like to see something bigger on your finger. You’ve got the taller body to carry off some bling.”

  “Nana!” Christine cut in when her grandmother took a breath. “We aren’t getting married! Where did you hear this?”

  “Everyone’s talking about it. M
ildred just called me.” Nana’s voice reflected her disappointment. “You mean you’re not getting married to Slade?”

  “No!”

  “Could you consider it? Otherwise, I’m going to have to call Rose back with the news.”

  “Call Rose!” Christine hung up on her.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Slade: Need to talk.

  She texted back: Ya think?

  Her phone buzzed again.

  It was her dad: Word is your bottling permits are for sale. 80K cases? Don’t let them push you around.

  Gossip among the wine-making community was worse than here in Harmony Valley.

  Christine wanted to yowl in frustration.

  She answered back: Not for sale. Chill.

  Not what I hear. Time to call it and get out.

  Christine’s stomach knotted tighter than one of Slade’s ties. Her father wasn’t going to stop badgering her. Not until she’d proven they weren’t selling—which she wasn’t even sure she believed—or she quit. Christine wanted to believe in Slade. She wanted to helm this winery. But if they did sell, when was the better time to jump ship? Before the sale or after? Her father was a firm believer in before.

  Another text came in: You still employed?

  She assured an old friend that she was, grumbling to herself about gossip, all the while feeling doubt weaken her knees, her backbone, her resolve.

  This was supposed to be her dream job, the winery that solidified the platform of her reputation. Instead, her platform seemed ready to crumble and her dad’s genes were telling her to run.

  But there was more at stake here than merely a job. There were her grandmother’s expectations and the partnership’s promises that the winery would bring jobs to town. There were Ryan’s expectations of a long-term job. There was Slade’s expectations that she’d run away if she saw his scar.

  He’d promised they weren’t going to sell. She had to believe him, despite everything in her telling her otherwise.

  “Everything okay?” Ryan asked.