“Maybe it’s the style.” He looked around, grabbing another box that caught his eye.
He opened it up, peeled back the white tissue paper, and dangled a snakeskin number. “How about this one?”
“I like it.”
She slipped in on. “It feels good, too.”
“Here, try its partner.” He peeled off her other sandal as deliberately as he had the first.
Jamie turned this way and that in the full-length mirror Hank found for her, twisting her hips to make her skirt swirl around her legs.
She grinned. “I’m starting to feel like a real Oregonian.”
“Want to wear them out?”
She shrugged. “Might as well.”
He put her sandals into the boot box, stuck it under his arm, and headed to the checkout.
Jamie followed him to the register and reached into her bag.
“I got it,” said Hank, slipping a couple of large denomination bills out of his wallet onto the counter.
“Oh, no you don’t. Did you see how much they are?”
“I said, I got it. It was Ellie’s idea. The Sweet Spot will pick up the tab.”
“Thank you,” she said as they went out onto the sidewalk. “When Ellie asked you to buy me boots, I didn’t think she meant it literally.”
“Business expense,” he replied in a tone that said the subject was closed.
The wine fest was set up in the town square. At booth after booth Hank was greeted with warm handclasps and smiles. In turn, he made sure to introduce Jamie.
She marveled at the way he seemed to take it all in stride. For her, the chance to ask questions and touch the hands of the people who actually grew the grapes and blended her favorite wines was beyond thrilling.
They whiled away the afternoon wandering from booth to booth, sampling wines in tiny plastic cups, not getting the sales talk that Jamie was used to hearing at wine festivals, but chatting easily in the way of old friends.
“You must know everyone in Ribbon Ridge,” said Jamie.
“Not only do I know them, my parents knew their parents, my grandparents knew their grandparents, and so on. But we don’t see much of each other during the grape season. We’re always in the vineyards or the cellar. Winter’s our only slow time. That’s the social season, and when we do a little traveling to spread the word about our wines.”
“What’s it like here in the winter? Do you get a lot of snow?”
“You might think so, given that we’re on about the same latitude as you in Pennsylvania, but we have a maritime climate. Cool, misty winters and mild summers. That’s one of the reasons why grapes love it so much here.”
“Where do you go when you travel?”
“Mostly just up and down the coast.”
“What about all the other big cities? It seems like there’d be a lot of opportunity there.”
“I used to think that, too,” he said, returning the wave of a wine writer in town for the festival. “I’ve been to Chicago, New York, Miami. And I’ll go again. Actually, I’m leaving again tomorrow for a conference in Denver.”
“Weren’t you just there?”
“That was a rare exception. Friend from college invited me out. But on any given night in a major metropolitan area, a wine tasting—even a big one featuring vintners from places like New Zealand and South Africa—is just one option among many. Now, places like Des Moines and Harrisburg . . . those people really appreciate it when a vintner comes to town. They come out for us in droves.”
* * *
As dusk fell, they were ambling back toward the field that served as a parking lot when they heard live music coming from a band playing in a gazebo strung with white lights, behind the Turning Point Tavern. More lights were suspended from tree to tree, marking out the perimeter of a leaf-canopied dance floor on the grass, where people danced to the infectious tune.
Hank was about to suggest they head back when Jamie began to sing along.
“They’re good,” she said. “Want to listen for a while?”
He looked down at her eager eyes and caught a bit of her enthusiasm. How was it that she made things he took for granted seem new again?
Tentatively, he led her toward the dance floor. The ballad ended and the band launched into a swing dance.
Hank wasn’t expecting it when Jamie reached for his hand and twirled around to face him.
What choice did he have? He pressed Jamie’s right palm to his left. His hand went to rest lightly on her waist.
“You’re so lucky to live here in this beautiful place where you have so many friends.”
She was light on her feet, a delight to dance with. He swung her around and pulled her into him in time with the music.
The song ended with them both laughing, and with barely a pause, a slower one began.
Hank hesitated. “We ought to get going.”
“Just one more?” she pleaded breathlessly. “I haven’t danced in ages. Aren’t you having fun?”
“A lot more fun than a benefit dinner.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing,” he said, drawing her lush body against his and holding her close, breathing her in, her perfume mingling with the tang of trampled grass from all the feet that had passed by that day on the way to the wine fest.
Holding her hand aloft, he eased her fingers apart, intertwining them with his.
She returned the pressure, sending a thrill through him, and together they swayed to the music. Hank closed his eyes to block out everything but the feel of the curve of her lower back against his hand.
Her breasts pressed against his chest. Behind her back, he rubbed a lock of spun gold between his thumb and finger.
They danced to the next number, and the next, until Hank lost count. When the last song ended and the band said their farewells, he pulled slowly back and opened his eyes to find Jamie staring softly up at him, her lips parted. His gaze traveled down her swan neck to the sensitive cord of her shoulder, bared by her peasant top.
He swallowed, forcing his hands to fall from her waist to skim lightly over her hips on their way back to his sides.
Only then did their glances sweep around the floor to find that they were the only ones still there.
Jamie smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with expectation.
Just what did she expect? Despite this one, perfect day, the reality was that she didn’t belong here. Soon she would vanish into thin air and his days would drag on as if she had never existed, pouring wine in the tasting room, keeping a close eye on the vines for signs of trouble. It was going to be hard enough trying to forget her hair and her boots and this evening’s dances, he realized. If he let it go further . . .
The sooner they removed themselves from temptation, the better.
Without a word, Hank took her hand and led her away, heedless of his long, brisk strides that forced her to skip a step now and then to keep up.
When they reached the SUV, he held her door, then slammed it shut almost before she was all in, then booked it around to the driver’s side, revved the engine, and vented his frustration on the gas pedal, spinning a tire on his way out of the grassy lot.
Clenching the steering wheel, he homed in on the road, focusing all of his pent-up energy on staying in his lane.
The vehicle was warm from sitting closed up in the sun all afternoon. Hank needed air. He stabbed at the window control with his thumb, impatient for the glass panes on both sides of the cab to descend faster, their smooth downward course in irritating contrast to his erratically pounding heart.
But when the cool air finally rushed over him, instead of bringing relief, it brought the heady scent of the summer blossoms lining the sidewalks and the scent of Jamie’s perfume where it had rubbed off on his shirt.
As they sped through the soft night toward the inn as if he could run away from his feelings, he was acutely aware of her sitting beside him. He could see how the wind lifted her hair . . . the easy grace with which she smoothed it
down again . . . the movement of her head turning his way, and then, her lack of comprehension when he refused to meet her eyes, and she turned away.
* * *
Jamie stared out at forest-green shapes rushing past, not knowing what to say, how to act.
This day had turned out to be memorable. Hank had noticed it, too. She was sure of it. Hadn’t he been the one to start it—whatever it was—with his outright flirting at the boot store?
She’d seen his face when she was talking to his vintner friends. He’d been almost—dare she even think it?—proud to be strolling the wine fest with her.
And the barely restrained longing in the way he held her in his arms when they danced . . . well, even if she couldn’t put it into words, a woman knew when a man was attracted to her.
But ever since the dancing ended, it was almost like he was afraid of her.
Had she done something to offend him?
Or maybe she was wrong, after all, about him being attracted. From the way he sat over there as if they were complete strangers, staring at the road with the concentration of a NASCAR driver, maybe she’d been hallucinating.
After all, it wasn’t his idea to take her to town today. Ellie had foisted her onto him with her boot mandate.
She chanced another sideways glance at him, now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark. One arm rested on the window ledge, the other straight-armed the wheel. She could even make out a hint of a frown, and that he chewed the inside of his cheek, deep in thought.
She sighed softly, swooned a little bit inside, and bit back a telling smile. Today wasn’t the first time she’d noticed the way his hair waved around his ear . . . his well-proportioned body . . . his hands, carefully-groomed, yet rugged from his seeming inability to walk down a row of vines without ripping off every stray sucker that caught his eye.
Romance was the very last thing Jamie had come to wine country for. Never in the wildest stretches of her imagination had she dreamed of coming across a sexy, sulky hero.
And now she was stuck here until the middle of August. What was she supposed to do? Quit, like Bailey, and leave Miss Ellie, and Hank—even if he resented her presence—in the lurch?
* * *
It seemed to Hank like forever until they finally pulled up to his space in the back of the inn.
“Thanks again for the boots,” said Jamie, climbing out of the SUV.
Hank nodded curtly. “You go ahead in,” he said, his voice cracking, which only irritated him more. “I got some things to do before bed.”
He lingered by his truck, eyes glued to the sway of Jamie’s hips as she walked away. As soon as she disappeared through the front door he threw his cap on the ground, jammed his hands on his hips and paced the length of the truck and back. He looked to the sky for answers, but the stars weren’t talking.
How could it be that the subtle nods of approval that he’d received from the growers and vintners with regard to her had made him want to puff out his chest with pride? That the thrill of dancing with her, pretending for a few precious moments that they were more than just employer and employee, had inflamed him to the point of wanting to run out and conquer the world, something even his beloved Ellie hadn’t been able to spur in him in three years of trying?
He cursed and kicked up a rooster tail of dust.
Finally, he walked around to the back door and entered the dimly lit kitchen, where he found Ellie folding laundry.
“Did you have a good time in town?”
“Great.” He ran himself a tall glass of well water and gulped it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Jamie like the wine fest?”
“What’s not to like?” he grumbled.
“Pull in yer horns, Son. I’m just trying to be sociable.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
“Jamie said she was going up to take a bath. I’m headed up too, soon as I finish this laundry.”
“See you in the morning,” he said as he trailed out toward the great room and up the stairs to his suite.
“What time’s your flight?” she called after him.
“I have to be out of here by nine.”
He braced himself for Ellie’s usual hand wringing over his trip. Ever since she’d lost her son and daughter-in-law, the mere thought of him flying made Ellie anxious. But mercifully, all she said was good night.
He had just switched off his light, fallen onto the mattress, and squeezed his eyes shut tight against the turbulence of the day when he heard water running across the hall.
His eyes flew open to nothingness. He lay flat on his back, listening. A fence post away, Jamie Martel was stepping out of that white cotton skirt. He pictured her sleek hips and legs with the skirt in a pool around her feet.
The sound of water running through the pipes stopped. Now in his mind’s eye he saw her step over the rim of the bathtub and lower herself into the deep bubbles . . . washing away the dust and the damp excitement of the day that they’d shared, and he wondered if the memory of dancing in each other’s arms beneath the twinkling white lights was etched as deeply in her mind as it was in his. For he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, even decades from now, when he was old and grizzled, there would still be nights when he would lie awake and marvel over the woman who came to work for him one summer. The one who got away.
Chapter Fourteen
Denver
Hank and Delilah ducked into a dimly lit, masculine space with leather banquettes, blood-red carpeting, and a vaulted ceiling. Hank shook the water off the umbrella he’d been holding over Delilah and handed it and their wraps to a waiting staffer.
“Tell me again,” he said in a low voice, straightening the tie that threatened to choke him as the host showed them to their table. “Why are we having dinner here?”
“Bennett’s is known for their aged Kobe beef and their cellar.”
“I meant, why the Bakers? I only met him once.”
“I told you before. He and his wife are clients of mine as well as being wine lovers. They’ve entertained me at their home. He has a built-in cellar. When I told him you were coming to town again, he asked if they could buy us dinner. Smells great, doesn’t it?”
The tantalizing aroma of sizzling beef and promise of cold beverages lifted his spirits. The soft buzz of civilized conversation filled the air.
He shrugged off his misgivings. Delilah had been a generous hostess yet again, picking him up at the airport and letting him crash in her place, neither of which he had asked for.
A few cocktails did their intended job. The conversation was light, centering on the weather, travel, and cars. As they finished their salads, Hank listened quietly while Delilah, Stew, and Stew’s wife, May, argued the relative merits of her Lexus versus their BMW.
“How bout you, Friestatt, what do you drive?” Stew asked Hank, in an obvious effort to include him.
“My dad’s old 2003 Outback,” he replied, tipping his glass of the pinot Stew had graciously insisted he choose for the table.
“Champagne-colored, so it doesn’t show the dust,” chimed in Delilah. “Hank’s very practical that way.”
“All-wheel drive?” Stew asked.
Hank sliced off a bite of his Delmonico and nodded. “Any vehicle of mine has to earn its keep.”
“When I travel I always rent an Escalade. Clients like the legroom, and the suspension automatically adjusts to bad roads.”
Once the small talk was out of the way, Stew began asking Hank’s opinion on current affairs in Oregon, such as taxes and local politics, while Delilah engaged May by asking about where she’d found the dress she was wearing.
Finally Stew worked his way around to wine.
“How is this year’s grape crop looking?”
“We had above average rainfall in the spring. We’re looking for a high yield.”
“Last I read, your share of the greater Friestatt Vineyards was two hundred forty acres. That still the case
?”
There was an unwritten rule. Never ask a man how many acres he owned. A man’s acreage was nobody’s business but his own. If Stew had asked that question of the right guy at the Turning Point Tavern a sufficient number of beers into the night, he’d have been likely to learn that lesson the hard way. But instead they were here, in this ritzy Denver restaurant, and there were ladies at the table, so Hank settled for cracking his neck, still stiff from his flight and from working outside in the damp.
“Which journal’d you read that in?”
“I subscribe to several of them.”
“Delilah says you travel a lot,” said Hank, steering the conversation in a different direction.
“Mostly for work. Though lately, May and I have been to some places we would never have discovered if not for our friend Delilah, here.”
Next to him, Delilah sat back. Hank glanced at her just in time to see her and Stew exchange what looked like a meaningful glance.
“Worked in the real estate division of Snacks Galore for ten years,” Stew continued. “A regular paycheck. Safe, but I learned a lot.”
“And now?”
“I’m making deals on my own.”
Hank raised his glass. “Congratulations on your new venture.”
Stew drank, then cleared his throat and with an obvious glance around the room he lowered his voice a notch and said, “You’re well aware that there’s been a flood of new investment in the Willamette Valley. Fifty years ago there were only a handful of wineries there. Now seems there’s a new one every month. Land prices are skyrocketing because they can’t make enough pinot to meet demand. You got investors from all over. California, even as far away as France and Australia. Yamhill County’s the best of the best, and also the most expensive.”
Hank’s eyes flew to where Delilah kept May occupied with idle chatter. And he’d thought she was just being a gracious hostess to a fellow alum and she’d arranged this dinner for his entertainment.
“But in spite of the outward success, I know how hard it is to manage vineyards the size of yours. Day to day, year in and year out, it’s no different from traditional farming. It operates on rolling debt. Every bad year weather-wise puts you farther and farther in the hole. Nowadays you’re lucky if you have one kid who wants to stay on the family farm. Even if he does, chances are he’ll have to sell off part of the land to buy out his siblings, or at least to pay inheritance taxes. That means more farmland available to be converted to vineyards.
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