The image of a small plane filling the computer screen caught her eye.
“What’s that?” She leaned over the table where he sat and he spun his chair back around to face the laptop.
“I promised you a flight over the vineyards.”
Jamie was taken aback. She hadn’t been sure he was serious about flying her over the Sweet Spot the day he’d brought it up, the very first time she’d been with him in his tasting room. By now, she thought he’d simply forgotten. With all that had happened since then, she could hardly blame him.
“The airport’s just down on Dopp Road. I pointed it out to you on the way to town, remember? How’s Tuesday, bright and early? The sooner I call, the more likely we are to get the date and time we want.”
“But what about everything that needs doing around here?”
“We’ll be back before the guests are finished with breakfast. Nobody will even notice we were gone. Besides, nobody can work twenty-four-seven. It’s like you said when I met you. If you want something badly enough, you find a way to make it happen. He clicked the mouse. “Here’s what the plane looks like inside.”
She bent closer to the screen. There was barely room for a pilot and two passengers. In that tiny space, there would be no avoiding each other.
“Looks great, huh?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“You’re a fan of Erath, right?” he said when she hesitated. “And Montinore’s Riesling?
“You know I am.”
“We’ll fly over them, too. It’ll be amazing. As a matter of fact, that’s a good idea. Make me a list of all your favorite Willamette Valley wineries and I’ll have the pilot tailor the flight to it.”
He looked up at where she leaned over his shoulder with hopeful eyes.
“Really?” She stood up then. “Awesome.”
He scooted his chair in and began pecking the number of the airport from the website into his phone.
Chapter Twenty-two
Hank followed Bryce out to the center of Block Six, wary of what he might find there.
He inspected the vines carefully as they went, here and there fondling a greenish-purple cluster. Despite more rain than he would have liked early in the season, so far the ripening process seemed to be going well.
And then Bryce stopped and cupped a cluster that was brown and shriveled in the middle.
“See what I’m talking about?”
Bunch rot.
The botrytis fungus was always there. All it took was a little too much rain and a gash from a bird’s beak or rough handling by a field hand during pruning to start an infection that could wipe out a whole harvest.
“If the humidity is high toward the end of the season, it’s gonna spread like the devil.”
“Let’s get going and increase leaf removal to get the air moving between the bunches,” said Hank.
“That’s not going to do the trick,” argued Bryce. “We pull too many leaves at this stage, we’re going to run into a problem with sunburn. If you don’t want to lose the whole block, we should spray.”
“You know the drill. The key time to spray is at bloom. If we were going to go that route we should have already started.”
“I’m telling you, it could still work.”
“We’re not spraying. You know as well as I do that those fungicides are at risk of developing resistance, the same as antibiotics. You go fast and easy with them, come the time you really need them they’re not going to work. Besides, spraying goes against biodynamic principles.”
“Nothing wrong with copper sulfur, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Copper sulfur only works for powdery mildew. Not only that, I don’t want to risk damaging fruit finish.”
“I still say we need to spray.”
“Just try it my way and we’ll keep a close eye on it.”
Bryce threw up his hands and stalked off, leaving Hank frowning at the shriveled grape cluster in his hand.
Chapter Twenty-three
If you don’t love me, love whom you please Put your arms round me, give my heart ease.
—“Down in the Valley,” old American folk song
Hank stood behind the circle of benches surrounding the campfire with his arms folded. Jamie’s impossibly delicate vibrato mingled with the wood smoke from the flickering orange flames and dispersed into the black night.
Along the benches, parents nursing adult beverages leaned on each other’s shoulders while under the ancient oak tree, a scant handful of tireless children played themselves out chasing moths.
He used to forgo the sing-alongs. But this summer they’d become his favorite time of the day.
And tomorrow was going to be amazing. He’d stayed up late last night planning his and Jamie’s flight down to the last detail, even called and talked to the pilot personally.
“Give my heart ease, love, give my heart ease
Put your arms round me, give my heart ease . . .”
The song was interrupted by the whoosh of rubber on a dirt road. Hank glanced toward the back porch where Ellie’s empty rocker sat and was hit by a twinge of sadness. No matter how bucolic the setting, it wasn’t the same without her.
There it was again. Definitely a car coming.
Please, he thought. Not another Realtor. Not this time of night.
Discreetly, he left the gathering to head around to the front of the inn.
There, he stood in the driveway with his hands on his hips and squinted into the headlights.
Looked like the airport van.
What the hell was that doing here? What had he missed? He and Jamie were doing their level best, but he wouldn’t be surprised if a reservation had slipped through the cracks. He was going to have to start triple checking everything.
The van pulled under the porte cochere, the door opened, and a high-heeled foot emerged.
“Hank!” Delilah exclaimed, throwing her arms wide. But instead of the intended hug her mouth opened in an O and she flailed to keep herself upright.
Hank’s hand shot out to steady her. Looking down, he saw her high heel sunk into the soft dirt.
The driver opened the back of the van and pulled out a bag big enough to hold Hank’s entire wardrobe.
“How long are you planning on staying?”
“As soon as you told me about Ellie, I went to work rearranging my schedule. I thought you could use my help. I wanted to get here sooner, but this was the best I could do. I have to catch the next flight back to Denver tomorrow afternoon. Tell me, how is she?”
The driver with the long-suffering face cleared his throat.
“Tip the man, could you?” said Delilah without a backward glance. “I figured taking the limo was better than bothering you for a ride.”
Hank reached for his wallet, tipped the driver, then carried her bags inside and set them by the door.
“Am I too late for the campfire? The plane food was inedible. All I’ve been thinking about is how good a s’more would taste.”
Hank hesitated. Jamie was out there. She and Delilah couldn’t be less alike. He couldn’t imagine them together . . . especially with him in the middle.
He and Jamie weren’t a couple. Were they? What made two people a couple, anyway? Proclaiming your feelings out loud? A ring? Sleeping together?
They had done none of that.
But quirks of fate kept throwing them together.
He asked himself what it was that attracted him to Jamie—aside from the obvious—the high-voltage current arcing between them that made him want to ravage her whenever she hovered too near; her restrained, controlled singing voice that hinted of fire smoldering just below the surface.
He appreciated the way she was always ready to lend a hand—holding out hope even when things looked hopeless, like her horrible fried chicken. And of course he was inexpressibly grateful for her unswerving loyalty to his grandmother.
Those were the obvious things. There were other, less obvious examples, too, facets of her personality t
hat were still unfolding.
And even though she had drawn a line in the sand that she wouldn’t cross that night at the Peak, he knew in his heart of hearts that the attraction was mutual. There were subtle signs everywhere he looked. He knew it by the way he caught her eyes lingering over at him in the midst of an everyday chore, and how, when he was struggling to cope, she teased him into a better mood.
Whatever the special bond between them was called, he was acutely aware of how fragile, how fleeting it was, and that one day soon it would be over.
He took Delilah’s arm and led her away from the windows overlooking the fire circle and the pond. “Why don’t we go in the kitchen and I’ll make you something”—What? What could he tempt her with?—“green. A vegetable. I know—a salad. Or something.” If he could just keep Delilah and Jamie apart until the morning, he could think through how to handle them together in the same place.
“No,” she said, pulling her elbow out of his hand, drifting toward the window where the flickering flames had caught her eye. “It’s a s’more or nothing.”
Numbly, he followed her out the back door and down the steps.
* * *
Jamie had heard the vehicle, seen Hank fade into the night to investigate.
She considered interrupting her song to help him out. Who could it be? An unexpected guest who had been overlooked?
She racked her brain, trying to visualize the week’s reservation sheet. Surely, a night arrival would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb.
Where were they going to put these newcomers? All the cabins were already occupied.
Her concern mounted.
“All set?” Bill asked with a meaningful glance around the benches. The talking and fidgeting among the guests were signs that they were losing their audience.
Jamie repositioned her guitar on her knee when the back-porch door opened and out came Hank with an unfamiliar woman. An elegant, fine-boned woman whose heels necessitated using Hank’s arm as a crutch to navigate the porch steps leading down to the yard where they all sat.
At Jamie’s feet, Homer lifted his head and growled.
She had doe eyes, anvil-shaped cheekbones, and the kind of svelte figure Jamie had grown up seeing in those iconic images of brides being carried over the threshold. But as Jamie’s womanly curves had developed, it became more and more evident that that fantasy of one day being swept off her feet was only that—a fantasy. And no amount of dieting would do the trick. The Martels didn’t have those kinds of genes.
Maybe the woman was lost. Maybe she was on her way to a party at one of the many other nearby wineries and had stumbled upon the Sweet Spot by mistake.
So much had happened since Jamie had arrived at the Sweet Spot. She knew every winding trail. Could describe the house-wine blends, right down to the percentages of each varietal in them. She thought she knew Hank, too. Camping at the Peak, they’d found a common bond in their love for the land. And then Ellie’s stroke had forced them even closer together, and things had fallen easily into place, as if meant to be. She’d almost forgotten she’d only known Hank for a matter of weeks. Maybe there was more to him than she thought.
“Now, you hush, Homer.” Bill kept a wary eye on Hank and the newcomer as he patted the dog’s head.
“Who’s that?” asked Jamie, thinking aloud.
“I remember her. Calls herself a destination specialist. She was here last spring on a look-see.”
“Look-see?”
“That’s when they come to a resort and stay for a couple days to they can talk it up to their clients better. That one’s slipperier than a lemon seed.”
“What does that mean?”
Bill thought for a minute. “Means you have nothing to worry about with her as far as Hank goes.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Do you think we’re blind—me and Ellie and all the rest of the people who run this place? You’re one of us. You belong here. She doesn’t. She’s an outsider, and she’ll always be an outsider.”
Two of the guests sitting directly opposite Jamie and Bill made a place for Hank and the latest arrival.
Hank got one of the peeled sticks leaning against a tree and sat down beside her. Someone passed him the bag of marshmallows. He threaded one onto a stick and held it over the fire to brown at the same moment that the woman looked over and caught Jamie staring at them through the flames.
The woman kept staring at her as she whispered something into Hank’s ear.
“ Summer Time.’ ” Bill’s nudge brought her back to the present.
The crowd quieted in expectation.
Jamie marshaled her strength, dropped her jaw, and attacked the first note in her head register.
“I met a brown-eyed boy that summer
Between the meadow and the vine
Never intending to be lovers
Then came the taste of sweet red wine.”
She envisioned the notes flying from her throat, pushing the limit of the song’s dynamics.
“Now in the moonshine in my wineglass
I swear I see his face
And though it wasn’t meant to be
Still in my mind I see
That summer time, that summer place.”
She could hear Mrs. Anderson’s voice in her head, admonishing her not to belt. But for once, she didn’t care.
* * *
“What’s the occasion?” Hank asked Delilah bluntly. He saw no need to stand on ceremony when someone showed up out of the clear blue expecting to be accommodated.
Delilah shot him a hurt look. “Concern for you and your grandmother, of course.”
“You could have just called.”
“I fly for free, remember? One of the perks of being a flight attendant. And I love coming to the Sweet Spot. It’s just for one night. I hope I’m not imposing.”
“Long as you don’t mind staying in my grandmother’s room. Afraid all the cabins are full.”
“All I need is a corner somewhere.”
“I think we can do you better than that.” Even under the most trying circumstances, Ellie would never treat a guest less than hospitably.
“There’s something else.”
Hank looked up.
“Stew’s offer on your land?”
“That’s all over. Didn’t he tell you? I turned it down.” He stared down at his loosely clasped hands between his knees. He didn’t like to admit it, even to himself, but since then there’d been moments when he’d wondered if he’d done the right thing. But that train had left the station. There was no looking back.
“Do you remember that other offer that Stew had pending? I thought you’d want to know that it fell through.”
Something stirred inside him on hearing the news. “What does that mean to me?”
“It means that Stew asked me to tell you that he has a new offer for you.”
His thoughts swirled. Imagine—no more worrying about bunch rot and his stubborn vineyard manager.
“Hank,” she said with a nod toward the marshmallow he was toasting for her.
He brought the tip of the stick to his lips, blew out the flames and regarded the black shell.
“I’ll make you another,” he said, reaching for the bag.
With a flick of her fingers she said, “Don’t bother. And this time, his client wants to talk to you himself. They’re going to be together tomorrow morning at Stew’s office at eight—that’s nine, mountain time—and they asked me to set up a conference call.”
“I already have plans for tomorrow morning.” He had promised Jamie a flight over the vineyards while she was in the valley. And he always kept his promises.
“His client is headed out of the country tomorrow afternoon. That’s the only time he’ll be available for the next month. Hank”—Delilah laid a hand on his arm—“it’s unusual for a Realtor to put a seller and a buyer together in the earliest stages of a transaction. Do you know what this means? It means they’re willing to negotiate. Yo
u know what they say. Aim for the stars and you might just get the moon.”
He swallowed.
He could postpone the sightseeing flight with Jamie. They still had a few weeks before she went back to Philadelphia.
“You have nothing to lose by talking.”
He nodded.
“Great,” said Delilah. “Where’s a quiet place we can meet in the morning?”
“You’re going to be on the call, too?” he asked.
“If it’s okay with you.”
He shrugged. Hadn’t Delilah proven she was a shrewd businesswoman with her travel agency start-up and now that she was studying for her real estate license?
Around ten, the singing came to an end. Bill packed up and left. Some in attendance stood and stretched, while others lingered on the benches, talking, in no hurry to end the pleasant night.
Hank stood and with one hand hovering over Delilah’s back, swept the area for Jamie, but she was deeply involved in coaching Brynn with her guitar.
Hank carried Delilah’s bags up to Ellie’s suite.
Then he went directly to Jamie’s suite and knocked, but there was no answer.
A girl Brynn’s age had to have a curfew. He got ready for bed. A half hour later, at eleven, he padded across the hall in his bare feet.
But there was still no answer.
“Jamie.” He knocked again, louder, glancing warily down the hall to Ellie’s room, where he’d left Delilah.
Where could she be?
He returned to his room and sat on the edge of his bed and thought. What could he do? Slip a note under her door? He couldn’t wait until morning to tell her that he was canceling their flight over the vineyards.
He found her name in his list of contacts and called her, only to have the call go to voice mail.
“Jamie? This is Hank.” He stood up and paced the carpet. He’d never left her a phone message before. Whenever he needed her, she was right there. “I tried knocking on your door but you didn’t answer. The reason I’m calling is”—he winced—“I have to postpone tomorrow’s flight.”
The Sweet Spot Page 15
