Chapter Twenty-four
Stewart Baker’s client was Nick Rossi, a real estate agent on the staff of Countrywide Liquor Distributors, headquartered in Denver.
Stew prompted Nick and Hank to speak directly without his interference.
Nick began. “Hank, tell me what the stumbling block was on our earlier offer.”
“There was more than one. But my main concern was taking my grandmother out of the only home she’s ever known.”
Nick thought about that. “Supposing we acquired only the vineyards and winery?”
“Go on,” said Hank.
“You and your grandmother can keep the house and the acre of land that it sits on. You can even continue to run your inn if you want. As a matter of fact, to the casual observer there will be no sign that anything has changed. The biggest difference will be for you, in your workload. Let me ask you something. What is it that you’ve always wanted to do, but never had time?”
“I’ve always wanted to fly.”
“Once my firm assumes the management of the vineyards and the winery, you’ll be free as a bird. Hell, you can fly every day of the week if you want.”
When the call was over, Hank told Delilah that he had some chores that couldn’t be put off. He poured two cups of coffee and headed toward the barn.
In warm weather the horses stayed out all night. Now he paused at the peaceful sight of them grazing in grass covered in dew, their breath steaming in the early light.
He heard Jamie singing along with the radio before he saw her.
Dancer whickered a warning, and Jamie stopped currying his hindquarters and looked up expectantly. “Morning.”
Hank stared at legs bared by skimpy cut-offs.
“I said, good morning.” She followed his gaze. “If I’d known I was going to be spending the whole summer here, I’d have packed more jeans. This pair was on its last legs. No pun intended.”
He cleared his throat. “Thought I’d find you out here. Brought you some coffee.”
“Just set it over there on the ledge.” She commenced with grooming.
Hank reached out to pat Dancer, but the horse threw back his head as far as his cross-ties would let him and showed him the whites of his eyes.
“You got my phone message?”
With a nod, she pitched the brush into a basket along the wall and disappeared into the tack room, reappearing with a hoof pick.
“Been out already?”
“Dancer and I went for a good, hard ride, bareback, didn’t we, boy?” She ran her hand over his foreleg. “Lift.” The normally temperamental animal responded to her touch, docile as a kitten, and she began picking out the packed dirt.
Hank exhaled and shifted his weight, resting his hands on his hips while he tried to conjure up visions of forest fires . . . ice storms . . . anything but the vision of Jamie astride the Arabian in those short shorts, galloping across the meadows surrounding the vineyards.
“Putty in your hands, isn’t he?”
“Well, that makes one.” She laughed with irony as she moved on to Dancer’s hindquarters, the tension thick between them.
“Where were you last night?”
“Are you keeping tabs on me now?”
“I knocked on your door before I called you. I wanted to tell you in person about canceling our plane ride over the vineyards.”
“I took Ellie’s rocking chair for a little spin. I didn’t think she’d mind.”
“I know she wouldn’t.”
“She’s got a good view of the Big Dipper from up there on the porch this time of year. By the way. Couple of dead gophers in Block Nine.”
Hank shook his head. “I’ll be sure to check on that this afternoon. I’m sorry about the plane ride. I didn’t know I was getting company.”
“What did she want?”
“Who? Delilah?”
“Is that her name?”
“She wanted to tell me about another offer to buy the Sweet Spot.”
Jamie forgot about currying Dancer. She stood up to her full height.
“With this new offer, I can sell just the ground and keep the house. That way, Ellie wouldn’t have to move. And it wouldn’t have to happen overnight. It would be early next year before the deal closed.”
She thought about that for a moment, then resumed brushing Dancer harder than ever. “What about the horses?”
The horses.
“You said you could never get rid of the horses as long as Ellie was around. Or do you get to keep the paddock and the barn as part of the package?”
The meager one-acre allotment they’d be left with wasn’t nearly enough ground to support the animals. Needless to say, Countrywide wasn’t in the business of stabling pleasure horses. Their one priority was squeezing maximum productivity out of each acre. That meant bulldozing all of the outbuildings and planting them in vines. Dancer and Blitzer and the rest of the stock would have to be sold or boarded somewhere else.
Hank thought of Ellie gazing out the window of the inn to see nothing but vineyards coming right up to the foundation.
“Losing the horses would detract from the value of the inn, too,” she said, the effort she was putting into brushing Dancer making her sound slightly out of breath.
Funny. That was what Delilah had told him on her first visit to the Sweet Spot. More and more travelers were after experiences rather than things.
Dancer has never been cleaner, he thought.
“And the sheep?”
It pained him to admit it. “Without shelter, they would have to go, too.”
“What will they use to keep down the weeds and fertilize the soil?”
How had it not occurred to him? Once the big boys—people who were more interested in quantity than quality—got ahold of his ground, there was a chance that all that effort by his grandfather, tearing out all those old trees and replacing them with vines, and then his dad, trying to rid the soil of contaminants, would have been for nothing.
Hank scratched the back of his neck. “About that flight. Rain check?”
“Rain check.” She sighed, with a final pat to Dancer’s neck. She unclipped his halter from the cross-ties and headed in the direction of his stall, but Hank stood in the way.
“Excuse me,” she said.
He didn’t budge. “Why don’t you go in? Get some rest. I’ll get Bill to take out the morning ride.”
“I’ll rest later. Right now I’m on a roll.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, stepping aside. “But you don’t have to do all this. You know that.”
“Got a lot of excess energy to burn off.”
He watched her lead Dancer away until she was out of sight, wondering exactly when it was that he’d started caring about the opinion of the stranger he’d brought home from the airport in June.
* * *
Hank told Theresa that he’d be in the tasting room if Delilah was looking for him before the van took her back to the airport.
It was almost noon when she came in to say good-bye.
“I wanted to ask you about Ellie before I go. What’s her prognosis?”
“Still touch and go,” said Hank from behind the counter, where he was stocking bottles of Riesling.
Delilah slid onto a bar stool across from him, carefully considering her next words. “After Stew’s initial offer, you said that Ellie was the biggest impediment to you selling. If worse comes to worst and she dies—”
Hank whirled to face her, thumping two bottles down on the counter, his knuckles white. “She’s not going to die!”
“God forbid,” replied Delilah calmly. “But you just said the doctors said it was touch and go.”
“My grandmother is not going to die. It won’t be long before she comes out of it. A little physical therapy and she’ll be back home, good as new, where she belongs, and everything’ll be back the way it used to be.”
“Of course it will,” she replied in a voice designed to soothe. “But wouldn’t it be wise to have a contingency pl
an, just in case?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Hank and Jamie continued to take turns visiting Ellie and managing the Sweet Spot as best they could. One afternoon Jamie drove home trying to recall the contents of the fridge, hoping there was something she could make into a passable meal for Hank and her.
When she opened the fridge she saw a covered dish with a note on top.
Reheat at 350 for forty-five minutes.
Jamie frowned and peeked under the foil, but all she could see was an even layer of shredded orange cheese.
She couldn’t tell what was hiding under that cheese, but whatever it was, it was going to be dinner.
She slipped it into the oven and turned on the heat.
An hour later, when Hank came in from work, the nicely browned casserole was sitting on top of the stove, waiting.
“Something smells good,” said Hank, hopefully spooning a giant portion onto his plate. “What is it?”
Jamie hesitated. “It’s a surprise.”
She served herself, then sat down across from him and watched as he tried it.
He looked up at her. “Tuna noodle casserole. It’s great.”
The biggest problem with cooking was that you had to do it every day. Not just cook, but come up with a menu, then a list of ingredients, then shop for those ingredients.
The next day Jamie again put off the daunting task of putting together dinner until the last possible minute.
She opened the fridge again. There was another dish accompanied by simple finishing instructions.
This time it was lasagna.
“Your cooking has come a long way,” said Hank appreciatively, helping himself to seconds.
Jamie thought about who had access to the kitchen. It couldn’t have been the teens. The only logical suspects were Joan or Theresa.
The following week, she walked into the kitchen after the trail ride ended early and caught Theresa penning what looked suspiciously like one of the notes on the phantom dishes.
“Ha! Caught you red-handed. I wondered who it was that’s been making me look good.”
“Those are my go-to dishes. I know them by heart. Don’t even need to read the recipe anymore.”
“Don’t be so modest. You had to purchase the ingredients.”
“I picked them up along with the regular shopping for the guests’ meals.”
“Those suppers have been a lifesaver. How did you even know I was struggling?”
“Your repertoire of songs may be impressive, but when I kept finding empty boxes in the trash in the mornings, I realized you could use a little help. I was here anyway.”
“What can I do to thank you?”
“You helping Brynn is all the thanks I need. Those guitar lessons have made all the difference. She’s gaining confidence. She’s been having friends over, going out more.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit. All I did was show her a few tricks. It was more encouragement not to hide her talent, if anything.”
“Whatever it was, I’ll be forever grateful.”
Chapter Twenty-six
At a small table in the tasting room sat Hank and Rob Stickler.
Hank poured Rob a small glass of pinot, slid it in front of him, and waited, observing Rob’s face carefully as he drank.
Rob smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Discernible tannins.” He swirled his glass, noting the color with a critical eye. “Was it made using the whole cluster technique?”
Hank nodded. “Impressive.”
The interview to replace Ellie had been going on for the past half hour. So far Hank had determined that Stickler’s knowledge of wine was certainly up to par.
Stickler set his glass down on the table, which was empty except for the bottle and two glasses. “I have to ask. Isn’t there some sort of application?”
“We’re not that formal around here. I figure when I meet the right person for the job, I’ll know it.”
“No application? Then how will you know about my education? Track my employment history?”
Hank spread his hands. “I thought I’d just ask you.”
Stickler frowned. “But what about references? Background check?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“Well, then. That’s out of the way.”
Rob shifted his weight. “Say I take the job. You’ll give me a complete, detailed list of my responsibilities along with your expectations, so that when the time comes for my review, I’ll know if I’m meeting my employment goals.” He looked at Hank expectantly.
“There’s no list.”
How could there be, when every day was different? Some days Ellie might be running the tasting room. The next she could be whipping up dinner for a crowd, and the next on the phone with the vet about a lame horse or a lamb that had come down with a virus.
Rob wrung his hands in his lap. “No list.”
“’Fraid not.”
Hank rose and extended his hand. “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll let you know when we’ve made a decision.”
Hank walked Stickler out of the tasting room and stood with his hands on his hips, watching as Stickler used his cuff to rub away a smudge on the already spotless windshield of his Volkswagen Rabbit.
Stickler was the fourth candidate that week he’d interviewed to replace Ellie. The first had accepted a lengthy personal phone call and then demanded a salary that was twice what he could justify. The next had all the right skills, but her personality was so abrasive Hank was afraid she’d offend the guests. The third had been a no-show. Hank had relented after the man called and apologized profusely, and granted him a second chance. But the guy was twenty minutes late.
Stew had given him a considerably longer window of time to decide about his latest offer. It might have been designed to make Stew look bighearted, but Hank knew it was a strategic move. Stew was banking that Hank was simply skittish and that given enough time, the idea would take root.
Whatever the reason, Hank had to admit—it was working.
* * *
When Hank walked through the front door of the inn after the Stickler interview, the tinkling of Ellie’s baby grand stopped him in his tracks. It had been years since he’d heard Ellie play.
He followed the music into the great room, where Jamie concentrated intently on the sheet music lying open against the music rack.
Without disturbing her, he sank into the leather couch, let his head fall back, and closed his eyes.
When she was finished, she slipped the front piece of music to the back and leaned in to study the next one in the thin stack.
“Oh,” Jamie said, making room when Hank sat down beside her on the bench. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“What was that?”
“Schumann’s Opus 54. It’s one I’m familiar with.”
“I remember when Grandma used to play.”
He saw compassion in her soft smile. “How did the interview go?”
Hank pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “This isn’t going to work.”
She twisted to face him. “What do you mean?” “I don’t think I was cut out to do this.”
“I take it Stickler isn’t your man.”
“If Bill had been there, he’d say Stickler was wound up tighter than a banjo string. It’s not just Ellie’s job that needs to be filled. I’ve taken a good, hard look at the staffing situation. There’s been a steady uptick in the number of visitors in the past year. We could use another housekeeper and tasting-room docent, too.”
“Those positions are more defined. Hopefully those searches will go more smoothly,” said Jamie.
“What if they don’t? Joan and Theresa have been a godsend, but they have to leave when school starts. And so do . . .” His voice trailed off.
* * *
In her mind, Jamie finished Hank’s sentence. Very soon, she would be leaving, too.
She had sent her résumé to Dr. K
eller. She was going to tell Hank about her interview during their plane ride. Moving to Newberry would open up a world of possibilities, not just for her career, but for Hank and her.
But that was before that woman had shown up.
Even after Hank canceled their plane ride, she still considered telling him. And then he told her about the new offer to buy his land.
If Hank left the Willamette Valley, would she still want to move here?
“You’ll do it the same way your parents did it, and Ellie and all the people that came before them, by pouring your heart and soul into it. Their strength and resolve runs through your blood.”
Hank looked around at the room filled with mementos. “I’ve been giving more thought to that offer.”
Jamie jumped up from the piano bench. “Let’s take a walk.”
“I want to check on the sugar.”
“I’ll walk out to the winery with you to get the refractometer.”
As they walked along the bank of the pond, she gazed out at the rolling blue hills in the distance.
“This looks an awful lot like the countryside around my old farm. I’ll never forget the night I found out I was going to lose it. Spring break of my junior year in college . . .”
* * *
She’d whipped up a batch of macaroni and cheese—the good kind, the kind that comes in the blue box—to go with the traditional Easter ham. Thankfully that was a cinch to make. All you had to do was warm it up.
After supper, her sister and her sister’s boyfriend slipped away for a while.
Jamie was sitting on the back stoop of the limestone farmhouse while Dad put the cows to bed.
Easter had come late that year. The days were growing longer. Purple crocuses fringed the steps. A barn cat zigzagged through the yard, leaping at unseen bugs.
The promise of spring was all around her. Her eye landed on the clothesline pole, and she remembered when she and Sally used to twirl around it when they were kids.
That’s what she was doing when Dad ambled out from the barn, sank onto the stoop, and without preamble, broke the news.
“I’m gonna sell the farm, Jamie.”
She’d stopped mid-twirl and stared at him in disbelief.
“The developers have been after me for years. I held out for as long as I could, but I think it’s time. This farm is an island in a sea of housing developments. The market is strong. I might never get as good a price.”
The Sweet Spot Page 16
