Once Upon a Wine

by Beth Kendrick

  Kat nibbled her lower lip. “Please?”

  “Ugh.” Cammie wiped her face on the hem of her T-shirt, realizing too late that she’d left oil stains all over the fabric. “Fine.”

  “Thank you. You’re a rock star.” Kat pulled out her phone. “I’ll text him right now. Wow, look at the time. You better go shower. No offense, but you look like a farmer.”

  • • •

  While she shampooed her hair and shaved her legs, Cammie reflected that dating in Los Angeles had conditioned her to keep her expectations low and her bullshit detector finely tuned. Every time she sat down to have coffee with a new prospect, she had the feeling that he was looking over her shoulder just in case something better came along.

  That was the thing about Los Angeles: Something better always came along. A younger girlfriend with bigger boobs. A newer, faster European sports car. A hot lead on a major studio deal that was mere minutes from being signed. How could anyone be expected to commit when the carousel of shiny new temptations was always turning?

  Cammie had become as guilty of this as anyone else. She’d spent the past few years telling herself that she’d be happy as soon as she got a bigger apartment, made a profit at her dream job, found the love of her life.

  She hadn’t accomplished any of that, of course. She’d tried her best, given it her all, and ended up completely bankrupt, in more ways than one. But as she turned off the shower and wrapped her wet hair in a fluffy towel turban, she knew that she had something worthwhile to show for all her trials and tribulations in California.

  Her magic jeans.

  Blue, soft, and produced by an obscure Moroccan designer whose name Cammie couldn’t even pronounce, these jeans were the real-life equivalent of airbrushing her lower half. She’d tried them on at the urging of a salesperson on commission at a boutique on Robertson Boulevard, and once she’d put them on, she never wanted to take them off. Her only regret was that she hadn’t bought multiple pairs.

  She was still drying her hair and debating her lipstick shade when she heard the crunch of tires on the driveway.

  “Cam!” Kat hollered up the stairs.

  “Coming!” Cammie stopped fussing, took a calming breath, and walked her magic-jeans-clad ass downstairs to talk farming with the one man she’d sworn she’d never farm with.

  • • •

  “I’ll give you this—at least you got the soil right.” Ian greeted her in the entryway, his expression both impressed and incredulous.

  Cammie paused on the second step and struck a pose. “Hello to you, too.”

  “This is the best ground for growing grapes in all of Sussex County.” He was too busy looking at the house and the fields to be awestruck by her beauty. “I didn’t realize the owners were selling.”

  “Neither did I—this is all my aunt’s doing.” Cammie gave up waiting for him to ogle her and descended the final steps.

  He continued to look at everything but her. “Why’d your aunt buy it?”

  “I believe a bucket list was involved.”

  He nodded and finally gave her his full attention. “And here we are.”

  “Here we are.” She looked into his warm brown eyes and her anxiety ebbed away.

  “You ready to get acquainted with your tractor?” He started rolling up his sleeves.

  “We can’t.” She gave him a quick rundown of the oil fiasco. “Kat says it’s not safe to drive right now.”

  “It’s not!” called Kat from the parlor, where she’d positioned herself for maximum eavesdropping potential. “Plus, I think the battery’s dead. I can’t get the engine started.”

  “So we can’t have our tutorial. Not tonight, anyway.” She had no idea how he’d respond to this.

  Ian kept looking at her, assessing. “All right, then let’s take a walk.”

  “A walk?” Cammie frowned.

  “Yeah. I want to see the grapevines.”

  She squinted up at him. “So now is this a date?”

  “It’s a walk.” He paused and checked his phone as an alarm sounded. His expression tensed as he read the message on the screen.

  “Everything okay?” Cammie asked.

  “Yeah.” He glanced back up. “Just a weather alert. There’s a heat advisory for tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” Cammie tried to sound casual. “Which app are you using?”

  He told her, and Cammie made a mental note to download it later.

  “Let me get you something to drink.” She led him to the kitchen, where a strawberry pie was cooling on the counter, filling the room with a mouthwatering aroma. Then she glanced at the top of the refrigerator, where the strawberry wine was still fermenting. It wasn’t ready yet.

  “Iced tea?” she offered.

  One corner of his mouth tugged up. “We need something stronger than iced tea.”

  “We only have really bad wine. Really, really bad wine. Like, someone should be in jail for this wine.”

  “I’ll drink it if you will.”

  They headed out to the fields with plastic cups of really, really bad wine in their hands. The fading sunlight cast a golden glow across the vineyard. Cammie inhaled deeply, smelling sky and soil and grapes, and relaxed to the point that she could stop focusing on herself and start focusing on him. As he walked along a row of vines, she noticed that he, too, appeared to have a pair of magic jeans.

  She was smiling when he turned around to face her, and her expression seemed to take him off guard.

  “What?” He sounded wary.

  She started talking and couldn’t stop. “I have no clue what I’m doing. I’m reading as much as I can and watching a billion videos on wine making on YouTube, but none of it’s going to matter if all the grapes die before the harvest.”

  “The grapes aren’t going to die.” He stated this as a fact. “You’re going to keep them alive.”

  “You don’t know that.” She pointed to a shriveled brown leaf on the nearest vine. “Look! Dead already.”

  He plucked the leaf off and tossed it to the ground. “So you prune. No problem. You’ll focus on quality, not quantity.”

  “But what if they all die?” She couldn’t keep the fear out of her voice. “A bunch of vines already died back there.” She pointed to the other side of the hill. “Hence the tractor.”

  Ian pointed out the rosebushes at the end of every row of vines. “Watch the roses. They’re your early-warning system. If there are bugs or mildew or rot, the roses will show it first.”

  “Oh.” She felt the tiniest twinge of relief. “I was wondering why those were there.”

  “They’re there to help you. Check them every day.”

  Amid the rows of full, lush rosebushes, she’d noticed one that didn’t fit in. It was scrawny and sparse, with thin green tendrils that clung to the grapevine stake. She pointed it out to Ian. “What’s up with that one?”

  He strode over to examine it. After inspecting the stalk and the leaves, he crouched down to look at the base and roots. “It’s new. And it’s a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “Yeah, it’s a climbing rose.” He showed her a tiny yellow metal tag at the base of the plant. “It shouldn’t be here. It’s the wrong kind and it’s really young—it’s not going to bloom for at least two more years.”

  “Who planted it, do you think?”

  “Someone who didn’t know what they were doing. We can pull it out right now.” He looked enthused by the prospect.

  “No.” Cammie felt sorry for the poor little plant. “It’s not doing any harm.”

  “It’s not doing any good, either.”

  “I have bigger problems than a climbing rose,” Cammie assured him. “Like keeping the grapes alive.”

  Ian stood up, still scowling at the errant, bloomless rose vine. “You’ll do fine. Remember the strawberrie
s?”

  She didn’t have to ask for clarification. “Of course.”

  “You kept those alive.”

  “So did you,” she said. “For seven years now. What happened?”

  “After you left?” he said pointedly.

  She didn’t respond directly to that. “I thought your family had been growing corn for generations.”

  “The corn crops took a big hit about five years ago. My dad was in danger of losing the farm. We needed to diversify our income stream, and one of the strawberry plants threw a sport.”

  Once again, Cammie felt like farming was a foreign language. “A sport?”

  “A genetic mutation,” he clarified. “Happens all the time with plants. A rosebush that should have red roses suddenly blooms with yellow flowers.”

  “What kind of sport did our strawberry plant grow?” she asked.

  “A bigger berry. It was redder, juicier.” He shook his head at the memory. “I almost didn’t notice it at first; it was from the plant that you refused to let me prune.”

  Cammie was pleased that after all these years, her instincts had been proven correct. “See? I told you so.”

  “You did.” He didn’t look at all chagrined. “So, I took the seeds from that strawberry, hybridized them, and started growing more of them.”

  “And our magic strawberries saved your farm. It’s like a fairy tale.”

  “The patent I got on those seeds saved the farm,” Ian corrected.

  “You can patent seeds?”

  “Sure. There are patents for citrus fruit, berries, roses, shade trees . . .” He shrugged. “Those berries won agricultural awards and a company made me an offer to produce and distribute the seeds. The patent will be good for twenty years.”

  “So I could buy these berries out of a seed catalog?”

  He nodded.

  “What are they called?” she persisted. “I want to look them up.”

  “It’s a passive stream of income to supplement what we make from the crops,” Ian finished. “It was a fluke. A fluke that saved the farm.”

  “What did your dad have to say about all that?” Cammie asked.

  “He and my mom retired to Florida. Spent some of the strawberry money on a condo by the ocean and turned the farm over to me and my brother.”

  They had fallen into step together and were slowly walking the perimeter of the field.

  “Your brother’s the father of the girls who sold us the strawberries the day we got into town?” Cammie asked. “A family of entrepreneurs.”

  “Yeah, Mike keeps the books, and I take care of the fields.” Ian turned his face up to the setting sun.

  “He doesn’t want to be out in the fields? He’s an indoor type, like me?” Cammie teased.

  “He just moved back to town last year,” Ian said. “He thinks he’s ready to run the day-to-day operations because he grew up on the farm.”

  “But he’s not?”

  “Not yet.” Ian’s expression was obstinate, his eyes intense. “I’ll know when he’s ready.”

  “How will you know?”

  “I’ll know.” His expression softened. “So, yeah, we’re doing well. All because you don’t like sweet corn.”

  “There you go.” Cammie couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “That summer wasn’t a total waste.”

  “Changed my life,” he said, his voice deepening.

  She took a sip of tart, acidic wine and tried not to gag.

  “Back to the grapes. You’re off to a good start—the soil here is sandy loam.”

  She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you have good drainage. Drainage is good for grapes.”

  “If you say so.”

  “And the land here is pretty flat.” He stretched out his arm to indicate the gently sloping hills. “You know where else it’s flat?”

  “Iowa?” Cammie guessed.

  “Bordeaux, France. Where they grow the best wine in the world.”

  “I think Napa would beg to differ with you on that point.” She took another sip of wine and started to enjoy the fact that she and Ian were out here, walking and talking and getting along. Even though their summer romance had been short-lived, their strawberries would live on forever.

  It was almost as if that final, bitter conversation had never happened.

  The planes of Ian’s face were cast in shadows by the setting sun. “The angle of the land determines how much sun the grapes get.”

  She rocked back on her heels, marveling. “How do you know all this?”

  “It’s my life’s work.” He hesitated for a second, then reached up to push a stray piece of hair from her forehead. “What kind of wine are you going to make?”

  She thought about the labels on the bottles the previous owner had left behind. “Cabernet and seyval blanc.”

  “What’s seyval blanc like?” he asked.

  “It’s a white wine.”

  He waited for more details.

  “I’ll let you know more as soon as I find out.” She grinned. “Whatever it is, we can make it work if we market it right. That much I learned from a few years in the restaurant business: There’s a ton of peer pressure. Everyone’s afraid to admit they like uncool wine.”

  “What makes a wine uncool?”

  “It’s affordable and other people can get it.”

  He groaned. “Are you sure you want to get into this business?”

  “I’m sure I don’t, but my aunt does, so here I am.” She spread out her arms. “Keeping the grapes alive.” Even as she said this, she noticed a little geyser of water spurting from a nearby vine. “Crap. The irrigation system’s broken again.”

  He knelt down and tugged the thin tube of water from the soil. “Give me a minute to look at this, and then we’ll fix it together.” He examined the system in silence for a few moments, heedless of the water soaking his shirt.

  “We’re making wine with your strawberries,” she mentioned as the wine from her plastic cup started to kick in.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It was my mom’s recipe, but my aunt’s made it tons of times. It’s going to be really good.”

  “I see how it is.” He shook his head, his tone both teasing and not teasing. “You don’t want me. You just want my strawberries and my tractor expertise.”

  “Not true.” She sank down into the soil next to him. “I mean, I do want your strawberries. And also your tractor expertise. But . . .”

  “But?” he finally prompted.

  She scooped out a little hole in the dirt for her wine. “We should probably finish this conversation when I’m not tipsy.”

  He looked incredulous. “You’ve had half a glass of wine. How are you going to be a winemaker if you’re tipsy after that much?”

  “I’ll work on it,” she vowed, watching his hands as they sifted through the dirt.

  “You do that. And this conversation is not over.” He got back to work. “To be continued.”

  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but she had a feeling it was juicy and salacious. And after several seasons of drought and despair, she was ready for juicy and salacious. “When are we going to continue it?”

  “Saturday night?” he suggested. “Dinner?”

  She could only blame the really bad wine for what came out of her mouth next. “Is that a date?”

  “You tell me.” He tried and failed to hide a smile. “Is Saturday night a date night?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, then . . . ”

  Cammie’s eyes widened as she remembered her promise to Kat. “My cousin’s husband might be in town Saturday. Double date?”

  He glanced at her, his brown eyes darkening, and she felt a little frisson of anticipation. “Okay, but I�
��m driving you home.”

  He leaned in toward her. She leaned in toward him. Then she closed her eyes, parted her lips, and . . .

  Woof!

  The short, indignant bark startled both of them. Cammie whirled around to find Jacques standing behind her, his eyes bright and his ears pricked forward. His expression could be described only as one of betrayal.

  “This is Jacques,” Cammie told Ian. “Our farm dog.”

  Jacques started panting, which exposed his missing tooth.

  “I like the snaggletooth.” Ian reached down to pet him.

  “Yeah, he likes to come with me and . . .” Cammie trailed off. She didn’t want to talk about counting the rows right now. She didn’t want to say anything that would remind Ian of everything that had come before.

  Ian watched her, waiting.

  “He likes to keep an eye on the grapes,” she finished.

  After Jacques escorted them around the remainder of the field, Cammie walked Ian to his truck. She strolled back to the house with a huge smile on her face.

  When she stepped into the parlor, Kat glanced up from her website work on the laptop. “Tell me everything.”

  “It went well?” Ginger hurried down the stairs. “Oh, I’d better give him some pie before he leaves.” She hurried outside, waving at the pickup truck with a dish towel.

  “Spill your guts,” Kat commanded. “Hurry up and tell me the good stuff before she comes back.”

  “It was all good.” Cammie sank down on the worn green brocade sofa. “I feel like I’m twenty-two again.”

  “Wow.” Kat sounded a bit envious. “That is good.”

  “Yeah.” Cammie stretched out, all warm and tingly. “Oh, and we’re going to dinner on Saturday. You, me, Josh, and Ian.”

  “What?” Kat’s jaw dropped. “You were supposed to get in, get a tractor consult, and get out! What happened?”

  “Bad wine and magic jeans.” Cammie kicked her feet up as the wine went to her head. “How could I resist?”

  chapter 12

  “Our double date is at a place called the Jilted Café.” Cammie sat in the passenger seat of Kat’s car, looking up at the brick building with mounting trepidation. “Promising.”