Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel)

by Adair, Marina

  Which he could not. Would not. This was about more than him and his wine. This was about his brother’s belief in him, his dad’s Opus—a whole lot more than chemistry and a pretty woman. Although, if he were being honest, and it was only him who would take the hit, Nate would walk away and give Frankie the deal. In a heartbeat.

  “She what?” Frankie dropped his hands and shrugged. “She wouldn’t want me?”

  “Frankie, that’s not—”

  “Two reasons to zip it before I put my boot print on your ass.” Frankie glared at him with pointed disregard and raised a finger. “I don’t need you to do anything for me, especially since I can see your superman complex is sprouting another head.

  “Second,” she ticked off and there went another finger. It wasn’t a coincidence that it was the middle one or that she dropped her index finger. “I don’t need you to back out, Nate.” Of course she didn’t. Frankie never took anything freely offered. Not that he was actually offering. “Because I’m not selling my land or my grapes, so you might want to give good old Susan a call and let her know you may have the history, but you’re about six tons of grapes shy of a deal.”

  She offered him a broad smile and turned to leave. “Oh, and Nate. Experience this.”

  Frankie pulled a ball cap out of the waistband of her pants and shoved it on her head. With a smart-ass salute she marched right out the front door. But not before Nate read the writing on her cap: RYO WINE’S FLAGSHIP CHAMPION. RED STEEL: CRUSHING THE COMPETITION.

  The words wouldn’t have hurt so bad had they not been surrounding a picture of a combat boots coming down on—Christ, was that a pair of testes or grapes?

  CHAPTER 9

  Frankie parked her bike in front of Bottles and Bottles, the local pharmacy and wine shop, and realized she still had to talk to Walt. She unclipped her helmet and, ignoring the urge to tell him that they’d decided to go with his bid and worry about finding the money later, focused on what was important—finding Charles.

  She stepped off the curb and made her way across the street toward the hardwood store. Situated on the south end of Main Street, right next to Picker’s Produce, Meats, and More, St. Helena Hardware and Refurbish Rescue had been in Uncle Walt’s family since his great-great-grandfather first opened their doors back in 1874. Well, the hardware part had, and the refurbish rescue was Connie’s addition to the family business. Although it had been renovated over the years, the clapboard building looked exactly like the photos that hung in town hall, only with a little extra harvest spirit.

  Frankie shoved through the door, a cowbell clanking in her wake. The scent of sawdust, motor oil, and all things home repair greeted her. So did her Aunt Connie’s voice.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she beamed from underneath a purple feathered lampshade. “Just setting up my new display.”

  Her aunt loved to decorate, considered herself a decor doctor extraordinaire. What started out as a way to pass time by fixing flea market finds became an all-encompassing passion when her kids moved out. It didn’t take long for her “projects” to overrun their home, so she sweet-talked Walt into selling her unique wares out of the shop. “Unique” was what she called her Dr. Seuss-meets-Tim Burton spin on interior decorating.

  Connie’s claim to fame was that there wasn’t an abandoned piece of furniture she couldn’t match with a forever home.

  Apparently not the case, Frankie thought as she fingered the arm of a recliner, which was wedged between a zebra print couch and a dozen or more dressers. There wasn’t a spare inch of room in the entire store.

  “Isn’t that a beaut?” Connie asked, making her way toward Frankie. She was short, squat and wore more velour than should be legal. “A couple special ordered that and then returned it. They said the color made their eyes bleed. Eyes bleed? Can you imagine someone saying that about such a unique piece?”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Frankie said noncommittally. Connie was the gatekeeper, and there was no sense in offending her because tonight was Friday. And Friday nights were home to the Veteran Vintners of the Valley’s Put up or Shut Up. Held in the basement of Walt’s shop, entry by invitation only, it was a weekly game of high stakes poker where vineyard owners from St. Helena came together to settle their battles over a hand of Seven Card Stud. There were only three rules: no weapons, no women, no whining.

  And Charles was down there.

  A handful of people saw her storm out of Picker’s wearing a Ryo Cork Crawl hat—a handful and one nosy Nora Kinkaid. A photo was already up on Facebook. She checked. It was accompanied by a poll asking who the town thought had the biggest grapes in the valley. Frankie was not only winning by a landslide, but they had also given her three-to-one odds that she’d crush what little grapes Nate DeLuca had left by the end of the Cork Crawl. It was good to know she had supporters.

  What was not good was that the town gossip vine was already chattering, and even though Charles was technologically challenged, there was still a risk that he would find out before she had the chance to tell him. A mistake she did not want to repeat. If she was going to do this, she would do it like a Baudouin and face the consequences head on. Which was why she asked, “Is this shag carpet?”

  “Faux shag,” Connie said as though faux made it better. “I tried to take it home, but Walt said no, then he cut off my credit and won’t let me buy anything else until I get rid of this eyesore. His words not mine. I’ve marked it down twice, but so far no takers.” The older woman wedged herself behind the counter. “You in the market for a new reading chair? I bet it would look lovely looking out that bay window in the front of your new house.”

  “Sorry, redecorating isn’t in my budget right now.”

  “Well, after what you did, I might just give it to you.”

  Did they already know? And if so, was the chair punishment for disloyalty?

  Frankie fidgeted with the top of her helmet, feeling for the second time that day like she’d failed her family. She knew she should have come by yesterday, but after the bank Frankie had chickened out.

  “Aunt Connie, I—”

  “I already know.”

  Frankie swallowed. “You do?”

  “Oh, yes.” Connie looked around the store, her eyes wide and darting right then left, as if she were about to divulge a matter of national security. “Don’t tell Walt I told you. I wasn’t supposed to be eavesdropping, but I knew when I saw that sexy football player, the one who’s set on running us out of business.”

  Frankie rolled her eyes. Tanner wasn’t trying to run Walt and Connie out of business. He was just trying to get his customers the best deal. It wasn’t his fault Walt ran his store like it was still the gold rush and he was the only hammer in town.

  “He was asking for Walt, wanted a private meeting, so of course I showed him to the office and left, but not before clicking on the baby monitor I keep hidden behind Walt’s garbage can.”

  Frankie felt her stomach clench. This was bad. “Oh, Aunt Connie, I was going to talk to Walt about his bid, but I got busy and—”

  “Don’t worry, dear, that’s what I thought happened.” Connie waved a dismissive hand and Frankie felt awful. Hearing the news from her would have been bad enough, but hearing it from Walt’s competition must have been humiliating. Why would Nate do this?

  “At first I thought I must have misunderstood. My hearing’s been off ever since I went through the change, but when he started talking tanks, Walt went real quiet and then he placed your order. For. Every. Thing.” Her voice elevated with every syllable.

  “Did Walt come down on his pricing?” This made no sense. If Tanner had changed vendors, why hadn’t he told Frankie? Or why hadn’t Nate?

  “Heavens, no. Walt gave you the best price he could,” she said, her hand clutched her heaving chest. “So when that DeLuca boy told Walt the prices he had access to—” Connie’s voice caught and her eyes got suspiciously glassy.

  “Wait. What are you talking about? Which DeLuca?”
Frankie asked, her own chest doing some heaving.

  “Well, they all look the same, don’t they? They sure seem to have that tall, dark, deliciously handsome part down pat, even if they do have a bit of a problem with accepting that they are the second best wine in the Valley. This one had a nice set of buns on him and a list of vendors.”

  Nice buns and carrying a list? Sounded like Nate.

  “Oh, I know.” Connie clapped her hands in front of her mouth. “It was the one you were playing tonsil hockey with at the Showdown.”

  Definitely Nate.

  “The list,” Frankie prompted.

  “He had specific vendors matched to each item with a contact and pre-agreed price. A price that Walt gets to use when quoting folks now. But the sweetest part was that they sat there patiently, like they had all the time in the world, while Walt insisted on calling and introducing himself to each and every new vendor, then hand-wrote a separate order form for each transaction. The sexy ball player had to leave part way through, something about piano lessons, but the DeLuca stayed until Walt was done, well over an hour.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Well, around two.” So after their run in at Pickers. Not that it made any difference, he still made it work with Walt, which meant a lot in her book. But did he do it because she guilted him into it? Or because he thought it would give him a better shot at buying her grapes? Not that she was selling. “But he called this morning to set up an appointment to make sure Walt was going to be around.”

  “This morning?” So he came down even after she had publically accused him of setting her up, stealing her account, and making her life difficult. All of which she knew weren’t true. Nate was a good guy, a pain in her ass, but honest to a fault and so honorable it was charming. And she’d blown it.

  Frankie looked up at the ceiling and let out a breath. This is why she didn’t date. She tended to scare away the nice ones, leaving only the tools who were too dumb to run. But Nate hadn’t run. He’d come here, to her uncle’s shop and proved he had listened to her.

  “At first I didn’t understand. Tanner could have taken the sale for himself. He didn’t need Walt. But then I heard the way that DeLuca boy worded it, claiming he and Tanner needed a local expert, someone who’s been servicing the town’s wells for as long as Walt to help them choose between this or that and saved my Walt’s pride. And our business. And I knew that was your doing. You have always been so supportive and—” Connie’s brows furrowed. “Why are you looking at me like I am as nutty as a fruitcake?”

  “I didn’t do it, Connie,” Frankie admitted. “I wanted to use you guys, I really did, but I realized yesterday that even if I get that loan, I couldn’t afford Walt’s bid. I was going to break it to Walt tomorrow, but…” She shrugged. “What happened here today, that was all Nate.”

  “Well, either way, I know that boy wouldn’t have even considered doing something like this without your encouragement.” Connie patted Frankie’s hand. “Which is why I’m going to find the perfect housewarming gift for you. As a thank you.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.” Frankie took an unconscious step back when Connie looked like she was going to force that chair on her. “No thanks necessary. It was really Nate—”

  “Nonsense, I heard Nate tell Walt that it was you who convinced him to go local, give him the chance to get a bid in. I want to make you something pretty. As a token. I know it won’t even come close to what you did for us but—”

  “Actually you can help me. I need to deliver these to the mayor.” Frankie set down the Cork Crawl application, noticing how her hands were shaking. Why had Nate done that? She’d been nothing but nasty to him and he’d been… wonderful.

  Connie picked up Frankie’s application and flipped through it. “Does he know?”

  “I hope not,” Frankie said, not pretending she didn’t know who he referred to. Charles wasn’t known for having a cool, even demeanor and the whole town would be speculating on how he would react to the news. “That’s why I’m here. To give my application to the mayor, make it official, and tell Charles that I’m competing. I don’t want him to hear it from anyone but me. I already blew it when I snuck around behind his back and sat on the tribunal.”

  “You did what was right for this town,” Connie defended. “If you ask me, your grandpa is a stubborn old fool. You were the best thing that happened to that winery since your dad passed.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Connie, but I should have told him first. Instead I convinced myself that keeping it a secret was for the best. It wasn’t. The truth was I didn’t tell him because I was scared. Then I bought the land and never told him.” Frankie paused to gather her breath. “I don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

  “I don’t want you to either, but if I let you down there, Walt will have my head. You know the rules: invite only. He’s already going to blow his top when the executioner’s chair I got for a steal on eBay is delivered tomorrow. I was going to cover it in toile and lace with Bubble Wrap accents. Wouldn’t that have been lovely?” Connie looked around the cluttered store, her hand on her chest. “I think he might stick me in it to see if it works.”

  “I need to get in that poker game, so I’ll make you a deal,” Frankie said with a smile. “An invitation to the game for that chair.”

  “The eyesore?” Connie asked, so much hope in her voice Frankie wanted to hug her.

  “Yup.”

  “The chenille shag I used on the reupholster is called, hang on…” Connie disappeared under the counter where there was a lot of clattering and shuffling. A few layers of dust heavier, she rose with a pink swatch of fabric in her hand and bright blue reading glasses perched on her nose. “Lacquer Up and Dye.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take it.” Frankie pulled a credit card out of her jacket pocket and dropped it next to a swatch of the most god-awful color she’d ever seen. It was pink, neon, and nauseating. And would look perfect in the master bedroom.

  “You sure? Because I don’t want to have the same piece brought back twice. People might start talking.”

  “With a sales pitch like that, I won’t be bringing it back.”

  Convinced that Frankie wouldn’t suffer from buyer’s remorse and hurt the chair’s feelings, her aunt agreed to give her the chair for free—if she were willing to have it delivered tonight. Never one to pass up a bargain, Frankie told her the door was unlocked and gave specific details of where she wanted the chair placed.

  “I can’t wait to see what your grandpa says when he discovers you’re competing under a DeLuca sponsorship,” Connie said, handing over the receipt of sale and one invitation to the Put Up or Shut Up. “Must be some pretty good wine to convince Abigail DeLuca to sponsor you.”

  “It’s going to win.”

  “I never had a doubt. Which is why I bet next week’s grocery money that you’d slaughter those DeLucas, so don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t,” Frankie promised and made her way through the store to the back. As she passed a urinal that had been transformed into a planter and between a pair of matching bedazzled shoe racks, Frankie felt her confidence start to waiver. Because there, at the bottom of the stairs, smoking his pipe and calling out the mayor and Sheriff Bryant, sat Charles Baudouin.

  Somewhere between seventy and prehistoric, Charles was a handsome man, short in stature with a full head of silver hair and a crooked posture. What he lacked in height he made up for in command. Her grandfather knew how to work a room and if he had been using his silver fox swagger for good instead of ego lately he would have the ladies lining up. Although the only lady he was interested in impressing was the one lady who had every reason to hate him.

  Steeling herself against her grandpa’s reaction, Frankie walked down the stairs, flashing her invitation to every stunned man she passed. But no matter how many times she told herself this was the right thing to do, that she would be okay, she knew it was a lie.

  It wasn’t Judge Pricket pinning her with a ho
stile glare that had her heart pounding through her chest, or that two of Nate’s brothers were in the room. No, what had Frankie ready to say screw it and head home was that her grandpa, the person who had taught her everything she knew about wine, the man she’d spent her entire life trying to live up to, didn’t do more than give her a brief glance before discarding half his hand and returning to the game at hand.

  “Hey, grandpa.” She walked over to his table and placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t turn his head as usual for the double cheek-kiss, so she straightened.

  “Francesca,” he said so formally it hurt. It was the same way he greeted her mother after the divorce. He was making it clear to Frankie, and everyone in the room, he wasn’t over her betrayal.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m here to let you know I’m competing at the Cork Crawl.”

  “Team’s already full,” he said, his voice commanding as ever, eyes still on his hand. “I thought you knew I asked Tom and Kenneth to compete this year.”

  Frankie wanted to ask him how he assumed she would have known, since he hadn’t bothered to talk to her in over two months. “Katie told me, but I wasn’t talking about competing for Baudouin Vineyards. I’m here to give the mayor my application and wanted to tell you in person.”

  That got his attention. Charles set his cards down and watched the mayor flip through Frankie’s paperwork. If Charles were even considering ending this three month standoff, then the next few minutes would probably cause him to add an additional six of withholding his approval and love.

  “Everything appears to be in order,” the mayor said, his expression one of sympathy. “But you do realize that if I approve this, you’d be competing against your grandpa.”

  “Nonsense,” Charles said grabbing the application. “She would never—”

  Frankie was tempted to resend the application in her grandfather’s hand. She’d always fallen in line with his every whim and wish, and she had learned a lot from shadowing one of the best winemakers this valley had ever known. But she was tired of hiding in his shadow, tired of seeking his approval, tired of his love being conditional.