The Chardonnay Charade wcm-2

by Ellen Crosby

  “We need to talk.” He pulled me to my feet.

  My T-shirt was drenched and the knees of my blue jeans had stiffened with a thick layer of hardened mud.

  “You look very fetching,” he said.

  “I look like something the cat dragged in.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “At least you’re talking to me.”

  We climbed the steps to the veranda. “Don’t push your luck.”

  There was an unopened bottle of water on the glass-topped coffee table. “Care for some water?” I asked.

  “You need it more than I do.” He cracked open the cap and handed the bottle to me. “Do you really believe I’d pinch your winemaker and never say a word to you?”

  “Did you?” I rolled the wet bottle over my face, then drank.

  He watched me. “It’s like this,” he said.

  I closed my eyes. If it was like this, then I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it.

  “You’re right that I did talk to Quinn that morning after I left you,” he went on. “I met him by that magnificent tree where your lane branches off. He’d been out jogging. We got talking and he invited me to his place for a coffee, so I went.”

  “Did he ask where you were coming from at that hour of the morning?”

  Mick looked at me sharply. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. Why? Is that a problem?”

  I said no too quickly.

  “Lucie,” he said, “is there something going on between you and Quinn? Are you two involved with each other?”

  The humidity had loosened the label on the water bottle. I busied myself peeling it off. “Nothing other than a working relationship. And he’s involved with Bonita. It’s just that I like to keep my private life private, that’s all.” I set the soggy label on the coffee table.

  “That’s all but impossible around here. Especially with the old dear who runs the general store and that lot who call themselves the Romeos.” He tipped my chin with his hand so this time I had to look directly into those clear green eyes. “And what about you? Before this goes any further. Are you seeing someone?”

  I moved my head slowly back and forth. “No.”

  His kiss was long and lingering and I closed my eyes, surrendering. Did I want this? It seemed like he did. Besides, what was not to like about him? Reason enough…wasn’t it?

  When he pulled away, I rubbed at the dirt I’d transferred to his cheek. “You never finished your story about Quinn.”

  He sat back in the love seat and slipped his arm around my shoulder. “I didn’t, did I? Well, we had a coffee at his place. I said I was meeting the architect I’ve hired to design my winery. After that, the conversation got ’round to hiring a winemaker. For the next few years all the work will be in the fields, so we talked about that.” Mick kissed my hair, then said quietly into my ear, “One thing led to another, love. He said the job sounded right up his alley.”

  I turned to face him. “So that’s when you offered it to him?”

  “I told him,” he said gently, “that I didn’t intend stealing him away from you. But if things ever worked out that he was looking around, he should come talk to me first.” He paused, then said, “He said he might be looking around now.”

  “I see.”

  “Lucie,” he said, “I was under the impression that things weren’t going well between the two of you. I can hire another winemaker, you know. There’s a chap I’m interested in out in Sonoma and an Aussie I spoke with the other day who was very keen on the position.” He kissed me again. “I don’t want to ruin this with you. I’ll tell Quinn I’m going to hire someone else.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Don’t do that. If he’s interested in the job and you want him, it’s not right for me to stand in the way. We have completely different opinions on how to do things. Different personalities. Plus I’m a woman. With Quinn, that’s another complication.”

  “Are you sure about what you’re saying?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What will you do, then, if he leaves and takes the job with me?”

  I leaned back against the love seat and rubbed my temples. “I don’t know. Maybe talk to your other candidates in Sonoma and Australia. If I could possibly afford them.”

  “Why don’t we cross all those bridges when we come to them?” he said. “I’m not altogether sure Quinn wants to leave you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Just the way he was talking about it. It seemed he hadn’t made up his mind what he wanted.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll both know when he does,” I said. “And I owe you an apology for the other night. I was upset and rude.”

  “You were,” he agreed, “but I’m going to let you make it up to me. Over dinner. Tonight. My house.”

  “You haven’t even moved in.”

  “The last time,” he said, “we spent the night in that hammock. I happen to have a mattress, which is only slightly less rustic. I figure we’ll work our way up to an honest-to-God bed.”

  I showered and changed while he went to Middleburg for groceries. Then he picked me up and drove me to his new home.

  The grounds of the Studebaker place always reminded me of a large English park and the lane leading up to the Georgian-style house with its magnificent two-story columns was lined with saucer magnolias and dogwood trees. In the spring, thousands of tulips and daffodils bloomed along the edge of their private road. Jim Studebaker had employed a professional horticulturist to identify all the trees—copper beech, tulip poplar, Japanese maple, English elm, golden larch, and others—with landscape labels.

  Mick gave me a complete tour of the house, which had been built in the late 1700s, around the same time Hamish Montgomery had built Highland House. With the place empty of furniture—except for the mattress on the floor of the master bedroom—the rooms echoed eerily.

  “Did you know this was a hospital during the Civil War?” he asked, tracing a finger around an old hole in the dining room door. “See this? It’s an old bullet hole. They never repaired it.”

  Though I knew the house well, I didn’t want to spoil his pleasure in showing it to me. “It’s fascinating,” I said, smiling. “And I did hear about the hospital.”

  He looked sheepish. “I reckon you know more about what went on here than I do. Your family’s been here for…what, two hundred years?”

  “Longer,” I said. “But I do know a thing or two about its history. When is your furniture arriving?”

  “In about a fortnight,” he said. “I’m flying back next weekend to sort out a few details.”

  “I thought you were leaving tomorrow or the next day.”

  “I was,” he said, “but I gave Ross use of the place and my boat to get away for a few days. He needed a break. I don’t know if he told you that he’s seriously considering relocating to Florida.”

  I nodded. “He really is going to leave, isn’t he?”

  “Looks that way.”

  We toured the grounds, finishing in the sunken rose garden, with its fountain surrounded by perennials. “It’s like Versailles,” I said. “You really bought yourself a palace.”

  “Wrong country,” he said. “It’s like Queen Mary’s Garden in Regent’s Park in London.”

  “‘Oh, to be in England now that spring is here’?”

  He laughed and kissed me. “Not England,” he said. “Right here.”

  We had dinner outdoors. The stone fireplace from the original summer kitchen had been converted into an outdoor grill, so we fixed chicken and skewers of vegetables, eating everything with our fingers. I brought the wine—a Pouilly-Fuissé from Leland’s wine cellar.

  “I thought we’d go for a moonlight swim,” he said after we cleaned up.

  His house—like mine—was built on a hill so that part of the backyard fell away to a breathtaking view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, much like ours. Jim Studebaker had taken advantage of the steep slope of the land to put in what was called
an infinity pool—a swimming pool with no edge or rim on one side. As a result it seemed as though the water flowed out and disappeared, almost as if it joined the sky. In reality it cascaded like a waterfall into a smaller pool below. The effect, however, was stunning.

  The other night Mick hadn’t really seen my twisted foot in the dark when we were lying together in the hammock. But if we went swimming it would be so…visible.

  “I don’t think so—” I began.

  “Lucie,” he interrupted, “it’s all right. My oldest sister had cerebral palsy. She was one of the most beautiful women I knew.”

  “Was?” I could feel the color in my cheeks.

  “She died of a brain aneurism when she was thirty,” he said.

  “Oh, God, Mick, I’m so sorry.”

  He stood up and scooped me up in his arms. “About that swim…”

  “I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” I protested.

  “I know,” he replied. “Neither did I.”

  Afterward, he led me to his cavernous bedroom. The mattress was surprisingly comfortable, when we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms. The Studebakers had sold him all the curtains, but we didn’t close the heavy brocaded drapes so we could see each other as we made love in the scuffed silver wash of a nearly full moon.

  I woke at daylight, briefly disoriented as to where I was. Then I saw his tousled head next to mine and reached for my watch on the floor. Five-forty. He must have felt me stir because he opened his eyes and pulled me into his arms.

  “You don’t need to get up this early,” I said as he kissed me.

  “I do if you want a lift home.”

  I was suddenly self-conscious about my foot again, which he seemed to realize. I showered alone in his spa-like granite bathroom while he made coffee.

  “When can I see you again?” he asked as he dropped me off at my house.

  “How about tomorrow? It’s primary day. Come by the Inn after the polls close. Seven o’clock. Noah’s going to win and I’m sure there will be a victory celebration,” I said. “Though it’ll probably be muted, under the circumstances.”

  “I’ll try. I’ve got more meetings with my architect. If I can’t make it I’ll ring you.” He kissed me until I was dizzy and left.

  Quinn was in his office when I got there shortly after seven. I called out good morning without sticking my head through his door and continued down the hall. A moment later, he stood in my doorway, tossing his tennis ball in the air and catching it.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “You didn’t stop by.”

  “Sorry. I know I’m late,” I said.

  “In a hurry to get to your desk chair?”

  “Ha, ha.” I covered my mouth, stifling a yawn.

  “I thought I’d check the Chardonnay and Riesling,” he said. “The boys have been tying up the vines and pulling leaves the past few days. Want to come along?”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll get the Gator,” he said. “Meet you out front in five.”

  “They’ve been working in the south fields,” he said when I joined him. “We’ve got three new guys this season. I want to make sure they did this right.”

  “Isn’t Manolo keeping an eye on them?”

  “Sure he is.” He sounded surprised. “But I want to see for myself.”

  If he left, I would miss his thoroughness. Jacques had been attentive, but Quinn was downright obsessive.

  The tasks of tying up the vines to the trellis wires so they don’t hang down and pulling leaves off by hand, exposing the grapes to sunshine and air, are mind-numbingly tedious. Come harvest time we’re always glad we made the extra effort because of the difference it makes in the taste of the grapes. What Quinn wanted to check was to be sure there were no leaves covering each bunch of grapes. Otherwise the ripening process would slow down, robbing the fruit of the sunshine needed to increase flavor and sugar.

  He turned down the service road toward the orchard. It was as good a time as any to get this over with.

  “I talked to Mick,” I said. “I heard you’re thinking about leaving here and going to work for him.”

  He was sitting with his profile to me, but I could still see the visible shock that went through him. “He told you that?”

  No point involving Bonita in this, even though she was the one who spilled the beans. “Yes,” I said, and yawned.

  “How’d the subject come up?”

  “We were talking about vineyards.”

  He grunted. “Opportunity’s good. Pay’s better.”

  “So you’re going to take it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  My mouth felt dry. “What’s stopping you?”

  He turned down a row in the Riesling block and stopped the Gator. We both climbed down and he reached out, touching leaves, trellis wires, and bunches of grapes as we slowly walked down the row. Honeybees buzzed and tiny black flies alighted on the Gator. A hot breeze blew and I regretted not grabbing Eli’s Mets cap off the credenza in my office.

  Quinn, who’d been walking ahead of me, stopped abruptly and turned around to face me. I nearly collided with him in the middle of another yawn.

  “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said. “I’m asking. Do you want me to stay?”

  Here it was. My chance to ask him not to go. “Of course I do.”

  “I’m bowled over by your enthusiasm.”

  “Quinn,” I said, “I don’t want to stand in your way if a better opportunity comes along for you.”

  “And this is a better opportunity,” he said in a hard voice. “Plus it’s not like I wouldn’t see you anymore, being as you’re getting so tight with Mick.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to make a retort about Bonita, but instead all I said was, “So you’ve made up your mind, then?”

  “Let’s go check the Chardonnay,” he said abruptly. “The crew is doing an okay job here.”

  We went back to the Gator. He started it, shifting quickly through the gears until we were really motoring and I had to hold on to the edges of my seat to keep from falling out.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said softly, but he didn’t turn his eyes away from where we were going or acknowledge that I’d spoken. He probably hadn’t heard me. It had been hard enough to say it once.

  I let it go and we continued in silence, checking the Chardonnay block. After that we headed toward the equipment barn. I was surprised when he drove past it.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “North block? I thought you said the crew hadn’t done it yet.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “Then why are we going there?”

  “We’re not. We’re going to your place,” he said. “You know what you need?”

  “A winemaker?” I said.

  The look on his face was completely inscrutable. “No,” he said. “A nap.”

  Bonita called me Tuesday morning when I was still home. “Hey, Lucie,” she said, “you just got a call from someone at Seely’s. Apparently we, like, never paid them for some bedding plants they dropped off a few weeks ago. She said you’re always so, you know, punctual that she wondered if you didn’t get the invoice.”

  “I bet it was the shipment that arrived the night of the freeze,” I said. “And the night Georgia…” I didn’t finish.

  “Oh.” She sounded flustered. “Want me to ask her to, like, send another one?”

  “She could fax it. Unless your mom has it. I think it was her order.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “Thanks. Just leave it on my desk. And tell Seely’s I’ll send a check right away. I’ll be in as soon as I finish voting.”

  Bonita had propped the nursery bill, still in the envelope, against my lamp with a note that read, “My mom says sorry she forgot to give this to you.”

  The bill, for seven hundred and forty-eight dollars and fifteen cents’ worth of bedding plants, was signed by Jennifer Seely. “Thanks for your bu
siness. Jen.” There was another paper in with the bill. A sketch of a rose and “C U 2NITE” written inside a heart.

  Randy was supposed to pick up that delivery and take care of it. If he’d done that, he would have seen the bill before anyone else—and removed that note. I fingered the paper. The red roses in the shipment weren’t from Noah. They were from Jen and they were meant for Randy. He was supposed to take them before Sera got the rest of the plants.

  I was right, after all, that Jen had been lying about being with Randy the night Georgia was murdered.

  Say it with flowers, indeed. She’d just said plenty.

  Chapter 22

  Dominique closed one of the Goose Creek Inn’s dining rooms to the public on Tuesday evening so Noah and Claire Seely could host a victory party with friends, neighbors, and their campaign workers. As expected, it began as a somewhat subdued celebration, but there was no mistaking the giddy look of elation on the faces of the volunteers who—until a few weeks ago—thought they’d be drowning their sorrows in beer rather than toasting each other with champagne. The staff at the Inn set up a podium with a microphone for Noah’s speech and someone changed the large “Seely for State Senate” sign that hung from the mantel of a large fireplace, crossing out the “for” and inserting “is going to the” in its place.

  Noah’s first remarks—met with grimly polite silence—were about Georgia, but then his ruddy face broke into a big smile and he looked like someone had just handed him the winning ticket to the Mega Millions lottery. After that he spoke more earnestly about November and their chances of unseating his opponent. Frankly, he could have recited the phone book and the cheering would have been just as loud. Tonight everyone wanted only to savor an unexpected win.