by Beverly Long
If possible, Genevieve was even odder than usual. Several times he looked up from his steak to find her staring at him. When dinner was over, she practically ran from the table, the dogs on her heels.
He excused himself equally fast and caught her on the stairs to her room.
“May I have a word with you?” he asked, edging in front of her. Both dogs growled at him.
“I’m tired,” she said and tried to step around him.
“I’ll be quick,” he said, blocking her way. Dionysos bared his teeth and gathered his muscles, like he was ready to spring.
She made the familiar hand motion. “That’s enough,” she said. Both immediately stopped growling but George swore they were still glaring at him.
He was grateful for her intercession. Melody had been appreciative of certain parts and he’d have been sorely pressed to have to tell her that they’d been bitten off.
“Follow me,” Genevieve said. They walked past her bedroom and she motioned for the dogs to lie down. Then she led him to a small room that was next to her bedroom. There were three chairs in the room but nothing else. She sat and he followed her lead. The room was hot and even though there was a window open, the air seemed heavy.
“I hear there’s supposed to be a hell of storm tomorrow night,” she said.
He wasn’t here to talk about the weather. “I want to know how you knew about the accident,” he said.
She shrugged. “Melody called and left a message on the machine. I’d let you listen to it but I think I deleted it.”
“I know she left that message long after you and I were already on the road to Napa.”
She didn’t even look rattled. “That’s impossible.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
She had the nerve to look amused. He stood up and undid the button on his shirt pocket. He pulled out the bright green feather with the orange ring around the bottom. He handed it to her. She didn’t look amused any longer. “Where did you get that?”
“Off your dresser. Look, you and I both know you weren’t in your room the night of the party. I want to know where the hell you were.”
She shrugged. “Traveling.”
“Where?”
“Wherever I like,” she said smugly. “I’ve had a certain fondness for eighteenth-century Paris lately. Last year it was fifteenth-century Scotland. I can be fickle like that.”
It felt like all the air in the room had been sucked up. His vision started to grow gray at the edges. “You know where I came from, don’t you?” he managed to ask.
She smiled. “Where and when.”
“You brought me here?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s not true.”
He didn’t think she was lying. She’d said it with conviction. But how could that be?
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
Damn. He had no more answers than he did before. Suddenly, it dawned on him that he hadn’t asked the most important question. “Could you take me back?”
“No.” She got up and opened the door. “I’m tired, George.”
“I want to know how you knew about the accident.”
She considered him. “Dionysos and Hermes told me.”
It should have shocked him but it didn’t. Maybe he was way past ever being shocked again. “Stay away from Melody,” he said.
She poked him in the chest with a long, bony finger. “Don’t be an idiot, George. I love my niece. You can’t actually think I’d ever do anything to hurt her.”
He knew better. Had known even when he made the crazy demand. But he was getting tired of things happening that he couldn’t explain or connect. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing.”
He was out the door and halfway down the hall before she spoke again. “It’s not a game, George. It never was.”
He turned. Just what the hell did she mean by that?
But she’d already gone into her room and closed the door behind her.
***
George was not expecting to look up and see Pearl Song making her way down the narrow, long row that separated the grapevines. It scared him at first, thinking that there must be something wrong with Melody but then he realized that she didn’t walk with the purpose of a woman needing help, but rather she wandered with the abandon of a woman enjoying a morning stroll.
Although the sky was overcast with threatening black clouds in the distance, she wore a big hat. Her loose trousers and shirt looked as if they’d seen their share of wash days. “Morning, Pearl,” he said
“Good morning, George. It’s warmer than I expected.”
It was damn hot. And the air was so heavy it was hard to breathe. The wind had changed directions four or five times since early morning when he’d arrived in the vineyard. Genevieve had predicted a hell of storm and it looked like she was going to be right.
He and Arturo had begun their day by checking the pump to make sure it was still working and then had started irrigation in the far-western patch of grapes.
Then they’d gotten in Arturo’s truck and driven around to check the progress of the workers. There were three teams of four men each working in different areas of Pearl Song’s two-hundred-acre vineyard. While they were driving, he’d insisted that Arturo again go over what each person at the saloon had told him. At the end of their drive, George hadn’t known anything more than he’d known to start with.
What he did know was that he was going to figure out who’d tried to harm Melody. For the last hour, he’d been walking up and down the rows, his sickle swinging side to side as he mowed down the mustard plants that grew between the rows. With each swing, he’d vowed that he was going to make sure that whoever had tried, never had another chance.
Pearl reached out a hand and touched his arm, which was slick with sweat. “Be careful in heat like this, George. I’ve had it sneak up on me.” She looked rather longingly at the grapevines which crawled up the hillsides. “There was a time when I would spend all day out here, doing exactly what you’re doing now. I loved it. It was the best kind of tired in the world, the kind where your muscles ache but your mind is clear and worry-free.”
He obviously needed to work harder. Most of the morning his mind was cluttered up with images of Melody’s naked body and the two times they’d lain together last night after he’d left Genevieve’s room. He hadn’t been with a woman for six months and yesterday, he’d spilled his seed five times. No wonder he was tired and he had an ache or two. But he didn’t think it would be all that helpful to explain it to Melody’s grandmother.
She tilted her hat back on her head and looked up at him. “But now I think I’m a bit like a child whose eyes are bigger than her stomach and she’s taken a piece of cake she can never manage. Will you walk me back, George? We’re starting blending trials today and Bernard will be fluttering around like a mad bird if I delay the process.”
He took off his leather gloves, stuffed them in his pocket, and leaned the sickle up against the wire that ran between the vines. He put his arm out and she looped her arm through his. They started to make their way down the row. “What’s a blending trial?” he asked.
She laughed and it reminded him of the sound of Melody’s laugh—so sweet, so natural. “First of all, it’s a terribly terrifying time of year for most everyone here because Bernard and I totally lose our sense of humor.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let me try to paint the picture. Each year, several times a year, Bernard and I take our places around a table and we more or less, taste-test for about two days. Our goal is to determine what is going to be the perfect blend to produce the ultimate bottle of Sweet Song of Summer wine.”
“So you drink wine for two days straight?” No wonder they were surly at the end of it. In the days following Hannah’s death, he’d done that a time or two with whisky and he’d been mean as a bear.
“Drink, no. Taste, yes. We let the blend settle in o
ur mouths and then we ask our tongues to distinguish a myriad of characteristics. In the end we don’t swallow it—we spit it out, clean our palates with water, and then taste the next blend.”
He tried to imagine Pearl Song spitting out wine like men spit out snuff but it was too difficult. He figured she would somehow manage to make even that looked refined and elegant. They’d reached the end of the row and could see the roof of the wine shed over the next hill. He slowed the pace even more because he could hear her breathing becoming heavier.
“What we’re looking for,” she continued, “is whether the blend has balance, meaning that it’s neither too harsh or too sweet. Does it have length, meaning can you taste it all the way back on your tongue? If you can, that’s good. Many of our competitors are happy producing a wine that has a big impact up-front on the palate but little staying power as the wine flows over the tongue. It needs to have good depth, or in other words, layers of taste to enjoy. Quality wines should have both length and depth.”
George was very grateful that Gino had not had a role in the blending trial process. It would have been damn difficult to fill in for the man in that capacity. “Melody told me that you said that Bernard was part scientist and part artist. Maybe the same goes for you?”
“Maybe. But I know my limitations. I know ultimately what product I can be happy with but I have always relied upon Bernard to determine the combinations that will lead us to that ultimate product.”
“Combinations?”
“Yes. For example, we grow Cabernet grapes in three locations on our property. Each of those locations has a unique microclimate and thus, the same grape ends up producing a different juice.”
He supposed that could be true. He’d seen the same kind of seed corn produce very different types of ears based on where it was planted. “So you don’t just take all the juice that was collected from the grapes and mix it together.”
“Oh, heavens no. I’m grateful Bernard didn’t hear that,” she said, her tone teasing. “He’d have a heart attack. Not only do we have to determine the exact mix between the same grapes grown in different locations, we have to determine whether or not we’re going to add in another different kind of grape altogether. It’s a law that if we want to label our wine as a Cabernet, that 75 percent of the end product must be made up of Cabernet grapes. The other 25 percent is up for grabs.”
He shook his head. He’d thought growing the grapes was complicated. Hell, that was the easy part. “How do you know what the right combination is?”
“Experience. Knowledge. Grapes have certain tendencies. We know that Merlot grapes are generally low tannic and carry a smooth, chocolate-like aroma. So if we’re trying to even out a Cabernet, which is very tannic and full-bodied, we’ll maybe do an 80-20 mix, with 80 percent being Cabernet and 20 percent being Merlot.”
They’d reached the peak of the hill. From this angle, they were approaching the back of the wine shed. It was less than two hundred yards. “So that’s another reason why your Cabernet tastes different than your neighbors, because they don’t have exactly the same mix.”
“You’ve got it. Are you sure you weren’t a winemaker in a past life, George?”
He almost stumbled and caught himself in time to avoid taking her down with him. He didn’t have a past life. He had two very different now lives.
What the heck had prompted that question? He risked a sideways glance at her but she didn’t seem overly interested in him. She was watching the ground, making sure she didn’t stumble.
“I’m especially excited about this year’s blending trials,” she said.
“Why is that?” he asked, grateful to be back on a safe subject.
“We’re blending last year’s Cabernet harvest. We’ve been barrel-aging it, but it’s ready now. We’ll want to bottle before the fall crush to make room for the new harvest. It’s exciting because last year was an exceptionally fine growing year.”
“Lot of grapes?” he asked.
“Yes, but more than that. We had a very early bud break and then many months of simply ideal weather. Then Mother Nature threw us a curve and we had intense heat toward the end of the growing cycle. It spurred an early harvest, perhaps the earliest I’d seen in thirty some years. But the end result was a grape that was extraordinary in flavor and even shortly after harvest, when the wine was in its early fermentation process, the aromas were robust. It could be one of our best vintages ever.”
He heard something in her voice that hadn’t been there before and he realized that Pearl Song had accepted that this year’s blending trials would be her last. This would be her final wine—her legacy. They walked the last hundred yards in silence. When they rounded the corner of the shed, Pearl stopped suddenly, pulling on his arm. With alarm, he looked down at her.
“Oh, lord,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Just what do you think she’s doing here?”
He followed her gaze. About halfway between the house and the wine shed, near the fountain in the front yard, stood Rebecca Fields and Bernard. “Maybe she’s here for the blending trials,” he suggested.
“That’s not possible,” she said, sounding shocked. “All this time, it’s only ever been Bernard and me. I’m not ready for that to change.”
Not yet. She didn’t have to say it for him to understand it. “Maybe she’s just leaving?” he offered hopefully.
She looked at him like he was dense. Given that Bernard and Rebecca had arms and legs practically draped over each other, it did seem sort of dumb.
“I have to handle this carefully,” she muttered, practically under her breath. She glanced at him. “I can’t have Bernard in a snit during the blending trials. We’ll end up with something resembling vinegar under our label.”
Suddenly she pulled at his arm. “George, you have to help me. Go find Melody and between the two of you, you need to do something with her. If she goes willingly with you, that’s a whole lot better than me sending her away.”
“But—”
“Please, George. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
He knew that. Just as he knew that Melody would do most anything for her grandmother and she’d expect him to do the same. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said.
He found Melody in the piano room. She was sitting in a chair, her back to him, reading a magazine. Likely in deference to the heat, she’d piled her hair on top of her head and the shirt she wore dipped low in the back. He could see the delicate shape of her neck, the slope of her feminine shoulders, the straight line of her upper spine.
She was exquisitely beautiful.
“Melody,” he said, his voice soft. Still, the magazine flew.
She looked at her watch. “Did something happen? Did somebody get hurt?”
“No,” he assured her. He didn’t want her to worry. “But your grandmother has asked us to entertain Rebecca Fields.”
“Huh?”
She had a right to be confused. “Bernard and your grandmother are doing blending trials today.”
She cocked her head. “I thought you didn’t know anything about winemaking.”
He smiled. “Your grandmother explained it to me. Anyway, Rebecca is here and Pearl doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want to order her off, though, thinking it will make Bernard angry.”
“So we’re baby-sitting her?” Melody said.
It wasn’t a word he’d have used but it likely fit well enough. “Yes. Any ideas?”
Melody shook her head. “The woman only has two interests—cooking and men.”
George considered the information. “She’s got a fair-sized ego as well.” He learned that firsthand when she’d spent most of that first dinner whispering in his ear. “Ask her to teach you how to cook something,” he said.
“What? Are you crazy?”
“No. She likes being regarded as an expert. She told me she loves it when people literally beg her to teach them something.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you
sure she was talking about food?”
Her meaning hit him as if he’d taken a jab in the stomach with the blunt end of an ax. He felt heat crawl up his body and he knew his face was probably red. “I am no expert on women but I think I know when one is offering that.”
She studied him. “I suppose you did catch on fairly quick last night. But anyway, trust me on this, if I ask her to teach me how to cook something, she’s not going to jump at the opportunity.”
“Your grandmother is expecting us to come up with something.”
Melody ran a hand through her hair. “I really wish Bernard had picked a different time to have a mid-life crisis,” she said. “But that’s obviously well out of our control. It’ll have to be you,” she added, with a note of finality.
“Me?”
“Yes. If you ask her to help you, she won’t be able to make it to the stove fast enough.”
Could it work? Hannah had handled the cooking in their house. He wouldn’t be pretending if he said he needed help. No, she’d believe that readily enough when she witnessed his abilities. But wouldn’t she question his sudden interest? “We need a reason why. I can’t just have woken up this morning with a sudden yearning to cook.”
She nodded, looking very thoughtful. Then she got up, wincing when she did.
“Are you ill?” he asked, all thoughts of Rebecca gone.
She shook her head. “My back aches.” She smiled at him. “For real. I’m not just trying to get you in a compromising position.”
She would not have to work very hard. “Do you want me to rub it?”
She waved a hand. “I’ll be fine.” She walked over to the window, and looked out. “Oh, lord,” she said.
She sounded so much like her grandmother that it gave him a start. “What?”
“Look at that.”
He joined her at the window. Rebecca and Bernard had their backs to the house. They were walking toward the wine shed, hip to hip. Bernard had his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and she had her arm around his waist. Pearl stood in the same place as when he’d left her, her hands on her slim hips, looking over her shoulder, back toward the house.
