“I don’t need to taste wine,” Tracy said. Since her brother was one-third owner, she’d had some of Christine’s wine already. It was really good. And they were charging a fortune per bottle.
“No one likes to drink alone.” Chad nudged her shoulder as if he had every right to, bringing to mind the feel of his arms around her and the wonder about kisses. “Besides, wine smooths the road for good conversation.”
“I agree.” Christine’s smile was wide and welcoming. “We have two blends to taste today. A white and a red.” She poured a half glass of white wine and waited for Chad and Tracy to take a sip. “This is a young wine made from grapes harvested last year.”
“Crisp,” Chad said. “Pear and maybe a hint of brown spice.”
“Cinnamon,” Christine said happily.
Tracy was feeling out of her league. The wine tasted like wine. Like the kind of wine she could easily drink a glass or two of. “Tastes good.” She was afraid she sounded stupidly chipper. Was this how it would be if she landed that job with Three Filmers? Other employees talking up a storm and Tracy waiting for an opening to add a useless word or two?
Chad sat tall on the barstool as if he owned the place. “As long as you enjoy the wine, who needs to list all the nuances?”
He did. Clearly, he did. Tracy gulped what was left of her wine. The embarrassment of a meddling father and her own overly friendly nature—hugging relative strangers?—eased when her glass was empty.
“And the red blend.” Christine filled each of the larger wineglasses halfway.
Chad swirled his glass. Tracy was afraid to follow his lead for fear she’d spill. Everything about wine intimidated her, the same as public speaking now intimidated her.
“It’s quite round.” Chad swirled the glass again and watched the wine drip slowly down the side. “And it has good legs.”
Now he was speaking French.
Liquid, people. It’s just liquid.
They both looked at her expectantly.
“Tastes good,” Tracy said, on cue.
Christine gave Chad a folio with more information on the wine. And then she gave him a red-and-blue tie-dyed T-shirt with the black Harmony Valley Vineyards logo on it—a running horse on a weathervane. Mayor Larry had made the shirts.
“And one for you.” Christine pressed the soft cotton into Tracy’s hands.
“I have one already.” From Will.
“But I didn’t give you one.” Christine’s smile demanded she accept. “And if I’m really nice to you, you’ll volunteer for harvest if I’m short-handed.” She’d been short-handed two years running.
Christine led them out to the huge barn and began using more foreign terms. “Free run juice... Punch the lees... Ambient yeast.”
Tracy drifted over to the big barn doors where she could listen, but not have to engage in conversation. Henrietta came closer and pecked the ground at her feet.
“Let’s hop in the truck and head over to the wine cellar.” Christine produced a set of keys from her pocket.
She might just as well have waved a gun since Tracy’s stomach dropped. She’d have to make an excuse for not going with them. Chad would know she was a coward. It wasn’t as if she could ask Christine if she could drive her truck back to town.
“Why don’t we walk?” Chad asked without meeting Tracy’s gaze. “I had a big breakfast. I could use the extra steps.”
That was nice. He was nice.
But he wasn’t honest. With others or himself.
Didn’t make her want to kiss him any less.
More’s the pity.
* * *
“I CAN’T BELIEVE you lost my recipe for Horseradish-Doodles.” Eunice reached into her purse for a sheet of purple lined notebook paper. “So I wrote it out for you again.”
“Oh,” Jess said, shifting Gregory in her arms. As in: Oh, no.
Tracy felt sorry for Jessica, who might just have lost Eunice’s recipe on purpose. But she was also feeling sorry for herself, having suffered through Christine and Chad tossing about their wine lingo as if they belonged to a club she’d been banned from. She might have been down in the dumps about it if it hadn’t distracted her from wanting to get cozy with Chad.
Demoralized after the wine tasting, she’d stayed downstairs with Eunice and Jess, instead of returning to her apartment and shooting more video. She sat on a stool at the island with her laptop open to Jessica’s blog. The master baker had made some story notes on different recipes and given them to Tracy, but something didn’t feel right. Tracy was missing an element to make the stories and the recipes come together.
Jessica reluctantly took possession of Eunice’s recipe. “Tell me again. Why did your mother create this recipe?”
“Daddy was on a horseradish kick. He wanted it in everything.” Eunice held out her hands, palms up to Gregory. He fell into them and she carried him to the alcove and its rocking chair. “So, Mama gave it to him in everything—on chicken, in his clam chowder and in these sugar cookies. She didn’t experiment in small batches. She went whole hog and expected Daddy to fall in line.”
“I love Mama.” Tracy sighed. Mama would have known how to handle Chad and what to put in a video that said, “Hire me or you’ll be sorry.”
“Why was your dad on a horseradish kick?” Jess wasn’t as enamored of Mama’s story. Or maybe reading the ingredients had depressed her.
“I think the doctor recommended it for his lungs,” Eunice said absently.
“Did he eat the cookies?” Tracy wondered.
That brought Eunice back to them. She tapped the counter for emphasis. “He ate a dozen with a big glass of water.”
“I’m curious as to how your mother presented the cookies.” Jess gazed up at the cake decorating photograph. “I can’t see putting them in the case and labeling them as Horseradish-Doodles. They won’t sell. What did she tell your father?”
“Nothing. Daddy ate everything Mama ever set in front of him.” Eunice was fiercely proud of her parents.
“What about you, Eunice?” Tracy drummed her fingers over the keyboard without pressing any keys. “Did you eat any Horseradish-Doodles?”
“Oh, I don’t like horseradish,” Eunice said, unperturbed that this poked a hole in the appeal of her recipe. “I like wasabi. I’ve always heard that if you like one, you don’t like the other.”
Was she as turned off by Horseradish-Doodles as Jess and Tracy were? And if so, who could blame her?
“I’m not sure anyone who reads the blog will be interested in making them,” Jessica said in a gentle voice. “I know I’m not.”
“Oh.” The disappointment in Eunice’s voice tugged at Tracy’s heart strings.
“It’s got elements of a good story,” Tracy said just as gently as Jess.
“Well, I left out the part where we harvested the horseradish.” Eunice looked a little sheepish. “We went up to Parish Hill at night when it was a full moon. It’s not trespassing if you go at night, Mama used to say.” Eunice’s sheepish expression turned downright guilty. “Anyway, Mama fell down the bank and landed in a patch of poison oak. She was itching for a week. She’d do anything for Daddy.”
Including trespass and steal. Maybe there was something to the story after all.
“I want people to use the recipes I post.” Jess wrinkled her brow.
“Can you change it somehow?” Tracy asked. “Maybe take out the horseradish?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Eunice said.
Jess was still lost in thought. “Maybe... I could make sweet horseradish biscuits using Mama’s recipe as a base?”
“That’s...an interesting angle to a recipe post.” Tracy felt a thrum of excitement, despite stumbling over words. It was the same adrenaline rush she’d had last night while filming, the same thrill
she’d experienced when she’d helped create advertising and found the perfect slant for a client. “It’s the flipside, like my Dad’s vinyl records from the 1970s.”
“You’ve lost me,” Jess said.
“Me, too,” Eunice seconded.
“What if...you post the original recipe along with the story behind it. And...then you click to the modern version of the recipe.” The story needed to have heart. Not that a little humor wouldn’t help, as long as it wasn’t the cutting style of Chad’s.
“So Horseradish-Doodles to Sweet Horseradish Biscuits?” With a smile, Jess reached for the flour canister.
Eunice perked up. “Do you want me to go up Parish Hill and pick some fresh horseradish?”
“No!” Jess and Tracy chorused. The last thing they needed was Eunice tumbling down a bank into poison oak.
“I’ll use horseradish extract,” Jess said firmly. “At least while I experiment.”
The bakery settled into the quiet noises of Tracy’s fingers tapping the keyboard, Jessica’s measuring and hand mixing and Eunice’s humming to Gregory.
“Do you think people will like my story?” Eunice sounded uncertain, which was most un-Eunice-like.
“It makes me smile. And it’s unique.” But fun and unique hadn’t swayed Chad when Tracy introduced him to the town’s way of exhibiting gurning.
“I like sweet stories.” Jessica folded the ingredients together. “Lillian Harrington had a darling story behind her pancake recipe. She made pancakes for the entire town.”
“She made so many, we ran out of syrup.” Eunice was rocking in big swoops. Her sneakers landed on the hardwood with a slap as she came down. “Maybe we’ll run out of horseradish.”
* * *
A DOG GROWLED a warning that Flynn and Duffy ignored.
They had that luxury. They weren’t under Nina Valpizzi’s kitchen sink, on their backs, trying to fit a wrench around a pipe connector in a position where the wrench wouldn’t fit. All to find Nina’s wedding ring, which she swore had fallen down the drain.
Chad might have chosen his afternoon activities poorly. His time would be better spent trying to polish some life into his column. Now that he knew the wine was excellent, he had a better idea of how to slant the piece. Or he could have been arguing with Tracy. Or maybe not arguing.
Chad smiled.
The growling increased in volume. Two toothbrush-sized paws took up residence on Chad’s stomach. Jean’s fluffy white Chihuahua continued to disapprove of Chad’s presence.
“Hey, guys.” Chad kept his voice calm. “The dog.” The one that might bite his chin or nose.
“Don’t look Farkle in the eye.” Duffy gave a wry chuckle, the kind that said he thought Chad was as clueless about dogs as he was about wrenches. “Small dogs consider that a challenge.”
“I thought all dogs considered that a challenge.” Flynn scuffed the toe of his boot on a bubble in the linoleum.
Chad lost the wrench’s grip on the pipe once more, banging his elbows against the cabinetry and making Farkle growl louder. “I’m not even looking at the dog.” The sides of the narrow opening cut into his ribs. Chad shushed Farkle and tried again with the wrench.
He’d told Flynn he had no plumbing skills. Flynn’s response? Everyone needs plumbing skills and there’s no time like the present to learn. Chad suspected Flynn just didn’t want to crawl under Nina’s sink, which smelled of moth balls and damp.
“Are you sure there isn’t a better wrench for this job?” Chad had heard the right tool made all the difference.
“There’s definitely a better wrench for tight spaces.” Flynn sounded far too pleased with himself.
“Basin wrench,” Duffy chimed in helpfully.
“Give it to me.” Chad extended his hand, causing Farkle to jump back to the scuffed, brick-patterned linoleum.
“We don’t have a basin wrench.”
Chad hoped that was embarrassment in Flynn’s voice.
He positioned the wrench and tightened his hold.
The dog crawled on Chad’s stomach without missing a growly beat.
Duffy knelt down and picked up Farkle, who immediately quieted. “Have you ever had a dog, Chad?”
“No.” They’d been an indoor-cat household.
“Dogs sense fear.” Duffy stood, taking the dog with him.
Chad was about ready to toss in the towel when he gave the pipe connector one last yank. Amazingly, it moved. He loosened the second connector until he could swing the bottom elbow outward. Uncapped, the upper pipe spit gunk everywhere, including Chad’s face.
Desperate to wipe the slime from his body, Chad did an army crawl on his back until his shoulders were clear of the cabinetry. Or so he thought. He sat up and hit his temple on the upper cabinet frame, hard enough to see stars. He fell back in the cabinet as the world became foggy.
Someone grabbed hold of his ankles and yanked him out.
“Are you okay?” Duffy’s voice.
Farkle growled near Chad’s ear, which didn’t help the ringing.
“Is there blood?” Flynn’s voice.
The room came into focus. The dark browns and reds of the 1970s. The velvet wallpaper with a forest scene on the wall by the kitchen table.
“No blood, but there’s a bruise.” Duffy got a paper towel, filled it with a couple of ice cubes and handed it to Chad. “Hey, Nina. We need a plastic bag.”
Chad’s forehead stung and throbbed, making Chad reject the idea of any more DIY projects in Harmony Valley. “I’m not cut out to be a handyman.”
“Truer words were never spoken.” Duffy bent to peer into his face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“None.”
Flynn made short work of loosening the pipes and removing them from the cabinet. He stuffed a paper towel in the pipe elbow with a screwdriver, forcing the gunk out the other end and onto a newspaper. The smell almost made Chad gag.
“Go easy on him, Duffy,” Flynn said. “We’ve all had our share of fix-it mishaps.”
“Yeah, when I was twelve.” Duffy was what Chad had always thought of as a man’s man. He’d probably come out of the womb with a wrench and a nail gun.
“Do you see the ring?” Chad couldn’t.
Flynn flattened the gunk some more with the screwdriver. “It’s not here.” He looked into the pipe.
“Boys, you won’t believe what I just found.” Nina entered the kitchen in a loose black top, hot pink leggings and white heels that looked impossible to walk in. She held up her hand and fanned her fingers. “My ring! It was on the bedside table the entire time.”
Farkle pranced over to her mistress and danced on her hind legs.
“Put it back together, boys,” Duffy said.
“At least we cleared the drain,” Flynn said.
If Chad hadn’t already hit his head, he might have given himself a serious head-thunk. As it was, he held his tongue until they were outside by Duffy’s gray truck. “Please tell me this doesn’t happen often.”
“Which part?” Flynn hefted the large tool box into Duffy’s truck bed. “The lost ring? The skanky clogged drain? Or the overly affectionate dog?”
“It all happens. That’s part of living here.” Duffy opened the door to the truck. A shaggy golden dog not much bigger than Farkle wiggled excitedly on the passenger seat, demanding attention. And just like that, Duffy’s man’s-man image was deflated. “Points to you for not walking out on us. That shows character.” His grin was pure joy, the spitting image of Gregory’s. It made Chad forget he’d been the butt of most of Duffy’s jokes. It made Chad envious. “And now, since I said that, I bet Flynn will go into his speech.”
“Great segue, Duffy.” Flynn slapped Chad heartily on the back. “You know, you can be a travel writer and live anywhere yo
u choose.”
Chad clenched the ice pack with his hammer-flattened finger, because the pain had to make this nightmare go away. “Are you asking me to move to Harmony Valley?” With its plethora of old people.
And Tracy.
“I am if you’re interested.”
He wasn’t, except for the Tracy part. He smelled of Nina’s drain. He was banged up and his head throbbed. If he moved here, they’d expect him to tag along on these handyman expeditions. He wasn’t cut out for that. He tried to make light of Flynn’s offer. “You just want me for my skills with a hammer.”
“You have a long way to go for that to be a true statement.” Duffy lifted his froufrou dog out of the truck and into his arms. “I heard about the chicken coop.”
“Maybe I’m a wrench man.” Chad felt the need to defend his handyman skills, despite not having many. “I got that pipe fitting off, didn’t I? And without the special wrench.”
Duffy stared at Chad and didn’t say a word.
Duffy’s dog stared at Chad and didn’t growl.
Flynn stared at Chad, but he was smiling.
Chad scratched his head. “Yeah...well...”
“Back to the invitation.” Flynn settled his black baseball cap more firmly on his head. “I promised my grandfather we’d do something to bring this town back to life. We’d love to have you as a resident.” He began ticking things off on his fingers. “We have no crime to speak of. A couple of gourmet restaurants. A friendly bar.”
“No commute traffic,” Duffy added. “No noisy neighbors.”
“Well, the old guard can be nosey,” Flynn allowed.
“And the new guard can be pushy.” Chad couldn’t let that go. He had a flattened finger and a lump on his head because of them.
“We appreciate you giving back to the community.” Flynn was a good statesman, perhaps better than the mayor. “We’re moving on to Mildred’s dripping faucet if you want to come along.”
“And learn something,” Duffy said.
“I’ve learned enough for today, thanks.” He needed some quality time alone with his ice pack.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Man of Influence Page 13
