Red tilted back her head and gave Junie a wise, Freudian look—if Freud had had freckles and strawberry-blond eyelashes. “Just because he looks like Daryl doesn’t mean he’s unreliable.”
“If that’s all it was, I wouldn’t be so concerned. But he’s also a huge flirt. I’m not sure how to take him.”
“But Manolo is old friends with Sam. What better recommendation is there than that?”
“Says the one who’s madly in love with Sam!” Junie shot back with a friendly grin. “Don’t pretend you’re not. Everyone saw how you ‘accidentally’ spilled your Riesling down Sam’s shirt at his homecoming party.”
“Bee Tee Dubs,” Poppy added thoughtfully, “I’ve been meaning to give you props on that move. I may have to borrow that someday. . . .”
“Who says that wasn’t an accident?” Pink splotches dotted Red’s milky skin. “But this isn’t about me. This Manolo must have some redeeming qualities.”
“Well, Sam did say that he’s done a lot of work on schools and hospitals and things.”
“See? Somebody who devotes his time to improving the lives of others can’t be all bad.”
Junie sighed. “So what I’m hearing you say is, go back to him with my tail between my legs and tell him I need him to finish the porch, after I already turned him down.”
“It depends. How important to you is the success of this fall’s crush?”
“It’s everything. You know that.”
Red lifted her palms. “Well, then.”
“But I barely know the guy! And what I do know, I don’t like. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating!”
“So you turned him down?” said Poppy. “That made perfect sense at the time. You already had another construction guy on his way over.”
Beneath the table, Junie curled her toes. She’d kept that little detail about kicking Manolo’s truck to herself, but the throbbing was a constant reminder. “Manolo knew that guy wouldn’t show up, and even if he did, I could tell he didn’t think it was a good idea, hiring yet another Joe Schmoe. Maybe I’m naïve, but I just can’t afford a professional’s rates right now.”
“Junie.” Crystal-blue eyes gazed out steadily from beneath pale brows.
Junie squirmed, wishing she’d never come into town today and run into Red MacDonald, certified wise woman. Here it comes—the hard stuff.
“How long have we known each other?”
Awash in a decade and a half of shared memories, the three exchanged faraway looks.
“Since that time we went up to Mr. Sullivan at the hardware store and asked him to show us his bird, and he turned beet red ’cause he didn’t know we meant his pet parrot?” said Junie.
“And then when we realized why he was blushing, we started laughing so hard we could hardly stand up?” finished Poppy.
Peals of laughter echoed through the café. Across the room, Jed Smith, the president of Clarkston Savings Bank, glanced up over his Sunday paper and smiled complaisantly.
“No!” exclaimed Poppy. Her hand shot up and she bounced on her padded booth. “I know! I know! That Christmas when we snuck a bottle of your dad’s eggnog and you got drunk and made up your own words to ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ and then you peed your pants and there was a puddle on Red’s bedroom carpet—”
Red’s trademark loud, lusty laugh echoed through the café. “My mother never found out that wet spot wasn’t from our golden retriever. Poor Zak was never allowed in my room again!”
Poppy had to hold on to the table edge to keep from falling out of her seat.
“Stop!” Junie crossed her legs. “You’re making me do it again!”
“Don’t!” Poppy thrust out her hands, suddenly sober. “Don’t you dare pee in my booth!”
Jed Smith rattled his paper, signaling that a little merriment was fine, but he was trying to read over here.
“A day that will live in infamy. So,” Red finally sputtered, “what I’m trying to say, Junie, is that I love you like a sister. And I would never put words in your mouth.” She wiped a leftover tear from the corner of her eye. “But to boil a year’s worth of counseling sessions down to one breakfast—hear me out. We know that a lot of good things have happened in your life. A lot of great things. You had loving parents. A secure childhood, even if you did move more than you would have liked. A terrific education. Wonderful friends.”
Poppy waggled her fingers in a self-congratulatory wave while silently mouthing the word, Me.
“I know. You guys . . .” Words failed her. Her nostrils stung with unshed tears.
Red continued in a calm, professional manner. “And, also like everybody else, some not-so-great. Storm walked away from his promises. Then you lost your dad just when you two were getting started with the business.”
“Don’t forget, her mom left too,” Poppy hiccupped cheerfully.
“Something about Manolo makes me . . . I can’t describe it.” Junie fidgeted. “I feel like . . . like I’m teetering on the brink of a big vat of honey.”
Poppy slurped from her trademark flowered mug. “It’s called lust,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Because although honey may be sweet, it’s hard to swim in, and you might even drown?” asked Red.
“You tell me. You’re the therapist.”
“You’re afraid he’s going to let you down, like the others.” Red sat back in her seat, satisfied with her diagnosis.
“Yeahhhhh . . .” Poppy nodded in wide-eyed revelation. “It’s about trust. It’s a trust thing!” She touched Red’s arm with the reverence due a high priestess. “You give such. Good. Shoulder.”
Junie gathered her bag and hoodie and slid out of her seat. “Spoken like a true Portlandian.” She sighed.
The gauntlet had been thrown. As of today, this fall’s harvest was still nothing but a gleam in Junie’s eye. But once the vines flowered and the flowers developed into berries, they’d grow fatter with every passing sunrise until they were finally full term. When their time finally came, Junie would have to scramble to get her grapes picked and pressed at their peak of juicy ripeness. The crush was no time to be worrying about pimping her property. The time for that was now.
Junie knew what she had to do.
She called Keval.
Chapter Nine
“You are such a coward,” Keval spat when she’d filled him in.
Dear, sweet Keval.
“Red has you pegged to a T.”
“I know,” Junie replied miserably. “But you’re my very best friend, and I need you more than I’ve ever needed you before. You’ll intercede for me, ask Manolo to finish my porch?” Junie winced, praying he’d say yes.
“I most certainly will not! You’re going to ask him yourself. Hold on a sec. I’ll put him on the phone.”
“He’s there? At the consortium?”
“Hold on to your tiara. I’ve got eyes on His Hotness, as we speak.”
“Shhh! Don’t talk so loud.” Instinctively, she lowered her own voice. “He might hear you. What’s he doing?”
“Talking with Peter Dubois. You know Peter, don’t you? He’s the winemaker over at Crimson Cellars. He’s got the most amazing—”
“Keval! I’m going home now to think about this. I have to burn the cuttings from yesterday’s pruning—”
“Uh-uh, no, siree, girlfriend. I don’t think so. You’re going to get your bony ass over here tout de suite and ask Mister Manolo Santos for his help in person, like a man. If you’re not here in ten minutes I’m going to tell him you’re madly in love with him and you want him to do you over a wine barrel. Ciao.”
“Keval!”
Her phone’s screen went dark.
* * *
The home that Sam operated his consortium out of was right around the corner from the café. Junie arrived to find cars wedged every which way in his driveway, with more lining the street. Good for Sam and the wine community. Bad for Junie. It would be hard enough to admit she needed Manolo’s favor when they w
ere alone, let alone beg him with a bunch of townspeople and fellow growers as witnesses.
Junie managed to squeeze her car into an opening along the curb half a block away and started walking back to Sam’s. The closer she got to the house, the more anxious she grew. Only sheer determination kept her from turning around and sprinting back to her car. Pausing at the threshold, she took a steadying breath, lifted her chin, and walked in.
It was easy to see why Sam needed a new building. The entire downstairs of his settlement-era house had been taken over by the fast-growing consortium. Knots of industry people stood around talking shop. It was like stumbling into a cocktail party for hipster farmers, only instead of cocktails they were all clutching to-go cups of gourmet coffee. The ubiquitous Levis and Danner boots made it impossible to tell the smallest growers from the most renowned winemakers.
“Junie!” chirped a petite brunette. Holly Davis, one of Sam’s sales reps.
Junie jerked her head toward the perimeter of the room. Maybe she could keep this whole thing on the down low.
Holly met her along the wall. “Long time no see!”
“You know how it is. You wouldn’t happen to know where Sam’s friend from out of town is, would you?”
“Manolo?” Holly faked a swoon. “Is he not the most gorgeous specimen you’ve ever laid eyes on?”
“That’s the one. Did you see him here somewhere?”
“He went that way.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “Good luck!”
Junie wove through the packed living room and into the kitchen, returning a wave here, a nod there. Along the way, her ears picked up fragments of market news.
“. . . spike in sales is a classical example of supply and demand . . .”
“. . . forecast for warmer conditions, thanks to this El Niño we’re having . . .”
An evocative blend of spices, leather, and forest floor stopped her in her tracks. He was here, somewhere. She could smell him. Then, from over Peter Dubois’s shoulder, she heard a thin, strained voice.
“. . . you figure eight to ten tons of grapes per acre. I’m counting on acquiring at least fifty tons from Broken Hart Vineyards.”
Junie’s ears strained to hear what came next.
“Are you talking about Junie Hart’s place?”
A callous laugh grated on Junie’s ears. “Junie’s had a run of bad luck. There’s not a person in this room believes she’s going to make it. She was forced to sell me half her yield last year to keep the wolf from her door.”
The owner of that voice loved holding forth about wine. But try asking him if he’d ever spilled his own blood in the Jory soil like Dad had. Ever stayed up all night on frost watch. Or ever made a single one of the myriad decisions required to create a living, breathing work of art, which was what wine was, when it came right down to it.
Anger and humiliation froze Junie’s feet to the floorboards.
“Hey, Junie! Come on over here.” A hand weaved between two women deep in conversation and wrapped itself around Junie’s bicep. “We were just talking about you.”
The women gave way, and Junie found herself held captive against Manolo’s side, face-to-face with her worst enemy. Suddenly all of her attention was focused on the parts of her body that were touching his, as if the rest of her had ceased to exist. Somehow, she managed a feeble smile.
Unaware of her dilemma, the man who’d insulted her took a sip from his to-go cup.
“Junie,” said Manolo, “I was just telling—sorry, what was your name again?”
“Alexander. Tom.”
“I was just about to tell Tom here how pumped I am that you’re letting me intern this summer.”
“Intern?” She looked up at him blankly.
“Can’t wait to get started. Dividing my time between the consortium and one of the finest small vineyards in Oregon. Right?” His mighty squeeze forced the air from her lungs.
“Right!” she squeaked.
Tom’s haughty smile shrank in a most satisfying way.
“Good to meet you, Tom.” Manolo dismissed him with a single pump of his hand. “But Junie and I have plans.” He winked down at her, lifting her off her feet with another squeeze. “Ready?”
“Ready!”
“Let’s jet.”
Outside, Junie finally could breathe again. “Thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking you, for giving me an excuse to get away from that guy. Who was he—other than a massive bore?”
“An investor who gets a rush out of being on the cutting edge of a trend,” Junie said drily. “That’s the only way for people like him to be a part of the mystique of winemaking—buying their way in. What I meant was, thanks for sticking up for my vineyard, saying you were going to be my intern.”
“I’m in, aren’t I?” With Junie still tucked under his arm, he peered down at her, eyes teasing yet genuinely hopeful. “Can’t think of anyone better than you to give me the real dirt on pinot noir.”
“I thought—“
“Sure, I’m here to lend Sam a hand. But I like a good bottle of wine almost as much as I appreciate a good New York strip steak . . . a tiramisu with perfectly whipped mascarpone. I’ve been hearing about Oregon pinot noir for a while. Thought it was high time I saw for myself what all the talk was about. All I need now’s someone to teach me.” He looked at her expectantly.
He was the most contradictory man she’d ever met. “Me, teach you about pinot noir?” She huffed a laugh. “Nothing could go wrong with that.”
“I know. You’re busy. But if you can take some time out of your schedule to show me the ropes, I’ll pay you back by fixing your porch. Even Steven.”
“Get Sam to teach you about wine.”
“He will, some. But it’s always good to get different perspectives.”
She smirked. “I thought you said I was a lost cause.”
“I know from experience it’s hard enough to run a business when you got six people sharing the load. I can’t imagine how one woman—one person, of either gender—could do it. The odds are stacked against you. But who am I to judge? I love a barter, though, and this is a perfect chance to barter services if I ever saw one. Straight up, now. I’m not kidding around.”
Junie looked at him sideways. “No strings?”
“Tit for tat.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “You better quit while you’re ahead.”
He stuck out his hand. “So we got a deal.”
Deep as her reservations about Manolo Santos were, this just might work. At least she wouldn’t be taking charity. She put her hand in his.
“What do you think? Sam and I are done for today. We could start right now—if that works for you.”
He walked her to her battered, old Volvo and held her door. She climbed in and he slapped the roof. “These things were built like tanks.”
“My dad got it for me, used, for college, nine years ago.”
“Sounds like you and your Dad were pretty close.”
“We were.” But for the first time in a long time, Junie’s dad wasn’t at the forefront of her mind. She was thinking about Manolo’s eyelashes. They were as long and dark as the lashes on a soft-eyed horse she’d once trusted to gallop on the trail off Meadowlake Road—before it threw her. “I guess you’re close to your dad, too. I mean, he gave you all his recipes.”
His response was another slap on the roof that made her jump in her jeans and that knockout grin that made her heart race like she’d just run a mile. “So. Where do we start?”
“If you really want to know about Oregon wine, there’re a couple of good places on the way home. You can drive with me and I’ll bring you back later.”
The next thing she knew, he was sitting next to her, filling her car with his presence and smoky-sweet scent. What on earth was she doing? More than ever, she felt as if she were balancing on the edge of a precipice.
“Let’s roll,” he said, eagerly peering out the windshield.
This co
uld not end well. Anyone who’d seen as many episodes of Worst-Case Scenario as she had knew that.
Chapter Ten
They headed north on the Tualatin Valley Highway. Manolo was as interested in Junie’s lithe body as he was in the distant mountains ringing the valley. She was close enough to touch. It would be so easy. All he’d have to do was just—
“Want to listen to some music?” she interrupted his thoughts, turning on the radio.
“Sure.”
A sweet, timeless love song came on.
“This song reminds me of my dad,” she said. “I used to take it for granted that we’d dance to it at my wedding.”
If there was one subject that never failed to throw cold water on steamy fantasies, it was weddings.
“That’s the Coast Range,” she said, humming along with the song. “They’re a pretty cadet blue from here, don’t you think? It looks different up close, where we go hiking.”
He pictured her hill climbing in skimpy shorts and sturdy boots.
“Who do you hike with?”
“Someone’s always hiking or waterskiing or floating down the river. You’ll find out, once summer gets here.”
Junie turned up a narrow lane until a long stucco edifice, sitting like an ocean liner in a sea of swaying orange flowers, came into view. Closer to the building, the wildflowers gave way to meticulous landscaping and a sign that read, ANNIE’S WINERY.
“Now, this looks like something you’d see in California.”
“You’ve done Napa, then? Or was it Sonoma? We were stationed at the Presidio, just south of there, for a few years. That’s when the wine bug really bit Dad hard. Annie’s was one of the first vineyards to be planted in Clarkston. They’ve been growing old-vine Riesling here since the eighties.”
Napa had nothing on Annie’s, in Manolo’s opinion. A dozen or so people were eating lunch under the market umbrellas dotting the spacious patio. “They have a restaurant! And look at that view! I bet you can see ten, fifteen miles.” He headed off in the direction of the patio to explore.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Junie snagged his arm. “This is an educational field trip. Inside.”
The Crush Page 6
