The Crush

by Heather Heyford

  But Manolo’s provocative talk couldn’t sway her.

  “It was never part of the plan to redo the tasting room this year.”

  It was enough that he’d finished her porch. At least now it wouldn’t look like she couldn’t afford even the basic maintenance of her place.

  “Now, here’s what I’m thinking. We replace the current bar with the live-edge slab, boom. Done. Then I install a drop ceiling, put in a cork floor, knock out the south-facing wall, and build a covered patio.”

  “Did you not hear what I just said?” She had to admit his grandiose ideas were tempting.

  “We’ll install a patio with some high-tops so people can take their drinks outside when the weather’s nice. Get some container plants, maybe put in some climbing roses. Take out one of the tables to make room for a guitarist in the summer evenings, for atmosphere.”

  She could see it all now, exactly as Manolo described it. Tourists mingling with locals under tiny white lights, the heady fragrance of roses in the twilight, the tinkle of crystal, and best of all, her bottles flying off the shelves.

  “It sounds amazing,” she admitted wistfully. “But it’s way out of my reach.”

  “It’s not just about the ambience. Think of it as a long-term investment that will bring in business.”

  “That’s crazy, Manolo. You’re talking thousands in materials alone.”

  “I know all the tricks of the trade. It’ll cost less than you think. You’ll see.”

  The highway dipped under an overpass. When it rose again, the rolling green countryside was gone, replaced by the Portland cityscape.

  If she had extra funds, she’d spend it buying out Mom’s interest, not on some gigolo’s pie-in-the-sky ideas. She hadn’t forgotten the Holly incident.

  “I have to go now. There’s traffic.”

  “Think it over, but don’t take too long. I’ll be tied up for the next few days with the sewer work and watching them pour concrete, but I’ll stop by next week. We have to get on it quick to get done by the time your big tourist season starts.”

  If Junie got lucky and landed a distributor this fall, she could pay some bills and then maybe think about renovations to the tasting room next year. But what if Jed Smith had been right when he’d advised her not to gamble? What if she only ended up deeper in debt?

  Junie parked her car in The Pearl and strolled past chic stores, thriving ice cream parlors, and funky bars to the restaurant where Mom said to meet her.

  Once she was inside, it took a moment for her pupils to adjust to the dimness. Tables crowded up against a long, mahogany bar lined with businesspeople dressed in somber tones of navy and gray.

  Mom was already seated. She saw Junie and waved.

  “I feel a little underdressed,” worried Junie, in her jeans, as she sat down opposite her mother.

  “Glory Days caters to a professional crowd. But don’t worry, you’re fine,” she replied, sipping her cocktail.

  “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  “A rosemary lemon martini. It’s lovely.”

  “What?” Junie mused wryly. “Nothing with kale in it? No cucumber?”

  Mom made a face. “Now, Junie, don’t start. I thought you might like to try one too since you’re staying with me instead of driving back tonight, so I ordered you one.”

  It had been a long time since Junie had drunk anything stronger than wine. When her own cocktail arrived, it tasted tart and bracing. While she sipped, she half listened to Mom prattle on about patients and coworkers she had never met. Before long, the vodka started to work its magic and she felt herself unwinding.

  Mom ordered another round. “So, tell me what happened at the bank.”

  Once Junie opened up, it was like a dam bursting. She didn’t stop at the fact that Jed didn’t think she could swing an increase in her line. She even hinted she’d been having trouble meeting her expenses.

  Then an unassuming man who’d been sitting with his back to them got up from the bar and walked the few steps to their table.

  Junie looked up into Tom Alexander’s face, then down at her mother. “What’s going on?”

  “I asked Tom to give us a few minutes to catch up before joining us for dinner.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, Tom pulled out a chair.

  Junie gritted her teeth. “I thought we were having a private conversation. Just my mother and me.”

  “I won’t insult your intelligence by saying I didn’t know you were coming here. Why are you so resentful of me, Juniper? You knew when you sold me your grapes that I was going to make wine with them. That’s no crime, last I heard. By your own admission, if not for me, you would have defaulted on your line of credit.”

  “Why do I resent you? Let me think. Maybe because not one week ago, at the consortium, I plainly heard you refer to me as a failure.”

  “Now, Junie. If you’re going to be a businesswoman, you’re going to have to grow a thicker skin. I wasn’t saying anything every other vintner in the Willamette isn’t thinking.” He examined his manicure. “There’s plenty of opportunity to go around. I want every vintner to do well, to continue to raise the reputation of the Valley. The success of every one of us feeds off the others.”

  Junie lifted her chin, eyeing him askance. “Again. Why are you here?”

  “Merely to offer a struggling winemaker—and the daughter of a dear friend—a hand up. Tell me, Juniper. What’s your formal, long-range business plan? What is it that you want most?”

  Junie’s brow furrowed. What did she want? What was the real motivation behind getting a distributor for her wine? “I want to bring my grandfather’s dream to fruition. And I want to help my widowed mother reclaim her life.”

  “Very well. To reach those lofty goals, you’re going to need to partner with someone who has a record of achievement. I’m willing to give you a personal loan to buy out half of your mother’s ownership in the vineyard and winery.”

  Junie sniffed. “Half won’t do me much good—not that I’d even consider taking money from you. Where am I supposed to get the rest of it?”

  Mom said, “Actually, honey, a bit of good news. Storm agreed to buy half my share, so you only have to come up with the money to buy the other half.”

  Fury seized Junie. “You went to Storm?”

  “After you told me Jed wouldn’t give you the money, I got a little desperate—” Flustered, Mom appealed to Tom for help.

  “Look at it this way. . . .” Tom’s calm, patronizing demeanor was maddening. This was Junie’s life, her future they were discussing! “Imagine the winery is a pie cut into three pieces. A third of the pie for you, one for your brother, and one for your mother. Storm is willing to buy half your mother’s interest, or one sixth of the total. I’ll lend you the money to buy the other sixth. If the crush pans out the way you hope it will, you can pay me back at the end of the year—with interest, of course—and then you and your brother will be left with equal shares. If your sales exceed expectations, Storm will probably even sell you his portion, and then you’ll own everything. Winner take all.”

  “And if the season doesn’t work out, you’ll take my sixth as your collateral and Storm will still own half—more than me. He’ll be the controlling partner!”

  Tom lifted an arrogant brow. “If you’ve misjudged the market, or if the weather turns against you, or your wine goes sour or any number of other things—yes.” He shrugged. “That, my dear, is business.”

  Mom tried to reason with her. “I know Storm’s changed jobs a lot, but he’s found his calling. His medical marijuana business is doing very well—”

  Junie huffed. “Medical marijuana? Is that what he told you? And last I heard, he was a manager, not an owner.”

  Mom ignored that. “He bought a house in Boulder and he has a live-in girlfriend. I don’t see him coming back to Clarkston. But if worst comes to worst with this year’s grape crop and Storm would happen get controlling interest and
agree to let Tom be his local man on the ground, remember, my door is always open. You can always move in with me and take a job in Portland.”

  Tom Alexander manager of Brendan Hart Vineyards?

  In a flash, Junie recalled in graphic detail an April dawn, five years past.

  Dad’s bloodless face looked up at her from the ground where he lay. “Don’t give up, Junebug.” He panted with the effort of those four little words—a father’s last behest to the child who was most like him.

  She’d called 911 the moment she’d seen him lying there. “Dad!” Junie pleaded against the faraway refrain of sirens. “No! Stay awake! Open your eyes!” She knelt close, cradling his head in her hands. “Daddy.” It came out as a choked sob. A teardrop splashed onto his cheek and rolled off.

  Two EMTs jogged up with medical bags and a backboard in tow. “How long’s he been unresponsive?”

  She recounted the past twelve hours, her shaky words tumbling out in a rush. “My mom stayed in Portland all night on a difficult case.... She’s a doctor. The rest of us—my brother, visiting from Colorado, Dad, and I—had a late supper, then Dad went back out to do grafting and Storm and I went up to our rooms and didn’t come back down.” Nobody had known Dad had been lying outside all night, fighting for his life, until that morning when he hadn’t come downstairs for coffee.

  Storm came running barefoot down the row of winter-bare vines, clad only in his pajama bottoms. “What’s going on? Why is there an ambulance—?”

  The medic poised for action. Without looking up, he asked Storm in a monotone, “Can you get her out of here?”

  Storm looped both arms through Junie’s and yanked. Dad’s head lolled off her lap onto the frost-hard ground with a sickening jolt. She found herself being dragged backward several feet before she jerked free of Storm’s grasp. From there, brother and sister stared, transfixed, at the surreal scene.

  “Clear!” snapped the medic, and Dad’s already lifeless body convulsed in a way that would haunt Junie for the rest of her days.

  “Junie.”

  She blinked at the sound of her name on her mother’s lips.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She turned to her mother in a daze. She couldn’t give up on the winery. Not yet. Five years might seem like a long time to Mom, but she’d learned in college that five years in the red was not unusual for a fledgling winemaking business. That wasn’t opinion. That was fact.

  But Junie believed deep down in her soul that this could finally be her year. Sam believed it, too. The property already looked a far sight better because of the work Manolo was doing.

  Junie met Alexander’s green gaze. Greed emanated from every pore of his body. How could Mom not see it?

  “At what rate?” she heard herself ask.

  “Twenty-five.”

  Junie twitched as if slapped. Twenty-five percent interest was highway robbery. But if the bank wouldn’t take a chance on her, where else could she go to preserve her father’s legacy . . . to see to it that her mom danced again?

  Her heart raced at the risk she was about to take.

  Then she remembered: Do what you love, the money will follow.

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty-two point five. Take it or leave it.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I’ll take it.”

  God help her, she would pay back every cent if it killed her—plus settle up with Manolo for his time and materials. She was no man’s charity case.

  A smug smile spread across Tom Alexander’s face. “I’ll have the papers drawn up.” He picked up the wine list. “Now. A little sparkling wine, to celebrate?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Manolo stood with his arms folded, watching the little orange Kubota putter up one row of vines and down the next. The tractor’s operator was disguised from head to toe in wrinkled white coveralls, an Oregon Ducks baseball cap perched comically atop her hooded head. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other sprayed something onto the new, pale leaves.

  He had been working on Junie’s tasting room for two weeks. The new bar was in, the drop ceiling installed, and the cork floor tiles on order. While he came and went, Manolo had gotten a front-row seat on how a vineyard operated. Junie worked hard, every bit as hard as his mother and his sisters worked at his family restaurant. He hated to interrupt her just now. But he needed some answers.

  When Junie realized she was being watched, she stopped, shut off the engine, and held up a gloved hand.

  He cupped his mouth and shouted, “What about a display area?”

  She pulled down her face mask. “What?”

  “Shelves.”

  Yelling across the vineyard was ridiculous. He headed out to meet her, despite not knowing what toxic contents that spray bottle held.

  “That stuff looks like antifreeze.”

  “Copper fungicide.”

  He sneezed loudly. “Smells rank—like vinegar.”

  “Once the leaves are out, you can’t get by without spraying once a week for mildew. Especially with these cool nights and warm days we’ve been having.”

  “I had you pegged as one-hundred-fifty-percent organic.”

  “It’s called biodynamic. I use organic plus holistic farming methods to conserve the health of the land and the ecosystem.”

  With gloved fingers, she picked what looked to him like a common weed. “This hyssop wards off pests. And those roses at the end of each row aren’t just for decoration. They’re my canary in the coal mine. Mildew shows up first on them.” Junie scraped up a handful of rich, dark soil and crumbled it. “See this? Chemically treated soil looks pale and hard. But treat it right and the system self-regulates.”

  Manolo reached over and cupped a bunch of hard, green berries. “You sure these are grapes? They look like peas to me.”

  She laughed. “The fruit’s just starting to set. Just wait a couple of months and you’ll see.”

  “Before I go any further with the new tasting room wall, I need to know if you want some kind of display shelving.”

  She shook her head. “I told you. Just the bare bones.”

  “Display shelves are pretty basic. And built-in looks classier than free standing. If it’s the former it can wait, but if you want built-in, now’s the time to speak up.”

  She sighed. “Write up an estimate and I’ll look at it.”

  Estimate? Manolo didn’t have patience for estimates. He’d just go ahead and order the lumber. It wouldn’t take him much over the round figure he had in mind for the bottom line. To save time arguing, he simply nodded.

  “Sounds like things are on track at Sam’s place.”

  “The walls should be up by this time next week. Everything’s right on schedule.”

  Junie’s eyes probed his. “You mean, for the crush.”

  He felt transparent under her gaze. Tread carefully, Santos. He always kept his exit strategy close to the vest. If a woman knew your plans, it weakened your hand.

  “Yeah. The crush.”

  “That’s why you wouldn’t sign a lease over six months.”

  He never should have blurted out the details of that lease on the very day he’d met Junie. But how could he have imagined that little more than a month later, he’d be remodeling her tasting room and making her dinner a couple times a week? Not that that meant anything.

  “Where are you going after that? Do you have a new contracting job lined up? A volunteer mission?”

  “Nothing yet. But I’ve always got my ear to the ground.” The Belize job was still up in the air. Sam was the only one outside of the EWC who knew about that prospect. “The only thing that’s carved in stone is that I’ve got to be at Sam’s first thing in the morning to supervise the framing crew. In the afternoon, I’m headed back to the Reserves.”

  Her eyes widened. “I can’t believe it’s that time again already!”

  “Time flies when you’re working your ass off.”

  “Other than a few extra tourists, I barely no
ticed it was Memorial Day last weekend.”

  “The consortium was hopping. Sam must’ve taken out a dozen vanloads of them on tours.”

  “When you’re in the service industry, you work holidays. It’s the same with me and most of my friends. Poppy, Rory, Heath.... By the way, did Sam tell you about the hike Monday?”

  “He did say something. You going?” Say yes.

  “It’s my day off, thank goodness. I’d hate to miss it. Usually we all bring something to eat. But you’re excused, since you’ll just be getting off a plane.”

  “Me, pass up a chance to cook for a crowd? Not likely.” He cocked his head. “If I’m not mistaken, this’ll be the first break you’ve taken since I’ve known you.”

  “I never miss our post–Memorial Day hike! That, and the Clarkston Splash in July. A bunch of us get together and rent out the community pool at night. Poppy and I used to lifeguard there when we were kids. You’re welcome to come.”

  Junie in a swimsuit? “I’ll try to make it.” Wild horses couldn’t drag him away.

  “All I can think about is keeping things moving along here and at the consortium. Do me a favor?”

  “After all you’re doing for me? How can I say no?” Eyes full of gratitude shone up at him. Her lips puckered into a fat, juicy strawberry as they fought a smile. She should have looked ridiculous with her face peeking out of that white hood like a nun’s wimple. But instead she looked for all the world like a wood nymph from the nearby forest.

  Manolo swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “Stay out of the tasting room until I get back. It’s not safe with the floor ripped up.” There was no reason she had to go in there until he was finished. He’d already transferred all her stuff over to her mother’s old bedroom so she could use it as an office temporarily during the renovation.

  She shrugged. “It’s already off-limits to customers during the rehab—assuming I have any.”

  In the weeks he’d been hanging around Brendan Hart Vineyards, the only visitors he’d seen had been bussed in by Sam.