by Grace Conley
His original plan had been to get just wasted enough at the reception to enjoy himself and dance with some local hotties but not drunk enough to be seriously preyed upon by any of St. Helena’s Daughters of the Prohibition’s junior league, subset of the divorced and ready barracuda type, of course.
“Yeah, that worked out well,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced over at Presley, who kept snuggling with Dawg. She looked straight ahead, as if she hadn’t heard him.
Phase II of his ill-fated plan, when he was good and ready, was to go back to Baudouin Vineyards, where old Charles had allowed him to park one of his tiny houses at the end of a row of vines, to help raise awareness for his cause. He’d climb in to the tiny house, switch the uniform for an old set of sweats, set out a chair under the stars, and drink some more – until he was so numb he couldn’t remember why the idea of a beautiful girl in a white dress was so damned distressing to him.
Still, he was proud of the tiny houses, his show, and the non-profit he’d formed to help veterans and raise awareness. Luke wished that Presley had stuck around for all that, to be a part of all the great things that were happening in his life in the last year.
His older cousins didn’t quite get the tiny house.
“It’s…very girly and tiny,” his older cousin Dax Baudouin, a former Army Ranger, observed when Luke parked the house out at Charles’. “No offense, but this isn’t much bigger than Emerson’s first food truck, so I don’t quite catch how somebody’d want to live in it. But it figures, for you, Lucas. Muscles-Required-Intelligence-Not-Essential. In case you can’t work that out for yourself – M-A-R-I-N-E.”
“Oh, I can manage those little short words,” threw back Luke. “Like Ain’t-Ready-to-be-Marines-Yet. A-R-M-Y. You kiss your hot wife with that cursing mouth?”
“You say a word about Emi – and man – she’ll just take you out herself. I don’t have to lift a finger. I’ll just look the other way, and it will be you and the bottoms of her designer combat boots. You should be running scared, little cousin!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“No, seriously, man, this is a good little place,” Dax looked at him with respect. “I admire what you’re doing with all this.”
A Home on the Range was the brainchild of Luke and his dad, Paul, a master carpenter. Luke had hooked up with a friend in Oceanside who was strapped and couldn’t afford much house-wise, and was at the point of his treatment for PTSD where he knew where he was going. He needed wide open spaces. Luke helped the guy put together a custom tiny house in a couple of weeks, a green, self-sustaining cottage that the friend could move around in as he pleased, because it was built off of a modified trailer.
His dad had just retired and had lots of time on his hands, and his mom, Janice Baudouin, had the flip side. Janice was the recently-promoted dean of the Napa Valley Culinary Academy, and suddenly in older age, her career got hot and she spent long hours at work. Luke suggested to his dad that he help out long-distance, take this idea further, and together they filed to form a nonprofit and started drumming up funding to help build tiny houses for vets who needed them.
“You going to let me come down and meet this girl yet?” Paul nudged gently, whereas Janice would have invited Presley to come up to Sunday dinner in St. Helena and have a selection of wedding venues ready to spring on her.
He’d hid her, kept her just for himself, until he knew where things were going.
“Nowhere, I guess,” Luke concluded bitterly as he looked straight ahead, keeping his focus on the road.
Highway 129 was riddled with potholes and broken areas from the quake, so he had to do a fair bit of defensive driving, not just to contend with other drivers who were frantically getting places, but just to avoid popping a tire.
“I saw your tiny house in the newspaper,” Presley’s soft voice drew his attention. “The one from the show that you go around in.”
“Yeah?” he asked. “You saw the house?” Luke lost concentration on his driving for a moment, had to move fast to miss a tear in the road.
“It’s pretty amazing.”
The TV network came calling, a few days after Presley’d lost the pregnancy. The offer was for him and his dad to travel the country with their TV crew, going from town to town reaching out to local veterans support groups and building and placing tiny houses for the vets who needed them.
She wasn’t part of the offer, which he’d been figuring out how to handle.
But helping people out, one by one. Man, oh, man. It was what he did best, and what eventually kept him semi-sane after Presley ran out.
He found himself on a mission. Presley was going to be a part of his life. He wasn’t sure if there was any way in heaven to get her to stay inside the tiny house on wheels with him instead of the vineyard’s palatial estate – especially with Chi Chi present – but he’d try.
He wanted to talk with her, and for her to listen. Just once. To get the chance she hadn’t given him last year, when she ran.
“Presley, you’re ah…not dating anyone right now?” He knew she wasn’t with someone else the second he saw her pocket the picture of the two of them back at her apartment.
“No,” she said,
He wanted to know why she decided to disappear, and if she was going to do that, why do something as crazy as re-appear in his hometown.
He pulled a sideways glance at her, holding his cat protectively.
“Dawg loves classic heavy metal guitar,” he said sweetly, turning some on.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked over the sound of head-banging.
“Home.”
She frowned.
“Not Oceanside, Presley, if that’s what you mean, that’s not home anymore.” He watched as she stiffened, schooling her features into a carefully composed nonchalant stare.
“I meant, where is the Baudouin Estate. I haven’t visited Chi Chi out there, she splits her time between the DeLuca place and Charles’ house. Your parents live here still?”
He raised an eyebrow. She was going to play that game. Polite curious chat. As if she didn’t know, very well, that his parents and just about every Baudouin born on the West Coast in the last century had a residence in Napa. St. Helena was a veritable hotbed of Baudouin cousins – and second cousins, and third cousins.
Which was one of the reasons he didn’t date much as a teenager. When half of the town is related to you and the other half of the town is in a long-standing feud with your family, prom date pickings are slim.
“Yes, my parents do still live here. My dad just texted that they’re fine, but he’s over helping my mom do some cleanup at the culinary academy. Lots of broken glass, sounds like. I’ll just have to introduce them to my ex-girlfriend for the first time…some other time.”
She straightened. “So where is…home for you now?”
“Baudouin Vineyards. At least, for this week. I parked one of the tiny houses out there. I also promised my Cousin Frankie that I’d check in on Old Man Charles and La Bella Chi Chi after I got you, and I don’t want her hopping on a plane when she doesn’t hear right back that they’re fine.”
He didn’t mention he was now planning on installing Presley in her very own borrowed A Home on the Range tiny house, so she’d be good and safe. He was too worried she’d try to go back in and occupy the falling-down Goodwin Building.
Presley piped up with, “Charles and Chi Chi are judges in the Summer Wine Showdown this year. She says there’re always a DeLuca and a Baudouin on the judge panel, and this year, one happens to be both.”
“Impressive. You’re already on a first name basis with the heads of the Baudouin and DeLuca clans?”
“They’re a sweet old couple. And I work for Chi Chi. I grew up outside Portland with her great-niece, Chiara DeLuca. When I came here after – after everything – Chiara and Chi Chi gave me work and let me stay in the guest cottage over at the DeLuca vineyard.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word ‘sweet’ ap
plied to either Charles or Chi Chi before in my entire life.”
“Well, they are.”
Luke noticed she hadn’t been able to talk directly about the baby, either, and softened. He couldn’t fault her for that. He still had nightmares, where he’d see tiny arms go round to hug her, and her tossing the dream baby up in the air and catching her, giving her a kiss. The baby was a girl, and had golden red hair a shade lighter than Presley’s, that sweet baby copper penny color that redheads have before they grow up. Then he’d transition to a grenade going off somewhere outside, and hearing the voices of men from his unit that they’d lost. He’d inexorably be torn away from Presley and the baby, and toward the sounds of warfare. But he’d hear a baby crying in the background, and see Presley’s eyes, sunken and swollen from crying. His heart would seize up then, and he’d wake up in a pool of sweat, gasping for air.
“So you’ve been here – how long?”
“One year.”
“One year.” He took that in.
“So…on the eve of me going on the road for work, huge opportunity, you up and frickin’ disappear…and you haul off and move to MY hometown?”
That was mind fuck on a world stage.
“Trask Curse,” she said in a quiet voice, so quiet he almost couldn’t hear her at first. She cleared her throat. “My family – we’re cursed. Marriages don’t last long. Last five generations, the women each outlived the men by, oh, a good thirty to fifty years apiece.”
So she hadn’t left him for another man. She had some crazy idea of a family curse, but the fact was, she hadn’t left him for another guy.
Sweet Jesus, she was a crazy cutie. But at least, Luke now had a strong feeling that deep down inside, she might still somehow be HIS crazy cutie.
He found himself oddly relieved. A year ago, after they’d lost the baby, she’d deleted her social media account and left him the weirdest Dear John letter in the world, blew town as he was leaving to go on the road. Leaving him with his dad, the biggest bloodhound in the family when it came to knowing something was wrong.
He’d searched for her, of course, in between work. Called their friends, who rebuffed him at her request. Stopped in at bars and restaurants they’d frequented, on the weekends when he’d fly back to Southern California, even though he was exhausted with the new job and keeping up a good front during his work week.
He mourned her, the way he mourned the baby that didn’t make it. He’d even hired a private detective, who didn’t turn up a damned thing.
And the whole time, she was hiding out in the quaint Wine Country town he was raised in.
Now, if that didn’t take the cake. And the champagne that went with it.
Chapter Five
“This is the longest under-three-mile drive I’ve ever been on,” observed Presley. “I didn’t realize roads could buckle like in those spots.”
“The quake had to be at least a 5 on the Richter scale,” commented Luke. “Back in 2014, there was another big one in Napa County, but the worst of it was South of here. St. Helena didn’t really get hit so much, in terms of property damage. More like, downed wine racks and the power off for a bit, as opposed to whole blocks having to be yellow-tagged in some of the other towns. Unfortunately, we weren’t passed over this time.”
Presley kept her arms wrapped protectively around herself and Dawg for the rest of the way to Baudouin Vineyards, clutching her fingers tautly around the seatbelt to protect the two of them whenever Luke needed to stop fast. She risked tilting her head up at her ex-boyfriend every few minutes, checking him out.
The man next to her might be an alpha male pain in the ass, but he was something rare and unique. A real hero.
He could be your hero, a tiny voice in the back of her mind piped up. Except that ship had sailed, when she blew it and freaked out and ran.
She saw that Luke kept his hands light on the steering wheel, as if caressing the leather. But that was at odds with the rest of his body. He was pumped, fierce, constantly assessing his surroundings for any need to step in and step up.
“So you said you’ve been watching the show?” he asked.
“Yeah. It’s very touching,” she said, catching his eye.
“Huh,” he grunted in response, shifting in his seat.
“I mean that. Most of those guys are in clear pain, and need a hand. And you and your dad give them that hand.” A dull blush rose up on her cheeks and neck, which she shifted so he wouldn’t see.
Presley was watching the show, all right. She couldn’t help herself, she felt compelled. She’d programmed the DVR on the TV in the DeLuca guest cottage and watched every single episode. Many times over, and late at night.
A Home on the Range was obviously Luke’s love letter to the people of America. It was his way of acknowledging he’d served, suffered, and knew the raw, leftover pain and suffering of all the other brave men and women who’d done the same for their country.
Presley flogged herself over the decision to leave Luke, and cried herself to sleep night after night over him and the baby.
She alternately laughed and cried with the people on the show, as they got on their paths to homeownership and healing. But most important, she got to see a side of Luke with his dad in the series, who she’d never met during their year together in Southern California.
“You and your dad have a sweet relationship, I like the way you banter back and forth.”
“Yeah, that,” he replied, checking the mirror. “He’s got a good sense of humor. I don’t know if I’d call either of us sweet, but thanks for that. He’s a good dad. And I’m sorry I didn’t bring you around him or my mom when we were together. I was trying to figure things out, and…” his words petered out.
“I saw all of them,” Presley admitted, ducking her head. “I missed you, and it was a way to feel like I still knew about your life.”
Her heart was full to bursting every time Luke came onscreen. Luke always did the segments working to coordinate all of the people – the local representatives of the various veterans groups that supported the featured vet in applying for a tiny house, the veteran in need and any friends and family they might have.
That last one was a sticky point, Presley knew. Sometimes there wasn’t much left of friends and family after a PTSD vet had pushed them away, so Luke went about working with the groups that were reaching out to help re-connect the vets to a community. He understood the tricky balance of being messed up and needing to be away from people, and eventually needing to find the path to reconnect to other humans.
She was so proud of him, she felt like her heart could burst.
“My favorite was the Operation Freedom Paws episode,” offered Presley. “I liked Manny and Otis the service dog, and it was so beautiful seeing them get their home placed up near Yosemite.”
Operation Freedom Paws was a Northern California charity that helped veterans who needed them get placed with service dogs.
“He’s a good guy,” said Luke. “The OFP service dog program is pretty cool, we were excited to get them more air time.”
“I loved how they were able to work with him to train the dog to sniff out his blood sugar attacks, so he wouldn’t fall into a diabetic coma. That’s absolutely amazing. And it was so cool to see them get their new tiny house.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this road damage before. It’s like we’re off-roading, but we’re not,” Presley said as the Jeep went over a big bump in the road, planting her hand firmly on Lukes strong upper bicep to prevent her and Dawg from going flying.
Luke took a gulp. “You know I – I’d do anything for you. You were there for me, Bubbles, you were my rock. I wanted to do the same for you, when you needed it.”
Presley looked out the window, her eyes roaming the quake-damaged countryside. She wasn’t able to let herself get close to Luke. There was the curse. She gnashed her teeth and held on for dear life to the little cat, who yowled in protest.
She cut him off, pulling him off
course, “I’ll text Chiara that we’re almost up to Chi Chi and Charles. She’ll want to get word out to all her cousins that everyone’s fine, they’re all at some wine industry conference in Italy.”
Luke set his jaw, mad at being rebuffed.
They stopped for a few minutes along the way to help a man catch some escaped goats and chickens that were running around in the roadway.
Luke was in more of a hurry after that and didn’t notice a broken part of the road, sending the jeep offroad and into a large rock a couple hundred feet down from Baudouin Vineyards sign.
They whiplashed, got shaken around as the car came to a thudding stop. Dawg flung himself out of the window at the last second, landing as only a cat could in a sprint toward the main house at Baudouin Vineyards.
Presley turned to Luke in the seat, pressed a hand to his face. “You okay?” she whispered, trying to figure out yet again, if she was invoking some type of disaster on him.
“If I said no, would you come play Nurse for me?”
He caught her hand, turned it gently and brushed his lips to her palm.
The moment was killed by Charles and Chi Chi, who bustled as fast as they could down the drive to the stopped vehicle.
As old Charles Boudouin came over and clapped Luke in a one-armed bro hug, Presley noticed how much the two were alike.
Big and strong, but both men moved with the grace that came with athleticism, and knowing yourself.
“I am so sorry,” Luke told Charles. “Luckily, we hit at low speed. There’s no major damage, other than a dent and the paint. I can get that fixed over at Stan’s in the morning.”
“We’re just glad you’re both all right,” said Charles.
“Any damage here?’
“An overturned wine vat and damage to a couple pieces of machinery. Loss of some bottles,” summarized Charles.
“Need any help?”
Charles shook his head. “My winemaker and the intern and I have been working on all of it. We don’t have any emergency needs. Anything will keep until tomorrow. Chi Chi here wants to feed the two of you.”
