A Taste of Sauvignon

by Heather Heyford

  There were no seats left at the bar, yet one glance at Esteban cruising toward the French twist and the competition parted like a dust devil in a cornfield. Size mattered.

  Behind Savvy’s nerdy glasses, her eyes widened with appreciation at his clean jeans and fresh shirt. If he saw her a hundred times, he’d never get used to those specs. To cover up a face like that was just wrong. They were a barrier between him and those liquid brown eyes, that flawless skin. Those plump lips . . .

  “Hell-o?” she trilled, arching a brow.

  “Hey.” If he was going to be hanging with a woman like her, he’d better up his conversational game.

  The bartender asked what he was drinking. When he leaned in to be heard above the din, the heavenly scent of lily of the valley, warmed by her blood, assaulted his senses. He’d already come to associate the scent of roses with her, but this one wasn’t bad, either.

  “The usual. Draft.”

  “Well?” She couldn’t wait another minute. “What did your father say?”

  “It’s like I told you. We have no interest in selling our land,” he said, one hand on his beer—a welcome reward after a hard day in the fields—the other resting on the back of her bar stool.

  “What exactly did he say?”

  He tried and failed to drag his eyes off the sight of her rosy fingertip, tracing the rim of her wineglass. “You have to understand who he is. Who we are.”

  “So tell me.” She swiveled her stool until her knees bumped against his hip. On his other side, the crowd hemmed him in.

  He inhaled to get ready for his speech. “Everyone’s a farmer, down in the Michoacán. My father grew up raising avocados, garbanzos, lemons, corn—you name it. There’s nothing he can’t grow.” Except, maybe lavender. But it wasn’t Padre who was messing around with that. Padre was too practical . . . or was sane the better word?

  “Padre brought us here when land was still dirt cheap. For years, we helped his uncle work his farm, and in return he left the property to us. But even though Padre’s a citizen now, the way he lives his life is still like it was in the Michoacán. The biggest difference is here, he can make a much better living.”

  Sauvignon listened intently. “What about you?”

  He studied her face, looking for the meaning behind her words. “What do you want to do with your life?” she repeated.

  He swigged his beer. That kind of impractical, philosophical question was only pondered by people like her. He glanced over at the men with fifty-dollar haircuts hovering around her sisters. People of privilege.

  “Farming is in my blood.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  He laughed drily. “Kind of alien to me, that anyone can do whatever he wants with his life.”

  “Why is that?”

  He thought for a minute. “It’s not just what I want. There are other people to think about. Like my mother and father.”

  “I’m sure your parents want you to be happy.”

  She didn’t get it. That farm was Padre’s identity. Without it, he was nothing. He’d be wrecked if his only son gave up on it, after he’d devoted his life to nailing down a piece of the American dream for him. “Maybe what’s best for my family is what will make me happiest.”

  “Say you didn’t happen to like farming. What would happen then?”

  “You don’t do it because you like it,” he explained. “You just do it. For the people you love. Who love you.”

  “So, it’s about honor.”

  “You could call it that. I call it doing what’s right for the people you care most about.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like you have to do something other than farm.”

  But the reality was that Esteban couldn’t imagine a life without his hands in the dirt. “I like growing things.”

  “So, you see yourself walking in your father’s footsteps? Farming the same patch of land he did for the rest of your life?”

  When she rotated back toward the bar to retrieve her wine, her knees brushed against his fly this time, prompting his eyes to move downward to her skirted thighs. He took a long pull on his beer and tried not think about what they looked like naked.

  Concentrate. He did have a dream—even if Padre thought it was harebrained. What if he confided in her and then failed to achieve it? She would know. Even if he ran into her fifty years from now, she would know.

  This conversation needed to be over. She was the enemy. Letting her in was too hard . . . in so many ways. He was only going to have one beer with her, say what needed to be said, and then be on his way. Even now, his friends were waiting for him at a bar in town. Her prodding questions brought his deepest desires uncomfortably close to the surface, kindling something powerful. Or maybe it was her knees rubbing against his verga.

  “You really want to know?”

  She lifted one slim shoulder. “You’ve got to have dreams. Otherwise, what’s the point?” she asked, with all the self-assurance money could buy.

  “Easy for you.”

  In a snap, her smile faded, eyes filled with resentment.

  “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

  “Seriously? No one just wakes up one day, and bang, they’re a lawyer. You can’t buy a passing grade on the bar exam.”

  “I said I was sorry.” He was really fucking this up. She angled back toward the bar, robbing him of her attention . . . leaving him desperate to win her back. Which made no sense whatsoever.

  “I have this idea to start a lavender farm,” he blurted. As soon as the words left his mouth he felt stripped naked before God and the public. He looked around to see if anyone else had heard.

  Sauvignon merely sipped at her drink and thought. Judging by the non-effect his revelation had on her, he might as well have asked her to pass the Sriracha. He tilted his empty glass, wishing there were still beer in it. His mouth felt like Death Valley.

  Thankfully the bartender chose that moment to reappear. They had good help in this place.

  “Another draft, Esteban?”

  The fact that the bartender knew his name got her attention. He nodded yes to the beer, then, with another cocky impulse, turned to her and asked, “You hungry?”

  She hesitated, weighing her options. “I guess I could eat a little something.”

  “What’s today’s pesce crudo, Raoul?”

  “We have some abalone sashimi. First catch of the season. We’re full tonight, but you can eat here, at the bar.”

  Abalone . . . what Esteban had been waiting for all winter. He gave Raoul a thumbs-up. “Give us a double order. And give Sauvignon another glass of”—he knew little about wine—“whatever she’s drinking.”

  Chapter 7

  “I eat here every week,” Esteban said in answer to Savvy’s blank expression.

  With a graciousness that would put some of the most sophisticated men of her acquaintance to shame, he continued without pointing out how elitist she was to be surprised that he, a mere truck farmer, was also a regular at one of the valley’s finest eateries. “It’s hard to get fresh abs without driving over to the coast or down to the city. Unless I dive for them myself.”

  “You dive for abalone? I hear that’s really dangerous.” She owed him her polite consideration after her faux pas, yet her interest was real.

  He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “They lose a couple of divers every year. Riptides. Exhaustion. Guys get stuck in a crevice and panic. It happens.”

  “You risk your life for a sea snail?”

  Raoul slapped down a matched set of silverware rolled in white linen. Savvy smiled gratefully at the guy next to her who offered up his chair to Esteban so he didn’t have to eat standing. A moment later, their abalone arrived on a bed of romaine, garnished with kelp, lemon slices, and a purple blossom.

  “I’ve never tried this,” she confessed, eyeing the dish uneasily.

  “Don’t feel bad. They’re almost extinct. It’s illegal to harvest them in a lot of places: South Af
rica, Australia, even Washington state.”

  “Looks like raw chicken.”

  “Bodega gets all their abalone at Salt Point. The suckers don’t make it easy. First you’ve got to find one hidden among all the seaweed, then you gotta sneak up on it before it torques—twists itself and clings fast to the rocks—and then, hold your breath long enough to pry it loose and bring it to the top.”

  “Hold your breath? You don’t use an air tank?”

  He shook his head. “There’re strict rules. It’s against the law to use scuba to hunt for abalone.”

  She lowered her nose to her plate to take a cautious sniff. If it smelled like fish, it wasn’t fresh. All she could smell though was clean, fresh ocean.

  She watched Esteban unroll the cloth napkin, fold it neatly in half across his lap, pick up his knife and fork, and slice one, precise stroke across the raw flesh of his sashimi. It was the simplest of gestures, so why had her lungs stopped working? What was that mysterious sensation inside her? An urgent impatience . . . but for what?

  Some women raved about six-packs; others, butts. Savvy had a thing for hands. Bad ones were a deal-breaker. But it wasn’t only their shape. Poor grooming was a turnoff too. In her book, not even Joe Manganiello could get away with more than a sliver of white on the tips of his nails.

  Worst of all was clumsiness. Watching Esteban, though, there was no ham-handed fisting of his fork, no inept sawing back and forth with his knife. He had the most masculine hands she’d ever seen, yet he used them with the elegance of a dancer. To hell with her prep-school manners. She cocked her head and stared at the ballet on the bar.

  With his left hand, he inverted his fork, resting his index finger along its spine as he made another incision. Laying his knife along the plate’s edge with a muted clatter, he smoothly transferred the forkful of creamy flesh to his right hand and slid it between white teeth.

  “Mm.” He closed his eyes, relishing it.

  Savvy swallowed along with him, though her mouth was empty. When he opened his eyes and shot her a look of pure pleasure, her heart leapt into her throat.

  She gulped again and shifted her gaze to her wineglass to collect herself, though in her mind’s eye she still saw him. Clearly, Esteban Morales had missed his calling. He should’ve been a hand model . . . for Tractor Supply Company. Because though he used them with the finesse of a brain surgeon, his hands were super-sized, good for hefting axes or reining draft horses.

  He lifted his fork in the next bite, snagging her attention again in spite of herself.

  What would it feel like to be touched by hands like that? The whole side of her head would fit in his palm. His fingers could span her waist from rib to hip. The deep ache grew more compelling . . . demanding satisfaction.

  “I’ll take you there sometime,” he was offering.

  “Sorry, where?”

  “Salt Point.”

  Now, balanced on his thumb and middle finger, he held out his fork to her mouth. “Here. Taste.”

  Savvy tensed. She wasn’t the one who’d ordered raw mollusks. She didn’t make snap decisions, especially where vomiting and diarrhea might be involved. She weighed pros and cons, considered costs and benefits. Besides, her appetite for food had dissolved, replaced by a different kind of craving.

  In the end, it was the hand that convinced her. How could there be anything bad at the end of those fingers? She remained fixated on it, acutely aware of his eyes intent on her mouth, watching as she closed her lips around the tines while he slowly drew them out. The seafood tasted both sweet and salty, with a scallop-like texture. “Mmmm!”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you.” He took another bite, his gaze still on her mouth. Simultaneously, they savored each other’s pleasure . . . the raw flesh melting like lemon butter on their tongues. He lifted his eyes—crinkled at the corners from a life spent outside—to hers in a triumphant grin. The total effect was like sunshine pouring down on her.

  Savvy was having way too much fun. Being with Esteban whirled her away into another world, a world without conference tables and briefs. She sucked in a steadying breath. Indulging in frivolous pleasures wasn’t the way to reach your goals.

  “Go back. Tell me about lavender.”

  “S’got a ton of potential,” he replied easily, while they ate. “Ornamental, for starters. I could sell plants to nurseries or go the direct route, straight to the consumer. Then there’s culinary. Everyone’s heard of lavender in sweet things like cookies. It makes a great syrup for fruit, with sugar. And it’s good in drinks. Now it’s being used in place of rosemary and thyme in foods that aren’t sweet, too. The most valuable thing, though, is the oil. It’s used for perfumes, bug repellent, natural medicine—you name it. But it has to be extracted, and that means investing in equipment . . . learning how to use it.”

  “Can you make a profit?”

  He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, refolded it, and laid it back on his lap while she tried not to stare at those hands.

  “It’s kind of a rogue industry. It’s hard to find good information, especially about wholesale pricing. Technically, there is no established lavender industry in the U.S. I’ve looked at retail prices in catalogs and on websites, and the numbers are all over the place, depending on the quality.” He chuckled. “Everyone says theirs is the best, but who knows, when there’s no regulation? No standards?”

  “There have to be regulations,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Look it up. If you can find a law about growing lavender somewhere, I’d like to see it.”

  “I would be very surprised, but anyway—what do you have against grapes?”

  “Not a thing, except I only have five acres. Maybe if I had more ground and all the time in the world before I needed to make a profit. Grapes have a long lead time, though. They need a big investment before you see positive returns, let alone payback. Then there’s the processing. Who’s going to make the wine?”

  “You could just sell the grapes to a processor.”

  “Look.” He swigged his beer. “I get what this investment company wants to do. Five more acres tacked on to hundreds already planted in grapes makes perfect sense for them. Not for the little guy like me, though. Besides, there’s something about seeing a thing through from start to finish. Like Madre’s pepper jelly. I like knowing something went from seed to finished product all on our farm, crafted by our hands.”

  “This lavender scheme—sounds like it’s still a pipe dream.” She had to be sure.

  He made a face. “I’ve been experimenting for three years. I’m still looking for the variety that will thrive in our terreno.”

  She shot the last swallow of wine in her glass. All that was left on their small plates now were the garnishes.

  “One-point-six million,” said Savvy. “And I need to know by tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  “The new offer is six percent over market value,” Esteban told his father. They’d just completed their first joint task of the day, partially covering the seed potatoes with soil. Once the plants began to grow, they would continue to fill the trenches as needed until, finally, dirt was mounded up around each vine. Esteban squinted down into the trench. “Mierda. I wish this soil wasn’t so heavy.” Then he looked skyward. “That, or we’d get a long spell of dry weather.”

  “A good farmer works with the weather the Lord gives him,” said Padre. “The spuds did fine when we planted them in this spot three years ago.” Potatoes were one of those crops that had to be rotated each year so the nutrients didn’t leach out of the soil. “The water will be good for them when the tubers are forming.”

  “Not when they’re trying to cure,” countered Esteban.

  “They can cure in the field.” Potatoes left in the field for a few days of dry weather helped the skins to mature, enabling them to be stored longer. Esteban didn’t bother to argue that they’d be curing them in the field anyway, even if the soil was ideal.

  Esteban already knew what Padre’s deci
sion would be with regard to the increased offer, so why didn’t he just come out with it? They were on the same page when it came to the farm. But Padre was the patriarch. It fell to him to lead, and Esteban to follow. Still, he needed some kind of answer for Sauvignon by the end of the day.

  When his cell rang toward the end of the drizzly afternoon, he knew who it was without looking.

  “Do you have any news for me?” she asked briskly.

  She had worked him last night at Bodega. Totally sucked him in with her polite interest in his abalone and her lily of the valley perfume. Then, just when he let his defenses down, she’d T-boned him with the second offer.

  Esteban was sowing the spring’s first spinach crop, a task he would repeat every ten days during the growing season.

  “Not yet,” he said, swiping his sleeve across his forehead. “If I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Suit yourself.” She could camp out in the damn pumpkin patch until Halloween if she thought it would convince Padre to sell, but she’d be wasting her time.

  As he slipped his phone back into his jeans, he noticed Padre making his way over to him. Must’ve heard him talking on the phone.

  “Two million dollars,” his father said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s half a million more than it’s worth!”

  Padre straightened up to his full five feet ten inches against his towering son. “Land is worth different things to different people.” He held up two fingers. “If they want it, it’s two million. Tell them they can take it or leave it.” With that, he turned and strode back to his peas.

  For the first time, Esteban noticed the slight stoop in his father’s spine as he walked away. Padre wouldn’t be around forever. A strange surge of protectiveness welled up in him. He raised his voice as high as he dared at Padre’s back. “Why are you doing this? You don’t want to leave here. Neither does Madre.”