Their occasional affair had been going on ever since. Even while Melinda was in New Zealand, Alfred had continued to handle the viticulture side of the business while Melinda took care of the financial end.
A less-pragmatic man might have taken offense, refused to put up with Melinda. But any illusions Alfred had had of romantic love had been wiped out when his first wife left him for his best friend. That had taught him to live in the moment, because the moment was all anyone really had.
It wasn’t just that. He saw beyond Melinda’s haughty, imperious exterior to the intelligent, sensual yet fearful woman inside. He gentled her with the patience of a trainer conditioning a Thoroughbred filly. He might have to walk on eggshells around her, but he’d made a conscious decision that she was worth it.
He also genuinely enjoyed her company. As long as he was willing to see her on her terms, his reward was occasionally being able to caress her creamed and perfumed skin with his workingman’s hands.
He’d missed her when she was gone.
“What am I going to do?” Melinda moaned. “I thought all my problems with Harley were over. I still shudder to think of how close Jack came to ruining his life with her.” Now all her anguish came surging back. “Do you know what Jack did this morning? He let Harley get her hands on the Grimsky property.”
Alfred set down his refractometer and picked up his clipboard. “Melinda. Now is not the time. Can’t you see—”
She dug her fingers into his arm. “What’s gotten into him? Please. Talk to him. For me.”
Alfred scribbled a notation on his clipboard and tossed it onto the counter. “It’s long past time you faced it, Melinda. Your son’s a grown man. He can make his own decisions.”
“Now that girl’s going to be living just over the ridge again!”
“Woman. Harley is a woman, and Jack’s a man. Wonder if he got through to the crew chief?” Alfred muttered, heading toward the door, Melinda on his heels.
Outside, the estate was coming to life. The atmosphere fairly hummed in anticipation. In the corner of his eye, a cellar rat—one of the smart but restless youngsters on a break from college, or a recent grad, not yet ready to settle down to a job in accounting or pharmaceutical sales—clapped on his ball cap, straightening its bill with a seriousness of purpose. Another worker strode rapidly toward the vineyard from the employee parking lot, cupping his phone to his cheek as he warned whoever was on the other end not to wait up for him tonight—or tomorrow night either, for that matter.
This was the crush. Christmas morning was nothing in comparison. This was what wine people lived for.
“Don’t you see?” Melinda cried, jogging to keep up. “That’s exactly the problem! Without Emily, there’s nothing keeping them apart.”
“It’s been years,” said Alfred without breaking stride. “You got your way. Jack married Emily. You got two beautiful granddaughters to show for it. Jack’s young. If it turns out he and Harley still have feelings for each other, why stand in their way?”
Chapter Twelve
The pickers swarmed into the fields clad in fluorescent orange, headlamps strapped on over their bandannas. Often, they picked at night, when it was cooler for the pickers and the grapes. Each one jumped off the truck, grabbed a plastic bin, and headed out to the middle of a row. At the end of each row sat a flatbed hooked to a tractor that pulled it along, stopping every few rows to be filled with bins until it was stacked to the top. It dropped off the bounty at the crush pad to be crushed, stemmed, and sent into vats, then motored back out to the fields for the next load.
The crush, with all its sweaty labor and the urgent need to get the fruit picked at its absolute optimum, had always been Jack’s favorite time of year. He loved the sight of hundreds of lights bobbing and dipping across the dark valley like fireflies . . . the heady aroma of bruised, ripened fruit filling the air . . . the reassuring thunk of bin being stacked upon bin.
Three days of working shoulder to shoulder with the pickers, hefting countless bins of grapes onto the crush pad had tamed the initial excitement. He and Alfred had settled into their former, easy give-and-take, as if his five-year absence had never happened. He was dumping yet another bin into the crusher when Alfred said, “Something I been meaning to ask you. Are Kiwi women as friendly as they say?”
A grin split Jack’s face. “That’s a fishing expedition if I ever heard one. If there’s something you want to know, why don’t you just come out and ask?”
“It’s been five years you’ve been a widower.”
There was a pause as Jack tossed the empty bin onto a stack of them. “The answer is no. I haven’t found anyone yet.”
Alfred propped one foot on the concrete pad and crossed his arms on his knee. “Catch like you? You must not have been trying hard enough.”
“Nothing against the Kiwis. But it wouldn’t be practical for the girls to get attached to a stepmother with family in New Zealand, now would it?”
Alfred raised a brow. “Your mother’s influence is showing. Melinda’s nothing if not practical.”
“Picking a wife isn’t something to experiment with. Especially now that I have the girls. It’s got to be someone who shares our values. Our vision.”
Alfred wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I ran into Harley.”
At the mere mention of her name, Jack felt the usual confusing mix of feelings. He was grateful for the distraction of the truck pulling in with a fresh load of grapes. “Harley’s the exact opposite of what I’m looking for.”
“I was always fond of her. Must be doing something right if she can afford to buy the Victorian.”
“I’m happy she sold some artwork. But the girls are going to be teenagers. I need someone who’s going to guide them with a firm hand. Harley never had that kind of guidance herself. How can she be expected to give it?”
Alfred grinned. “What’s the matter? Scared of what’s going to happen when your girls start having the same kind of feelings you had when you were that age?”
Jack felt himself redden. “Right now, all I know is that time’s running out. The girls are what brought us back to Ribbon Ridge now, aside from the fact that the new vines are finally producing.”
He had seen for himself how critical timing was for grapevines to thrive. Five years ago, he and his crew had struggled to rip out the old, deeply burrowed vines from the land he’d bought in Marlborough. They planted the fields in rye, corn, and clover to restore its nutrients. While the cover crops were nourishing the soil, he found a nurseryman to grow new vines for later transplantation into his own fields. Timing was everything. The fragile young plants had to be handled with the utmost care so they didn’t go into transplant shock. There was a short window in which to get them back into the ground.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“As a matter of fact, I have my first date Saturday night.”
“That right? Who’s the lucky gal?”
“Prudence Mitchell.”
“Judge Mitchell’s daughter?”
“That’s the one.”
“You won’t have to worry about your girls sneaking out of the house if ol’ Pru’s around.” Alfred grinned.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Jack.
But as he went about hosing down the concrete floors and checking the filled tanks where the wine was already fermenting, Alfred’s words began to sink in. Harley had transplanted herself here, on Ribbon Ridge. She was there right now, this very moment, and she would still be there when the crush was over. Even when he couldn’t see her, he’d have to drive past the Victorian everywhere he went. He was going to think about her every time he did, imagining what she was doing up there. Wondering if she was thinking about him, too.
Chapter Thirteen
“I don’t want to play soccer anymore!”
Jack showed up in the dining room after Mother and the twins had already started eating.
“What’s this?” asked Jack, sitting down at
his place.
“Mimi says I have to play soccer, and I don’t want to.”
“Everyone should become proficient in a sport and a musical instrument so they grow up to be well-rounded,” said Mother. “That’s the way I raised your father, and it’s the way you’ll be raised.”
Emily had gone along with Mother’s ideas about child rearing. She had moved straight out of her own family home onto the estate. From the very outset of their marriage, she and Jack had had someone to clean and someone to cook, even a nanny to help with the twins when they were tiny. She had never rearranged the furniture or added any of her own personal touches to make the home hers.
Jack sat down and reached for the pasta dish in the center of the table. “I thought you liked soccer, Frankie.”
“I never liked it!”
Freddie took a drink from her water glass. “That’s why she can’t sleep,” she said, licking the excess from her lips. “She doesn’t want to play anymore.”
Lately, Frankie had been waking in the middle of the night, coming to Jack with vague complaints of stomachaches or that she was too hot or too cold.
“Frankie?” asked Jack. “Is that right?”
She shrugged.
“Mm. Try some of that pasta,” he said.
Dutifully, Frankie picked up her fork and pushed some food around on her plate. “There’s red peppers in it. I don’t like them.”
“Here,” said Jack, spearing a tiny red fleck on her plate. “I’ll eat your peppers.”
“When I was a girl, I ate whatever was served without complaining,” said Mother sternly. “It wouldn’t have done any good if I had.”
“Sports are good for you. They help you grow up healthy and strong,” said Jack, careful to keep his tone light.
“Why does it have to be soccer? I want to take modern dance so I can dance in music videos.”
“Even if I did allow you to take dancing lessons, the likelihood of you actually dancing in music videos is slim to none. But playing soccer will look good on your college application. And it builds self-confidence and competitive drive.”
Frankie dropped her fork, leaped from her chair, and ran from the room, crying, “Why do you have to keep picking on me?”
Jack’s fork stopped midway to his mouth. He looked at Freddie, who kept eating.
“Frances!” shouted Mother. “Come back here and finish your dinner right now.”
“I’m not hungry!” came Frankie’s voice from the stairs.
“Don’t expect to get anything else until breakfast, then,” Mother called.
“I’ll go check on her,” said Freddie, slipping from her chair.
“No—oh, go ahead,” said Mother, changing her mind in midsentence.
When Freddie had gone, she said, “Those girls are growing cheekier by the day, seeing what they can get away with. They’re testing you, Jack.”
“They’re just normal kids, Mother.”
Still, he thought, that date with Prudence couldn’t get here fast enough.
* * *
Jack had only known Prudence casually in high school, but he’d been aware she’d had a bit of a crush on him, even if she’d been too backward to do anything about it.
She still lived at her father’s home in the better part of Newberry. To Jack’s pleasant surprise, when he picked her up, instead of her usual sweats she had on a wrap dress with a deep V-neck.
“So,” he said on their way to the country club. “Are you still playing sports?”
“I’m an assistant coach at the college,” she said in a deep voice. “Last season we finished 15-3-2 overall.”
“Congratulations.”
She raised her hand. “Up high.”
It took Jack a second to realize she meant to slap palms with him.
“My twins play soccer.”
“So I hear. What positions?”
“Both forwards.”
“Scorers.” She nodded approvingly. “Are they those big, aggressive strikers who hold the ball up? The fast attackers who blow past the opposing team? Or are they a couple of those tricky ones who get creative on the dribble?”
Wishing he’d paid closer attention at games, Jack shrugged. “Just plain forwards.”
“If you want, I can evaluate their skills,” she said graciously. “Speed, coordination, hustle . . .”
He nodded. “We’ll see.” Maybe that’s what had been missing in the girls’ game. Maybe some individualized instruction would make all the difference.
He had to hand it to Mother. Prudence sounded promising.
“I always felt a connexthion with you,” Prudence said once they’d been seated at their table.
Was that a lisp? He didn’t remember her having that. Now that he was facing her, he looked closer and saw a clear, plastic coating on her teeth.
“I used to think you were everything,” she said.
Jack shook the folds out of his napkin and placed it on his lap. “You never said anything.”
“I was too shy. I would have been terrified to approach you.”
“Nobody’s perfect. Especially me.”
“I know.”
“Huh?”
“Now I realize I was wrong. It’s gratifying to see you have flaws.”
“I do?”
“For exthample, your hair’s too long. It should end right above your collar. I know this great barber. Here. I’ll texth you his number.” She whipped out her phone, and a few seconds later, his phone dinged.
“Thanks for clueing me in. The guy I used to go to retired when I was overseas. I’ll be sure to give this one a call.”
“Another thing. One of your teeth is slightly crooked.”
“It is?” Jack picked up his spoon and smiled into the underside of the bowl.
“The one on the bottom. You can hardly see it, but being a CPA, I pick up on details like that. They have new ways of fixthing them that they didn’t even have when we were in school. Invisible trays. As a matter of fact, I have them on now. I’ll bet you didn’t even notice.”
“No. Not at all.”
“Only takthes a year or two and, prestho.” She made a motion like shooting an arrow from a bow. “Straight as can be.”
“Hm. Maybe I’ll give them a try.”
“Before we go any further, there are some things you should know about me. My great-grandfather’s name is Gusthave, my grandfather’s name is Gusthave, and my dad’s Gusthave, so we have to name our first son Gusthave.”
Perusing his menu, Jack chuckled and lifted a brow. “I guess Gustave’s not a bad name.”
He raised his finger to a passing server. “Excuse me? I’ll have a glass of pinot noir. Pru?”
“Just water for me. Alcoholism runs in the family. My mother?” She shook her head gravely. “Not good. She thinkths Dad and I don’t know, but our neighbor spotted her disposing of her empty vodka bottles at Safeway.”
Jack nodded. Mother had failed to mention that when she was promoting Pru. But he was definitely going to mention it to her.
“It’s always been kept under tight wraps. Information like that tends to work againstht you when you’re running for public office. But when it comes to personal relationships, I’m all for transparency. Better you find out now than after we’re married.”
“Married?”
“Do you like porn? Fun fact: I don’t have a gag reflex.”
Jack looked wildly around the room. “Where did that waiter get to? Hold on. I’m going to go get him.”
When Jack found his server, he slapped a twenty-dollar bill into his palm.
The server frowned, confused. “I haven’t taken your order yet.”
“This is in addition to your regular tip. The second my date is finished with her entree, you’re going to spill a glass of wine down the front of my shirt.”
“But—”
“Understood?”
Jack’s pocket dinged again. Irritated, he pulled out his phone.
I miss you.
>
He glanced over at his table to see Prudence winking and waving.
* * *
Even with his wine-stained shirt sticking to his chest, it wasn’t in Jack not to walk Prudence to her front door.
“Nice to see you again, Pru. It was good catching up after all this time.”
“So, when should I look to see your munchkins to evaluate their skills? I have a battery of tests that can predict their game condition rank in any given league.”
“I’ll be sure to check my calendar. Well, g’night.” He stuck out his hand.
“Hold on.” Prudence put both hands into her mouth. With some difficulty, she worked out the plastic retainer. Slurping up the excess saliva, she swallowed, cleared her throat, and closed her eyes.
Peering down at her upturned face, Jack steeled himself, summoned his strength, and gave her the quickest peck in the history of kissing.
He hadn’t pulled out of her drive yet when his phone dinged.
When can we go out again?
* * *
“How did it go with Prudence?” asked Mother the next morning, when Jack came in from walking the girls to the school bus.
He slid out of his jacket, careful to place it on the coat hook behind the door. “I don’t think Pru’s going to work out.”
“Why not? On paper, she’s perfect.”
“Let’s just say there were some warning signs.”
Mother poured him a fresh cup of coffee and blew gently on her own cup. “What do you mean, warning signs?”
Why couldn’t Mother ever take him at his word? So be it. “Did you know Mrs. Mitchell has an alcohol problem?”
“There are alcohol problems, and then there are alcohol problems.”
“The kind where you hide your empty bottles?”
“There are clinics for that, some very discreet. Besides, you’re talking about Pru’s mother, not Pru.”
“And after I got home last night, Pru texted me pictures of her breasts.”
Mother’s cup paused halfway to her lips. She sat it down. “What am I supposed to tell Gustave? He sold his practice for a mint. They have a chalet in Vail. Are you sure you want to leave all that on the table?”
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