At First Blush

by Marianne Rice

  At First Blush

  A Well Paired novel

  Marianne Rice

  Copyright © 2018, Marianne Rice.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Interior Formatting: Lee Ching with Under Cover Designs

  Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  First Edition Published 2018

  For Jennifer Kerfien.

  To our many laughs, the many games,

  to friendship, books, and wine.

  Thank you for being so kind.

  Your heart is as big as your smile.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Alexis Le Blanc’s temper was as red as the blood that covered her hands.

  “You can’t be serious, Dad. Coastal Vines has been in our family for three generations. Do you really want to be the one to ruin its reputation? All the work Grumpy put into the vineyard?” Alexis blotted the blood from Hemsworth’s giant paw, inspecting his gash. It didn’t look too deep. Her giant Bernese Mountain dog got up on all fours and shook out his thick coat, hair flying every which way of the tasting room floor. He’d always been a tough dog.

  Her mother furrowed her brow at Hemmy—or possibly her—and handed Alexis a dry towel. “You’re being a tad dramatic, Alexis. Your father and I have done a great deal of research, and aren’t going into this blind. If we want to keep up with our competitors, it’s time for a change.”

  “Doesn’t tradition mean anything to you?” Alexis rubbed Hemmy’s fur, and gave him a body hug. When he hobbled over and curled up on his dog bed in the corner of the room, she figured he was no worse for wear. It wasn’t the first time he’d walked through the thorny raspberry bushes. Alexis stood, tossing the soiled rags in the trash.

  She paced the tasting room, the wide-planked floorboards creaking under her heavy boots as she stomped around in a fury. “If we expand Coastal Vines, we’ll need to hire more staff. You’ve heard the horror stories from the other wineries in the area. Good help is hard to find. And if we expand, we won’t be rural any more, which is what makes us who we are.”

  “Honey.” Shane Le Blanc’s French Canadian accent came out when he was angry or tired. She hoped for the latter as being on the receiving end of a Le Blanc’s temper was not a pretty sight. “We would never make any decisions we didn’t think were best for you girls, or for the winery.”

  Alexis rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips. “Really? And you think Grace strolling through Europe for the past six years is best for her? She needs to come home and help out around the fields. Or at least in production. She can stick labels on bottles, can’t she? Or didn’t her fancy liberal arts degree in Paris teach her that?”

  “Alexis Marie,” her mother scolded, making Alexis feel like a teenager again. When Claudia used their middle names, the girls knew it was time to find another tactic, or to shut up.

  Other than parental genes, the sisters had nothing in common. Knowing Grace, she’d put her parents up to the hare-brained idea of expanding the winery into a local circus instead of keeping it quaint and welcoming. They didn’t need to turn their family-run business into something commercial to earn more money.

  There would always be something bigger, better, and more advanced out there. It’s what drove the weak away. Friends. Sisters. Potential boyfriends. Only the strong stayed in Crystal Cove and made a life for themselves. The devoted stayed loyal to their roots.

  Alexis enjoyed meeting the tourists during summer and fall months; they brought in a lot of the family’s income, and being just north of Rockland, Maine, summer was the winery’s busiest time of year. Most visitors were friendly enough, but every now and then they’d get a group of rowdies looking for a free tasting. It was part of the business, offering free samples and not banking in on the sales.

  The story of her life. Fine for a temporary thrill, but not good enough for the long haul. People who were caught up in the newest, hottest, trendiest wine—or woman or fashion or whatever—weren’t of quality. They weren’t worth the investment. If people couldn’t appreciate their quaint winery—that focused on quality over quantity—they weren’t worth her time. Or the winery’s.

  Alexis wasn’t girly enough for the men. Coastal Vines wasn’t cool enough for her sister. And now her parents were saying their wine wasn’t good enough to make a living?

  Taking another minute to cool her temper, she squatted by Hemmy’s bed and rubbed behind his ears. He was the only loyal one in her life. The only one who wasn’t fazed by the shiny gold dollar. Hemmy licked her hand and rolled to his side, an obvious invitation for her to rub his belly.

  If only everyone could live so simply. Could be pleased so easily.

  After her great grandfather retired from his job as a superintendent of the local schools, he went on his first vacation to Europe. He fell in love with the wineries in Italy and France and invested in fifty cold climate vines and planted them, never dreaming his hobby would be a future career for his son.

  Grumpy believed his life experiences were reflected in his winemaking style. He didn’t give a care about anyone else’s opinion, which had earned him the nickname Grumpy. He was dedicated to his father’s hobby, and loved and nurtured the vines, turning the grapes into a semi-profitable business.

  It was no secret Alexis had been his favorite grandchild, following him around the fields like a puppy since she started walking at ten months. They did everything together. Peas and carrots. Bacon and eggs. Peanut butter and jelly. His death had been hard on her.

  Grumpy had scoffed at those who succumbed to the spawn of Satan…technology. It wasn’t until he passed away that Coastal Vines put up a website. Alexis was only a junior in high school, and she remembered not talking to her parents or Grace for weeks. They’d disgraced Grumpy the second he was buried, turning to the Internet.

  It was also no secret that her father resented taking over the winery when Grumpy died. Shane had hoped to sell and start a new career—carpentry, woodworking—he liked to have his hands on wood. But Alexis put up a stink and promised to work her tail off, even offering to quit playing high school sports so she’d have more time to devote to the winery.

  Her parents supported her and let her be part of most of the decision-making involving Coastal Vines. It was the ultimate sacrifice from her father who put his desire to be a woodworker aside to support Alexis and her dream of eventually taking over the winery.

  Which was why their hiring outside help without talking to her first made absolutely no sense.

  Alexis gave Hemm
y one last pat and counted to ten, giving herself more time to ease off the attitude. This was about the winery. It wasn’t anything personal. But it sure the heck felt like it.

  The promise of the upcoming January freeze meant more time for inside production, bottling, rotating the oak barrels, checking the stainless steel drums, and bottling last year’s crop. It was not a time to start renovations. More customers would be good, but she had a feeling what her parents were thinking of would change the integrity of Coastal Vines. Alexis pulled off her winter hat and slapped it on the hickory counter where they doled out samples of wine in the warmer months.

  “Okay. Show me the business plan. What are you thinking?” She’d take a look, explain why it was wrong for their winery, and then go back to business as usual.

  “When your mother and I visited Napa Valley in November we met a wonderful family who runs a successful vineyard.”

  “Dad. We’re not Napa. We’re Maine. Our grapes and wine are different, our growing season is totally not the same, and we barely qualify as a vineyard. Three acres of vines is nothing compared to the hundreds they have out west.”

  “We know that, honey. After Napa, we stopped in the Finger Lakes area in New York. Their weather is more similar to ours.”

  “I know this already. You made me go through the five thousand pictures you and Mom took on your vacation.”

  “Don’t interrupt your father, Alexis.”

  Alexis slumped on the rustic wooden barstool her father built years ago from old maple trees and puffed out an aggressive sigh. “Sorry, Dad. Please continue your idea on how to turn Coastal Vines into a five-star vineyard that will attract millions of tourists every year and ruin the integrity of our family-run winery.” Why couldn’t they leave everything as is?

  Her father shared her sarcastic nature and laughed while her mother tskd, shaking her head with her motherly scowl.

  “The Martellis have a son who is a marketing specialist. He lives in San Francisco and creates business plans to help companies reinvent themselves. Benito grew up working on his family’s vineyard, and knows every stage from planting to harvesting, pressing, fermenting, bottling, and marketing. He’s offered to come out here and consult with us. We’ve been conversing online and I like what he’s come up with so far.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’d rather wait until he’s here to lay out the entire plan. The whole process. I think you’ll like what he’s suggesting, Alexis.” Her father gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze and crouched down to rub Hemmy’s belly.

  “Doubtful. So when does this Italian vineyard-crasher Benito Martelli plan on visiting little ol' Crystal Cove, Maine?”

  Benito Martelli wasn’t dressed for the weather or the state of Maine when he stepped off the plane in Portland a few hours ago.

  He lifted the collar on his winter jacket and blew into his new leather gloves. The weather guy claimed it was in the mid-thirties in Crystal Cove, yet the wind off the ocean cut a chill to his bones. But damn, the view was breathtaking.

  Standing on the rocky coast, he could count three lighthouses, four couples bundled up taking pictures, and a dozen fishing boats. In January. Mainers were crazy.

  Before meeting with the owners of Coastal Vines, he wanted to scope out the area. Not just the competition, he'd researched most of the other wineries in Maine online, but the area attractions. He needed to see the roads leading to Coastal Vines and follow the map the Maine wineries had put together to encourage visitors to each other. It was a good idea. Small places tend to do better when they combined forces and helped each other out instead of actively competing against each other.

  Maine had that going for them. There were the vineyards and wineries in the Napa area that took on the same attitude, and there were those outliers who were only interested in self-promotion. Ironic that they were the ones constantly in the red.

  Which, according to Shane Le Blanc, was where Coastal Vines had been sitting for the past sixteen months.

  Ben stomped the accumulating snow from his new L.L Bean boots—a good investment for sure—and made his way off the rocks and back to his rental. It had been slim pickings at the Portland airport. Minivans and a couple SUVs. Not knowing the road conditions in coastal Maine, Ben had opted for the four-wheel drive.

  He had another two days before his scheduled meeting with the Le Blancs, but didn’t think he’d need that much time to check out the local vibe and make adjustments to his marketing plan. From what Shane had told him on the phone, his daughter wasn’t too keen on the idea of hiring outside help. Shane had planned on passing down the business to his daughter, but wanted it to be in the black first. What he gathered from their conversations, and what his parents had said, they seemed like a nice family.

  Coastal Vines was nothing like what he was used to. It was small and all, but two of the wineries in a sixty-mile radius were shut down, not opening until Memorial Day weekend. He had some ideas in his back pocket on how to increase production and broaden sales.

  The extra time in Maine meant more time away from his problems in California. He needed a breather. Needed time to adjust and accept that the plans he’d made for his future were about to change. Drastically. For a man who made his money making plans and schedules for million-dollar companies, he found it ironic that he couldn’t figure out a damn thing in his own life.

  He’d yet to tell his family. They’d be disappointed in him for his actions, for sure, and that troubled him. His family meant the world to him and knowing he’d let them down was eating at him.

  His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d had a long day of flying and driving and he needed to refuel. The last thing he’d had was a cup of coffee and muffin in Freeport. Instead of relying on GPS or the Internet, Ben hopped in his SUV and drove up Route One, noticing more restaurants were closed than open. The scenery and quaint town were a welcome distraction to the weight on his shoulders.

  Up for an adventure, he turned off the main highway and followed the narrow, winding, bumpy roads that promised to be scenic in the spring and summer. The tall snow banks that bordered made it impossible to see too far ahead of the twists and turns so he took his time, noting the miles of fields separated by a home here and there. Then there were the gigantic farmhouses sandwiched between dilapidated shacks and average-sized family homes.

  “Well, this is exciting,” Ben grumbled. No wonder the tourists stayed on the main road and drove through the town to get to bigger and better areas. He would have his work cut out for him. There had to be more going for the town than a small winery.

  Not feeling hopeful that he’d find any place to eat out in the middle of nowhere, he turned his SUV around at the next empty crossroad and drove until he hit Route One again. Closer to town he located what appeared to be a diner. Snow banks took over most of the lot, but he found a space next to three other trucks.

  The architecture in Maine was vastly different than California. The brick-faced restaurant was one of many along Seaview Drive. Most of the buildings lining the main road were made of stone, brick, or wood. In Cali everything was stucco and plaster and clay in an effort to keep the heat out and the cool in. Assbackward in redneck land. Not that he minded. It was kind of fun to see how other cultures lived.

  To think California and Maine were in the same country. Ben chuckled as he walked past the salt-and-sand-crusted trucks and opened the front door to the Sunrise Diner. A waitress with splashes of gray in her red hair turned around and waved him in.

  “Sit where eva’ you like. Coffee to warm you up?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Ben scanned the restaurant, feeling like he stepped into a Back to the Future film. The counter in front of the kitchen with its swivel stools looked like something right out of a fifties movie. Red-topped Formica tables with black metal chairs lined up against the front window and back wall with a few two-seaters in between. He chose a table by the window and plucked the laminated menu from between the
napkin holder and ketchup.

  There was a front and back. Breakfast and Dinner. Lunch, he supposed, could be either. It was nearly noon, but only nine California time. He’d taken the red eye last night, landed in Portland at dawn, picked up a few items along the way as he drove north. It was still breakfast in his mind.

  “Here you go, hun. What can I get for ya?” The waitress set a cup of coffee in front of him and pulled out a pen from her bun.

  “The Lumberjack Special looks good.”

  “I love a man who can eat.” She winked and scribbled in her notebook. “Bacon and sausage?”

  “Can I double the bacon?” The bell above the door dinged signaling another customer.

  “Oh, be still my heart. How would you like your eggs?”

  “Sunny side up. And extra crispy on the toast, please.”

  “Hey, Al. I found the perfect guy for you. He’s cute, too,” she hollered over her shoulder without even looking at the customer who’d entered. “Al needs a good man,” she said to him. “I think you two would be adorable together. Come here, Al. Don’t be shy.”

  Ben was tempted to tell her he didn’t swing that way, but didn’t want to offend the waitress, or Al, on his first stop in town. It was important to build good PR for Coastal Vines. In a town as small as this word would spread quickly that he was helping Shane Le Blanc rebuild his winery. He didn’t turn around to see the man coming toward him, and kept his eyes on the waitress, who beamed with pride.

  “Priscilla. You’re embarrassing the poor guy,” the sweetest, most feminine voice said from behind him.

  And then she stepped into his view. Cute yet rugged. Simple yet pretty. The woman crossed her arms and shook her head at Priscilla the waitress. Ben took the opportunity to check out the rest of…Al. Her jeans were too big, and hung on a frame that promised to be full and athletic, not beanpole thin like the socialites usually interested in him. Or rather, in his family name. She unzipped her bulky winter coat revealing an unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt, and a white thermal shirt stretched thin in all the right places. Definitely not the fashion attire he was used to seeing on women.