Three Dog Night (The Dogmothers Book 2)

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Really? I didn’t know that.” He tugged at Jack’s leash. “What a good mom you guys have.”

  “I’m not their mom.”

  “You’re their foster mom,” he said as they stepped into the cool, dark vestibule that led down to the barrels. “And if I know anything about anything, you’ll be a foster failure.”

  She slowed her step, the words slicing through her. “What’s a foster failure?”

  “I’ve just heard the Kilcannons use the expression, usually in reference to their mother, Annie, who apparently failed at fostering so often they sometimes owned six dogs at a time.”

  “So a foster failure is someone who…keeps their dogs.”

  “Yeah…” His expression changed as he realized what he’d said. “I guess that means something completely different to you.”

  An old sadness cloaked her that not even the glorious morning could erase. No one had ever been a foster failure with her. “I just never heard the term before.”

  “Well, I think you’re going to keep these dogs,” he said, obviously trying to lighten the topic as they entered the cellars. “That is, if Scooter and Blue don’t make them part of your contract.”

  She gave a smile, not really listening. Foster failure. Why hadn’t any of her foster families failed and decided to keep her?

  “Whoa, this place is so cool.” Alex stopped to blink in the dim light and take in the rows and rows of barrels aging the wine. “And not just the temperature.”

  “I know,” she agreed, taking a whiff of the oak- and vanilla-infused chilly air. “It’s my favorite spot in the winery. In any winery, to be honest. The first time I stepped foot in a wine cellar, I was on a tour for an undergraduate class in botany. But that moment, my life changed.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “I don’t know why or how, but I had a visceral reaction to the smells and the temperature.” She paused to run a finger over an oak barrel. “It comforted me and still does.”

  “It feels like a safe place,” he commented as they walked.

  “But it’s more than that. It’s…familiar. In fact, I dream about it a lot.”

  “You do?”

  She shrugged, the admission feeling so personal, but she still wanted to share it with him. “I have this recurring dream that I’m walking through a wine cellar just like this, and I’m holding someone’s hand. It’s a big, kind of fat, man’s hand, and…” She gave an uncomfortable laugh. “As things are in dreams, it’s weird because he has no thumb.”

  “No thumb? Definitely weird.”

  “But that doesn’t matter. He’s squeezing my hand, which is lost in his, and everything is so…secure.” She sighed, lost as she remembered the good feeling the dream always gave her since she’d started having it as long ago as she could remember. “So, when I stepped into an actual wine cellar in college, I felt like I had been dreaming about it my whole life, and I knew that I wanted to study winemaking. And that someday, I’d want my own winery.”

  She paused at a row of barrels from last year’s harvest that had just passed the one-year mark. It had been well over a month since she’d tasted the wine inside, but she hadn’t planned to touch those for six more months. So these barrels should be ready and perfect in time for a summer wedding for Scooter and Blue, but it wouldn’t be quite right for the wedding they were holding in a little over a week.

  “And this right here?” She tapped the barrel. “Is our last great hope.”

  He gave her a questioning look. “For?”

  “For the Scooter and Blue exclusive bottles, if what we bottle tonight isn’t great. That’s last year’s harvest, aged one year almost to the day. In six months, it might be perfect. But now? I’m not sure.”

  “Can we taste it?”

  “Yes, there’s one barrel with a spigot. Later, we can get some.”

  They meandered through the corridor, pausing here and there for the dogs, taking time to examine the barrels, read the dates, and cool off. She was looking at a barrel when she felt Alex’s gaze on her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You’re different down here,” he said. “You’re…softer.”

  She gave him a smile. “I’m hard everywhere else?”

  “You’re…protected.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Your voice is easy, and your muscles…” He squeezed lightly. “Aren’t tense. And you look…”

  She let out a sigh, inching closer to him. “Yes?”

  “Inviting,” he finished. “You know I’m going to kiss you, don’t you?”

  A chill ran up and down her spine. “I hope so.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her lightly, holding back, barely touching, then letting his tongue graze her lip. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to taste the grapes and sunshine and saltiness of his mouth.

  Here, in this sacred, comforting, eerily wonderful place, no kiss had ever felt quite so delicious.

  They kissed until they were completely tied up by three leashes, trapped like captives and having their boots licked and nibbled.

  “Wow,” she whispered, stealing one more brush of his lips. “I thought I liked the cellars before. Now they’re the site of our first real kiss.”

  “First of many, I hope.”

  Many. Why didn’t that terrify her? She had no idea, but it didn’t. On the contrary, she couldn’t wait to get started.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alex might have been a touch drunk on the tastings, but he could generally hold his liquor like a pro. No, the heady sensation that had him laughing, working like a beast, and fighting every opportunity to touch Grace had nothing to do with her delicious free-run wine.

  If anything was crushed around here, it was him. He had it so bad for this woman that it was a joke. Which might have been the reason his face hurt from laughing, and his arms hurt from scooping, and his everything else hurt from how much he wanted to get her into those dark, wine-soaked cellars again.

  But Alex had learned one thing as a chef—timing was everything. And his was always impeccable.

  As the sun dipped low, Alex sat on the picnic table, drinking a bottle of water, while Jack and Bitsy romped on the tabletop, and Gertie wandered around underneath. Not far away, Ryan and Jay finished cleaning the press, having transferred the free run and the press run into temporary holding tanks.

  “Are you coming back tomorrow for the barreling?” Ryan asked Alex. “Not that I’m jonesing for more of those pastries.”

  “I may not leave.”

  Jay looked up, narrowing his gaze, a little protective, Alex imagined, at the thought of a man spending the night with his boss.

  “I’m trying to persuade Grace to bottle some of the press wine, and I know that work has to be done on it right away,” he explained.

  Ryan looked skeptical. “Lots of wineries around here do that, but it’d be a first for Overlook Glen.”

  “First time for everything,” Alex said. And they needed that exclusive wine for the event in less than two weeks.

  “Actually, not a first,” Jay said. “My uncle worked for the guy that used to own this place. He said they bottled first presses all the time ’cause the grapes are that good, at least they were then. That guy grew some of the best grapes in the area.”

  Just then, Grace came down the path, a phone to her ear. “Thanks for checking in, Denise. You’re more than welcome to park in our lot.” She signed off the call and pressed the phone to her chest, looking at Alex. “They’re coming in six tour buses. Six.”

  “Cool.”

  “This is getting so real,” she whispered.

  “All the more reason to make that wine tonight.”

  She shot him a look and then thanked Ryan and Jay for their hard work. After they left, she peered into the press, admiring how clean it was.

  Alex joined her at the press, peering in to see it so shiny, the center stainless steel looked like a mirror. “So,
let’s just say we were to make some press wine tonight. How would we do that?”

  Leaning back, she regarded him carefully, and he braced for the argument that it couldn’t or shouldn’t be done.

  “We are going to make some press wine tonight,” she whispered. “Assuming you’re not too tired.”

  “Are you kidding?” He hugged her, squeezing so tight he lifted her off the ground. “We’re doing this, Gracie!”

  A smile pulled at her lips as she looked up at him. “Where’d you get all that…energy and intensity, Alex Santorini?”

  “My dad,” he answered without missing a beat. “Nico Santorini was a beast who didn’t know the meaning of ‘quit’ or ‘slow down’ or ‘can’t be done.’” That was, until cancer made him quit, slow down, and not do anything.

  She regarded him closely for a moment. “It’s not just that you won’t quit. You actually believe down to the bone that we could make something extraordinary tonight.”

  “Without one molecule of doubt.”

  “One molecule of doubt, huh?” She reached up and touched his face, stroking his beard with a light touch that hit too hard. “I love it when you go all scientific on me.”

  He leaned closer, brushing her lips with his. “Come on, Gracie. Let’s stay up all night and make magic.”

  She stood on her toes and kissed him. “Feed me first.”

  He laughed into her mouth. “Words that go straight to my heart.”

  An hour later, after they’d had a simple omelet dinner with the last of the bougatsa and a few shots of espresso, they gathered up the big crate and took three very tired puppies with them back to the work area.

  Both of them were still purple stained up to their elbows, and even after washing, Grace had splatters of grape juice on her cheeks and all over the jeans and old top she wore. Like an idiot, Alex had worn a white T-shirt that looked tie-dyed now. But it didn’t matter. With the dogs settled, the materials ready, and espresso pumping through them, they started by tasting a sample from each container.

  Grace spit hers out into an empty cup, making him inch back in surprise. “I thought it was pretty good,” he said.

  “It’s not bad. But I can’t drink as much as we’re going to have to taste tonight, unless you want to carry me to bed.”

  He gave a sly smile. “I’ve heard worse ideas.”

  She flicked his arm playfully and held out her empty plastic shot glass. “Next batch, please.”

  He turned the spigot for them and poured about an ounce in each glass, tasting it and following her lead to spit it out.

  “Okay, okay,” she said after letting it settle on her tongue. “Slightly thin. Has a little more acetobacter from the ferment. Taste the volatile acidity? We need to let a little carbon dioxide in the container. And it needs to be colder. Would you mind moving all of this into the cellars?”

  He didn’t question her opinion or authority, setting up a workstation at the bottom of the few stairs down to the long corridor.

  They waited while she explained a little more about the carbon dioxide process, then they tasted again.

  “That made a difference,” he said, surprised.

  “Subtle. I think we can try to add some of the free-run juice now. A very small amount. It’s powerful, but it will enrich this batch. I think. We’ll know in two hours.”

  After they blended that one, tasted the last container, and blended a different amount, there was little else to do but wait for a few hours, even though it was getting late already.

  “You want to go home?” she asked.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Or to the winery, my apartment? Your kitchen?”

  “It’s mine now?” he asked on a laugh.

  “Yours to rest in, if you like. I’m going to stay here.”

  “Then so am I.” He gestured toward a wooden bench along the wall. “You want to lie down over there?”

  “I usually do,” she said. “Open it up. There are some cushions in there. But it’s only wide enough for one.”

  He lifted the top of the bench, found the cushions, and set them up for her, beckoning her closer. “You rest. I’ll sit on the floor.”

  She didn’t argue, her shoulders already sagging with exhaustion. But before she sat down, she lifted one of the cushions, put it to her nose, and sniffed.

  Alex just looked at her with one raised eyebrow, making her laugh.

  “I like the smell.”

  He took it and sniffed. “Pretty…musty.”

  “I think it’s nice.” She settled on the bench, lying on her side, her head propped on the pillow.

  Alex slid to the ground in front of her, letting his head fall back on the bench, pleasantly surprised when she threaded her fingers into his hair and stroked it.

  “That will put me to sleep,” he said. “But don’t stop. Please.”

  “Mmm.” She wound some hair around her fingers and lightly scratched his scalp and feathered the hair in her hands. “You’ve got beautiful, thick Greek hair.”

  “We all do,” he said. “Theo favors my mom, but the rest of us are pure Santorinis. Except Nick, who’s a Kilcannon.”

  “I heard bits and pieces of that when I did your mother’s wedding. That must have been a shock.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “How does it make you feel about Nick?”

  “He’s still my brother, heart and soul. A man I completely admire, respect, and often want to emulate. I don’t care that our DNA is a little different. We were raised together, side by side at the dinner table, and he’s always had my back.”

  Her fingers stilled, then fell out of his hair completely, hitting the bench with a thud. He waited a second, then turned to see if she’d fallen asleep.

  Her eyes were closed, but it was because she was fighting tears.

  “Gracie,” he whispered, turning his whole body to face her. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting and talking about family stuff. I forget you don’t have siblings.”

  “I do,” she whispered.

  He inched back. “You do? Didn’t you say there was no trace of your family anywhere?”

  “This trace is in my…” She sighed. “In my memory bank.”

  “Really? What do you remember?”

  “Their names were…Bitsy and Jack.”

  “Oh.” He stroked back some strands of her hair that had fallen on her cheek. “I get it now.”

  She gave a sad smile. “I’ve got nothing but memories, Alex. Not very clear, either. But I just don’t think I imagined those kids, and the feeling of being with them wasn’t…a foster home. It was a real home.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She settled deeper into the cushions, thinking. “They were very, very young, maybe two. And we were in big, huge, beautiful rooms. Somewhere that had to be a mansion.”

  “Houses seem bigger to little kids,” he said.

  “I know.” She nodded in agreement. “But in my memory, I can see things like a pool and a giant canopy bed and rooms full of toys.”

  “So, you think this family was rich?”

  “I have no idea. There’s no trace of a Bitsy or Jack Donovan in the state of California, or at least none that could be younger siblings of mine. And I don’t know where I was, what city or if it even was California. But…” She squeezed her eyes shut as if she were rooting for that memory. “There were hills and sunshine and…” Her eyes popped open. “Maybe vineyards. Maybe.”

  “And you know your mother’s name was Celia. That’s all you know?”

  “Like I said, one of the investigators told me someone had given him that much from a sealed file.”

  “The files are sealed? Is that legal?”

  “Yes. Trust me, I’ve tried. I don’t want to try again, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t want the disappointment. I’d rather look forward than bang into brick walls.”

  He stroked her cheek lightly. “Okay. Tell me more about Bitsy and Jack.”

  She open
ed her eyes and looked into his. “I can tell you that you’re the first person I’ve ever shared that with who didn’t try to tell me that I imagined them or they were probably part of the first foster home I ever stayed in, which I don’t remember well.”

  “Of course I believe you,” he said. “Tell me every single detail you remember.”

  She let her eyes shutter closed. “My clearest memory is a room I would describe as a nursery. Somewhere sunny, bright, and big. There’s tons of toys, like a dollhouse the size of a walk-in playhouse, cars, a train, balls, just…so much stuff. I was holding a little girl on my lap, calling her my Bitsy, my itsy-bitsy sister. And there was a boy named Jack. He had dark hair like a mop on his head and dark eyes and…” She squished her face, thinking. “A woman kept rubbing his head in front of me, just stroking his hair, calling him Jackie. I remember it so clearly.”

  “Do you remember her?”

  “I think…” She looked at him. “I remember the essence of her, not what she looked like. I remember thinking I was definitely not her favorite and sometimes wanted to be.”

  “Could you guess her age?”

  “Older, but then, everyone is to a child. My gut says she was a grandmother or nanny. She called me Gracie, but not…” She gnawed on her lip. “Not with love. But I remember squeezing that little toddler, Bitsy, because I sensed she was going to be taken from me, and I loved her so much. So much.”

  He searched her face, rubbing his thumb along her jawline, trying to imagine knowing that Cassie, Theo, Nick, and, God, John, existed but not being able to find them. “That has to hurt,” he said.

  “There are no words for how much.”

  “No other memories?”

  “Flashes. A pool. Some hills. A blue book that I could read, so I couldn’t have been too young. A long street that might have been a driveway or a road. That’s all I remember until…my next clear memory is of a foster home at seven. That was no mansion, and there was no Jack or Bitsy.”

  “Did those investigators you hired go back and talk to your foster families?”

  “The ones they could find and the ones who’d talk. No one had any idea where I’d come from or who my parents were. Please, Alex. Don’t take me down that road again. I know you’re intense and relentless, but it leads nowhere. Please.”