by Marina Adair
“What are you? The well whisperer?”
“Nope, but I hear whispers all the same.” He raised a disappointed brow. “People coming in the store are talking about how you and that DeLuca are shacking up.”
“We aren’t shacking up, so much as living under the same roof.”
“And how come spring you two are going to plant this whole lot with vines. Together.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. Walt was built like a tree stump, smelled like cooked cabbage, and had a penchant for prattle—which was how he’d managed to keep his hardware store open when one of the big DIY stores opened up in Napa. Knowing everybody else’s business was good for business in a town like St. Helena.
And although his last name wasn’t Baudouin, he was Frankie’s third cousin on her grandmother’s side—she even called him uncle—so, being a good and loyal relative, he harbored the appropriate amount of disdain for the DeLucas.
But what had his lips pursing was that his biggest competition was Tanner Construction, owned by former NFL running back and DeLuca Wine’s newest business partner, Jack Tanner. So if they were developing the land together, Nate would insist on using his guy. Who was cheaper—and faster, Frankie thought as she watched Walt stick a welding rod to his ear, then rested the other end on the pipe like it was some kind of well-stethoscope.
“You and your store have been serving Baudouin Vineyards since before I was born,” Frankie assured him. “So even though we are going to plant all twenty acres, DeLuca will plant his half and I will plant mine. Both using our own chosen suppliers.”
“Good to hear. After the Showdown, there was all that talk about you and the buttoned-up brother necking, then when Charles…”
“Fired me?” Frankie added, but what she wanted to say was disowned. Because that’s how it had felt. Still felt. She was within throwing distance from her childhood home, from her grandfather’s land, and yet he hadn’t dropped by once to see her. Hadn’t even returned a single one of her phone calls.
“Connie and I were just worried is all. But you should be proud of yourself, hon. Half or not, you did more than sixty years of Baudouin griping accomplished.” Walt gave her a pat on the shoulder, his eyes flickering to the imposing French chateau, which sat on the other side of the fence. “Your grandpa isn’t going to be happy about his grapes sharing soil with the DeLucas.”
“Yeah well, they’re not his vines, they’re mine. So is this soil. And I’m going to make this work,” Frankie said and a heavy pressure started low in her belly at the reminder of Nate’s suggestion for how things between them could work. Not that they would work, because she wasn’t going there. She could if she wanted to, that much was obvious by the bulge in his jeans. All it would take was one well-placed look from her and he’d be game.
And then what? Wake to find his loafers sitting next to her motorcycle boots under her bed?
No. Nate was one of those guys who liked bed-sex. Not that there was anything wrong with bed-sex. But she’d dated enough to know that bed-sex usually led to talking, which somehow progressed into commitment. And Frankie learned long ago that she wasn’t the type who guys felt committable about.
Sure, she’d had boyfriends over the years, but none of them had any staying power. She was careful about that. Always dating men who, come morning, she had no problem walking away from. Which was fine by her, because she knew that the walking away easily went both ways.
“Well, even if you decide to deny him access to the well, there is no way this pump can handle ten acres,” Walt said, pulling her from her thoughts. “You need a commercial grade pump and triple the tank if you’re going to make a go at this. Otherwise, this time next year, you’re going to have a bunch of planted saplings and a broken pump.”
Frankie braced her hands on her lower back and looked up at the sky. “How much are we talking?”
Walt took off his driver’s cap and scratched his bald head. “I’d have to check on some pricing, see what kind of deal I can get you, but I bet we’re talking about twelve grand.”
“Jesus, Walt.” She didn’t have that kind of money. Okay, she had the money, but it was budgeted for other things she’d need in the upcoming year. “What if we just start with the pump?”
“That was for the pump.” Yeah, she’d thought so, but was hoping otherwise. “For the tank, I recommend a coated steel fifty-gallon horizontal tank. I know a guy in Sonoma who would give you a good deal on one, but we’re still talking thirty grand.”
A distressed “Wark” sounded and it may have come from Frankie. This was the moment she had been waiting for. The court hearing had gone relatively well—for her—so she’d been waiting for the bottom to fall out.
A gentle nudge came from behind and a wet nose pressed into the side of her neck.
With a resigned sigh, Frankie reached back and gave Mittens a scratch behind the ear. She stared past the broken pump, past the flattened sheets of plastic, and took in the overgrown pasture and gnarled oak trees whose leaves, one by one, let go of the branch and floated the ground.
“That going to be a problem?” Walt asked as though she had fifty grand sitting in the cookie jar on top of the freezer.
“Nope, no problem,” she said, hoping it was true. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Not just to prove to her family she could do this—that she was a talented enologist—but to finally make her dream a reality.
“You guys do, what,” she said, thinking back to the cooling units she’d ordered for her grandfather’s aging cellar last summer, “a ninety day billing cycle, right?”
“You’d need to come in and see Connie to set up an account in your name before we ordered anything.”
“Sure, great. I can come down this afternoon.”
“We require a proof of collateral from the bank for purchases this big,” Walt said, taking off his hat and studying the brim like it was a matter of national security.
“I’m good for the money, Walt.”
“I know that, hon, but wine is a tricky industry and my company can’t front a purchase this big. Not to mention the matter of my marriage. Connie would have my ass, excuse the language, if she heard I extended a line this big to someone with no collateral or track record.”
Connie Larson was Walt’s wife, the town’s resident furniture doctor, and a woman who had a spending problem as wide as the valley. So when it came to the family business, she held a tight purse string.
“Come on, Walt. Help me out here. How can we make this work?”
“Hell, Frankie. We’re talking fifty grand and we aren’t even adding in all the costs for irrigating the land properly, which you’ll have to do before you plant.”
“I know.” It was what Frankie had allotted the majority of the money in her account for. Irrigation for her saplings. She had a five step plan to plant the land over the next five years; two acres and eighteen hundred vines at a time.
Walt looked up at the sky and sighed. “All right, I bet I can convince Connie to look past you being green and put everything on the company’s tab if Charles agrees.”
Frankie snorted. “First off, I’m not green. I’ve been making wine longer than most people in this valley.”
“I know that, but you were working Charles’s land, taking risks on his dime. Running your own vineyard is different.”
It would be freeing, just like Jonah had said. For the first time in her career, Frankie would be able to make the decisions, take risks, and follow her gut without having to convince her grandpa.
“And I can tell by your scowl that things between the two of you are still rocky and that even if he’d be willing to spot you the credit—”
“He won’t and nope.”
Walt’s eyes lit. “Hey I know, maybe one of your brothers or Lucinda would be willing—”
“Again, nope.” Not going to happen. She’d made this mess, along with her alpaca, and she would figure out how to fix it. Getting her grandpa involved would be like admitting what a stup
id decision buying the land had been. He’d remind her how, once again, she’d acted without thinking things through. Worse, he’d tell her that if she had come to him in the beginning with the deal, none of this would have happened.
Even worse yet, her brothers would find out and, even though she’d beg them not to, they’d get involved. Frankie would unintentionally force them to choose sides—something she swore she’d never do again.
She didn’t need her grandpa’s credit or her brothers’ handouts. What she needed was a plan.
“I can’t plant until late spring anyway,” Frankie reasoned aloud. “So between now and then, the pump will take about the same beating as it has for the past sixty years. If I bought a new ten thousand gallon-tank”—still expensive, but it wouldn’t break her—“do you think you could give this pump a little loving so it could get me through until next crush?”
By then, she’d have hopefully sold her futures and have some cash coming in. She was still waiting to hear back from Susan Jance who was interested in purchasing four barrels of Frankie’s wine, Red Steel, at thirty thousand a barrel. If she liked it, which Frankie knew she would, she was going to give Susan the opportunity to offer her other clients a great deal on the prepurchase of future barrels.
That meant money upfront on grapes that were not even harvested yet. With most of the two planted acres falling on Frankie’s side of the line, she was estimating a total of sixteen barrels next harvest. A profit that would put her well on her way to breaking even.
“I can try,” Walt said, sucking in a breath through his teeth and making a whistling sound. “But you’re going to have to replace it at some point and doing this in two separate steps is going to cost you a whole lot more money in the long run. And you’ll have to get that irrigation going soon if you want to plant this spring.”
That was what Frankie was afraid of. “Can I have a few days to think it over?”
Even though she knew it was most likely going to be the “long run” plan, she still had to run it by Nate. It was, after all, half his water—and half his responsibility.
“Sure, it will give me time to call around and see what kind of a deal I can get you,” Walt said, picking up his toolbox and heading toward his truck. “Don’t take too long though, we’re expecting another scorcher this week and you’ve got a lot of grapes over there.”
“I won’t,” she said, following behind. Mittens, on the other hand, took off, his little hooves pounding some serious dirt. As though Frankie had the time right now to hog-tie him and toss him in the back of Walt’s truck. Nope, she’d give him another few days to get settled, let his guard down and then she’d drag his fuzzy butt to Paradise.
Walt hopped in his truck and, instead of starting the engine, rested his forearm on the open window and leaned out. “Last year my oldest granddaughter got into some fancy art school in Paris. The store was struggling because of that damn DIY megastore and the bank turned us down for a loan, so Connie and I met with Kenneth’s wife, what’s her name…”
“Shady… um, Katie?”
“Yeah, she gave us a line of credit on the hardware store, as a favor since we’re family and all. She even looked past the hit we had taken in the past year and said the bank was investing in us because we had invested so much in the town over the years.” Walt reached out and patted her hand. “Maybe she’d let you do the same, only using your grapes and reputation. Because you and I both know that besides the quality of the plant, there’s nothing more important than proper irrigation. I’d hate to see you bet the vineyard on a pump that’s older than dirt and lose it all.”
Frankie considered that—for all of two seconds. “I won’t lose these grapes.”
He watched her for a long moment and offered her a concerned smile. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, that’s clear.”
What was more than clear by the look on Walt’s face and the way he was holding her hand—something that a smart person would avoid at all cost—was that he thought she’d be making a huge mistake not to blow her entire wad on the new pump and water tank. Although Frankie agreed with his assessment, she couldn’t help but see the good with the bad.
The good news was that Nate was equally responsible in coughing up the bills to pay for this unforeseen cost. If he wanted to plant this spring, which she knew he did, then he’d need water too, which cut her overwhelming tally to a mere twenty-five thousand and change.
The bad part was that, unlike her, Nate could simply snap his entitled fingers and poof, a personal check covering his half of the costs would magically appear. Whereas Frankie would have to go down to St. Helena Federal and sit in front of her cousin’s wife and bare her financial soul. The bearing would go through the loan officer first, then Shady Katie to sign off, and then—because Katie always had her eye on the prize—finally Charles, who would then write her off completely.
“Maybe.” She tried not to laugh. She must have really done something to piss off the universe if her saving grace was Shady Katie. “Thanks for coming out on such short notice. And tell Aunt Connie I say hi.”
“I will.” He reached for the starter and stalled again. “You’re going to be without water for a little while longer. You okay with that?”
“I’ll manage,” she said smiling.
Between Regan’s and her best friend Jordan’s house, she’d be fine. Although going to Jordan’s house meant dealing with her brooding teenage daughter Ava, and Regan’s meant listening to her new baby wail until Frankie’s ears started to bleed, it wasn’t so bad. She kind of liked watching all the fuss and commotion that goes on with families. Sometime when it got really crazy, and everyone was running around, she could almost feel a part of it all.
But no water was going to drive golden boy crazy.
“Take as long as you need, Walt,” she said patting the hood when he fired up the engine. “The grapes and I will be just fine.”
Frankie waved as Walt made his way down the gravel drive and went to find Mittens. It took twenty minutes, a bag of apples, and a solemn promise that he wasn’t going to Alberta’s Paradise Alpaca Farm and Pet Sanctuary to persuade the poor alpaca to come out from behind the tool shed.
* * *
“Are you going to marry my Uncle Nate?” Holly asked, her little girl eyes wide with wonder.
Frankie’s hand, in the process of carefully folding over the top of yet another maple leaf, froze and then tightened, cracking the leaf in half and spearing her finger with the pushpin. A drop of blood beaded and Frankie, not wanting to stain Regan’s rug, grabbed the box of Band-Aids, which still sat directly to her right from the last puncture-emergency, and wrapped her ring finger. Great, now she had a set of four matching fingers on her right hand.
“Cuz if you are, I’d like to let you know that I’m a really good flower girl and my daddy says I look like an angel in blue.”
Holly was Regan’s kid. She was cute, seven, and annoying as hell. She was also a DeLuca, which explained the annoying part, and the self-appointed head of the Maple Leaf Rose Committee for Baby Sofie’s one month birthday. As if being forced to make hundreds of roses out of dead leaves wasn’t bad enough, Frankie had been banished to the kids’ table for improper use of a glue gun and a bad attitude.
The roses and lack of weapons weren’t the worst part. Frankie always felt awkward around kids. Always. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them; she just never knew what to do with them. Being the youngest in her family by five years, she was never around young kids growing up—never babysat, never coached little league, and besides Jordan and Regan she didn’t have any friends with kids. Okay, besides Jordan and Regan she didn’t have any friends. At least not ones that didn’t qualify for a senior discount at The Grapevine Prune and Clip.
Frankie froze. Maybe it wasn’t kids. Maybe she was just awkward around people, period.
“I could even help you pick out a dress. I’m real good at picking out princess gowns and tiaras,” Holly said, sounding so excited Frankie
hated to burst her little joy bubble. Or make her cry.
Frankie studied Holly’s face for quivering lips or misty eyes. The kid sounded so excited, she really hoped she didn’t cry.
“I bet you are,” Frankie clarified as gently as possible, tossing the ruined leaf into the “Whoops” pile, as Holly had so adequately named it. Frankie’s contribution to the “Whoops” pile was bigger than Holly’s. “But Nate and I aren’t getting married.”
“You’re not?” Holly’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “But when Femi Lewis tried to hold my hand at recess, Daddy said it was against the rules for boys and girls to hold hands unless they were dating. And since he says I can’t date until I’m married, I can’t hold his hand.”
Frankie snorted. “You fell for that?” Mini-Einstein just blinked up innocently and Frankie sucked her lips in to keep from laughing. Right. Kid and all. “Maybe your dad didn’t want you to hold his hand because his name is Femi.”
“Making fun of people’s names isn’t funny,” Holly said, defiantly not laughing. “But I bet if me holding Femi’s—” she paused, looking up at Frankie and waiting for her to snicker. Frankie bit her lip. “—hand is against the rules, then I bet that you living with Nate and not being married is super bad.”
No, Nate invading her space was super bad.
“People should only get married when they love each other, right?” Frankie said.
Holly considered that. “I guess so.”
“Well, then Nate and I can’t get married,” Frankie said, pleased at her deductive reasoning with a toddler. Or was she a tween? Frankie wasn’t really sure. Usually by now she’d be sweating just being this close to peanut butter breath and thinking up some reason to leave.
“Why not?” Holly rested her chin on her knees, her lips pursing with confusion.
“Because I don’t even like Nate.”
Holly gasped, pulling out a pocket sized notebook and marking down a tally to the never ending marks on the page. “Saying you don’t like someone is mean, Miss Francesca. Especially when it’s their favorite uncle.”
