Chapter 4
Bianca
T he others are waiting for us but instead of more rides, Ana and Millie decide they’re hungry, so we head to some of the food booths. I’m starving, too. There’s a lot to choose from—corn dogs, barbecue, funnel cakes. We study options, standing beneath white lights strung among the tall cypress trees around us. We all make our selections and then take them to the wine garden, where one of the local wineries is selling their products.
“I’m super curious about their wine,” I say quietly as we approach the bar.
“Why?” Millie asks.
“All they make is blends.”
“Ah.”
Although not part of the wine business, she’s lived in the valley her whole life, so she understands.
“What does that mean?” Jansen asks.
“Hang on, I’ll tell you more.” I smile at the girl behind the bar. “I’ll try the Blackbird, please.”
“Of course.” She pours me a glass.
“What is the blend?” I ask.
“It’s sixty-seven percent zinfandel, thirty-three percent cabernet sauvignon. Blackbird combines the robust flavors of zinfandel and the grandeur of cabernet sauvignon, resulting in a rich wine with full fruit flavors and soft, elegant tannins.”
“Do you know how it’s aged?”
She smiles. “Eighteen months in one hundred percent French oak, sixty percent new, forty percent neutral.”
“Thank you.”
We find a table and sit. I hold up my glass, swirl it, sniff it, then sip.
Jansen’s watching me. I try not to be distracted from the wine. His brown hair is brushed back off his face, neat sideburns meeting dark jaw stubble, his mouth seductive, his eyes attentive.
Ahem.
I let the flavors of the wine play over my tongue. I nod.
“How is it?” Jansen asks. “Good?’
I smile. I don’t describe wines as “good.” “Luxurious,” I say. “Flowing red and blue fruit flavors—blackberry, blueberry, cranberry. The zinfandel gives a layer of cracked black pepper and red licorice. Then there are hints of caramelized brown sugar and vanilla from aging in the French oak.”
He nods slowly.
I smile brightly. “How’s yours?” He chose a different one.
He takes a sip. “I’d say…dark.”
I nod. “Fair.”
“Blackberry. Cherry.” His forehead wrinkles. “Mocha?”
Interesting.
“Want to try it?”
“I do.” I reach eagerly for his glass. I’d taste everyone’s if I could.
“Mmm. This one’s different. I think it’s a blend of several varietals. I’d say cab sauv plus syrah and malbec, for sure. And yes, dark. Deep. Voluptuous.”
Jansen does a slow blink.
Heat slides over my skin at the way he’s looking at me. I kind of sounded like I was talking about sex. Ha.
I hand back his wine and he takes it, eyes fastened on my face.
Damn, he’s attractive.
Yes, I resented him. Not only for being the new owner of Take Flight, which I know logically isn’t his fault, but for being another rich celebrity who thinks he can just buy a winery and become a winemaker. I was kind of a bitch to him even though he was nice enough to come on the Ferris wheel with me.
But even though I had a grudge against him, I felt a tug of attraction.
He has a strong presence, making me feel like the world has shrunk to this tent, this table. His gaze on me is weighty, substantial. Intense. This is not a man who goes through the motions; he’s focused, purposeful, engaged.
Up there on the Ferris wheel, his strength reassured me, though. He knew I was nervous and tried to distract me from it and I felt safer because of it and maybe a teensy bit grateful.
My gaze wanders from his intent eyes down to his right shoulder, which he’s rolling apparently subconsciously. His left hand holds the plastic cup of wine. No ring. His fingers are long and lean, dusted with dark hair. His hands are attractive. His thick eyebrows are attractive. Even his voice—gah. It’s rich and smooth, like red wine. Like expensive sheets. Like slow sex.
I’ve been reliving the embarrassment of that night when I accidentally asked him if I’d look sexy in that slip, but I couldn’t figure out why. Sure, it was a little embarrassing, but I’ve done that in the grocery store and didn’t brood about it for days. It wasn’t the embarrassment, though. It was him.
With his towering height and unmistakeable strength, he has a very physical presence. He’s not a lean man, but he’s not fat, with broad shoulders, a muscle-packed chest, and thick thighs. He’s solid. And tall. He’s hot.
I suck air into my lungs and gulp down wine. And choke.
Oh God.
I cough into my hand, heat enveloping me, my chest burning.
“Are you okay?” Ana asks, seated next to me.
I nod. “Fine. I was trying to breathe and drink at the same time.” I was abusing that poor glass of red. Serves me right. “Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.”
I cough a few more times, dab at my mouth with a paper napkin, then pick up my corn dog, all the while trying to ignore Jansen watching me from across the table.
“Tell me about the blends,” Jansen says.
“Right.” I focus on wine. “Well, cabernet sauvignon is king in Napa Valley. That’s what most of the grapes grown here are. It used to be that everyone wanted single-vineyard wines. Wines made just from the grapes grown in one vineyard. Or even one block.” Like the Carleo Belmonte still produces. From Caparelli grapes. Ugh. I wave a hand. “I can explain that some other time. Or maybe you already know. Anyway. People used to turn their noses up at blends, but I’m intrigued by them. I think bringing different varietals together can be like creating an orchestra.”
“Okay, yeah.” He nods.
“Are you getting winemaking lessons?” Ana asks Jansen with a smile. “I told you Bianca could help you.”
I give her a look. “This isn’t exactly lessons.”
“I know. He could probably use your help at the winery, though.”
“I’ve got things covered,” Jansen says with a polite smile. “We’re good. But thanks.”
He just took over a winery and he doesn’t need help? I call bullshit. But I set that aside. “Here in Napa we make reds in a Bordeaux style. And I think we can make excellent blends in a Bordeaux style.” I lift my glass. “I’m impressed with this one. The winemaker is doing a good job.” A little envy warms my stomach. God, I want to make wine.
“What were you making in Argentina?” he asks.
I sigh inwardly, remembering my work there. “In Argentina, it’s all about the malbec. They make the best malbec in the world. I was also playing around with syrah, cabernet franc, cabernet sauvignon, and bonarda. Full-bodied, layered, very intense wines.”
“Interesting.”
I smile. “I could talk for hours about it. Don’t encourage me.”
“It’s interesting.”
“The goal in blending is to respect the character of each varietal while crafting the best possible wine.” I wave my hands again, almost knocking my glass over. I grab it to steady it. “Oops. So like when one musician plays the…the flute, it can be pretty. But when you layer in more instruments and musicians who play well together, you create a beautiful, harmonious symphony.”
“Right. Like a hockey team.”
“A…what?”
“A hockey team. You have a bunch of guys who are good players on their own position, good at scoring goals or taking faceoffs, or defending or stopping goals, and you put them all together to make a team that works as one.”
A slow smile plucks at my lips. “Yes. That’s it exactly. In music you have to understand all the different highs and lows and rhythms. The different instruments. And with sports, I guess. With wine, you have to know the flavors and what individual wines contribute to the overall character. And like music, it should evoke emotion. Memories. A shared experience. A good wine is best shared.”
“Also like a hockey game.”
I grin. “Sure. Okay, I’ll shut up now.”
He almost smiles. “Thanks for explaining that.”
“No problem.” I bite into my corn dog. “God, this is good! I haven’t had a corn dog in years.”
After we eat, we go back outside.
“Come on over, folks! Win the ladies a prize!” A man at one of the games gestures at us, pointing to giant stuffed animals.
“What if we can win our own prizes?” I call back to him.
The others all chuckle and I catch Jansen’s smile of appreciation.
“Skee ball,” Nolan says, rubbing his hands. “Let’s do it.”
“Don’t waste your money,” Ana begs him. “You’ll never win anything.”
He frowns. “You just challenged my masculinity. Now I have to win something for you.”
She covers her eyes with one hand. “Oh, here we go.”
The three guys pay and line up.
Why is Jansen doing this? He doesn’t have to win a prize for anyone. Maybe it’s just fun for him.
He’s tossing the ball in quick, efficient motions, his hand and eye coordination commendable, racking up points. He punches his hands in the air when he wins, then looks almost embarrassed, dropping his arms. The game operator hands him a plush panda bear.
Jansen looks down at it. He shakes his head, then looks at me. “Here you go,” he says dryly.
“Oh, keep it! You won it!”
“I don’t need a stuffed bear.”
I reach out for the bear. I have a weakness for pandas. I stroke my fingers over the soft fur and admire the black rings around his eyes.
“Why did you play?”
“To win.”
Our eyes meet.
Okay. I understand that.
He has a competitive streak. He wants to be the best. So do I.
Huh.
“I used to have a panda almost like this when I was a little girl. I named him Dumpling.” I make a face. “Did you know that pandas spend twelve hours a day eating?”
“No. I did not know that.”
“Twelve hours of eating. What a great life that would be.”
His lips twitch.
“Is that you, Bianca Martinelli?”
I turn and see my eleventh-grade teacher, Mrs. Gerstenmayer. Oh my God. I can’t find words for a few seconds as I stare at her. “Um, yes!” I plaster on a big smile. “Hi, Mrs. Gerstenmayer.”
“You’re back! I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”
“Oh, thank you. We all miss her.”
“The entire county misses her. When will her memorial be held?”
“We’re planning it for after harvest.”
“Ah.” She nods. “Argentina! Is that where you still are?”
“Yep.” I smile again. “I’m here to help Rosa and Allegra. You probably heard that Nonna left her winery to us.” Except Allegra’s not even bothering to show up.
“Rumor is that you’re going to sell it to Geno.”
My eyes pop open wide. “What!”
She nods, lips pursed. “That’s what I heard. Oh hello, Ana. Millie. How are you?”
We make some small talk that thankfully doesn’t involve me, and then Mrs. Gerstenmayer moves on.
I slump against Ana. “Why did we have to run into her?” I mumble.
Ana chuckles. “It had to happen sooner or later.”
“Who is that?” Jansen asks.
“Eleventh grade English teacher.” I avoid his eyes. “There was this one night I was hanging out with a bunch of seniors and we maybe drank some beer and smoked a little weed and decided to steal some golf carts from the high school football team and I may have lost control of mine and drove it into her storage shed.”
His eyes widen. He rolls his lips inward. “I see.”
“I had to spend the first part of my summer vacation rebuilding it.” I wince. “Nonna was not happy about that.” It did get me some attention, but I discovered that I didn’t like being in trouble and went back to my nerdy, invisible ways after that.
“Did you pass English?” he asks.
That makes me smile. And his lips are curved in what almost appears to be amusement, too. “Barely. I was more of a science girl.”
“Ah.”
As we meander the fair and end up sitting near the bandstand to listen to the group doing Fleetwood Mac covers, I think about Mrs. Gerstenmayer’s comment about selling the winery to Uncle Geno.
I know we were adamant when we found out that Nonna had left us the winery that we would run it ourselves. But realistically, both Allegra and I have lives far away from here. We were all emotional at the reading of the will but now that some time has passed, and not hearing anything from Allegra, maybe we really aren’t being practical about this.
Selling to Uncle Geno would definitely be an option.
I nibble my bottom lip as I turn that idea around in my mind. I could go back to Argentina. Allegra could stay wherever the hell she is right now. Rosa could—I don’t know, I’m sure she could get a job as an office manager at another winery near here, or go back to working at Belmonte. The family would all be happy.
Why didn’t we even consider that?
I need to talk to my sisters about it.
The musicians take a break.
“Should we go to the petting zoo?” Ana asks. “They have baby goats.”
“Oh my God, I love baby goats!” I jump to my feet. Then I see the expression on Jansen’s face. “What? What’s wrong with baby goats?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me—petting animals isn’t your thing.”
“I feel like goats smell bad.”
A laugh shoots out of me. “Well, maybe.”
“Also goats are jerks.”
My mouth drops open and I gape at him. “Take that back!”
He blinks. “What? They are?”
“They’re adorable!”
“A goat headbutted me once,” Miles says.
“See?” Jansen lifts his eyebrows.
“I…I…can’t.” I stare at him. Someone who doesn’t like baby goats?
He shrugs. “I’ve never had much to do with farm animals.”
“City boy, huh?”
“Basically, yeah. Also too busy playing hockey.”
I frown.
“Didn’t you know Jansen used to play hockey?” Ana says.
I give her a perplexed look. “No. How would I know that? Also, what does that mean?”
“Hockey’s a sport played on ice where skaters try to score a goal with a stick and a puck.” Jansen’s face is deadpan.
“I know what hockey is!” I laugh and give him a little push. Oh. He’s solid. Definitely.
“He was a professional hockey player,” Ana says. “With the Long Beach Golden Eagles. He was kind of famous.”
I blink. “Oh.” I look back at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow hockey. I didn’t recognize your name.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“So that’s what the hockey team analogy was about.” I tap my temple. “I like it. Different wines bring different attributes to a blend, like individual players on a team. And bringing them together elevates the game.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Well, that’s cool. Okay, let’s go look at the animals.”
As we stroll, my head is now full of the surprising information that Jansen is a hockey player. Or used to be. That he’s famous. With hockey fans, I guess. I don’t know anything about hockey. Now I want to. Which is crazy.
“Definitely smells like a barn in here.” Jansen scrunches up his slightly-crooked nose.
“Don’t worry, the scent won’t stick to you after we leave.” On the Ferris wheel I noticed the seductive scent of his cologne, something that smells like walking into the perfume department at Saks.
He rolls his eyes.
We spend time admiring and petting bunnies, goats, sheep, and the cutest little pigs! Well, Jansen keeps his distance while the rest of us pet them and feed them the food they give us. Then we all make a quick stop in the bathrooms before returning to the wine lounge for another drink.
As we take our seats, a man stops in front of me. “Bianca?”
I meet his eyes. It’s Mark Watson, my high school boyfriend. “Mark! Hi!”
“I heard you’re back.” He smiles. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too!” He was—is?—a nice guy. He still wears his light brown hair in a neatly cut style and his eyes crinkle at the corners with his easy smile. If I’d stayed in Oak Creek Canyon, who knows what would have happened with us.
We do a little catch-up chit chat, then when I mention Caparelli, he says, “I heard that Geno’s contesting the will.”
Once again, I’m thrown. My mouth falls open. I shake my head. “I haven’t heard anything about that. I think the lawyers would let us know if he was.”
“Maybe he just plans to.” Mark shrugs. “That’s kind of awkward, huh?”
“Oh yeah.” Jeez. What the hell? I keep hearing all these things that are supposedly happening but aren’t. This is one reason I was happy to escape small town life. Everybody’s all up in everyone else’s business. Apparently that hasn’t changed here. “I’ll be having a talk with Geno soon.” I smile as if everything’s fine. “We’ll figure it all out.”
Why hasn’t Rosa told me about all these crazy rumors?
“How long are you here for?” he asks. “We should go out for a drink sometime.”
“Oh sure. That would be great. I’m not sure how long I’m here, but at least a couple of months. I said I’d help with harvest.”
“Okay. Give me your number, and I’ll text you.”
We exchange phone numbers.
When I turn around and sit down, I immediately feel Jansen’s eyes on me. He’s watching with a steady gaze and thin lips.
I smile. “Old boyfriend.” I wave a hand. “Years ago.”
“I should be going,” Jansen says. “I’ve got an early morning with my vineyard manager to check the grapes.”
Everyone agrees it’s time to call it a night and we all walk to the exit. Now it’s totally dark and all the lights in the trees and on the rides are so pretty. The faint screams of excited riders float on the breeze along with the music of the band that’s playing again.
“Where’d you park?” Ana asks me.
I point down the street. “In the lot that way.”
“Oh, we’re this way. Okay, goodnight, I’ll text you about yoga classes.”
“Okay! Night, everyone.”
I start walking and Jansen joins me. “I’m parked this way, too.”
“Oh. Okay.” After a pause, I say, “Did you enjoy the fair?”
“Actually, I did.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure about coming tonight. I’ve never been to a county fair.”
“Ah. Right. City boy.”
His lips kick up. “Right. Also, I’m pretty busy these days, trying to figure out what’s going on, and do some renos on my house.”
“You do have a lot on your plate. Well, this is my car.” I point at my rental. I meet his eyes even though my belly flutters as I do so. “I’m glad you joined us and had a good time. Good night, Jansen.”
“Goodnight.”
I get into my car, reverse out of the spot, and exit the parking lot. I glance in my rear-view mirror and see a shadowy shape of a man leaving the parking lot and going back the way we came from. That’s Jansen. He said he was parked this way, too. Where is he going? Weird.