Chapter 14
Bianca
“ W hat’s wrong with the syrah you tasted yesterday?” Jansen shoves a hand into his thick hair. Those long, lean fingers slide through the silky strands in slow motion. I imagine the feel of his hair on my own fingers.
“Oh.” I frown. “I found the tannins very harsh. But I’ve been thinking about it. I want to try blending it with some of the viognier.”
He shifts in his chair to more fully face me in the Bar Down lab. “You want to blend white with red?”
“Yes. Don’t look like that. It’s actually quite common. Champagne, for example. It’s chardonnay blended with pinot noir.”
“Really?” His eyebrows elevate. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, we’re not making champagne.”
“Obviously.”
I smile. “I think the viognier will soften the rough edges of the syrah. It would have been better to co-ferment them, but we can do this now.”
“What are the risks?”
I eye him approvingly. “Excellent question. Of course there’s a risk it won’t be good. But I’d say that’s offset by the fact that the syrah as is won’t be one of your better wines. It’s drinkable, for sure. Just not great.”
“I want it to be great.”
My heart grows several sizes. “I know.”
God. This man. I’ve watched him throw himself into work at the winery, getting his hands stained purple, ruining his beautiful leather brogues before he started wearing work boots, listening intently to everything I tell him. His absolute dedication and determination to getting things right makes my perfectionist winemaker’s heart purr.
I put Jansen out of my mind to focus on work for the rest of the day. When I stumble into the kitchen at Caparelli at dinner time, Rosa and Jake are sitting at the table with empty plates in front of them.
“We didn’t wait for you,” Rosa says pointedly. “We’ve given up on that. You’re working way too hard, Bee.”
“It’s harvest,” I say, repeating what I told Jansen. When he said the same thing. I investigate the contents of a big pot on the stove. “Spaghetti?”
“Yes. I made Nonna’s Bolognese sauce.”
“Yum.” I start dishing up. “I’m sorry. But yeah, don’t wait for me if I’m not here.”
She sighs. “You’re running back and forth between here and Take Flight?—”
“Bar Down,” I correct her, licking sauce off my thumb. “Oh, garlic bread!”
“Whatever. My point is, you’re exhausting yourself.”
I carry my plate to the table and sit. At that moment, weariness rolls over me. Even my bones feel tired. She’s right.
My days start at six in the morning. We have to clean the cellar before we can process the grapes and get the juice in the tanks, then I do my analysis and make adjustments and then we clean again. We have to punch down the reds every two hours. After lunch we spend a couple of hours tasting all the wines going through fermentation and talk about cap management technique. Then there’s a conference call about grape picking and shipping logistics and a cellar meeting discussing tank logistics and the crew's schedule. I’ve been going back to the lab after supper to look over all the testing results, analyze the data, adjust tank temperatures, and create work orders.
“I’m fine.” I summon up a smile and enough energy to eat.
She eyes me as if she sees through my act. “Bianca. You don’t have to work this hard.”
I frown at my spaghetti. “The work has to get done.”
“I know, but you’ve taken on so much.”
“I’m not here for long,” I remind her, a little annoyed. “I’m doing what I have to.”
She presses her lips together and glances at Jake. “We never see you.”
“What? We see each other all the time!”
“Yeah, on the crush pad when you’re yelling at us to be gentle with grapes or when we’re all picking in different rows.”
“Well, I’m sure you don’t really want to see that much of me.” I try for a smile to indicate I’m joking. Except I’m not really joking. “You two are busy with each other. And you’ve always had your own life.”
For a moment she says nothing, and I twirl pasta around my fork.
“What does that mean?” she finally says.
I finish chewing and swallow, then take a gulp of water. “You’re older than me. You always had your own life. You didn’t have time for pesky little sisters.” I smile and keep my expression pleasant. I’m not trying to start anything. “And that’s totally normal.” I keep telling myself that. Because I’m leaving again. My career and future and success as a winemaker is somewhere else. And reconnecting with Rosa and Jake is fine, but getting too close to them will only make that harder.
Her forehead creases. “Really?”
I wave a hand. “It’s okay. I have my own friends. And it’s been great reconnecting with them. I’m thankful for their help.”
“You don’t think we’re friends?”
I swallow a sigh. I really don’t want to start anything. “We’re sisters.”
“And partners.”
“Right. Partners in wine!” I chuckle at my own joke and eat more spaghetti, sucking in a strand through my lips.
Rosa doesn’t laugh. Jake purses his lips.
“I’m going back to the lab for a while.” I pause. “Oh. Do you want me to do the dishes? Since you cooked?”
“No. That’s not the point. Bee?—”
“Okay. Sorry I’m not around much. Let’s make a point of dinner together Saturday, okay? See you later!”
I do still have some work to do in the lab, but I am, in fact, so, so tired. As I cross the yard and walk through the trees to Bar Down, my pace is that of a ninety-year-old woman with two artificial hips and arthritis in both knees. In the lab, I flick on the light and sink onto a stool at a counter.
I stare blearily at the binders of notes with color-coded tabs, charts, and piles of sticky notes tracking all the winemaking—press fractions, punchdown schedules, fermentation temperatures—and various logbooks. There’s also a log tracking daily sanitation schedules, everything from scrubbing floors to sanitizing empty tanks and steaming barrels.
I still need to transcribe my notes and log results, study the weather forecast, calculate grape tonnage and review the Brix charts, and then plan for tomorrow. We need to know which grapes are coming in to sort them, how much red and white we’re getting, because there’s a different press process for each.
I’m trying to move away from binders and sticky notes, so I open one of the spreadsheets I’ve set up on the computer and start transcribing the audio notes I recorded on my phone this morning. My head is bent and the lab is silent other than my own voice, so when the door opens, I shriek and nearly fall off my stool. I whirl around to see Jansen standing in the door.
“Oh God.” I press a hand to my chest. “Sorry. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” He advances into the room, shutting the door behind him.
My voice is still droning from my phone and I reach for it and pause it. “Finishing up the stuff I didn’t get done this afternoon.”
He sighs. “Bianca. It’s eight o’clock. Did you eat dinner?”
“Yes! I did! Spaghetti with Nonna’s Bolognese sauce.”
“Okay, good. Still. You need some rest.”
I sigh. “Rosa says that, too.”
He moves closer. Alone in this space, my skin tingles even more than it does when he’s around. “Maybe because it’s true.”
I blow out a breath. “I just have to finish a few more things and then I’ll go home and go to bed.”
The air around us becomes charged at those words. I ignore it.
“Can you check the weather forecast?” I ask him.
“Sure.” He knows what to do now. He pulls up the website on his phone and makes notes about temperature, winds, humidity. We briefly discuss that and the areas still to be harvested and I make notes for tomorrow on my iPad.
“What else can I do?” he asks quietly.
I want to tell him nothing, I can handle all this. But I’m tired. And he owns the winery. So I say, “Maybe you could finish transcribing my voice notes? I’ll work on my plan for tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
We both focus on work for the next while. When he finishes and turns off my phone, he says, “Is all this absolutely necessary?”
“Yes.” I give him a wry smile. “I know it seems like a lot. Like I’m being super persnickety.”
“Persnickety.” One corner of his mouth lifts.
I watch it, mesmerized. Then I say, “Yeah. I’m a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to this stuff, but you have to be. Harvest is a really busy time. If you don’t keep good records and stay organized, the potential for major screw ups is huge. Plus we can learn from everything and do better.”
He nods. “I guess I understand that. Were you like this in Argentina?”
“Of course.” I did work hard there, but I also got out sometimes. We’d go horseback riding, hiking, or exploring Buenos Aires and Mendoza.
We go over the plan for tomorrow.
“Now I’ll walk you home,” he says, standing.
“You don’t have to walk me home. It’s next door.”
“It’s dark.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“What about bobcats? Are you afraid of bobcats?”
I laugh. “No. Because they never come here.”
“They might. Also, you’re so tired you might fall asleep on the way home and we’ll find you snoring in the grass in the morning.”
I snort.
“Come on.”
I give up. We turn out the lights and lock the door, another thing I’m picky about for no good reason than it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Tiny diamond stars stud the clear, dark sky, the moon a sliver of a gold coin. The temperature has dropped but it feels wonderful after the heat and sweat of the day, and I revel in the breeze stroking my hair back off my face as we walk across Jansen’s yard toward the row of live oaks. The smell of grape juice hangs in the air, sweet, ripe, and full, and the chirrup of crickets surrounds us.
“I hate crickets.”
He glances at me. “You do?”
“I do. They sound nice and as long as they’re at a distance, that’s fine, but when you come face to face with one, they are horrifying monsters.”
He coughs. “They’re high in protein.”
“Aaaaah! I can’t believe you said that! Ew, ew, ew.”
He shrugs. “I’m sure they serve some other purpose.”
“Yeah, probably. But I’m afraid of them.”
“Hmm. Well, we all have our fears.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He doesn’t answer. Finally he says, “Apparently I don’t like snakes.”
I grin. “That’s fair. Did you just discover this?”
“Yeah. Miles and I ran into a snake when we were running one day. I didn’t encounter many snakes in Toronto or Los Angeles.”
I grin. “That’s hissssssterical.”
He barks out a laugh.
“Oh my God! Did I make you laugh?” I stop walking, laughing, and move in front of him to face him. “Let me see! Are you really laughing?”
“What’s the big deal? That was kinda funny. Bad, but funny.”
“I’m always funny, but you’ve never laughed at me.” I pause. “I mean, I don’t want you to laugh at me. But when I make a joke, you know, a little polite chuckle or even a smile would be appreciated. Sometimes I think you’re almost going to smile…the corners of your mouth tic up…” I lift my hand and touch my fingertips to the corner of his mouth. His eyes darken and the air thickens and heats around us. “But you never actually laugh,” I finish breathlessly.
“You’re not always funny.” Our gazes connect, in the shadows of the live oaks, under blue and silver stars and the topaz crescent moon. I don’t move my hand from where it touches his face.
“I-I’m not?”
“Sometimes you’re sexy.”
A warm slide of desire pools low inside me. We look into each other’s eyes for a drawn out, laden moment.
I don’t know what this is.
I’ve been attracted to men before. Of course I have. But I don’t ever remember feeling like I’m going to die from wanting him, like my need for him is a powerful force I’m helpless against.
“Sometimes you’re sweet.” He curls his fingers around my hand and presses it to his cheek. His thick eyelashes sweep down and I know, I just know that he feels the same. He’s feeling this overruling attraction, too. The way he looks at me—no man has ever looked at me like that, like he’s drowning in lust. Like he’s desperate for me.
I move closer. Heat radiates from him. He doesn’t move. He’s resisting. He thinks he can fight this. He thinks he’s strong enough to hold out against it.
Maybe he is. I know he’s strong. I know he’s determined.
“But you’re always fucking fascinating.”
Oh God. My knees, no, my entire legs , have turned to oatmeal.
He lets go of my hand and cups my face in both hands. I let my fingers trail down over the scruff on his jaw and rest on his shoulder. We stare into each other’s eyes, my body throbbing.
“I’ve tried so hard.” His thumb brushes my lips. “So fucking hard.”
I give a slow blink. “Tried what?”
“Tried to resist you.”
“Why?”
He makes a noise in his throat. “Because you’re young. Beautiful. Alive.”
“Yes. I am alive.” The sarcasm probably doesn’t come across because my voice is a whisper.
But his lips quirk in that way I love, the way that excites me because I’ve almost, almost made him smile. I want to make him smile so badly. “I mean you’re…full of life. Full of energy. You never stop.”
I tip my head back and watch his mouth move as he talks. About me. As if he…likes me.
“I’m old and tired,” he goes on, his gaze wandering over my face. “And probably an idiot. You deserve more.”
“Oh my God.” I close my eyes. How can he say that when he is so much? So strong, so determined, so kind. “I’m attracted to you, Jansen.” That’s not enough to describe how much I want him. “There’s nothing wrong with that. With us wanting each other.”
“I don’t…I can’t…” He stops.
My heart turns to ice in my chest. “Are you still in love with your wife?”
“No! Jesus.” His instant, sincere reaction thaws my cardiac organ. “No.”
“Then what is it?” I slip my arms over his shoulders and press closer still. “Are you worried because you’re my boss and you don’t want to abuse your power over me?”
“Uh…” His eyes widen.
“I’m kidding. And don’t even think about the age difference between us. We’re both adults.”
“Okay, but…I’m not interested in marriage. Or a relationship. I want to focus on this winery. It’s better if I’m alone.”
“Hmm.” I give a tiny nod. “Well, I’m not interested in a relationship either. I’m only here for another month or so. I have a job and a life in Argentina to go back to.”
“So…”
“It’s just an attraction.” Right . “You’re hot. I’m horny. We’re both single. It’s that easy.”
“Well. When you put it that way…”