Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Nate
Somewhere around six, I gave up on sleep. I slipped out of bed and dressed quietly in the dim light of Juliet's room, trying not to wake her. As I buttoned my shirt, I stood by the bed for a moment, enjoying the sight of her sleeping.
With one hand tucked under her cheek and her hair spread across the pillow, she looked nothing like the woman who graced countless billboards and magazine pages. She appeared young, innocent, her natural beauty for once being given a chance to shine.
As I left the room, I pulled the door closed quietly and headed downstairs. Through the window at the end of the hallway the valley was just visible, the fog lying thick over the vines in the early morning light.
Eileen was already in the kitchen, standing at the stove when I entered. She turned when she heard me, took one look at my face, and smiled in a way that told me she knew exactly where I'd spent the night.
"Not a word, Eileen," I warned.
I didn't want her reading more into the situation than there was.
One night together did not mean wedding bells would chime anytime soon.
Although, for once, I found I wasn't horrified by the idea of spending my life with a woman.
There was something special about Juliet that had me considering a future with her, even though it was early days.
She raised both hands in mock surrender and turned back to the stove. "There's coffee," she said.
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter. Juliet appeared ten minutes later in yoga pants and a white t-shirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked at Eileen, then at me, then hoisted herself up onto the counter without a word.
Knowing she enjoyed a strong cup of coffee in the morning, I poured her one and handed it over.
She wrapped both hands around the mug and looked at Eileen. "Can I help with breakfast?"
"You can do the eggs," Eileen said, already taking them from the fridge.
Juliet slid off the counter and moved to the stove. "How do you want them?"
"Scrambled."
Juliet cracked four eggs into a bowl and reached for the milk. Eileen stopped her.
"Cream," she said firmly. "Always cream."
"How much?"
"A splash."
"That's not a measurement," Juliet pointed out.
"It is when you've been cooking for as long as I have."
Juliet caught my eye over Eileen's shoulder and smiled. The easy banter between her and my aunt pleased me. If Juliet was going to be in my life, I wanted her to get along with the woman who'd dedicated her life to making sure I didn't starve as a result of my culinary incompetence.
I finished my coffee, set the cup in the sink, and took myself to the doorway. The fog had already lifted. Out in the valley, Ramon was already moving between the vines, checking the state of things now the harvest was done.
Behind me, Juliet and Eileen argued without malice about the best way to cook eggs. I leaned against the doorframe and listened for a while before forcing myself upstairs to my office.
Two hours passed before voices outside pulled me away from the paperwork my assistant in L.A. had sent over. I may have delegated most of the day-to-day tasks to others, but the big decisions still lay with me. It was my signature required on contracts.
More and more, I thought about selling the development company that bore my name, but I'd built the business from the ground up, and I wasn't ready to say goodbye to it.
Perhaps at the back of my mind was the thought I would pass it to my children one day.
They could choose between life on the vineyard or corporate America.
I went to the window. Juliet was in the kitchen garden with Eileen, the two of them crouched over something in the herb bed.
Eileen was pointing at something low to the ground.
Juliet nodded, reached out, and touched whatever it was, then sat back on her heels and said something that made Eileen laugh out loud.
For longer than I should, I stood at the window and watched them. Eileen was not a woman who warmed to people quickly. Juliet appeared to be the exception.
I returned to my desk as my phone buzzed with an incoming message from Scott.
The woman from Chicago had agreed to talk, and he was handling the arrangements.
It was good news. If she was willing to go on record, we might have enough to move against Kane.
I typed a quick reply and set the phone down.
The next item on my morning's agenda was one I looked forward to, a report on the current state of the winery.
The cabernet yield was down slightly from last year, but I'd expected that.
The sugar levels were good, and the fermentation was progressing well, so things were going in the right direction.
Ramon had flagged a section of the south-facing vines that needed work before winter, and I made a note to walk it with him later in the week.
By noon, I was done with the most pressing tasks on my list. Something was cooking downstairs, and the smell of it had been drifting up for the past half hour. Shutting down my laptop, I pushed back from the desk and went to find out what the source of the delicious aroma was.
When I got to the kitchen, Juliet was at the stove, her back to me, stirring something that smelled extraordinary. Eileen was at the table with a cup of tea, watching her with quiet approval.
"What is that?" I asked.
Juliet turned. Her t-shirt was damp at the front as if she'd spilled something and tried to wipe it off.
"Bouillabaisse," she said. "I found some fish in the refrigerator. I hope that's okay."
"More than okay." I pulled out a chair and sat down. "Where did you learn to make bouillabaisse?"
"Paris." She turned back to the stove. "I spent a summer there when I was younger. My mother thought I was at a language school." She paused. "I was for about a week."
Eileen raised an eyebrow at me over her teacup.
"Where were you the rest of the time?" I asked.
"In a kitchen in the seventh arrondissement," Juliet said, "learning French cuisine from a very bad-tempered chef named Michel. He told me on the first day that I had no talent, and by the end of the summer, he was trying to convince me to stay."
"And did you consider it?" Eileen asked. "Staying?"
"For about five minutes." Juliet stirred the pot and tasted it, reaching for the salt. "Then I realized my mother would come to Paris and drag me home by my hair. Even the chance to train with Michel wasn't worth the fuss she would kick up."
She became quiet for a moment, adjusting the heat under the pot. She tasted it again, frowned slightly, reached for something on the shelf above the stove.
"What are you adding?" Eileen asked.
"Saffron. Just a little more." Juliet replaced the lid. "It needs another ten minutes."
She turned and leaned against the counter, arms folded.
"Can we do anything to help?" I asked.
Juliet nodded. "You could set the table and maybe find some bread."
While Eileen fetched the silverware and laid it out, I went to the pantry and found a sourdough loaf my aunt had picked up at the farmer's market in Oakridge.
Though she dabbled in breadmaking herself, she bought this every time she went to town, claiming she could never come close to replicating its perfect balance between a hard crust and pillowy interior.
Then I grabbed a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge.
"Right," Juliet said. "I hope you're hungry." She ladled generous helpings of the bouillabaisse into three bowls. "Sit down, both of you."
Juliet set a bowl in front of each of us and took her seat. I poured the wine and tore off a piece of bread. The afternoon sun had shifted around to the west side of the house, and the kitchen was warm and bright.
After the first mouthful of the delicate broth, I set my spoon down.
"This is exceptional." I meant what I said. My aunt was a great cook, but she tended to stick to fairly simple recipes. They weren't layered with the same complex flavors as this.
Juliet accepted the compliment with a small nod and carried on eating. For a woman used to being flattered, she was surprisingly modest about her achievements.
"Would Michel approve?" Eileen asked.
Juliet smiled wryly. "He'd find something to criticize."
"How old were you?" I asked. "When you were in Paris."
"Nineteen."
"And Michel?"
She looked up. "Why?"
I held her gaze and said nothing. She laughed.
"He was sixty-two years old and built like a barrel," she said. "Does that ease your jealousy?"
Eileen grinned knowingly and reached for more bread.
When we finished eating, Eileen excused herself and left us to it. Juliet began stacking the bowls and carrying them to the counter. I followed with the glasses and the bread board.
Juliet loaded the dishwasher. I put the leftover bouillabaisse into a container and found space for it in the refrigerator.
"Tell me about your father," Juliet said without looking up.
I leaned against the counter. "What makes you ask?"
"I get the impression Eileen doesn't like him much."
"That's putting it mildly. What did she say?"
"She called him an asshole."
I nodded. "He is."
Juliet waited for me to go on, but I wasn't ready to share much about the man who'd sired me.
"He's a cold man, hard to please and harder to love. Eileen had to step in and take care of me because he wasn't equipped for domestic life. He's never thanked her for it."
Juliet frowned. "What about your mother?"
"She left when I was seven. I don't blame her."
Juliet offered me a sympathetic smile but didn't comment. I was glad for that. My mother leaving was an emotional can of worms I didn't want to open. Juliet leaned against the counter next to me, close enough that her shoulder touched mine. I appreciated her silent support.
"My father is too gentle for my mother," she said quietly. "She runs everything, and he lets her, and I think it diminishes him a little more every year."
The more I learned about Caroline Caldwell the less I understood how she had managed to raise a woman as sweet and kind as Juliet.
"Have you spoken to her since that first call?"
"No." She paused. "I wouldn't know what to say."
"You don't have to call her," I said.
"She's still my mother."
"I know. But you don't owe her anything."
She considered that for a moment. Then she pushed off the counter.
"What are you doing this afternoon?" she asked.
The change of subject came abruptly, but I let it go. If I wasn't prepared to go into detail about my difficult family relationships, I had no right to press Juliet on hers.
"I'll be walking the south vines with Ramon. There's a section that needs attention before winter. You could come if you want to."
"To look at vines?"
"To get some air. You've been cooped up in the house for days."
"Will we need to take guards with us?" Her lips pursed at the thought.
"No," I said drily. "Not when I'm with you."
Something shifted in her expression.
"All right," she said. "Let me get my boots."
She was back in five minutes wearing her cowboy boots. For a city girl, she certainly looked at home in the country. We made our way out through the back door and down the slope toward the vines. The afternoon sun was strong on the back of our necks as we walked.
"How big is the estate?" Juliet asked.
"Just over two hundred acres. About a hundred and forty under vine."
"And Ramon manages all of it?"
"Yes, he knows every inch of the place. He was here twenty years before I bought it. He knows it better than I do, as he never tires of reminding me."
Juliet laughed at that. She had a real soft spot for the gruff foreman. "Why did the previous owner sell?"
"Retirement. He had no one to leave it to." I paused. "I was in the right place at the right time."
Juliet looked out over the rows of vines stretching down the hillside. "Lucky you," she said quietly.
When we reached the southern boundary, Ramon was crouching low between two rows, a pair of shears in his hand. He looked up when he heard us and got to his feet.
"Juliet." He nodded at her warmly. "Good to see you outside."
"I've been going stir-crazy," she said. "Is it obvious?"
He grinned. "Little bit."
He turned to me, and his face grew more serious. "It's worse than I thought down here. This whole section needs re-stringing before the first frost, and a couple of the older vines may need to come out altogether."
I crouched down to look at what he was pointing to. The wood was dry and splitting in places. I ran my hand along the length of one of the affected vines.
"When did this start?"
"I noticed it at the tail end of last season," Ramon said. "I was hoping it wouldn't spread, but it has."
Juliet crouched down beside me. She reached out and touched the bark carefully, wanting to understand the problem.
"What causes this?" she asked.
"Could be a few things," Ramon said. "Age mostly. These are some of the oldest vines on the property."
"And if they come out?"
"We replant. It takes a few years before they produce again." He looked at me. "It's not ideal, but it's not a disaster either."
Juliet stood and shaded her eyes, looking down the row. "How many would you lose?"
Ramon glanced at me, as impressed by her keen interest as I was.
"Six, maybe eight," he replied.
She nodded slowly, taking that in. "What a shame," she said. "After all this time."
Ramon sighed. He gazed down the row for a moment, lost in his thoughts.
"I'll get the crew started this week," he said eventually. "Get it done before the weather turns."
"Good." I straightened up. "Let me know when you want to start digging them out. I want to help."
Ramon nodded. We walked the rest of the section so he could point out what needed attention, Juliet falling into step beside Ramon.
At one point, he stopped to show her how the healthy vines should look, pulling back a few leaves so she could see the wood.
She leaned in close and listened intently as he waxed lyrical about the quality of the soil and the effects of the weather on our yield.
By the time we turned back toward the house, the sun had dropped behind the western ridge, and the air had cooled. Juliet walked ahead of us, humming to herself, a classical tune I recognized only as something by Mozart.
Ramon came level with me.
"She's good people," he said quietly.
"I know."
I watched as she climbed the hill toward the villa. It had been four years since I'd bought Mist Hollow, and I'd never wanted to share it with anyone. Maybe that was starting to change.