Chapter 5
Rosa
I ’m screwed.
I’m standing in the hallway upstairs, head swiveling back and forth, eyeing each bedroom doorway in turn. I can’t put him in the one next to mine. That would be a disaster. But it’s also closest to the only working bathroom. Which I’m using these days, too, and I can just see us barging in on each other in the middle of the night.
Does he wear pajamas? Boxers and a T-shirt? Nothing? God, I hope he covers up before leaving his room. I don’t think I could handle a naked ex?—
Ex-what? Ex-boyfriend? Ex-husband? Not according to him. Hell, if the annulment went through, like it was supposed to, he was technically never my husband at all. I still think he’s wrong, but God, what if he’s not?
Shouldn’t a wife know what her husband wears—or doesn’t wear—to bed?
This is ridiculous. I haven’t been this impulsive since…
Nope. Not going there.
This isn’t impulsive. It’s practical. Jake’s saving me money and, most likely, saving the winery as well. Providing him a place to stay is the least I can do.
I push the spark of reckless, impetuous energy swirling around inside me back into the box I’ve kept it in since that day ten years ago when we drove home from Las Vegas. I couldn’t afford to be impulsive then. I can’t afford to be impulsive now. Too much is riding on it.
I’ll be professional and organized and polite. I’ll ignore the spark of heat low in my belly every time Jake looks at me. I’ll stay out of his way.
And hope he stays out of mine.
The farthest room will do for Jake. He can make the trek down the hall to the bathroom. It’s not like he’s paying for the privilege of living here.
I ignore the fact that I’m not paying for any of it, either, and stomp down to the room he’ll be using so I can open the windows and let some air in.
It’s dusty in here, and the bare mattress on its metal frame looks sad and disused. I make a mental note to find some sheets and bedding that fits. And to wash it before he needs to bunk down for the night.
I struggle with the window a little until it opens with a squeak, letting in fresh air to get rid of the musty smell of a room that’s sat empty for so many years. Years ago, when the three of us lived here with Nonna after Mama left, this was Allegra’s room. There are still holes in the walls from the tacks she used to hang pictures. Not musicians or actors—no, Allegra put up pages ripped out of travel magazines, gorgeous beaches and ancient cities and majestic mountain ranges, all circling the world map that sat in the middle of it all.
They’re all gone now, just like Allegra is, visiting as many of the places in those photos as she can while she circles the globe, taking on temporary jobs and backpacking her way from country to country.
I miss both the photos and my sister.
I sigh and head downstairs again, hoping against hope the linen closet has something that will fit the bed.
A load of laundry later, I’m back in the main floor office looking at irrigation options on my computer when an email notification pops up.
I click on it, wincing when I see it’s from Uncle Geno. This is the fourth time he’s emailed asking for the Cab grapes.
No, not asking. Telling me that I need to do the right thing and hand the grapes over to Belmonte. That it’s too late in the season to change plans like this, I owe it to the family, blah blah blah.
Even his emails sound pompous.
The first couple of times, I wrote back, trying to placate him.
Now? I just delete the shit out of them.
I lean back, a tiny smile of bitter satisfaction on my face, when the doorbell rings from across the hall.
Shit. Jake’s here. And he’ll be here for the duration.
I suck in a deep breath and walk over to open the front door.
He stands there, early-afternoon sunshine behind him, turning him dark and mysterious on my front porch. A battered suitcase and a duffel bag stitched back together with lime-green thread are at his feet.
“Fancy luggage,” I say, not sure if I’m teasing or being rude or, God forbid, flirting. I’m off-kilter and off my game, seeing him here, at my door, for the first time in forever.
I tell the Frozen soundtrack in my head to fuck off and wave him inside.
“Your room is upstairs—take a right, end of the hall. The bedding is in the dryer; I’ll bring it up when it’s done.”
“No need.” He hefts the duffel strap onto his shoulder and grabs the suitcase. “I can get it later.”
I close the door as he takes the stairs two at a time, full of way more energy than I would have anticipated from someone who was pretty drunk the day before.
No hangover? So unfair.I’m still nursing mine.
He takes a right and disappears down the hall. I stand there for a minute, uncertain, then decide I really don’t want to look like I’m waiting for him or something. If we’re going to be…living together…I have to figure out a way to make it normal. Casual. Just ships passing in the night.
I huff out a breath and head back to the office, glaring at the computer. I’m starting to hate the damn thing.
I’m deep in yet another article on watering schedules for California vineyards when he pokes his head around the doorframe. “I’m gonna walk the fields for a while, take some notes. What are you doing for dinner?”
“Oh. I, uh…” I shrug. “I have no idea. Probably a protein bowl out of the freezer.”
“Sounds…edible.”
He’s judging me.
Fair. I’m judging myself. I’ve had way too many frozen dinners since taking on this monster of a project.
Belatedly, I remember him saying something about room and board. Shit, is he expecting me to cook for him?
“We could go grab a bite in town when I’m done.”
Oh. Oh no. That’s even worse.
Be seen in public with my secret possibly-not-totally-ex-husband? The boyfriend I’d stopped speaking to after high school? Oh, God.
“Okay, looks like dinner out is a no.”
My face must have given me away. I’d feel bad about it, but he has to know it would be a bad idea.
Doesn’t he?
“What do you have in the kitchen? We can throw something together here.”
I clear my throat. “I, uh, haven’t made it to the grocery store in a while,” I say. “Been kinda busy.”
He raises one eyebrow. I’ve always been jealous of that. Can’t do it to save my life. “Food is an essential purchase, Rosa,” he says. “You need to eat.”
“I eat,” I protest.
“Protein bars and frozen dinners?”
How does he know me so well when we haven’t spoken in a decade?
Jake claps his hands together. “Okay. Do you have a grill?”
I blink at him. “Um. I think so? Maybe in the shed behind the house?”
He nods. “Perfect. Do you want to go to the store, or should I?”
“I’ll hit the store, you make sure the grill still works?”
“Sounds good. I’ll do a walk-around as well. Until I can see how much work needs to be done and how many people we’ll need to hire to do it, we’re dealing in speculation. I need to go check out the irrigation system and evaluate the rest of the vines. So go buy something we can throw on the grill, and I’ll see you around seven for dinner. Then we can hit the ground running in the morning.”
Before I can say anything else, he’s gone, striding out the door with those long, loping steps that I remember chasing after when we were kids.
Even now, I can barely keep up.
* * *
“Hungry, Rosey Posey?”
I look up from the meat counter, where I’m debating between hamburger patties and sausages, to see my cousin Vittorio standing next to my cart.
“Hey, V,” I say, biting back a sigh. He’s caught me. There’s no way to hide the fact that I have two of everything in the basket—two ears of corn, two slices of chocolate cake from the bakery, a couple different premade salads from the deli that should be good for lunches. I might as well be wearing a neon sign saying I have a date tonight!
Which I don’t. But even I can tell what this looks like.
“So who’s the lucky guy?” When I don’t answer right away, he adds, “Or girl. Don’t want to assume.”
I shrug. “No lucky guy. Or girl. Just having a business dinner with my new vineyard manager.”
He tries—and fails—to hide the surprise on his face. “New vineyard manager, huh? What happened to the last guy?”
I don’t remember telling him about the last guy, but I guess gossip makes its rounds in Oak Creek Canyon as fast as the river flows in the springtime.
I don’t feel like adding anything new to the rumor mill, so I just wave a hand dismissively. “Didn’t work out.”
“Huh.” He tilts his head, considering. “Where’d you find someone this late in the season?”
No way in hell I’m telling him the truth. “Just lucky, I guess. How are you doing? How’s Belmonte?”
“Fine.”
He clearly doesn’t want to share anything, either. It’s not like we were ever super close, but after knowing him my whole life, the almost total lack of communication once my sisters and I decided to take on Nonna’s legacy after the will reading still hurts.
I tried texting the cousins after I left Belmonte, just to say hi, but the radio silence on the other end was too painful, so I stopped.
Family first, unless said family decides to go against Uncle Geno’s wishes.
“I’d better get going,” I say, gesturing at the shopping cart. I notice there’s a shrink-wrapped tray of chicken skewers in my hand and abruptly pull back before smacking Vittorio in the face with it.
He nods slowly and takes a step away. “Hang in there.”
“I will,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, then snaps it shut.
This is so damn awkward.
“Well, say hi to everyone,” I chirp.
“Rosa.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “You should really reconsider letting Dad have the Cab grapes.”
I shrug, not willing to give a solid yes or no.
“At least this year,” he says as I find a two-pack of steaks on sale for less than the hamburger patties and toss it into the cart. “It would make life so much easier for you.”
Wait . Is this a setup or something? Maybe running into each other here wasn’t an accident.
“Bye, Vittorio.” I turn and make my way down the aisle, not bothering to look back.
I hate to admit it, but his comments sting.
It would be nice to have someone on my side, especially after working with my cousins and uncle for the past decade.
Yeah, selling the Cab grapes to Uncle Geno would be easier. Not that he’d actually agree to pay us for them—we’re family, after all. And having the grapes would make everything easier for Belmonte as well, but Vittorio didn’t say that part out loud.
He means well, but I’m not looking for easy.
And I’m not looking to make life easier for Uncle Geno, either.
* * *
True to his word, Jake’s in the backyard by seven, brushing down the grill and getting it ready for the steaks. After my conversation with Vittorio, I ended up buying way more food at the store than just for tonight, so I’ve been putting things away in the fridge and cupboards, chopping up fruits and veggies so they’re ready to eat, making sure there’s stuff for breakfast and quick lunches during the day.
I didn’t deliberately stock the kitchen with Jake in mind, but deep down I know this is more food than I’d be able to eat in a month.
Well, whatever. He bargained for room and board. The least I can do is make sure there’s actual quote, unquote board available when needed.
Also, maybe this way I can avoid the whole Do I have to make him breakfast every day? conundrum.
Cereal and milk and a banana. Have at it, cowboy.
I pull down a couple of Nonna’s bowls and plates and add cutlery. They’re old and should look out of style, but the solid lines and heft make me smile a little wistfully.
These were built to last. Just like the vineyard and winery. And with a little elbow grease and love, I can bring those back into use again as well.
I carry an armful out and set the picnic table, using cheery woven yellow placemats and a citronella candle to brighten it up. Another trip to the kitchen and there’s a plate of watermelon slices and a green salad tossed with poppyseed red-wine dressing.
“Smells great,” I tell Jake, who’s leaning over the grill like he’s competing for first place in a barbecue competition.
He’s always been competitive, even with just himself.
I’m not lying. The steaks smell divine, sizzling over the coals in a way that makes my stomach growl.
He tosses a carefree smile over his shoulder. “Patience, Bigfoot,” he says, gesturing at my midsection with his tongs. “A few more minutes and they’ll be perfect.”
I nod and step around him, putting the finishing touches on the table, opening the wine, sneaking a crouton from the salad bowl. I head back to the grill and move the corn on the cob with a pair of tongs so they’re not in the direct line of flame. They’re charred to perfection, and I’m so tempted to just sit down and dig in.
It’s not like this is a date, right? I can eat whenever I want.
But I look over at Jake, who’s frowning at the meat thermometer like he’s personally offended by it, and decide that would be rude.
And since when have I worried about being rude to Jake Wright?
Ugh, this is impossible.
“Would you like a glass of red? Or I might have some beer in the fridge.”I’m lying. I know there’s beer in the fridge—because I bought a six-pack today at the store.
What is wrong with me?
He looks up and smiles. “I’m working on a winery again. You think I’d dare drink beer?”
“Fair enough.” I pour two generous glasses and take a long sip of mine, trying to get my conflicting emotions under control. “It’s not Caparelli wine, but I’m interested in getting your opinion.”
I’m hiding the truth a little. Not Caparelli wine, but Caparelli grapes—the ones Uncle Geno is so determined to continue using. I’m not very fond of Belmonte’s Carleo, but people seem to like it. Deep down I wonder if I’m just bitter about the fake story my uncle is using to sell it. And the fact that he’s using those grapes as leverage, making it as hard as possible to make this work for my sisters and me. At least I know Jake will be honest.
He’s never been less than honest with me.
That pulls me up short, because it’s true. And if it’s still true, it means we’re actually still married. Which is something I still haven’t come to terms with, and right now, I just don’t have the capacity to deal with it.
Dinner first, then wine, then an honest conversation about whether this vineyard and winery can be saved.
Jake lifts one steak with the long-handled tongs and nods approvingly. “Perfect,” he says in a low, smoky voice, and I grit my teeth.
I can be a goddamn professional. I can .
The steaks are thick and juicy and heavy as he transfers them from the grill to the platter I’m holding for him, followed by the grilled corn. My mouth waters, mostly because of the food in front of me.
Partly because of the man who cooked it.
I place the platter on the picnic table and sit, grabbing my wine again for another long sip. I may not love the Carleo, but it’s red and it’s here and I need a drink.
Jake takes the seat across from me and plates an ear of corn and the larger of the two steaks for himself. “Better get it while it’s hot,” he says, reaching past me for the watermelon. “It’s always best right off the grill.”
He’s not wrong. I fill my plate and cut off a bite of the steak, moaning just a little as the flavor bursts on my tongue. It’s perfectly cooked and basted with just the right combination of spices. “You’re hired,” I say as soon as I swallow.
“I thought we established that earlier today,” he says, taking a bite of his watermelon. His lips are full and shiny with watermelon juice. I bite the inside of my lip.
“Yeah, I, uh, guess we did,” I stutter, then stuff half a dinner roll into my mouth so I’ll shut up.
“Hungry?” He grins and swipes the drop of juice off his bottom lip with his thumb. “Don’t blame you. Nothing better than a great meal at the end of a hard workday.”
He lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks the juice off of it, and I almost melt onto the bench seat.
“Yeah,” I say faintly. “Hard day.”
It hasn’t been, though. Well, I guess if you count the emotional stress, which is a constant. But overall, knowing there’s someone else around to help me carry the load has been—nice. Comforting. Like I’m not completely fucking this thing up.
At least, I don’t think so. I haven’t gotten his official report yet. “How did everything look?”
Jake shakes his head and lifts a bite of steak to his mouth. “No shop talk until after dinner,” he admonishes, then slides the fork in.
Okay, fine. I focus on the food, shoving down the dread that’s taken up permanent residence in my stomach ever since Nonna left us Caparelli.
The corn is crisp and juicy, the steak perfectly cooked, the salad and fruit a nice counterpart to the grilled items. By the time I finish my meal, Jake has pushed his plate away and is leaning back, sipping his glass of Carleo.
I clear my throat. “Does getting your opinion on tonight’s wine count as shop talk?”
He squints at the glass, swirling the remainder of the wine as he ponders. “Nah, that’s fine.”
I wait for him to continue, but he just sits there, expression placid.
“And?”
“It’s fine. The wine is fine. Nothing exciting, not bad, just…fine.”
I let out a breath and nod vigorously. “Exactly! Thank you. I thought I was going crazy.”
“Going crazy—over a middling red wine?” He shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”
I wave a hand at his half-full glass. “That’s the Carleo. Uncle Geno’s flagship Cabernet—the one he shills like it’s the best wine ever made. I’ve never gotten the appeal. It’s not bad, just…okay. But everyone else acts like it’s the most amazing thing ever.”
“Huh.” Jake tilts his head and looks appraisingly at it again. “Mom and Dad told me about it—the Carleo. How it was really popular. I guess you can’t account for taste.”
“I thought I was just bitter.”
The words spill out before I can bite them back. I really have to work on not saying every single thing I’m thinking out loud.
It isn’t a problem around anyone else.
“Why bitter?” He sounds interested, curious, not judgmental.
I hesitate, then plunk my glass down and lean forward. “Uncle Geno has been using the Cab grapes from this vineyard to make the Carleo for years now. And he spun this whole story about how he saved Nonna’s family vineyard from ruin, making it viable again, to pay homage to Nonna and Papa’s great love story. But it’s all bullshit. The vineyard was in great shape when Nonna and Papa combined their properties. It wasn’t until Geno took over, when Papa died, that Caparelli was abandoned and left to fall apart. He just takes the grapes to build up Belmonte’s yield and uses a fake story to sell it.”
“That sucks.” Jake sets down his glass. “So what’s he going to do now?”
I shrug. “Wear me down until I give him the grapes, I guess.”
“That doesn’t seem like a solid business plan,” he says wryly, and I smother a burst of laughter.
“He was not happy when we decided to go out on our own,” I confess. “And when he couldn’t convince me to keep Caparelli in the family business, he pulled all his workers.”
Jake scowls. “That’s such a dick move.”
“Yeah, well, he’d say keeping the grapes to myself is a dick move, too.” I take another swallow of the Carleo. He’s totally right—it’s fine.
I want Caparelli wines to be better than fine. I want them to be exceptional.
But I don’t know how in hell I’m going to make that happen.
“They’re your grapes. Yours and your sisters’. And it would be a crime to hand them over just to be turned into—this.” His nose wrinkles as he glares at the half inch in the bottom of his glass. “Those vines deserve better. You deserve better.”
My heartbeat speeds up a little at his declaration. I know he’s talking about the vineyard and the winery, but for just a minute, I let the idea settle into my bones and blood, soften the tension in my shoulders.
I can’t remember the last time someone else cared even a little about what I deserved.
“So.” I shake off the tenderness, bury it in practicality. “About those vines.”
He sighs and pushes back from the table. “Well, there’s good news and bad news.”
I’ve been expecting nothing but bad, so I suppose that’s something positive to hold on to. “Give me the worst of it first.”
“Well, like I thought, the irrigation system was turned off. I estimate the crops haven’t been watered in about a week.”
“A week ? Damien only left four days ago.” I huff out a breath. “That surf-obsessed fucker. ”
Jake snorts. “Sounds like a winner.”
“How can you tell it’s been a week?”
“It’s not hard if you know what you’re looking for. The leaves were turning and curling, and you were probably another thirty-six hours from losing the canopy altogether. But the irrigation is running now, and some extra water today and tomorrow should bring it back from the brink. Shouldn’t be a problem down the road. The quality will still be up to Caparelli standards. ”
“Okay. That’s good.” My knees are shaking a little under the table. How could I have missed this? What was Nonna thinking, leaving the vineyard to me? I clearly have no idea what I’m doing.
Not for the first time, I realize how glad I am that Jake is here—and on my side.
I wouldn’t have expected that, after…everything.
He scratches behind his ear, looking out into the darkness beyond the backyard. “I’m not super impressed with the pruning. It looks—pretty basic, to be honest. I don’t know how much care and effort your uncle put into these acres.”
I bite back a scathing reply. “Not much. The bare minimum, I’d guess.”
Jake nods. “Looks like it. There’s a lot of potential if done right next spring. But you lost a lot of early grapes in the shattering, which isn’t always a bad thing, though it could have been set up better for success. Nothing to be done now, but something to think about next year.”
I add it to my mental list of things to do. Luckily I won’t have to deal with that one until things settle down and Bianca is home. Maybe Allegra, too.
Not that any of us are equipped to deal with pruning and vineyard management, but hopefully together we can find someone trustworthy by then.
A little voice whispers that Jake is someone trustworthy. Or was ten years ago. But he’ll be long gone by then.
Something pings in the back of my head, and I squint at Jake. “I thought shattering was a normal part of the growing process.”
“Well, yeah. It can function as a natural thinning.” He waves a hand at the acreage behind the house, even though we can’t see the vines right now. “But if the vines are over-pruned, they’re not protected enough from environmental factors like too much rain or cold weather early in the season. From what I can see, there was a little more shattering than I’d like, which will mean fewer crops at the end of the season.”
I rub my forehead, trying to stave off the headache that’s brewing.
“And, uh, that’s not all.”
“Jake.” My voice is flat. “I told you to start with the worst part.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s all kind of bad, though.”
“You said there was good news as well.”
“I was trying to be positive.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Go ahead.”
“There’s some insect damage in two sections. If we don’t take care of it soon, it’ll spread to the rest of the crop and could kill the entire output for this year.”
“Shit.”
He nods. “I just need to know how you want me to handle it. Pesticides are probably the easiest—and cheapest—solution, but it can be done organically, too. Depends on whether you want to go the organic route.”
“I have to ask Bianca.” I lean my head back and look up at the night sky. A full moon is rising over the horizon, tinting the darkness with a soft glow. “She’s the winemaker. She needs to have a say.”
“If it helps, I have a lot of experience with the organic side of viticulture. The vineyard I worked on in Washington state was certified, and I learned a lot of good techniques there.”
Maybe we should try to get certified.
What am I doing? We need to deal with the issues happening now, not dream about what we could do a year or three down the road.
“So why don’t you call Bianca in the morning, see what she says. In the meantime, I can start removing the infested sections until we get her decision.”
“Okay. Yes. Let’s do that.”
I really appreciate that he’s not trying to force me to decide immediately or push me in one direction or another—letting me discuss it with Bianca first instead of telling me what I have to do right now.I know time is of the essence, but he’s still giving me a moment to decide. I’m not used to that.
And isn’t that a sad state of affairs?
“One last thing.”
I groan. “There’s more?”
“Just…” He tilts his head down and looks me straight in the eye. It’s a little disconcerting. “Do I have your permission to hire a crew? Just two or three workers, for the rest of the season.”
I can feel my face scrunching up as I go over the numbers in my head. We should be just about able to cover it. I nod, and his expression smooths out. Like he was holding his breath as much as I was.
I don’t know how I feel about him being as invested in this venture as I am. Or maybe he’s trying to prove something to himself.
But for now, I’m just going to appreciate having someone around to help shoulder the burden, at least for a little while.
“Thanks.” He leans back again, squinting up at the darkening sky. “I’ll head into town in the morning and see who I can find.”
“It’s been a few years since you were here for growing season,” I remind him. “Don’t know how many contacts you still have.”
“A few.” He smiles, low and easy, and I can feel it curling in the pit of my stomach.
“It may be tough to find anyone this late in the season.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle it.”
His confidence doesn’t surprise me. Maybe he won’t run into the same brick wall I have this season. I consider saying something but decide to let it lie. It very well could be a gender-bias difference or the fact that I’m a newbie at this whole game. He could have a much easier time of it.
I’d resent that if it wasn’t working in my favor.
I start gathering the dishes. He follows with the rest of the leftovers, and we work in companionable silence in the kitchen to put things away and wash the dishes. A couple of soap bubbles float in the air as I shut off the faucet, nothing left to be done.
The ease of cleanup shifts to something warmer, more dangerous. I clear my throat. “Well.”
Jake smiles, like I’ve said something funny. There’s nothing humorous about this, though. Nothing at all.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says abruptly, then disappears up the stairs, leaving me breathing out a gust of air like I’ve been holding it for hours.
Yeah, this is going to be one hell of a summer. And it’s only getting started.