Chapter 12
Jake
I drag out my end-of-day routine as long as humanly possible, but eventually I have to go back to the house. Emi and Javier are long gone, headed back into town with big grins on their faces alongside the streaks of dirt and sweat, and bursting with excitement about the days to come.
I remember those days, when I was finally able to put everything I was learning into practice, the sheer joy of being out in the fields working the vines. I may have had a leg up from being part of a winery family from birth, but there was still something magical about that first internship.
I know it’s Rosa’s vineyard—well, hers and her sisters’—but I’m still pretty pleased to be part of this journey for Emi and Javi, to give the next generation of viticulturists an opportunity.
Next generation? What the hell? I’m not nearly that old. Yet.
Can’t deny that I feel old sometimes—like now, when every muscle in my body aches. It’s hard work getting this vineyard back into shape, and even with helpers I’m working my butt off. Times like this, I wish Caparelli had a hot tub in the backyard. Pull on some swim trunks, sink into the heated water, soak away all the aches and pains.
Or no swim trunks. Suddenly, in my nonexistent-hot-tub scenario, Rosa is there with me, her curves slick and bare, her leg brushing mine as she lowers herself into the water. Steam rises around us, enveloping us in a warm, wet paradise just for two.
I shake my head and keep trudging forward. It’s clear that it has been way too long since I got laid.
The house comes into view as I turn the curve in the road, and I can’t help but wonder—not for the first time—what Rosa thought of my gift. I know it wasn’t fair, throwing our shared history in her face like that, but I’m tired of being the only one of the two of us carrying that weight around.
She doesn’t want to face it, but we’re married. And if she wants that to not be the truth anymore, she’s going to have to be the one to do something about it.
I walk in the front door, fighting the urge to call out Lucy, I’m home! in a truly awful accent. It would just be another reminder of our past together, when we used to watch old sitcoms here on the black-and-white TV in the family room, arguing about which of us was better suited for a comedy career.
Me. It was me.
The light is on in the kitchen, so I follow its glow down the hall and step inside. Rosa is there, her ever-present laptop on the kitchen table in front of her while something amazing-smelling bubbles away on the stovetop.
“Soup’s ready,” she says, not looking up from what is no doubt yet another spreadsheet. “Bread’s warming in the oven. I’m sure you’re hungry, so feel free to get started.”
“Thank you,” I say, my stomach growling as I wash my hands. I dry them on the towel hanging on the dishwasher, then reach for a bowl. I get one down for Rosa, too, and a couple of plates for the bread.
“Hmm.” She clicks her mouse and types a couple of numbers. “Don’t get used to it.”
The reminder of my limited time at Caparelli pulls me up short for a moment, but I shake it off. I grab the butter dish and place it on the table. I ladle up soup and cut slices of almost-too-hot bread, pour a couple glasses of white from the bottle in the fridge. Then I sit down in the seat across from Rosa and wait for her to look up.
She finally does, her gaze catching mine across the table. “I’m not ready to talk about it,” she says, then sets aside the computer and digs into her dinner.
Okay, then. I tip my head in acknowledgment and start eating, both of us silent as we enjoy the meal. Before I even realize it, I’ve emptied my bowl. The soup is fantastic, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m that hungry.
I get up and fill my bowl again. I hold up the ladle, an unspoken question, but she shakes her head.
“I’m good,” she says, finishing off the last of her bread. She carries her dishes to the sink and starts washing up.
I sit again, digging into my second bowl, and watch as she pulls out a container for the leftovers.
“This isn’t an anniversary dinner,” she says, wrapping the remaining bread in foil. “Because we are not married . No matter what you say.”
I say nothing, because I know by now I’m not going to convince her.She’s going to have to figure it out on her own.
“But. Thank you for the not-anniversary gift.” She glances at the wall behind me, and I turn, realizing belatedly that she’s already put up the 1950s-era tin Caparelli advertisement.
It’s almost embarrassing how happy this makes me.
“You’re welcome,” I say. “It’s yours anyway. Well, your family’s.”
She nods again, not looking at me. “Where did you find it?”
I swallow another bite and say, “In the storage unit my folks rented after selling Take Flight. That’s where I was last night—looking for some of my stuff that I left behind when I…well.” I cough briefly. “Anyway, my folks cleared out their stuff a while back, after it sold, and they gave me a key to the storage unit when I told them I was going to be in town for a while. Apparently my mom fancies herself something of an Oak Creek Canyon historian. Collected a whole bunch of memorabilia over the years.”
Rosa finishes putting away the leftovers and stands at the sink, looking out the window into the darkened yard. “I remember seeing one like it, years ago. Hanging on the wall in the entry to the wine cave, back when it was still open. Then Uncle Geno closed down the wine cave, consolidated everything into Belmonte, and—I never saw it again.”
“I’m glad my mom was able to save this one for you, then.”
Even with my side view, I can see her swallow. “Nice of her to let you give it to me.”
“It wasn’t even a question. She was happy it would be back in Caparelli hands when I called her last night and asked.”
“Well.” She flashes me a quick smile, but her face settles back into something—pensive. Almost sad. “Your mom was always really nice. Thank her for me.”
I joke, “Story of my life. I give you the gift, my mom gets the credit.”
Rosa rolls her eyes, gathering up her computer. “At least your mom wasn’t trying to troll me with a fake-anniversary gift.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she steamrolls right over me. “It’s a lovely piece of Caparelli history, and I’m glad to have it. But you have to stop this nonsense about us being married. It just makes working together all the more complicated.”
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine. I won’t mention it again.”
She turns to go.
“But hey, you don’t have to take my word for it. Go look it up yourself.”
“What?”
I shrug. “You have to file an annulment for it to be valid, right? Go verify the filing information. Prove it to me.”
“I don’t have time to go on a wild-goose chase, Jake.” She swings the arm that’s not holding the computer wide, encompassing the house, the vines, the massive job we’ve both taken on. “There’s too much to do. As you well know.”
“Okay.” I hang up the dish towel and turn the stove light on in preparation for closing down the kitchen for the night. The soft glow will light the way if one of us wants a midnight snack or something. “But I know you, Rosa. And I know you’re going to fixate on this until you know the truth. You don’t believe me? Get the legal proof, one way or another. That’s all I’m saying.”
I can’t help myself—I touch her shoulder as I pass her on my way out of the kitchen. It’s stupid and self-sabotaging, but I guess that’s just how this summer is going to go for me.
“Good night,” I murmur, then turn off the overhead light on my way out of the kitchen. I look over my shoulder and see Rosa still standing in that same spot, the glow of the stove light behind her. “Just—think about it.”
Then I head upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, putting as much distance between us as I can manage in the same damn house.