Chapter 4
Ivy climbed down the ladder to survey what she had accomplished today. She moved the ladder out of the way so her view would be unobstructed.
She liked what she saw.
It had taken a lot for her to approach Charles Bennett about painting a mural on the gigantic brick wall on one side of his store. She was very reserved by nature and not one to tout her abilities. Still, her goal was to get back into her art and begin producing.
The idea for the mural had come to her when she had seen a sign in the window of the hardware store, offering a room for rent on the second level. Immediately, she had known since the store was located on the end of the row of buildings, it would get excellent natural light. She had gone inside and spoken to Lost Creek’s mayor about renting the space as her art studio. They had quickly settled on a price, and Ivy had moved what few paint supplies she had into the second floor area.
Mayor Bennett had been renting it as an apartment, but no one had occupied it for over a year now. The only piece of furniture in it was an old plaid couch, which had seen better days, and a small fridge. She wouldn’t use the couch often, but it was nice to have it to sit on as she sketched or to take a brief break from her painting. The kitchenette came with a sink large enough to wash out her brushes. She had brought a microwave that she’d used at work, as well as a tea kettle. She’d hit a garage sale and picked up a large table and two folding chairs and then driven into San Antonio on her day off and picked up a plethora of art supplies, from wooden H-frame studio easels and canvases to a good daylight lamp. She’d also replaced most of her paints and bought a new brush set, ready to start a new chapter in her painting life.
When she could, she drove around the area, allowing the landscape of the Texas Hill Country to inspire her. She sketched what she saw, as well as photographed it with her cell phone, and then painted those images on her canvas. While her preference was to use oil paints, she had also purchased an acrylic set, as well as some watercolors. Ivy was experimenting now, mixing the different paints on a canvas and trying to find her rhythm. Or at least she had been until she’d taken on the mural. Between it and her shifts at the tasting room, she’d put her painting on hold until the mural was completed.
This time, though, she knew she would come back to it. Sooner, rather than later.
Pleased at today’s efforts, she carted all her supplies and ladder up the outside staircase at the rear of the building, making several trips. She cleaned her brushes, including the paint roller she’d been using, and opened the miniscule fridge, where she had stored bottled waters, and downed one as she leaned against the sink.
And thought of Dax.
She couldn’t recall his last name because she’d been too caught up in what she was about to paint, but she could easily picture him now that she had time to do so. He was six feet in height, with dark brown hair and eyes the color of melted chocolate. His body was long and lean, and he moved with an innate grace. She pegged him for a runner based on his frame and the comfort he displayed in his own body.
It had been years since Ivy had been involved with a man, all the way back to college. The long hours she put in at the gallery had left her with little time for a personal life, much less time to date. Besides, she’d sworn off men after a horrible experience. She’d fallen in love for the very first time—and had been gutted by the man she loved. The experience had soured her on relationships, and she’d spent the rest of her time in college focusing on her coursework.
But Dak Whatever His Last Name Was intrigued her. A lot.
She decided to take him up on his offer of a free coffee. Going into the small bathroom, Ivy washed her hands and face, patting it dry. She left her hair in its high ponytail, not wanting him to think she made any effort when seeing him again, but she did wish she had a bit of perfume to dab on.
“Ivy Hart, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said to her image in the mirror.
Dax Unknown Last Name might have a girlfriend. He might even be married. She only knew he hadn’t been in town long. No sense in getting her hopes up. Not that she had any hopes where a man was concerned.
Looking at herself in the mirror, Ivy told herself, “This is your time. Concentrate on your art. That’s what’s important.”
She locked up, going back down the stairs, happy that she had access to the studio without having to go through the hardware store. Walking across the square diagonally, she came to Java Junction. From what she recalled, the place had been two different stores at one time. Dax must have knocked down the wall between them and made one large space for his coffeehouse.
Entering, she perused the place, seeing groupings of tables and chairs, with several sofas and love seats scattered throughout the room. It had a trendy vibe, yet it also felt very comfortable. Soft, instrumental music played in the background. She could see Java Junction growing to be a place for people to meet up and enjoy a beverage, no matter what their age.
Turning her attention to where drinks were ordered, she saw Dax behind the counter, along with someone she recognized.
Ivy moved to where the two men worked, lining up behind two women. They received their drinks from Dax, who smiled at her.
“Glad you decided to stop by,” he said.
She grinned. “If I’d have known Mr. Shackleford was working here, I would’ve been here my first day back.”
The barista heard his name and turned, beaming at her. “Ivy Hart! Best clarinet player I ever taught.” He came from behind the counter and wrapped her in a bear hug. “How are you?”
“I’m great, Mr. Shackleford. It’s so nice seeing you.”
“You’ve been in Houston, right?” he asked.
“Yes. Working at an art gallery. I’m back in Lost Creek now, acting as the tasting room manager for my parents.”
“I hope you’re still painting. You know I have that painting of Lost Creek River hanging over my fireplace. The one you gave me when you graduated.”
His words warmed her heart. “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it all these years. So, you’re a barista now?”
“I retired two years ago. Got my thirty years in and decided to let someone younger take on the band program.” He chuckled. “Then I got bored. Did a little traveling, but a teacher’s pension doesn’t allow for a lot of that.” He turned, indicating Dax. “Then Dax came to town and opened Java Junction. I decided to apply for a part-time shift. Work three to eight weekdays. Make a little money. Get to talk to a lot of people. Sip some free coffee. It’s exactly what I needed.”
Dax spoke up. “Sean is a hard worker, and he knows everyone who comes in. I tell him he’s my secret weapon. That folks stop by Java Junction for a coffee, but they leave with the latest gossip.” He paused. “What can I get you, Ivy?”
“I’ve never been much of a coffee drinker if I’m being honest. And it’s pretty warm out, so maybe something else?”
“Well, I do offer a variety of teas and sparkling waters. What would you say to a cold brew coffee?”
She chuckled. “I’d say I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a smooth, mellow coffee. I brew it cold in a French press. If you’re not a coffee fan, you won’t want it black, but I can put ice and milk in it.”
“It’s delicious,” Mr. Shackleford encouraged. “Go for it, Ivy.”
She nodded. “I’ll try it.”
“Go have a seat, and I’ll have it for you in a couple of minutes.”
Ivy wandered about the coffeehouse for a minute, taking it in, and then sat at a café table in the corner. She’d always been an observer, and she looked about, seeing who was present and thinking about their stories.
She was lost in her daydream, and it surprised her when Dax said, “Here you go. Mind if I join you?”
Glancing up, she saw he held two large glasses. “Of course.”
He placed both on the table and took the other chair opposite her.
“I won’t get my feelings hurt if you don’t like it. Remember, though, coffee is an acquired taste.”
“Wine is the same way,” she replied, lifting the glass and sipping the drink. “Hmm. It’s actually pretty good.”
“I heard you say you work at the tasting room. That’s at Lost Creek Winery?”
She nodded. “My parents opened the winery with a friend of theirs about twenty-five years ago. I grew up hearing all about the grapevines and harvests and what wines were being produced. I inherited my dad’s great nose and taste buds. Those help when teaching people about wines.”
Dax laughed. “I’ve been a beer drinker most of my life. Not a big one, but wine always seemed more for the snobs. No disrespect intended, but I can’t ever recall having a glass before.”
“I get that. College was all about keg parties. I would nurse a beer all night and wind up pouring more than half of it out, wishing it would’ve been a smooth Cabernet or a crisp Chardonnay.”
“Maybe I can teach you about coffee and learn a little about wines from you,” he said.
She couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her or not. That’s how far out of the game she was. But she hoped that was what he was doing.
“You could always stop by the tasting room and let me walk you through some wines,” she suggested, not thinking he would do so.
“What do you do at a tasting?” he asked, and Ivy saw curiosity on his face.
“We have different tastings to choose from. Some strictly are for whites, while others only spotlight reds. Then there’s a mixed one, where you get to sample both kinds.”
He grew thoughtful. “I think I’d want to try some of each.”
“Most people who try wine for the first time prefer white. It’s lighter. Fresher. Reds are mostly darker fruits. They’re richer. Smokier. More mature. Of course, Lost Creek Vineyards makes both, but we’ve been having a lot of success with our blends the past few years.”
“Clue me in. Is a blend mixing red and white together?” he asked.
“Blending allows winemakers to mix different varieties of wines together to make a complex wine. Usually, we’re talking about red wines, though. The winemaker looks for wines which have different qualities and then plays with the ratio to use in order to make the best wine from several.”
“Okay, I’m picturing a mad scientist pouring from test tubes.”
Ivy laughed. “Actually, a lot of consideration goes into blending. You look at the climate and soil type of each wine, along with the dates the grapes were picked. You must consider the age of the wines you wish to blend, as well as the time it spent in its oak barrels. Even the type of oak the wines sat in is factor. So, it’s not a scattered process at all. It’s part scientific and part artistic. After considering all those components, you marry the elements, based on the flavor profile you’re trying to create.”
Dax shook his head. “And I thought making different kinds of coffees seemed hard.”
“It takes years of training before a person becomes a viticulturist, the person who’s in charge of the vineyard. He monitors the grapes and decides when it’s time to harvest them. The winemaker—or enologist—is the person who works closely with the viticulturist, but the winemaker is the one who babies the grapes. Presses them. Stores them in barrels. Samples them continually. And that’s the person who creates each wine’s flavor profile, including the blends, mixing various combinations together until he hits upon the right combination.”
Dax whistled low. “That sounds awfully complicated. But I’ve actually done some of that with coffees. Tinkered with blending flavors. When I hit on a great one, I feature it as the coffee of the month.”
He paused, studying her, causing Ivy’s cheeks to heat. She was known for being easily embarrassed, with the least bit of scrutiny causing her face to flame.
“I think I’d like to have a lesson in wine tasting. Maybe I could come to appreciate wine.”
She swallowed. “You’re welcome to stop by the tasting room whenever you’d like.”
His gaze burned into her. “Do you, as the manager, conduct tastings yourself?”
Now, she was growing warm all over under his scrutiny. “Yes, I do.”
“Good. I’d like to take advantage of your great nose and taste buds and learn about wines. When can I stop by?”
Her heart began racing. “I’m working noon to six tomorrow.”
Dax nodded. “Then it’s a date. Look for me tomorrow afternoon, Ivy.”