Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
Queer Mountaineers Who Occasionally Drink Beer
Queer Steering Committee
Diego
This is good news, right? You need a new vintner, and your dad hired a very sexy, very competent one. I don’t see the problem!
Zoe
As a woman of business, I don’t sleep with my employees.
Tristan
Can confirm.
Teddy
I canNOT believe you texted Harlow!
Zoe
I didn’t! She texted ME. And I was upset about my Nonna.
Hannah
Aww, Zoe. Next time text me! We’ll come give you hugs.
Zoe
Not the kind of hugs I was hoping for last night.
Tristan
She wanted vagina hugs.
Hannah
…
Zoe
…
Zoe
I’ll let that one slide, Stan.
Teddy
Giving you a gap between your teeth next time you come in.
Tristan
Okay. Vulva hugs.
Hannah
There ya go, champ.
Zoe
Hannah, why didn’t you tell me a “Laine Woods” booked the Treebnb?!
Hannah
I didn’t know, I swear! Your dad entered the booking himself.
Zoe
Wait. How long is the booking for?
Hannah
He blocked the calendar for the next eight months …
Zoe
WHAT?!
Zoe
WHAT?!
Zoe
WHAT?!
Diego
Uh-oh. You broke Zoe.
Hannah
Doesn’t mean Laine will DEFINITELY be staying in your treehouse for all that time. He probably blocked it off until after harvest to be safe.
Zoe
“Dad, listen. We need to—” I burst through the office door, then stop cold. Because it isn’t Dad leaning casually against my desk.
It’s Laine.
“What are you doing in here?” I quickly shut the door behind me, which is a mistake because now the room’s even smaller. Laine’s tall, confident presence fills it till it’s overflowing.
“Waiting for you,” Laine says. “We need to talk.”
Now my entire body’s blushing. I press my back against the door, as though creating space between us will make this less awkward. But this is my office. My vineyard. I can’t let her walk in here and control me with her gaze. I stand up straighter, then move with conviction past her to my desk and sit. “Yes, we do. Please, have a seat.”
There, boss-bitch status restored.
Laine sits, and I almost wish she hadn’t. The way she spreads her legs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, looking at me through those professor glasses, makes me want more vulva hugs. I clear my throat, but before I can speak, she launches in.
“Look, I know this is awkward”—she gestures behind her at the winery where I clearly faked getting a call and ran away to scream-text my friends—“but you need me to take this job, so let’s figure this out and get past it, Brennan.”
I fold my arms and sit back in my chair. For as long as I can remember, Charlaine Woods has rendered me speechless. Part of the reason she didn’t know who I was until I ordered her brother to get an erection in front of her senior class, probably. But I left that shy little Zoe behind years ago, and Zoe Brennan, Director of Operations for Bluebell Vineyards, isn’t taking any of her shit. “I’m well aware of what I need, Woods .”
Laine’s head is cocked to the left, her face thoughtful as she tries to decipher my words. Perhaps I should be clearer. I let the chair spin to the side so that I can cross my legs, noticing how her gaze follows their long line.
Mm-hmm. Exactly as I suspected.
She catches me catching her look, and I raise both my eyebrows, point made. “How are we supposed to run this vineyard together as professionals after last night?”
“It was an accident.” Laine blushes. “I swear I didn’t know who you were until I heard your last name.”
I huff. “Yes, I remember your look of horror when you finally realized who I was, too.”
Laine puts her face in her hands and sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually fuck my new boss the night before my interview.”
There’s something about the words fuck and my new boss coming out of Laine’s full lips in reference to me that sends a wave of heat crashing through me. My sore ass tingles beneath my cuffed jeans, as if to say what about now? Do you fuck your new boss after your interview?
“Why do you even want this job, though? What about Le Jardin?”
Laine sits up straight and clears her throat. “I’m on a temporary leave of absence from Le Jardin . I’m not coming back to Georgia to relocate or anything.” She says relocate like it’s physically unpleasant to taste. “I just … came into this free time, and I’ve missed my family. When my parents asked me to do this favor for Cosimo, it seemed like the right time to come home and reconnect, get to know Chance’s kids better.” She shrugs, but her voice is tight, constrained, like whatever feelings bubbling within her about this development have been fermenting for a while.
I blink at her and the windfall she’s presenting. A favor to my family exactly when we need it most? And it’s not some disgraced vineyard hand that’ll be making our wines, either—Laine’s a trained and celebrated young vintner who works at one of the most prestigious vineyards in the country. The timing is almost unbelievable.
“Wait. When did you learn about my dad leaving?” I lean forward.
Laine squints, considering. “About three weeks ago?”
Three weeks? Dad knew three weeks ago that he was leaving, and he waited until yesterday to tell me?
“Hey, are you okay?” Laine reaches out to put her hand on mine, bringing me crashing back into the present. The concern in her golden-brown eyes makes a knot rise in my throat.
“I’m—fine. It’s just you knew before I did.” I swallow. “I found out yesterday, actually. It’s part of why … last night I needed to … Well. It’s been a lot to process.”
“Oh, shit,” Laine breathes out, and her shared surprise at how Dad’s handled this feels validating, but also suspiciously like pity. I pull my hand back, and Laine straightens in her seat immediately.
I blow out a breath and get my business face back on. “Look, we need a vintner to make it through harvest with the vineyard intact, and you’re the only option we have unless I want to hire Bobby the thief.”
“Bobby the who —?”
“What did Dad offer you? He doesn’t usually handle the money, and I’m concerned I won’t be able to honor whatever he’s promised you.”
Laine bites her lips, a crack of nervous energy spidering its way across her cool demeanor. “He said I could stay in the vineyard’s treehouse rent-free plus forty hours a week at minimum wage.”
My mouth drops open a degree. That’s all? I can’t believe Laine agreed to work for so little, but then again, with housing included, it’s not a horrible deal … Kudos to Dad, too, because it’s one we can afford. Barely, but still. “And that … works for you?”
“For now, yes.”
“Okay. Deal.” I hold my hand out to shake, then yank it back just as Laine reaches for mine. “On one condition, though.”
Laine looks at me warily. “What?”
“Your sister is my sworn enemy. I need to know you’re loyal to Bluebell Vineyards, that you’ll work hard for us and put our interests first, especially when it comes to getting the Everyday Bon Vivant showcase. Does that affect your decision?”
Laine’s face tenses, and a flash of anxiety illuminates her eyes, disappearing just as fast. “ Everyday Bon Vivant is coming here? To Blue Ridge?”
Napa-trained Laine is nervous about Everyday Bon Vivant ?
“Yes, for their annual festival after harvest,” I say slowly, trying to unpack the confusing emotions scuttling across her face. “Bluebell has a good chance to win the local showcase spot. It’s my top goal this year, and if you work here, you’re on my team, not your family’s, favor be damned. If you can agree to all that, then we have a deal.”
“Deal,” Laine says, but hesitation lingers in her voice. What part of what I said is holding her back? Everyday Bon Vivant or being on my team?
She reaches out, and her hand shakes mine like it wasn’t inside me last night. A small, perfunctory smile appears on her face. “I’m going to make this vineyard shine, wait and see.”
I frown. “We already shine.” Sure, our sweet, simple wines are for basics, but basics love wine, too. Bluebell Vineyards believes in providing accessible happy juice for everyone, not just sexy California wine snobs.
Laine opens her mouth to say something, but my you-sure-about-that? expression makes her think better of it. After a long pause, she says, “Sure.”
Still feels like an insult.
“Oh, and about last night …”
My pulse picks up in speed. “Yes?”
Laine smiles down at me. “We’re both adults, and we can leave it in the past and forget it ever happened. Sound good?”
My grip on her slackens, the handshake losing momentum. The tentative smile, the hope in her eyes, her entire body posture’s begging me to be cool about this. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve certainly had enough practice with flings that go nowhere, with being set aside.
“Yeah. Of course.” Young Zoe couldn’t handle Charlaine Woods so much as looking her way, but I can rise to this occasion. Laine tending to my vines, making my wine, living on my property?
No problem. It’s not like I have a crush on her now .
Her palm is warm against mine, but it still sends tiny shivers up my arm and through my core. She lets go of my hand abruptly, as though she just realized she was still holding it.
Rich, buttery smells greet me as I jiggle the door open to the house I grew up in. Dad’s making my favorite comfort food—a decadent butternut squash lasagna—for our last dinner together before he leaves.
I slide into my chair at the small pedestal table that’s sat in the corner of our kitchen for as long as I can remember. The table’s set for two tonight, but Mom’s chair is still there, painted in the sunset’s last pink rays filtering in from the big window overlooking our vineyard. God, it’s a sight out there. The newly budding vines are kissed by gold, the hills beyond limned with lavender and the coming night. Mom’s memory is etched into the view itself. How many times did we sit here, staring out into all that’s ours, waiting for Dad’s latest culinary adventure to arrive at the table? My heart aches as it always does knowing she’s no longer here to share it, but over the years, the hurt’s grown soft and pliant, its sharp, jagged edges worn smooth by time. If anything, the ache of losing her has become part of Bluebell’s beauty. This place was always part of her, but now, she’s part of it, too.
I could never leave. I used to think Dad felt the same, but his old, leather suitcases are waiting by the door.
A bottle of red sits in the middle of our table, along with a corkscrew. The label is yellowed and crumbly at the edges, one of the last remaining bottles of Mom’s famous red blend, vintage 2004. The best season, best grapes, best batch. There are only a handful left.
This is Dad’s custom on special occasions—he places one of our last treasured bottles on the table as an invitation, but I rarely accept. The last one we opened was after my college graduation eight years ago, when I returned to take my place at the vineyard beside him. While Dad leaving for Italy is momentous, these last tastes of Mom’s genius should be in celebration, not consolation. I get up and pull a bottle of C’est la Grigio out of the fridge and bring it to the table instead. Maybe I’ll open one of Mom’s reds to celebrate if we get the showcase.
No. When we get it. A small smile blooms on my face, and I feel a little better. My old ambition is a warm blanket wrapped around cold shoulders. I simply don’t know how to be myself without it. These last few days, the March winds cut deeper, the weak, watery daylight unable to banish the chill that set in with the news of Nonna’s illness and Dad’s indefinite trip. But sitting in our cozy, humid kitchen, ringed with bookcases stuffed with Mom’s old wine journals and Dad’s spy novels, my ambition stirs again. We have a vintner. And a real chance.
With oven mitts up to his elbows, Dad sets the steaming lasagna onto a folded towel on the table. He returns carrying a simple arugula salad with shaved parmesan, dressed in truffle oil and lemon, and sighs with satisfaction as he slides into his chair.
“Dad, this smells amazing. Thanks for cooking.”
He waves a hand at me and mumbles it’s nothing! in the obligatory Italian way, even though he’s been in the kitchen for hours. We tuck in quietly, the evening now purple and dreamy outside.
“So, what’s this news you have?”
“Hmm?” I’m deep in food admiration right now.
“Before I told you about Nonna.” Dad reaches for his glass of wine. “You had news, too.”
“Oh, right.” I twist my fork in the lasagna. “Do you remember when we went to the Everyday Bon Vivant food and wine festival in the Finger Lakes? When I was a kid?”
Dad’s face slackens as the memory inhabits him. “What a trip that was. Your mother discovered ice wine. You discovered poutine.” He huffs, a rueful sound. “I’m not sure who vomited more.”
“Right … Well, remember how much fun it was? Before the vomiting?”
“Of course.” His gaze has turned fully inward now, eyes welling at the memories of my mother when they were young and in love, our family whole. I know the look well. He wears it every day, after all.
I exhale a small, patient breath and take his hand, willing him to rejoin me in the present. This is what it’s like living with Cosimo Rossi Giuratraboccetti. Half loving father, half living memorial to my mother. He says it’s our Italian blood that makes him so romantic, but I’m half Italian and I’ve never said I love you to someone I don’t share DNA with. I haven’t even gotten close, my longest relationship spanning a whopping two months.
“Dad, Everyday Bon Vivant is coming here, to Blue Ridge. They’re scouting for vineyards to host the local showcase.” I gently shake his hand, like I’m trying to wake him without scaring him. “I’m going to convince them to have it here.”
“That’s wonderful,” he says, returning to me at last. “We should collaborate with Into the Woods, see if together we can nab the spot.”
“Dad, we need to win, not them. I can’t work with Rachel. ”
Dad shakes his head sadly. “You used to be so close. Maybe it’s time you made up?”
I roll my eyes. “For the millionth time, Dad, Rachel’s the one who woke up one day and decided she hates my guts. Besides, we don’t need Into the Woods’s help to win.”
He frowns. “But their wines are better than ours.”
“So?” I cross my arms. “Our vibes are better. Our views are better. We’re more fun, more accessible, more creative.” My voice is rising in both pitch and volume, but this gets under my skin more than any of Dad’s other bullshit. He should be loyal to our vineyard. But when Mom died, Dad’s love for this place started to, as well. This was their dream, the magic they made together in the warm Appalachian sun. But doesn’t he realize that I made this my dream, too? That it’s all I have?
Dad’s frown softens. “Yes, all that is true, and it’s because of your hard work, Zoe Nicoletta. I’m sorry. Of course I want them to choose Bluebell Vineyards.” The corner of his mouth quirks up, though it’s not with a smile. “It’s a good thing Laine came along when she did. Maybe with her making our wine, we’ll have a better chance.”
My jaw tenses, and he takes my hand. I’m still angry Laine knew Dad was going to Italy to be with my sick grandmother before I did. Weeks before.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Dad?”
His calloused hand closes around mine. “I wasn’t sure I’d go through with it if I couldn’t find someone to take care of you.”
A sigh exits me with force. “Laine isn’t taking care of me. She’s going to keep the vines happy and make some wine. That’s it.”
“Yes, yes, but I know how important Bluebell is to you, Zoe Nicoletta. I couldn’t leave without knowing it would be well cared for, because that’s how I take care of you .”
I swallow, surprised, though I guess I shouldn’t be. I’ve been showing my love for Dad through the vineyard for ages. Not many twelve-year-olds spend their Saturdays cleaning wine barrels, but after Mom died, when I had no clue how to help my grieving father, I’d sit next to him and scrub until my arms ached. I didn’t realize he’d been doing the same for me. That to him, Laine could readily fill the needs in my heart created by him leaving.
It’s sweet and naive and incredibly wrong.
“Zoe, promise me you’ll give Laine a chance.” Dad looks over the rim of his round eyeglasses. “Laine is a different vintner than I am, or your mother, and that’s a wonderful thing. Let her vision guide her, give her your faith. Okay?”
“As long as her vision is tasty and accessible and she follows our recipes to the letter, she can express herself however she wants.”
Dad’s big brown eyes crinkle at that, the closest he ever gets to a real smile anymore. I desperately hope Italy will be good for him, that it’ll wake up the part of him that’s been sleeping ever since Mom died. But I can’t shake the fear that it’ll only make things worse. That maybe, this grief will break him for good.
“The vines grow through Laine’s heart, too, Zoe Nicoletta. Just like yours. She’ll be good for Bluebell if you let her.”
I nod, promising whatever he wants, but the conversation leaves me unsettled. The more Dad tries to prepare me for his departure, the longer this indefinite trip feels like it will be.
“Don’t stay away too long, okay, Dad?” I say through the feelings tightening in my throat.
“Oh, Zoe Nicoletta. I’ll miss you so much.” Dad strokes the apple of my cheek with his coarse thumb, then stands and brings me in for an all-encompassing hug, as though he’s trying to tell me not to worry. That this vineyard won’t sink without him, and neither will I.
After his plane leaves the next morning, the world feels quieter. Newer, and uncertain, too.
But I’ve promised to make the best of things, and I will. More than ever, I want to defeat Rachel Woods, host the Everyday Bon Vivant showcase, and represent the town I love to the world’s wine scene. If that takes teaming up with Laine Woods, Napa snob, the First Lesbian, and verifiable sex goddess who I cannot lick ever again, then so be it.
I’ll survive.
Though I’ll be masturbating a lot .