Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Just like that, the cool spring sun of May melts into June’s stormy heat, all blue skies and boisterous clouds that dapple the roads before unleashing bursts of quenching rain. In our blocks, the buds have swelled with life, burst into flower, and the tiniest clusters of grapes have begun to form. I have to give it to Laine—after the pruning fiasco, she’s been a devout student of Jamal’s, absorbing his lessons on canopy management, leaf-thinning, and the dangers of powdery mildew—all things she never had to worry about in the dry, arid climates of California’s wine regions but are critical to making grapes thrive in our humid, rainy mountains.
She’s doing great. The pride I feel for her is of a soft and grateful sort. I miss Dad ferociously, but it’s for his quiet voice, long hugs, and sad, loving eyes. It’s no longer accompanied by the fear that Bluebell can’t survive without him because with Laine here, I’ve started to believe we can.
Laine surprised me, though, when she asked to take last Friday off. “I know things are picking up right now, but I have to go back to California for the weekend.” She’d cleared her throat, as if asking for a day off was unthinkable. “I need to get some things I left in storage. That okay, boss?”
“Sure, no problem.” I tried to put extra kindness in my words. Le Jardin did a real number on her, and while Dad and I don’t take days off, we never hold our employees to that. “Will you let Josiah know so he can keep things going in the Pinot Noir blocks?”
She’d nodded, then a couple days later, left. I felt her absence keenly that weekend, my eyes sweeping the landscape for her again and again, even though I knew she was gone. Feeling disappointed anyway. Then, feeling a surge of glad relief when the lights flicked on in the Treebnb Sunday night when she returned.
I head to the back of the winery where Dad works on the red blends. Instead of his hunched shoulders, Laine’s there now, and my heart warms at the sight. Her long legs are perched on Dad’s thinking stool, folded on either side of her. She’s wearing a white lab coat and goggles on her head, reading one of Mom’s old wine journals intently. Judging by the getup, she must’ve been working with the sterile filtering agents earlier, but I don’t really care why. She can mad-scientist in here anytime.
I rap my knuckles against a barrel. “Knock, knock.”
She turns on her stool and gives me that heart-fluttering smile. “Hey, boss. What’s up?”
“Darryl and Trish’ll be here any minute.” When her face fails to register the importance of this, I add, “For the Redneck Wine Tour?”
“Oh, right.” She closes Mom’s journal and places it on the table with reverence. “You know, your mom was a genius. The way she manipulated every step of the process with such intuition …” Laine shakes her head. “Nothing short of witch-level.”
I smile ruefully. “That’s my mom, wine-witch of Appalachia.”
“Something to aspire to, that’s for sure.”
“Are you getting any closer to cracking the code for her red blends?”
“I’m trying, but so much of it depends on coaxing the grapes to the right acid and Brix, achieving the right length of fermentation, and adjusting everything else to what nature gave you that season. Your mom spoke her own language with the wine she made.” Laine looks at me then, her face softening. “Have you ever read her journals?”
I wave a hand at her, but it’s shaky. “I’ve tried, but you’re right—it’s like a different language. I love wine, but I’ve never wanted to make it myself.” The words come out clipped through the sudden tightness in my throat, but it’s not Laine’s fault. She couldn’t know how much I tried to force myself to fit into Mom’s shoes exactly, to live the life she’d chosen but was cut short. When I was a kid, wine was this ocean I never knew how to cross to get to Mom. Obviously, I couldn’t drink it or make it myself—I was just a kid. But I hated feeling barred off from this big, beautiful calling she loved, and that feeling magnified by a multitude after she died, made worse by my complete lack of aptitude for farming and making wine. It was only through business and marketing that I found my way across that ocean, and she was already long gone.
My fingers are gripping the wrist of my other hand, and I force them to relax. Just then, a series of loud, canned honks punctures the stillness of our countryside. It takes me a minute to realize it’s the opening notes of Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places.” The honking’s followed by the sound of heavy wheels crunching over our gravel parking lot, and a megaphone announcing, “Callin’ all y’all rednecks !”
I raise my eyebrows. “They’re here.”
“Listen, do you mind if I sit the tour out?” Laine smiles, but it’s apologetic. “I feel bad taking time away from the blends right now.”
I breathe in deeply through my nose because this isn’t about the blends waiting. Laine and I have been getting along so much better since the frost, but it’s not because we magically solved all our differences about wine. Laine still carries around this—this grudge against Blue Ridge’s wine region. To her credit, she tries to temper her opinions more, but even what she considers polite commentary still digs beneath my skin.
Will Blue Ridge ever be good enough for her?
Or do I have to prove that it is?
I give her a firm smile. “Nope. You’re coming.” I reach out my hand and to my surprise, she lets me pull her to standing. She’s close now, so close that my breasts lightly graze the front of her lab coat. I know I should step back and make room, or at the very least, let go of her hand, but now that we’re here, I can’t make myself move at all. She tilts her chin down so she can meet my gaze, and the look in her eyes is so immediately attentive, so interested, it’s like I flipped a switch within her to on .
“Is that a directive, boss?” Laine asks quietly, her lips still parted as though the question’s physically lingering there. Heat floods my body. It flips my switch on , too.
“Yes,” I breathe, unable to resist. “It is.”
Laine pulls her bottom lip in. “If you make me, I’ll come.”
Her words thrum deep and low in my belly, my muscles tensing with pleasure. God, does she know what she’s doing to me? She does . A smirk lifts the corners of her mouth, and finally, she steps back, stripping off her long yellow gloves. I suddenly feel the need to spout off all the justifications I’d planned if she’d fought back. “You need to experience other vineyards here, taste their wine. It’s important to understand our scene, and besides”—I blow out a breath—“I’m nervous. I could use the company.”
Laine’s eyebrows flick upward, but the smirk remains. “Nervous? Why?”
An airhorn sounds from the parking lot, followed by Darryl’s amplified voice: “ I said, CHOP CHOP! ”
My cheeks flare red, and I curse myself for telling Hannah once again. “Well, you heard the man. Let’s go.”
Laine gestures for me to lead the way. “This should be interesting.”
She’s not alone in her skepticism. Of all my new business ideas for Bluebell Vineyards, the Redneck Wine Tour’s the one that’s drawn the most excitement and squinty-eyed suspicion around town. We don’t have many wine tour operators in Blue Ridge, perhaps because of how spread out the vineyards are, or how rowdy the clientele can get. But why not lean into both? A relaxing, comfortable ride provided by a dynamic duo, promising lots of wine and laughter and beautiful mountain views, tailored for the type of tourists who don’t take wine too seriously.
Where’s the wine tours for those folks?
Once I came up with the idea, I immediately thought of the perfect driver/docent pair, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it until I turned it into reality. If it works, it’ll bring in tour ticket sales and steady business to Bluebell each day the tour runs. Not to mention, the other vineyards on the route are paying us a small fee, too. We need the money, and this enterprise pays on all sides.
Laine and I emerge from the winery to a small test group gathering around the pristine sixteen-seater van. Hannah and her two best friends Kira and Mattie are here, and Teddy and Diego just shut the doors to their red Mini Cooper and are gleefully sprinting across the parking lot.
“HEAR YE, HEAR YE,” Darryl says through his megaphone, a big man wearing top-to-bottom fishing gear. I’m talking cargo shorts stuffed with lures, a vest with more, and a trucker hat that says Got Trout? “Step right up for the inaugural Redneck Wine Tour and Unofficial Bachelorette Party for Ms. Hannah Tate!” He cackles, then slaps the side of the van like they’re bros.
“It is not my bachelorette party, and who decided to give Darryl a megaphone?!” Hannah demands as Laine and I approach. Darryl is Hannah’s stepdad, and judging by the flush of her pink cheeks, she’s already deeply mortified. “ Who?! ”
Kira grins and rubs her hands together. “This is gonna be so good .”
Mattie, Kira’s wife, smiles in that way people do who live their life being amused by the people they love. “Trish, nice honks. Was that Garth Brooks?”
Trish, Hannah’s mom, cranks the driver’s side window down and hangs her elbow out. She’s an older, wilier version of Hannah with hair just as wild, though it’s gray instead of dark blonde. She’s inexplicably wearing a blue railroad conductor’s cap. “Yes, thank you for noticing! I wanted something like Dukes of Hazzard , but you know—not racist! I preloaded lots of goodies. This one’s for you, Hannah baby!” Trish fumbles with the small device attached to her steering wheel, which then omits a honking version of “Like a Virgin.”
“Good god,” Hannah whispers, and Kira throws her head back and laughs.
“Trish, you got the dick necklaces, right?” Kira manages out.
“That’s an affirmative, Kiki.” Trish holds up a fistful of necklaces hung with plastic dicks of every color and jangles them triumphantly.
“ What?! ” Hannah looks like she might bust a vein. “Absolutely not !” But nobody’s paying her any mind. Trish’s already stowed the necklaces away, and Darryl’s busy passing out tour maps. I watch our participants’ expressions flicker from confusion to delight. I’ve already seen Darryl’s hand-drawn map of the wine tour, complete with all four vineyard stops plus “See Bigfoot” overlooks and little notes, like: Best potty, hold ur pee till here and By now, u will b drunk . Over Into the Woods, he’s drawn a big red X, saying: For fancy-pants only. The last stop is of course Bluebell Vineyards, followed by an optional fishing excursion in our stocked pond. A redneck’s preferred way to sober up, Darryl’s informed me.
I heartily approve.
Laine’s looking at the map with an incredulous smile, her mouth slightly parted as she takes in all of Darryl’s scribbles, skulls, and Bigfoots ( Bigfeet? ) lurking in the margins. She finally looks up at me. “This is hilarious,” she says cautiously, like maybe that’s on accident.
“I know.” It’s a small compliment, but the pride’s rolling through me like a tidal wave anyway.
I turn to Kira and Mattie. “Y’all, this is Laine Woods. She’s filling in as vintner while my dad’s out of the country. Laine, this is Kira and Mattie, our good friends from Atlanta.”
“Wait. Laine Woods as in Charlaine Woods ?” Kira is awestruck. “As in, TFL?!”
“ Kira! ” Hannah grits out, and Kira claps a hand over her adorable face while mine goes nuclear with horror. Kira winces and mouths: Sorry!
“TFL?” Laine looks from Kira to Hannah to me for explanation. My red face must announce my guilt because her gaze lingers there, waiting.
“Erm, TFL. You know, The First Lesbian?” I mumble out. My entire body starts sweating, all at once. “You were my First Lesbian. I mean, that I knew of? Not like you were mine , per se—”
“Her Guiding Gay Light,” Mattie cuts in unhelpfully. “The Alpha Queer, First of Her Kind. The Crush that ‘Made Her Gay.’” She air-quotes the phrase with a grin, then glances around and receives the pointy end of Kira’s elbow. “What—was that still a secret?”
Laine’s eyebrow quirks up. “I thought it was just a little crush, boss.” A sly smile plays about her mouth as she repeats my brazen lies from the night of the smudge pot. “You didn’t even know you were gay.”
“I didn’t, until you.” The words stumble out, but Laine’s playful gaze softens. Her eyes trace over mine, and it’s uncomfortable, being seen like this. Understood in a context I’ve shared gladly with a hundred strangers, but never with her, the source.
I never dreamed I’d have the chance.
“Who was your TFL?” Kira asks Laine, papering over the loaded emotional moment as we board the van. It’s the least she can do since she brought this plague of vulnerability upon me. I slide into a window seat, and my heart picks up speed as Laine sits next to me. The press of her arm against mine feels warm and reassuring, like finding out she was my queer North Star doesn’t freak her out.
Laine pauses to think, then smiles coyly. “Ellen.”
The van erupts into laughter.
“All right now, simmer down!” Darryl says from the front of the van where he’s holding an extremely large microphone. “This here’s the Redneck Wine Tour. If you in the wrong place, whew, boy! You about to get drunk! You can call me Big Daddy, and that silver fox driving is G-ma.”
“Woo, G-ma!” Kira hollers. “You’re not drinking today?”
“Honey, I’m as sober as they get. This granny’s shootin’ to live to a hundred. Y’all have a good time, though.” With that, Trish tips her conductor’s hat and rams the van into reverse. We lurch into motion, and Darryl clutches one of the metal poles for support.
“Damn, baby!” Darryl grouses over his shoulder. “Good thing this was a stripper van.” With one arm hugging the pole, he lifts the giant microphone to his face, speaking into it so close, the bristle of his mustache hairs is audible from the speakers. “First stop, Red Clay Vineyards!”
Darryl’s a natural. He knows absolutely nothing about wine, but that’s part of the draw. With us huddled around him in the Red Clay tasting room, he samples the first pour. “This wine’s exceptionally slurpable. I give it four hell yeah s.”
Mattie takes a sip and ponders. “It’s a three hell yeah for me.”
The commentary gets better as the wine tour goes on.
“Now this merlot reminds me of this jar of grape jelly that sat out on our porch for too long. Five fishing rods up.”
“Ooh, blech . I give this one three-and-a-half trout.”
“This trami-what now? This Traminette is like … well, it’s like if an angel made a baby with Willie Nelson.”
Laine tastes the light, sweet Traminette, and her eyebrows rise. “You know what? I see what he means!”
The others get into it, too. Teddy describes the bouquet of a deep, smoky Pinot Noir as the smell of freshly burnt tires, and Diego agrees, giving it five damn straight s ! We spend the entire afternoon tasting and drinking and laughing as Trish weaves the van up and down the winding gravel roads through Blue Ridge wine country. The best part has been watching Laine slowly change her mind. She marvels over a fruity white blend at Jamal’s vineyard, exclaiming to whoever’ll listen that who knew our native Catawba pairs so well with classic vinifera? Doesn’t hurt that, true to Big Daddy’s map, we’re all drunk as hell at this point. Hannah doesn’t even stop Trish from breaking out the necklaces, and soon we’re all bedecked with dicks.
“ Y’all! If you mash the balls, the dicks light up!” Kira raves, squeezing a bulbous pair to Teddy’s visceral horror.
“That is not how they work, baby!”
Mattie frowns. “Dicks or necklaces?”
Teddy balls up his tour map and throws it at her in response. It somehow lands behind him.
I can’t judge, though. I didn’t set out to get drunk this morning, but it started feeling strategic as the tour went on. Something’s gotta calm my brain down. Between Laine’s physical proximity and Everyday Bon Vivant ’s impending visit to Blue Ridge, my blood’s crackling with electricity.
“So, what’s got you so nervous?” Laine asks as we board the van to head back to Bluebell. “Your leg’s been jiggling all day.”
“ Everyday Bon Vivant still hasn’t called.” Just saying it aloud makes my throat tighten uncomfortably. Damn alcohol releasing all these emotions. “And they arrive tomorrow.”
Laine throws a loose arm around my shoulders and corrals me into our row. The pressure sends a bolt of pleasure down my spine. “Don’t worry, boss. If they haven’t called you yet, they probably haven’t called anybody. And don’t you have some sneaky plan cooked up to meet them anyway?”
I laugh, leaning into her a little more than is strictly professional, but her body draws me in like a magnet, and I can’t find the willpower to fight it right now. Not after four buckets of wine and a glorious, sunny afternoon rolling through my favorite place on earth. Besides, it’s not like she’s let me go yet, either. “How d’you know about that?”
“I heard you cackling about it with Olinda when she came in last week.” Laine’s face slides into an easy grin. “You’re so cute when you cackle.”
My insides somersault within me, and I briefly consider taking up witchcraft or some other cackling profession full-time. “Y-yeah?”
She boops my nose with her finger. She is definitely sauced. “Oh, shut up, Brennan. You know you’re adorable.” My entire head goes up in wild, searing flames.
She thinks I’m adorable?
“Yeah, Brennan ,” Kira says as she and Mattie slide into the row behind us. “Stop being so adorable all the time.”
“You first, Kira!” I jab a finger at her. “You’re queen of inconveniently adorable people, all married as hell.”
“She sure is,” Mattie says lovingly, then presses a big, messy kiss to Kira’s temple, which Kira wipes off with a loud blech! , then resumes squeezing balls and giggling to herself.
“Goddamn drunk-ass lesbians,” Teddy says, salty as ever. “You’re all in love with each other, get over it!”
Laine’s arm slides from my shoulders to the top of my seat back, creating a little cocoon of us . “Why are gay men so wise?”
“We’re immune to the power of tits,” Teddy says, earning a chorus of groans and flying objects from the rest of the passengers. Hannah beans him square in the head with one of her socks, which she’s abandoned along with her shoes, purse, and other assorted clothing.
“You okay, Hannah?” I raise an eyebrow, waiting to see if anything good gets shed.
“Too hot,” she grumbles, then lies down in the back row, dick necklace still glowing to a beat only it can hear. I snap a picture to commemorate this unofficial bachelorette party.
“So Olinda’s gonna roll up with the Everyday Bon Vivant team tomorrow,” Laine prompts, a bit glassy-eyed, but hanging in there. “Walk me through your plan.”
I take a deep breath. “The vineyard’s gonna be all set up for our Strawberry Moon night. The Genteelmen will be there early, playing already. The vineyard’s windows will be open, and our outdoor bar set up on the patio. We’ll have freshly picked strawberries to pair with Electric Daisy, and the food trucks will be set up, too.”
Laine nods thoughtfully. “Sounds nice. What are you gonna say?”
“I’ll feign sympathy for their inconvenience of course, offer them drinks and snacks while they wait for Olinda’s mechanic to come service the van. Then I’ll give them our standard tour, if they’ll let me. Show off the vineyards, the winery … what?” I trail off and frown, interrupted by the vigorous, sloppy shake of Laine’s head.
“No, no, no . Don’t give the standard tour! You’ve gotta tell them about what makes Bluebell Vineyards special .”
I frown harder, weirdly hurt by this. “That is what our standard tour’s about. You don’t think that shows?”
“The tour’s about your valley location, the soil composition, your philosophy of everyday people drinking wine. But you never share the story of Bluebell Vineyards. Tell them about your mom, Zoe. Why doesn’t anyone tell her story? Tell them about how your parents started Bluebell and ran it together.” Laine smacks her leg with her hand emphatically. “ That’s what people want to hear. The romance .”
I swallow. “Talk about Mom ? Dad’s never been able to handle that.” The wine’s making it difficult to steady my feelings, pitching me about like a ship on stormy waves. But my parents’ story is happy, isn’t it? A good one that lingers in your heart, even if it ends in tragedy. Just because Dad can’t handle telling it doesn’t mean I can’t or shouldn’t.
“Maybe it’s time you start.” She looks at me with such fondness, it’s easy to forget we’re just coworkers.
But that’s all we are , I grind the reminder into my brain. Even if River’s right that I’m afraid of developing feelings for Laine again, he’s wrong about why. I’m not scared of trying and failing—that’s already happened. We had sex, she realized who I really am, and she ended it, just like every other woman has in my life. But that was before we started working together. Now, my vineyard’s future hinges on her staying and delivering in a big way. If we hooked up again, how would she end it then? By leaving me and Bluebell in the lurch? Staying and making me miserable? I already know what war against her is like; I can’t go back to that.
Laine gets pulled into a raucous conversation about favorite celebrity queers, but I stare out the window instead, pondering what to say about our vineyard’s origins, and Laine. She’s always in my thoughts these days, one way or the other. The countryside swirls by until my eyes grow heavy, a deep yawn overtaking me. The van’s grown quiet. When I turn back, I realize Laine’s already fallen asleep, her head resting against her arm, still stretched across the back of my seat. The way her soft breath sighs out from her parted lips, close enough to dance across my own, makes my chest ache.
Okay, so maybe I do have a crush on Laine again. Or maybe it never ended, lying dormant all these years until a crack fissured, and now powerful feelings are flowing out of me once again, hot and molten and incredibly destructive. Wanting her is wanting to be hurt. Wanting her is asking to be destroyed.
But I do want her.
I turn fully to face her, resting my head lightly against the smooth cotton of her shirt stretched across her arm. She smells like sandalwood soap and sweet muscadine, and she murmurs in her sleep, a quiet rumble that I half hear, half feel against my cheek. The way her body curves toward mine feels incredibly intimate, like we’re a pair of parentheses, reaching for each other across the expanse, despite all the circumstances that make us a bad idea. Maybe it’s pathetic letting myself pretend like this, laying my head on her arm like her comfort is mine to have, but any self-consciousness I might’ve felt has been dulled by wine and rocked to sleep by the van’s gentle ride through the Appalachian foothills.
I don’t know how long I’m asleep, but when Laine shakes me awake, it’s with a strong vibe of terror.
“ Zoe! Wake up!”
My eyes flap open, head swimming with alcohol, stomach lurching. “Wh-what?”
“Olinda’s van is in the lot!” Laine’s face is contorted in panic as she shakes me again. “ Everyday Bon Vivant is here!”