Josie
Thirteen
The dress feels like a costume when I first pull it on.
I borrowed it from Ginny since we’re similar enough in size—at least when she’s not pregnant—that it fits without needing much adjustment.
It’s a simple black dress, others much like it probably live in half the closets in the valley waiting for weddings, funerals, or dinners that require something other than boots and denim.
But wearing it creates what feels like an entirely different version of me.
Most evenings I come through this house at the end of the day in jeans streaked with vineyard dust and boots that carry quite a lot of Black Bear soil in their treads.
My hair ends up twisted into a knot somewhere around noon and stays that way until bedtime.
At dinner there’s usually a smear of something on the back of my hand—grape juice, barrel chalk, sap, or a combination of all three.
Tonight, however, the boots sit by the door and the jeans are folded over the back of a chair. This dress falls to my knees and makes me feel like I should be holding a glass of something expensive while discussing art instead of worrying about frost warnings and irrigation pumps.
And I suppose I should. Alex is picking me up for dinner in twenty minutes, our first date since we spent a week proving how easily two busy people can disappear into their separate lives.
Neither of us reached out until he finally called, and the conversation was awkward enough to make it clear we’d both been waiting for the other person to go first. I think tonight feels less like a date than our first attempt at finding out whether enjoying each other is enough reason to try changing the routines we’ve built for ourselves.
I turn in the mirror, trying to decide if I look like a spiffed-up version of myself or someone pretending.
The answer is somewhere in the middle.
Outside, spring in the valley is deceptive—warm afternoons, cold nights, just enough promise to make you forget how quickly it can all turn.
I’m still looking out the window when gravel crunches in the drive. Alex pulls up beside the house, a few minutes earlier than I expected.
He reaches the porch and knocks lightly, his gaze lifting to mine as I open the door and push back my nervousness. “Hi.”
“Hi.” His eyes move over me, quiet and appreciative. “You look lovely.”
The compliment is simple enough that I don’t feel the need to duck it. “Thank you.”
He glances toward the car. “Ready?”
“I hope so. You suggested I dress nice, but that was all you’d share, so I’m not sure.”
“You’re perfect,” he assures me and steps aside so I can come down the porch. The air has already cooled, making bare legs feel like a choice I might regret in an hour.
When we reach the car, he opens the passenger door for me.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I slide in.
“Of course.”
He closes the door behind me, circles to the driver’s side, and a moment later we’re pulling out of the drive and heading toward the road that runs past the vineyard.
The gravel gives way to pavement, and the valley opens around us. The lake appears in glimpses between stands of trees and low hills, still holding the last of the light.
Alex glances over as we hit the highway. “I should warn you, the restaurant is about an hour away.”
I turn toward him. “An hour?”
“I know how that sounds.” His tone is dry. “But there’s a reason.”
I wait.
“I thought we might try somewhere that two people can go out to dinner without half the town deciding it means something.”
A laugh slips out. “Only half?”
“Better safe than sorry.”
That gets a real smile out of me.
“I thought we’d go to Cliffside,” he continues. “Small dining room. Worth the drive. And private.”
Private. A little thrill rushes through me. “And impossible to get into,” I add.
He gives a small shrug, and his neck flushes. “I treated the owner’s wife last winter. She likes reminding me how grateful she is, and she’s always said she owes me at least one table.”
He says it so matter-of-factly there’s no room in it for showing off. What I hear instead is the thought behind it. He picked a place outside town because he knew what it would mean to me not to spend the evening on display.
I look out at the water for a second before turning back. “Thank you.”
“For the drive?”
“For thinking about the gossip.”
His hand stays relaxed on the wheel. “I thought it would take some of the pressure off both of us.”
He’s right. The knot of caution I’d brought with me loosens a little.
The highway follows the lake in long curves once we leave the last of Paradise behind. The evening deepens around us, and across the water, a few house lights begin to come on along the opposite shore.
“How was your week?” he asks.
“Busy. Spring always is.”
“Did the buds break?”
I glance over. “Yes.”
He smiles.
“This is the season where everything happens at once. Shoots, leaves, deliveries, staff schedules, cellar work. Every day feels like you’re behind before it even begins.”
He nods, but doesn’t respond.
“You’ve been in Paradise almost eight years?” I ask after a few minutes.
“Roughly. Anastasia was newly pregnant when we arrived.”
“That still surprises me.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t grow up here. I’ve always wondered why people come here from somewhere else.”
“It was work that brought me to start with,” he says. “Paradise has a great regional hospital that serves so many small communities. Then Eloise was born, and Paradise felt like a better place to raise a kid than Vancouver or Toronto.”
I nod. “You’re not wrong about that.”
He glances over. “Have you always lived in the Black Bear Valley?”
“I left for school.”
“But you came back.”
“I did. My family started Black Bear Winery generations ago. My father and his brother and sister each had a falling-out with my grandmother, so it was left to my generation to step in. I grew up running around the property and getting in everyone’s way.
There’s never been another place in my head when I think about home. ”
“You like it that much?”
“I do.”
The road narrows along a stretch where the hillside drops more sharply toward the water. An oncoming truck appears around the bend, coming too fast through the curve, and it cuts wider than it should.
Alex brakes and adjusts without a hint of panic.
The truck tears past us with a burst of engine noise and wind.
For one beat we both watch the taillights disappear behind us, and then I have to laugh.
“Well,” I say, collapsing into the seat, “that’s one way to liven up a drive.”
He glances over, amused. “On-call shifts have probably altered my definition of exciting.”
I chuckle. But I also find myself feeling a little warm. There’s something reassuring in the way he reacted. No swearing, no jerking the wheel, no performance. Just immediate control, like it was habit.
“You drive like a man used to being responsible for people,” I tell him.
“That’s a polite way of calling me cautious.”
“I was going to say you drive like a dad.”
He laughs, warm and unguarded. “A cautious dad?”
“Very.”
“I’ll have to work on my image.”
I laugh. “No, you won’t. I like it.”
After that I talk about growing up in a small place where everyone knows your history whether you want them to or not.
Despite having grown up in Toronto, Alex seems to understand.
He tells me a little about medical school at UBC, about being young and tired and certain that if he stopped moving for even one day, he’d fall behind everyone else forever.
I tell him about UBC from a different angle, the chemistry labs and vineyard blocks.
“You studied viticulture and enology?” he says.
“I did. UBC’s program splits the two. Viticulture covers the farming side—soil, climate, how the vines grow. Enology gets into the chemistry of wine after the grapes come in.”
“So agriculture and chemistry.”
“Exactly.”
He nods slowly, like he’s filing that away. “That sounds like I could be tested on it later.”
I give him a saucy smirk. “That depends on how interested you actually are.”
His mouth curves. “I appreciate the warning.”
By the time we pull into the lot at Cliffside, the evening has tipped fully into night.
The restaurant sits above the lake, exactly the way the name promises. The building is modest from the outside, and it’s all view once we’re in. The dining room curves toward the water, the booths high-backed and turned to take in the dark sweep of the lake below. Candlelight softens everything.
The host brings us to a booth near the window. Alex slides in next to me, and for a moment we both look out at the water.
“It’s peaceful,” I say.
The server appears before Alex can answer, setting down two glasses and a bottle of French white with the label already turned toward us.
“A gift from the owner,” she says. “He sends his compliments.”
Alex looks faintly resigned. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“He disagrees.”
She pours a taste for Alex, and he tastes it and nods for her to continue.
I lift my glass, smell it out of habit, and take a sip. Crisp, mineral, restrained. Good acid. Better than I expect, frankly. This gratitude is sincere, and comes from someone who knows about wine.
“Excellent choice,” I say.
“I’ll let him know his reputation remains intact.” The server winks at me and leaves us to decide what we’ll eat.
When the server returns, I choose the steelhead from Black Bear Lake with asparagus and new potatoes. Alex orders the spring lamb with rosemary, garlic, and roasted vegetables.
When the menus disappear, we face the lake again.
“This alone might justify the hour’s drive,” I say, nodding toward the water.
“I’m relieved.”
I give him a look. “You sound more invested in my review than you should.”
“That’s because I intend to benefit from it.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Confident.”
“Hopeful.”
The distinction makes me smile.