8. Mackenzie
Mackenzie
I stop back at the house for lunch as usual and am not surprised to hear voices when I open the kitchen door.
There’s a red car in the driveway, so my grandfather must have a visitor.
Probably some local politician, although that’s a pretty expensive car.
Someone hitting him up for a donation maybe.
Opa is chuckling, which can only be a good thing.
He’s probably telling some tall tale and I should intervene to save his guest. His stories can go on and on.
He just loves telling them so much that we all indulge him.
No sign of Mrs. O’Neill, although there’s a pot of soup simmering on the stove and a note that there are sandwiches in the fridge.
Ah, she’s gone into Havelock for more groceries.
The tea pot is still hot, so I pour myself a mug of it and follow the sound of Opa’s voice. I smile as his words become more clear. It’s the usual lecture about the vineyard, the one I almost have memorized.
Someone looking for a donation, then. I prepare to smile politely.
“The wine grapes of the world are of the species vitis vinifera, and all originated in Europe,” Opa says.
“The most popular are Chardonnay, Cabernet, Gamay, Merlot, Pinot Noir, and Riesling. They must be grafted onto more weather-resistant root stock to survive in our climate. We grow them all here.”
This statement, I know, is always accompanied by a sweeping gesture toward the fields. The house was built with massive windows overlooking the vines in their neat rows, a sight that gives my grandfather enormous satisfaction.
Truth be told, it gives me that, too.
“There also are hybrids,” he continues, “bred to avoid the grafting process, like Baco Noir, Seyval Blanc, and Vidal. We grow Baco Noir and Seyval Blanc. You can see them there, to the right, on the higher land.”
“There are 1400 acres of vineyards in southwestern Ontario,” I say as I step into the room. “Which is at similar latitude to that of French Riviera, Northern California, southern France, and Madrid, Spain.”
Opa chuckles.
I stop cold, before mentioning the moderating effects of Lake Erie on the local temperatures, the long hours of sunlight that give our grapes higher sugars and moderate acid levels, and the comparatively early regional harvest that is the result of both.
Because Opa’s guest, to my astonishment, is Jake Cavendish.
He meets my gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a little private smile, one that I feel right to my toes. My heart bounces like a rubber ball, as if it’s made a leap for my throat. No, it’s bouncing along the top of the words for a singalong. (We will not speculate on the song.)
Opa continues the lecture with the part I’ve omitted, and I just stare at Jake for a minute.
He’s wearing a navy suit that does great things for his eyes, but not like it’s an obligation or uncomfortable.
He’s completely at ease. Maybe he dresses like this every day.
His tie is loosened a little bit, which just reveals a little wedge of tanned neck – that I want to kiss.
He has the best suits – or maybe it’s the sculpted lines of the body underneath that makes them look so good.
He’s nodding politely at my grandfather’s story, but I sense that he’s agitated.
Maybe not by Opa. His gaze flicks to me again, as if we share a secret (and we do), then lifts a piece of paper.
“Found it,” he mouths, not interrupting Opa’s lecture.
Found what?
I kiss my grandfather’s cheek and he beams at me, seizing my hand. “My Mackenzie knows all the grapes. This is my legacy to all of my grandchildren.”
Jake nods and I think he’s probably up to his eyes in legacies and parental expectations. He hands me the sheet of paper. “I found this today.”
I put down my tea and unfold it. It’s the title to the piece of land that Opa and Patrick Cavendish have been arguing about for as long as I can remember.
That land. It slopes south and has full sun exposure.
It’s only five acres or so, but the Cavendish greenhouse, immediately to the west and north of it, would give any grapes protection from the elements.
I want to plant the Vidal there, because I don’t want a lot of it.
Five acres will keep us plenty busy when all the grapes have to be harvested between midnight and five AM.
Adding ice wine to our list of products is part of my big plan.
I want this piece of land even more than Opa does, which is saying something.
I’m quiet too long because Jake speaks up. “Isn’t that it?” he asks and I nod.
“Just overwhelmed,” I admit and he smiles with relief.
I show the title to Opa who gives a little crow of delight. “My stolen piece of land!”
“I just wanted to double-check,” Jake says. “I’ll ask Richard Bradshaw to transfer it to you. Shall we say a dollar?”
Opa nods with enthusiasm. “That is fair. That is good. That land was stolen from me…”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” I perch on the edge of the sofa. “That isn’t fair.” Both of them stare at me. “I offered a reasonable price for that land, and I’ll stand by it.”
“You offered to buy and my father wouldn’t sell it?” Jake asks, as if he knows the answer already.
I shake my head. “He said it was principle.”
“Principle!” Opa scoffs. “He stole that land and did not wish to surrender it…”
“You lost it in a poker game, Opa,” I say, correcting him and watching surprise light Jake’s eyes. He leans back then, looking a lot more interested. “You’re the one who told me never to gamble anything I couldn’t afford to lose.”
“I should not have lost. He cheated!”
I drop a hand to his shoulder. “Patrick is dead, Opa. We should not be unkind.”
My grandfather abandons his complaint with obvious reluctance. “But it was wrong,” he huffs. “It was my land. Dead or not, he stole it from me.”
“And what about your actions ever since?” I ask gently. Jake is watching me. I guess he’s out of the loop on all local events.
My grandfather blushes. “Pranks,” he says gruffly. “Patrick understood. He did the same.”
“Pranks?” Jake asks.
“Mud smeared on greenhouse walls. Vinegar in the intake ponds. Nails on the road where the trucks turn into the loading docks.”
“I did not do this!”
“Somebody did, Opa, and it had to have been somebody allied with you.” He looks down at my stern tone, utterly unrepentant. “And that means if we buy the land, we pay a fair price. Period.”
Opa glowers at me then, like a kid denied a cookie. “Patrick loaned us workers when he knew they were sick,” he grumbles. “He pretended to be a good neighbour, but he was ensuring that all our workers became sick.” He shakes a finger. “He was a sneak and a cheat!”
I turn to Jake, knowing I have to cut this short. If we review all the slights and insults done by one side to the other, we’ll be here until Christmas. I want that land while it’s being offered.
“I can’t change the past, but I’ll stand by that offer.
” I’m remembering Jake’s concern about the lack of money in the estate and I don’t ever want to be accused of kicking someone when they’re down.
I don’t expect Jake will stay in Empire long enough to start any rumors, but anything’s possible with Candace.
I repeat the details of the offer, Jake asks a couple of questions and we agree in principle.
He offers his hand and I hesitate a second before I shake on the agreement. I’m thinking of the feel of his skin beneath my hands last night. The feel of his grip gives me the very best kind of tingles. I fiercely want to finish what we barely started the night before.
Just one more time.
But I won’t be the one to ask.
His smile is quick and warm. “I’m only in town one more night,” he says. “Any chance of celebrating our agreement with dinner?”
“You invite her to Patrick’s house?” Opa demands with his customary lack of tact.
“Oh, there must be a nice restaurant around.”
I don’t want to go to The Carpe Diem Café with Jake, because I know rumours will abound. Before I can decide what to say, Opa turns to me. “You must take him to that Italian place, the one that serves our wines.”
“Ah, the place with the excellent taste,” Jake deadpans and Opa steps right into it.
“The very one!” he crows. “They make their own pasta fresh every day.” He kisses his fingertips. “I send everyone there for the best meal of their lives.” He wags a finger. “You must have our Baco Noir, no matter what you order. It is best with Italian sauces.”
“If we’re celebrating détente, Opa, you should be there.”
“I will fall asleep too early. You go and have the pasta del giorno.” He smiles mischievously. “Bring me some tiramisu.”
“That would be great, if you’re free tonight,” Jake says, his gaze clinging to mine. “Sorry there aren’t a lot of options. I head back to the city tomorrow.”
“But you will be back,” Opa says.
“Not if I can help it,” Jake says with a rueful smile.
“Tonight will be fine,” I say. “Why don’t I pick you up, so we’re not both driving the same route at the same time?”
Jake hesitates only a second and I smile a little more. A guy who has a car like the one in the driveway must prefer to drive. But he nods agreement.
I pull out my phone and call up the website of the restaurant to make a reservation. “Seven? Or would eight be better?”
“Eight might be easier for me.”
“Me too.” I nod and taps, then his phone pings. It’s a confirmation of the reservation that I’ve sent without thinking and our gazes meet for a hot minute.
Caught! I shouldn’t have his email.
Opa doesn’t notice, though. “Put that thing away,” he chides me. “You spend too much time with it, like it is a lover. What you need is…”
Jake is starting to smile, evidently having guessed the direction of my grandfather’s thoughts.
“What I need is lunch, and I see that Mrs. O’Neill has left soup and sandwiches. Are you hungry?” I ask Jake. “She always makes enough for an army, so there will be plenty.”
He’s startled and doesn’t hide it quickly. I wonder how many people have been nice to him on this trip. Probably not very many. “That would be great, if it’s not an imposition.”
“Nonsense,” Opa says, seizing his cane to make for the kitchen. “I have not told you about all of the grapes yet. Look upon them. So green. So vigorous. It is the care of our family, the climate and the terroir…”
Once again, my gaze meets Jake’s in mutual understanding. I shrug and he smiles just a little, then follows my grandfather toward the kitchen. Opa is talking non-stop and his hands flying as he gestures.
Jake is going to know way too much about the vineyard by the time he finishes lunch.
I suppose it’s better than my grandfather playing matchmaker and talking endlessly about me. If he does that, I’ll talk about ice wine instead.