Here With Me (32 page)

She laughed and it reminded him of the sound
of Melody’s laugh—so sweet, so natural. “First of all, it’s a
terribly terrifying time of year for most everyone here because
Bernard and I totally lose our sense of humor.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Let me try to paint the picture. Each year,
several times a year, Bernard and I take our places around a table
and we more or less, taste-test for about two days. Our goal is to
determine what is going to be the perfect blend to produce the
ultimate bottle of Sweet Song of Summer wine.”

“So you drink wine for two days straight?” No
wonder they were surly at the end of it. In the days following
Hannah’s death, he’d done that a time or two with whisky and he’d
been mean as a bear.

“Drink, no. Taste, yes. We let the blend
settle in our mouths and then we ask our tongues to distinguish a
myriad of characteristics. In the end we don’t swallow it—we spit
it out, clean our palates with water, and then taste the next
blend.”

He tried to imagine Pearl Song spitting out
wine like men spit out snuff but it was too difficult. He figured
she would somehow manage to make even that looked refined and
elegant. They’d reached the end of the row and could see the roof
of the wine shed over the next hill. He slowed the pace even more
because he could hear her breathing becoming heavier.

“What we’re looking for,” she continued, “is
whether the blend has balance, meaning that it’s neither too harsh
or too sweet. Does it have length, meaning can you taste it all the
way back on your tongue? If you can, that’s good. Many of our
competitors are happy producing a wine that has a big impact
up-front on the palate but little staying power as the wine flows
over the tongue. It needs to have good depth, or in other words,
layers of taste to enjoy. Quality wines should have both length and
depth.”

George was very grateful that Gino had not
had a role in the blending trial process. It would have been damn
difficult to fill in for the man in that capacity. “Melody told me
that you said that Bernard was part scientist and part artist.
Maybe the same goes for you?”

“Maybe. But I know my limitations. I know
ultimately what product I can be happy with but I have always
relied upon Bernard to determine the combinations that will lead us
to that ultimate product.”

“Combinations?”

“Yes. For example, we grow Cabernet grapes in
three locations on our property. Each of those locations has a
unique microclimate and thus, the same grape ends up producing a
different juice.”

He supposed that could be true. He’d seen the
same kind of seed corn produce very different types of ears based
on where it was planted. “So you don’t just take all the juice that
was collected from the grapes and mix it together.”

“Oh, heavens no. I’m grateful Bernard didn’t
hear that,” she said, her tone teasing. “He’d have a heart attack.
Not only do we have to determine the exact mix between the same
grapes grown in different locations, we have to determine whether
or not we’re going to add in another different kind of grape
altogether. It’s a law that if we want to label our wine as a
Cabernet, that 75 percent of the end product must be made up of
Cabernet grapes. The other 25 percent is up for grabs.”

He shook his head. He’d thought growing the
grapes was complicated. Hell, that was the easy part. “How do you
know what the right combination is?”

“Experience. Knowledge. Grapes have certain
tendencies. We know that Merlot grapes are generally low tannic and
carry a smooth, chocolate-like aroma. So if we’re trying to even
out a Cabernet, which is very tannic and full-bodied, we’ll maybe
do an 80-20 mix, with 80 percent being Cabernet and 20 percent
being Merlot.”

They’d reached the peak of the hill. From
this angle, they were approaching the back of the wine shed. It was
less than two hundred yards. “So that’s another reason why your
Cabernet tastes different than your neighbors, because they don’t
have exactly the same mix.”

“You’ve got it. Are you sure you weren’t a
winemaker in a past life, George?”

He almost stumbled and caught himself in time
to avoid taking her down with him. He didn’t have a past life. He
had two very different
now
lives.

What the heck had prompted that question? He
risked a sideways glance at her but she didn’t seem overly
interested in him. She was watching the ground, making sure she
didn’t stumble.

“I’m especially excited about this year’s
blending trials,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked, grateful to be back
on a safe subject.

“We’re blending last year’s Cabernet harvest.
We’ve been barrel-aging it, but it’s ready now. We’ll want to
bottle before the fall crush to make room for the new harvest. It’s
exciting because last year was an exceptionally fine growing
year.”

“Lot of grapes?” he asked.

“Yes, but more than that. We had a very early
bud break and then many months of simply ideal weather. Then Mother
Nature threw us a curve and we had intense heat toward the end of
the growing cycle. It spurred an early harvest, perhaps the
earliest I’d seen in thirty some years. But the end result was a
grape that was extraordinary in flavor and even shortly after
harvest, when the wine was in its early fermentation process, the
aromas were robust. It could be one of our best vintages ever.”

He heard something in her voice that hadn’t
been there before and he realized that Pearl Song had accepted that
this year’s blending trials would be her last. This would be her
final wine—her legacy. They walked the last hundred yards in
silence. When they rounded the corner of the shed, Pearl stopped
suddenly, pulling on his arm. With alarm, he looked down at
her.

“Oh, lord,” she hissed between clenched
teeth. “Just what do you think
she’s
doing here?”

He followed her gaze. About halfway between
the house and the wine shed, near the fountain in the front yard,
stood Rebecca Fields and Bernard. “Maybe she’s here for the
blending trials,” he suggested.

“That’s not possible,” she said, sounding
shocked. “All this time, it’s only ever been Bernard and me. I’m
not ready for that to change.”

Not yet.
She didn’t have to say it for
him to understand it. “Maybe she’s just leaving?” he offered
hopefully.

She looked at him like he was dense. Given
that Bernard and Rebecca had arms and legs practically draped over
each other, it did seem sort of dumb.

“I have to handle this carefully,” she
muttered, practically under her breath. She glanced at him. “I
can’t have Bernard in a snit during the blending trials. We’ll end
up with something resembling vinegar under our label.”

Suddenly she pulled at his arm. “George, you
have to help me. Go find Melody and between the two of you, you
need to do something with her. If she goes willingly with you,
that’s a whole lot better than me sending her away.”

“But—”

“Please, George. You know I wouldn’t ask if
it wasn’t important.”

He knew that. Just as he knew that Melody
would do most anything for her grandmother and she’d expect him to
do the same. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said.

He found Melody in the piano room. She was
sitting in a chair, her back to him, reading a magazine. Likely in
deference to the heat, she’d piled her hair on top of her head and
the shirt she wore dipped low in the back. He could see the
delicate shape of her neck, the slope of her feminine shoulders,
the straight line of her upper spine.

She was exquisitely beautiful.

“Melody,” he said, his voice soft. Still, the
magazine flew.

She looked at her watch. “Did something
happen? Did somebody get hurt?”

“No,” he assured her. He didn’t want her to
worry. “But your grandmother has asked us to entertain Rebecca
Fields.”

“Huh?”

She had a right to be confused. “Bernard and
your grandmother are doing blending trials today.”

She cocked her head. “I thought you didn’t
know anything about winemaking.”

He smiled. “Your grandmother explained it to
me. Anyway, Rebecca is here and Pearl doesn’t want that. She
doesn’t want to order her off, though, thinking it will make
Bernard angry.”

“So we’re baby-sitting her?” Melody said.

It wasn’t a word he’d have used but it likely
fit well enough. “Yes. Any ideas?”

Melody shook her head. “The woman only has
two interests—cooking and men.”

George considered the information. “She’s got
a fair-sized ego as well.” He learned that firsthand when she’d
spent most of that first dinner whispering in his ear. “Ask her to
teach you how to cook something,” he said.

“What? Are you crazy?”

“No. She likes being regarded as an expert.
She told me she loves it when people literally beg her to teach
them something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure she was
talking about
food?
”

Her meaning hit him as if he’d taken a jab in
the stomach with the blunt end of an ax. He felt heat crawl up his
body and he knew his face was probably red. “I am no expert on
women but I think I know when one is offering
that.
”

She studied him. “I suppose you did catch on
fairly quick last night. But anyway, trust me on this, if I ask her
to teach me how to cook something, she’s not going to jump at the
opportunity.”

“Your grandmother is expecting us to come up
with something.”

Melody ran a hand through her hair. “I really
wish Bernard had picked a different time to have a mid-life
crisis,” she said. “But that’s obviously well out of our control.
It’ll have to be you,” she added, with a note of finality.

“Me?”

“Yes. If you ask her to help you, she won’t
be able to make it to the stove fast enough.”

Could it work? Hannah had handled the cooking
in their house. He wouldn’t be pretending if he said he needed
help. No, she’d believe that readily enough when she witnessed his
abilities. But wouldn’t she question his sudden interest? “We need
a reason why. I can’t just have woken up this morning with a sudden
yearning to cook.”

She nodded, looking very thoughtful. Then she
got up, wincing when she did.

“Are you ill?” he asked, all thoughts of
Rebecca gone.

She shook her head. “My back aches.” She
smiled at him. “For real. I’m not just trying to get you in a
compromising position.”

She would not have to work very hard. “Do you
want me to rub it?”

She waved a hand. “I’ll be fine.” She walked
over to the window, and looked out. “Oh, lord,” she said.

She sounded so much like her grandmother that
it gave him a start. “What?”

“Look at that.”

He joined her at the window. Rebecca and
Bernard had their backs to the house. They were walking toward the
wine shed, hip to hip. Bernard had his arm around Rebecca’s
shoulder and she had her arm around his waist. Pearl stood in the
same place as when he’d left her, her hands on her slim hips,
looking over her shoulder, back toward the house.

Melody turned to him. “We have to do this.
Here’s the deal. When we went to see my doctor the other day, did
you see that poster in the elevator? The one about the
You’re
Invited
event that’s coming up in a couple weeks?”

No. He’d been too busy waiting for the crate
to drop out of the sky and send him straight to hell. He shook his
head.

“It’s a fund-raising event for one of the
homeless shelters in Napa,” she explained. “People donate all the
ingredients and they prepare and serve their favorite dish. The
attendees pay a hundred dollars a plate. We’ll tell her that you’re
participating in the event and you need her to teach you how to
make the food.”

“Will she believe it?”

“It’s the best story I can come up with on
short notice. It’ll have to do. Let’s go.”

By the time they got to the wine shed,
Grandmother had already followed Rebecca and Bernard inside. They
found all three of them in the far corner of the building, sitting
at a big round table. There was nothing in front of Rebecca, but
the places in front of Bernard and Grandmother were identical.
There were at least fifteen wineglasses, a pad of writing paper, a
pen, and a small silver urn. The spittoon, he imagined.

In the middle, there were four pitchers of
what looked to be red wine and there had to be at least twenty
tall, absolutely straight measuring glasses. He was grateful that
Pearl had explained the process or else he was sure he’d have been
absolutely dumbfounded.

“Melody, George,” Pearl said, smiling
brightly. “What can we do for you?”

Melody looked at him and he knew the burden
rested firmly on his shoulders. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said,
“but I wanted to try to interrupt before you got started. Rebecca,
we. . .uh. . .I was wondering if you might be available to assist
me?”

Rebecca leaned forward in her chair. Bernard
frowned at him and said, “George, we’re just about to get started
here. Rebecca’s never witnessed a blending trial.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t plum desperate,”
George said. At least that much was honest. “But I’ve gotten myself
into a jam by volunteering at a charity event.”

“The
You’re Invited
fund-raiser in
Napa this coming weekend,” Melody added, finally jumping in.

Rebecca pushed her chair back and stood up.
“And you need me to teach you how to make something.”

Bernard put his hand on her arm. “Maybe
Bessie could help him?”

Rebecca did a deliberate shudder. “The woman
tries, Bernard, but really. He’s got to have something special.
After all, George is representing the Sweet Song of Summer
brand.”

“But you were looking so forward to this,”
Bernard said. “And given that this is our special day, I thought
we’d spend it together.”