Once Tasted: A Silver Creek Novel (3 page)

She entered the kitchen, with its red Formica counters and checkerboard linoleum floor. She’d heard Formica was staging a comeback among designers. If true, she and her uncle Thomas were cutting-edge chic.

The white metal cabinet gave its usual squeak of protest
when she opened it, took a china plate down, and placed the blueberry muffin on it. The muffin was still warm. She wished she weren’t on a perpetual diet, because it smelled divine, too.

Whereas plain Greek yogurt smelled of cold yeast.

Carrying the plate to the small breakfast table nestled underneath the kitchen window, she heard her uncle coming down the hall.

She turned and smiled. “Good morning. I got the mail and the paper as well as a special treat.”

“Good morning, Mia. So you’ve already been to town? I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“It’s not.” It was an hour later than her uncle normally rose, but he was sleeping badly these days. She often heard him in the middle of the night. The creaking of his steps on the floorboards followed by the flap of his slippers on the stairs would alert her to the fact that once again he’d gone to fix himself a cup of tea and open his laptop in the small study off the living room. Occasionally, she’d hear his voice and wonder. But it didn’t seem right to pry and inquire about his nocturnal conversations when he never mentioned them.

He eyed the muffin and smiled. “That
is
a treat. From the luncheonette?”

She crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator, a martyr to zero percent fat, and plucked a yogurt from the middle shelf with an inward sigh. “Yes, I picked it up along with the mail. Nancy and Maebeth say hi. They’re pining for you, Thomas. Nancy picked out the biggest muffin for you.”

“They’re lovely ladies.”

“They think you’re lovely, too.” Second only to Reid Knowles. “Sit and I’ll get your juice and coffee and your pills.”

Folding his tall frame into the chair, he rolled up the
sleeves of an ancient plaid shirt. Its faded blue matched his eyes. “You’re too good to me, Mia.”

“Don’t be silly. If I was really good to you, I’d have tried to bake these muffins myself.”

“No need to involve the fire department.”

She grinned. “Good point. So, you slept okay?”

“Like a baby. I’m as fine as a man my age can be. Don’t fret.”

“I’m not. I just want to keep you in tip-top shape for the harvest. It’ll be here before we know it. Paul and Roberto have already arrived. I saw their trucks by the carriage barn. I’m going to head out and help them. Will you come and look over a few of the blocks with us?”

Thomas picked up his orange juice and drained half of it while Mia swallowed a spoonful of her yogurt and pretended she liked it.

“Perhaps. I need to check the barrels in the cellar,” he said, putting the glass down.

“You’re still okay with Cork and Cap coming on Monday, right?” To keep expenses down, Thomas hired a mobile bottling company to bottle their wines. The wine from two harvests ago had been aging in medium-toast French Limousin oak barrels for the past twenty-one months. After careful monitoring, Thomas had declared it ready to be bottled.

But ever since Mia called and scheduled the bottling company, Thomas had been checking and rechecking the contents of the barrels. It was odd. He was a master at shaping a wine.

“Yes, Monday should be fine. This wine is going to be special. I want people to remember it.”

Mia smiled at the enthusiasm in his voice. “I can’t wait until we open our first bottle. So, you’ll come out later? It’s going to be a beautiful day. A little sunshine would do you good.”

“If Vincent doesn’t have a better idea. He may decide relaxing on the porch and enjoying the view is in order.” Vincent, their tabby cat, was named after Vincent of Saragossa, the patron saint of
vignerons
—winemakers. They’d adopted him from Quinn Knowles, who found the abandoned kitten cowering beneath the gas station’s dumpster.

“Vincent might enjoy a stroll down the aisles, too. Bring him along.”

He wiped his fingers on the napkin and looked at her steadily. “You don’t need me to advise you in the vineyard, Mia. You’re more than qualified.” Thomas’s tone, though gentle, held a hint of exasperation. “Moreover, you should spend some more time in the winery. Your winemaking skills will go fallow,” he warned.

She stuck her chin in the air. “They won’t.”

He raised an eyebrow in silent skepticism but held his tongue—for now. The debate wasn’t a new one. But Mia saw no reason for her to fret over the wine fermenting in the stainless steel tanks and aging in the barrels when Thomas was so much more experienced in judging every phase of making superlative Pinot Noir.

Recognizing that she wasn’t going to give in, he shook his silver head. “Go take care of our grapes so I can eat my muffin and read the paper in peace.”

Relieved he wasn’t going to press her, she grinned. “Anyone ever told you you’re a grumpy old man?”

“All the time. Now go away.” He picked up the muffin and took a big bite.

“Yes, sir.” She gave a smart salute, the one she’d been perfecting since the age of four, the first year she’d taken part in the crush.

The memory of that day was still vivid. She could hear the adults’ laughter and the anticipation in their voices as they gathered around the mechanical crushers. She could recall her excitement as Aunt Ellen took her
hand, steadying her as she climbed into a large tub filled with purple-black grapes. While Mia stood in the center, dressed in dungaree cutoffs, her bare toes curling around the cool, wet fruit, Uncle Thomas explained that she would be recreating the drama of how grapes were crushed long, long ago, before there were cars, trains, or planes.

“Or crushers?” she’d asked.

“Or crushers,” he’d confirmed with a solemn nod.

She’d shivered in excitement at the importance of her job as the grapes pressed against her bare calves and ankles.

Then Uncle Thomas looked at her. “Are you ready, Mia?” he’d asked gravely.

Quivering with pride, she raised her right arm and saluted. “Yes, sir!” She’d tried to make her voice as strong as his so the assembled grown-ups could hear.

Uncle Thomas had raised a shiny silver wine goblet high overhead.
“Que le pigeage commence!”

Those memories—of the thrilling start of the crush coupled with the wet squish of grapes beneath her feet, the sweet, heady scent of their burst skins filling her nostrils, the purple stain marking her legs and feet like a badge of honor—lived inside her as among her happiest, untainted by sorrow.

Though no longer as simple as the barefooted stomp of a little girl mushing grapes in a plastic tub, the pleasure of the crush remained potent. The adult Mia appreciated the more complex emotions that now accompanied it, the anticipation and anxiety of the race against time and the elements to harvest the fruit at its peak moment—a signature part of the winemaking process—and then to crush the juice-filled grapes as gently as possible before transferring the fruit to the fermenting tanks.

Soon it would happen again. Thomas and she would
gather with their crew to celebrate another harvest. With Mia’s care, and Lady Luck and Mother Nature’s indulgence, Thomas would have yet another excellent wine to fashion and shape.

Everything was on track this year for an exceptional vintage. The niggling sense that something was off when she came upon her uncle lost in reverie, miles away from Acacia, meant nothing. He was fine. And she needed to stop looking for problems.

“H
EY
, R
EID
.”

Reid glanced over his shoulder, resting the bristle brush on Sirrus’s flank. Tess Casari, his brother Ward’s fiancée and the guest ranch’s events planner, had found him.

After picking up his mail at the post office, grabbing an espresso in town, and exchanging a few “hi”s along the way, he’d come home. There, he’d tossed his backpack at the foot of his bed and grabbed a quick shower so he could make it to the staff meeting on time.

Thankfully, the meeting hadn’t been a long one. Even after the round of hugs, kisses, and slaps on the back offered to him, and the barrage of questions about how the grand opening of Aunt Lucy and Uncle Peter’s new inn down in Aiken, South Carolina, had gone, they’d wrapped up everything on their agenda within an hour.

Tess had talked for most of the meeting, filling them in on the upcoming event: the cowgirls’ weekend. Usually, Reid’s mother and father ran the staff meetings, but they were on a conference call with Kent Wallace, their lawyer. The conversation must have been detailed, because they still hadn’t put in an appearance by the time the meeting broke up.

No matter. Tess had done a fine job, and Reid could tell how pleased Ward was—though Ward often got that gleam in his eye when he looked at Tess. A better gauge was the satisfied smile on Phil Onofrie’s face. In charge of reservations and marketing for Silver Creek, Phil was clearly happy with the way the event was shaping up.

The meeting over, Reid had come down to the corral, eager to see the horses—his in particular. He’d brought Sirrus over to the shade of an oak to groom and tack him. Ward had asked him to ride out and check the cattle in the upper pastures.

Keen as he was to finish grooming Sirrus, saddle him, and head out for a good hard gallop, he gave his future sister-in-law an easy smile. “Hey, beautiful. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Tess brushed off his compliment with a laugh. “The women of Aiken must be bereft since you roared out of town. Is everything okay, Reid?”

“Sure. Why shouldn’t it be?” He wasn’t going to reveal to Tess the restlessness that had come over him during the meeting, especially since the feeling wasn’t justified or understandable.

“You left the meeting quickly. I kind of wondered.”

His brother’s fiancée wasn’t just beautiful, she was sharp. He shrugged and resumed brushing Sirrus’s dapple-gray coat. “No mystery. I wanted to come and say hi to this guy here.” He patted the horse lightly. “South Carolina was great, but Aunt Lucy and Uncle Peter don’t have horses like him, at least not yet. Glad to see that fiancé of yours took good care of him.”

Tess stepped forward and stroked Sirrus’s dark-gray muzzle. “Ward rode him almost every day,” she told him. “He and your dad also took him and Bilbao out and worked the cattle.”

Bilbao was one of the youngsters they were training
as a cutting horse. Ward had been giving him a lot of practice sessions in the corral, working on rundowns and sliding stops and cutting steers from the herd. It would have been neat to see how he performed in the open. “Yeah? How’d he do?”

“Great. Ward’s come around to Quinn’s point of view.”

“What, that Sirrus is teaching Bilbao all his tricks?”

Tess nodded. “Yeah.”

From the time Reid’s little sister, Quinn, was a baby, she’d been animal crazy. Nothing could get her crawling faster than a cat or dog a few feet away from her. Whenever Quinn had shown signs of fussing, all their mom had to do was bring her to the horse barn or sheep pen. It never failed to calm her.

At twenty-four, Quinn’s love of creatures great and small was as strong as ever. Her opinions about them were, too. She’d been the first to notice that whenever Reid rode Sirrus and Ward trained the younger horse, Bilbao seemed to watch Sirrus’s nimble hoofwork—fancy enough to have earned him some championships—and to take note of the evil eye Sirrus gave the steer he was cutting from the herd.

Reid and his family often talked about the animals and livestock they raised, discussing their different talents and personalities. It was natural for them. Animals were their livelihood, and they had hundreds of them in their care.

He wondered, though, whether Tess was aware of how comfortable she’d become talking about them. When she’d first arrived at Silver Creek Ranch seven months ago, she avoided the barns and corrals like the plague. Ward had been the one to figure out how to get this animal-shy New Yorker to see that sheep didn’t come with fangs and that horses were pretty damned magical creatures.

Tess Casari was more than just a recent convert to the wonders of the animal world. She was also a wiz at events planning. The job description entailed being good at reading people, which was why her next question didn’t come as a surprise.

“So, you’re sure nothing’s wrong?”

Reid wasn’t in the mood for reflection. His edginess would pass once he and Sirrus were racing over the meadows. But he could feel Tess’s gaze boring into his back as he picked a hind hoof clean. The farrier must have been here recently, for Sirrus’s shoes were still shiny.

“Nope.” He lowered the hoof, straightened, and then turned around. “It’s good to be home and have a moment to relax.”

“Relax?” Tess cocked her head. “At last count you had half a dozen different jobs here at the ranch. You care for how many head of cattle and sheep and train how many horses in the fine art of cutting? In your downtime you act as a trail guide for the guests’ rides, take the wine nerds on tours of the local vineyards, consult with George, Jeff, and Roo on which vintages to stock in the restaurant’s cellar, and brainstorm with Ward and Phil about marketing strategies for the ranch.” She paused a beat. “Yeah, I guess there’s not much around here to keep you busy.”