Twice in a Blue Moon (2 page)

Sure, he could widen his search. He probably should. Napa Valley had more prestige, anyway. But there still would be the issue of a recommendation from his last employer. Who would an owner believe—the largest winemaker in central California, or a prospective hire? He pounded his fist on the burled wood dash, startling a passing tourist.

Besides, dammit, he liked it here. He may have chosen the Central Valley right out of school because it was a small pond he could make a big splash in, but sometime over the past five years, he'd become attached. He liked the quaint small-town feel of downtown Widow's Grove. He liked the prissy Victorians that lined the King's Highway into town. But mostly, he loved the land. The rolling, golden hills dotted with live oaks quieted his edgy restlessness.

But not his drive.

Throwing the car into Reverse, he backed out. Goddammit, he wasn't leaving until he'd interviewed at every winery he could get through the door of. The colossal screwup with Lissette might have trashed his ego, and his daughter's death, his heart, but the Boldens were not taking his career, too.

It was all he had left.

* * *

I
NDIGO
WANTED
TO
go out the way she came in, so she chose Pacific Coast Highway. It took longer, but she and Barney weren't in a hurry.

The heavy mantle of Hollywood lightened with each mile of road that passed under her tires. This town wasn't just a geographical location, but a state of mind—and she was delighted to change states. She played Harry's favorite CDs, singing along with Van Morrison as the sun tipped over its summit to begin its descent to the sea.

“What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.

But the moment of doubt didn't stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown.
Her
Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.

At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she'd return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.

Or maybe she'd use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.

She'd loved Harry's Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow's Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry's projects. They'd sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob's cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.

Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he'd been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.

It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry's marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she'd refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.

It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry's rants, because it didn't matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he'd lose everything. Bob's respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry's courtship.

Uncle Bob's death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he'd left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn't the only one who worried about her future.

She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob's death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.

Now she was going to see if it could be more.

She watched the surf racing to keep pace with her car, realizing her future was in an odd sort of balance. Her first lifetime in northern California as a free-spirited earth child had been the polar opposite of her lifetime in the other end of the state. Like Goldilocks, she could only hope that this one, in the middle, would be just right.

With Santa Barbara in the rearview mirror, champagne bubbles of excitement rose in her chest. As the car blew out of the Gaviota Tunnel, the sun and land exploded in a blaze that burned onto her retinas. The hills flowed away in golden waves and the road wound between them, lazy as a snake in the sun. Old red barns nestled at the bottom of the valleys, and cattle wandered along paths that their forebears had etched into the hillsides.

Peace blew in on the wind, brushing her face, settling on her skin. She smiled.

Almost there.

A little while later she was rolling into Widow's Grove—and it was like visiting an old friend.

There's a new antiques shop where the hardware used to be. Oh, Harry, look, there's Hollister Drug where we got those great strawberry shakes. Remember that waitress with the crystal in her tooth and the '50s waitress uniform and hot pink hair?

She turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, the precision straight rows of winter-barren grapevines undulating over the hills that she and Barney passed. The basset's long ears flapped out the open window as he sniffed the air. Indigo tried it, too, pulling in the scent of dirt and growing things. “You remember this, don't you?”

“Woof.”

“Well, this time we're here to stay.” She drank in every hill, every landmark and every mailbox on what was, as of today, her road home.

They turned in at the sun-faded sign that read, “Tippling Widow Winery. Home of distinctive wines since 1978.”

“We'll have to get that sign repainted,” she said. “It doesn't make a very good impression from the road.” Dead leaves blew across the asphalt as they drove up the wide drive, unpruned denuded vines keeping pace on either side. “I wonder how the harvest was this year.”

The drive opened to a small, deserted parking lot that ended at the tasting room. The steel-roofed wooden building, painted in buff and redwood, was shaded by a wraparound porch. Square wooden tables and chairs rested in its shade. She pulled up and parked.

The place was so empty it seemed abandoned. Weeds grew among the rosebushes at the base of the porch, complete with wind-blown trash accents. What was the manager thinking? This would look awful to potential customers.

Where
were
the customers? The place should be bustling with tourists this time of year. Warning bells jangled in her head.

When Barney whined, she got out, gathered him in her arms and lifted him down. He wandered off the sidewalk, sniffed, then watered some weeds. As she closed the car door, the fecund scent of fermentation—a sure sign that the crop was being processed—calmed her unease a bit.

Until she walked closer and spied the cobwebs gracing the tables and chairs of the porch. And they were not fake Halloween leftovers.

She pulled the handle of the glass door—it was locked. She cupped her hands and looked in, though she couldn't see much of the shadowed interior.

What the hell is going on?
“Barnabas, come.”

He stopped sniffing and, collar jingling, trotted after her around the building, along the nine-foot-tall solid wood fence, to the working side of the winery. She pulled the metal door at the back of the pole-barn building. At least it was unlocked, and the lights were on. Barney followed her in, and she let the door close. No genteel trappings here—just concrete floors, stainless steel wine fermentation tanks, skylights and industrial lighting overhead.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the high steel ceiling. “Anyone here?” She held out her hand, palm down. “Barney. Stay.”

He sat, plump feet splayed.

She walked farther in, peering around raised fermentation vats and stepping over hoses.

In the last row, a pair of jeans-clad legs stuck out from under a vat, several wrenches spread on the floor beside them. “Hello?”

The legs didn't move. Had he hit his head? Had something collapsed? Alarm skittered up her spine and scurried along her nerves. Jogging over, she knelt beside the legs and bent to peer under the vat. An old man lay, eyes closed, a tonsure of curly gray hair wild around his head. No blood. She reached out and touched his leg. Then shook it. “Hey, you okay?”

His lips parted, belching a snore.

“What the hell?” She snatched a wrench from the floor and banged it against the metal tank.

With a snort the man woke, jerked and smacked his head on the tank. “Jaysus!” He put a hand to his forehead and glared at her through one bloodshot eye. “Why'd you go and do tha'?”

A miasma of stale wine breath unfurled. She recoiled and stood, then backed up a step.

“Cantcha' see I'm workin' here?” The man rolled out from under the vat. “Who the hell're you?”

“Indigo Blue. The owner.” The remnants of adrenaline in her system congealed to a sticky wad of anger. “You're not working. You're shit-faced.”

It took some precarious butt balancing and grunting, but the man eventually sat up. “I'm not. I was resting my eyes. This work isn't easy, you kn—” He scratched his scalp. “Who'd you say you were, again?”

She didn't want to ask her next question—didn't want to know. She put her thumb and forefinger to the ticking bomb behind her eyebrows. “Please. Tell me you're not the manager.”

He smiled, revealing a missing incisor and delivering another lethal dose of boozy halitosis. “I am.” He stuck out a hand. Then, realizing it held a wrench, he dropped the tool, and winced when it clanged on the cement. “I'm Cyrus Delaney. Proud to meetcha.” He held out his square, dirty hand again.

She shook only the ends of his fingers. The pretty dreams she'd imagined on the drive here detonated, gone in an instant. “Why isn't the tasting room open?”

“The bitches up and quit, that's why.”

When he turned to get to his knees, she didn't slam her eyes closed fast enough. A close-up of his butt crack seared into her brain.

“How long ago?” She moaned.

“Oh, I think it was...uhnn.” He gained his feet. “Around about a couple weeks ago, reckon.”

Questions hit her brain with the heavy thud of bullets hitting raw meat. Then the hollow-pointed one hit. “Why isn't it cold in here?”

She didn't know much about making wine, but Uncle Bob always kept this room at a steady sixty degrees. Fermentation might be a natural event, but uncontrolled, it resulted in vinegar, not wine.

He looked around. “Yeah, why in't it? That's a good question.” He tottered away, swaying right and left, as if his knees didn't bend.

God help me.
She pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and hit speed dial. Then, catching herself, she pushed End.

There was no cell tower where Harry was.

What now?
Dread zinged along nerves made brittle by the adrenaline dump.

Who am I to decide?

Oh, sure, she'd made lots of decisions as a married woman in regards to running the household, party planning—the mundane white noise of everyday life. But Harry, or his staff, had taught her all that. And though he was gone now the thought of him, no more than a phone call away if she needed help, still resided in the back of her mind. His presence had always been a comfort. And a safety rope.

She swallowed a burr-edged nugget of fear. This fiasco was hers to fix. There was no one else. The winery had been Uncle Bob's baby. Harry's haven. Failure meant she'd always carry the guilt and shame of losing that. It would be like losing them all over again.

She looked up at the metal roof. “Harry, you know I suck at this.”

The only original idea she'd ever had was moving to Hollywood. And if Harry hadn't stooped to lift her up, dust her off and take her in, no telling where she'd be now. Giving BJs to up-and-coming stars? Worse?

A shudder rattled through her so hard her bones shook. She took a breath, then headed in the direction she'd seen her “manager” take.

She found him fiddling with the thermostat on the wall beside the tasting-room door.

“It's not coming on.” He frowned at the dial as if maybe he'd merely forgotten how it worked.

Thank God she'd gotten the business checkbook from the accountant before she left LA. “Who do you call when this happens?”

“Never happened before.” He smacked his lips. “I'll be right back. I need...” He pulled the metal door open, and dim lights came on in the barrel room—a glass-walled display room of oaken barrels of product. He went deeper, into the darkened tasting room, turned the corner and disappeared.

Indigo followed. She could see the sun through the windows out front, but the shaded porch left the tasting room in shadows. What wasn't hard to see was the gray-on-black form lifting a bottle to his lips. Anger fired in her chest and shot through her so fast that white sparks drifted across her vision. She put her hands on her hips. “We have an emergency here. The entire year's stock could be destroyed, and you're drinking? You've got to be kidding me!”

The shadow lowered his arm. “Well, I was just gettin' some fortification, then I was going to—”

“You're fired.” She might not have the experience to make good decisions, but at least they wouldn't be clouded by alcohol. She'd seen enough red-veined noses and yellowed eyes to recognize chronic alcoholism when she saw it. “Get your stuff and clear off.” She strode past what she knew to be the long burled-wood bar, with racks of wine behind, to the counter with a cash register next to the door.

“You can't do that, missy. I been here for a long time.” She heard the slosh of a bottle being lifted.