Twice in a Blue Moon (24 page)

“I'd love to see your grapes, Reece.” Some of the tension of the past twenty-four hours whooshed out with the words.

An hour later, pride dancing in her stomach, she was on her way home. The summer wind tore in the open windows and sunroof, lifting her hair as if it, too, was dancing. “I did it. I actually, by God, did it!” She pounded a fist on the steering wheel.

She'd held back in the fear of a misstep for so long that releasing it, she felt weightless. She wanted to hug Barney. She wanted a milkshake for dinner. She wanted to party.

Too bad you fired the only person you'd want to party with.

“Well, I can guarantee that
you
weren't on the guest list. And frankly, you're starting to freak me out. I don't think this is normal.”

Probably not. I'll go away if you stop denying the truth.

“Truth is, I just saved The Widow.” She swiped the hair out of her smile. “Me. All by myself.”

Now who's being arrogant? You had help.

“I don't see anyone else in this car.”

The nightmare scene from yesterday floated through her mind, along with his words.

“I've done nothing but try to help. You have the right to be upset with my choices. But I've never been disloyal. To you or any employer—or to any woman.

“You need to fire me.”

“Do us both a favor. Fire me.”

“I'd quit, but that would be disloyal, wouldn't it?”

His eyes. Belying his biting words, his eyes were soft. Sad.

Loving.

“He
wanted
me to fire him.” Denial blew out the sunroof. “He knew that firing him was the only way for me to get the grapes. To save the winery. So he goaded me into it.”

And he trusted that you were smart enough to figure it out. Not bad for an arrogant ass who wants to make all the decisions, huh?

He'd been trying to help her in the only way he could.

That soft, loving look burned like the deep cut of a razor blade. At first there is no pain. But then blood sheets down, and you know it's going to hurt soon. A lot. And for a long time.

He'd trusted her when she hadn't trusted herself. Since she'd come to the winery, she'd been whining that people didn't respect her authority. The truth was, the authority was lying in front of her the whole time, and she had been too scared to pick it up. When she hadn't, Sondra and Danovan picked up the power and used it. For their own purposes, to be sure, but also to help The Widow.

To help her.

She waited for her smartass conscience to comment, but it had gone back to sleep.

The newly painted sign for The Tippling Widow came up on her left. Slowing, she turned in and hit the buttons to roll up the car windows and close the sunroof. She didn't feel like partying anymore. She wanted to bury herself under the bedcovers, snuggle with Barney and pour out her regret into the pillow.

Because, even knowing all this, it didn't matter. She and Danovan were over.

What happens to teachers when the students graduate?

They move on to the next students.

Danovan had done what he needed to do—what he'd promised to do. It was time for her to honor his teaching and do the same.

Six weeks later

D
ANOVAN
RAISED
HIS
clippers over his head, both to signal the driver and to use his sleeve to blot the sweat stinging his eyes. “Carlos, bring the tractor down this row!” He shouldn't have to work the vines, but thanks to the bumper crop, there wasn't a spare hand to be hired in the Central Valley.

Not that this job was glamorous to begin with. He was little more than a harvest supervisor during the day and a security guard at night. He was the only regular employee of the defunct vineyard, and a temporary one at that—this job would end when the vineyard sold.

This was the winery that had been contracted to buy Winters's grapes but had been shut down by the bankruptcy court first. He knew he was lucky to get this job. The CPA firm handling the receivership was based in LA, or else they'd have been warned off hiring him by anyone in the valley.

He clipped another bunch of plump, perfect Concords and dropped them in the bin at his feet. Too bad he wouldn't get the chance to turn these beauties into wine.

Such a shame.

The vineyard had been bought two years ago by a couple of lawyers from Westwood—a pair of wine aficionados who liked sampling wines much more than the reality of producing them. Poor management had run it into the ground. If only he had the money, he'd buy it himself. But if he had money, he wouldn't be here; he'd be at The Widow, using the money to pull The Widow out of its jam.

Now his job was to simply get the grapes in, turn off the lights and lock up.

That's what happens when a newbie tries to run a winery.

For the hundredth time today, a freeze-frame picture of Indigo surfaced in his mind. Sometimes it was so strong he expected to see her walking down a row toward him in her floppy straw vineyard hat and the special smile she wore only for him.

Unlike this winery's recent owners, Indigo had known enough to know what she didn't know, and she hired experienced people to teach her until she could run it herself. She was the exception.

Jesse and Sondra had recently told him that, in spite of the craziness of harvest, Indigo was doing fine. He hadn't doubted that she would. She had the tenaciousness of a kid who'd spied a candy bar in the checkout line.

“Ouch, dammit.” He stared at the small bloody spot on his finger where skin used to be. Served him right for daydreaming.

When the tractor hauling large fruit bins labored slowly past, Danovan dumped his fruit into it. The phone in his pocket buzzed. He set down his bin, checked the display and answered. “Hey, Sis. Let me guess—it's raining there?”

“Duh. It's Seattle. Why ask?”

Just hearing the lilt in her voice lifted his spirits. “To remind you how bad it is, so you'll move south.”

“Nah. I got used to being miserable, growing up with you. I wouldn't know how to function any other way.”

Of the three of them, he and Stacy had always been closest, though some distance had grown between them in recent years as they each got on with their own lives. “So you don't care that it's a gorgeous, sunny eighty-two here, and not a cloud in the sky?”

“See? Miserable. You make my point, Danno.”

He chuckled and shoved the clippers in his back pocket. “If you didn't call about the weather, what's up?”

“The family took a vote, and I was elected most likely to survive this phone call, so...”

He put his finger in his other ear to hear over the tractor. He didn't like the sound of this. In spite of being scattered across the country, his family had remained close. That could be both good and bad.

This was going to be bad. “Why am I afraid?”

“We, the fam I mean, made an investment yesterday.”

“And you are calling to rub it in? You know I have no money for—”

“No, dumbshit.
You
are the investment. We're buying the winery you're managing.”

He felt the heat rise in his neck as his ego plummeted. The sun blazed hotter. Sweat popped on his forehead. “No.”

“Yes.”

Goddammit. He'd known they were concerned about his latest setback, but he'd now become the family charity case. “That's just great. I'll recommend a manager you can hire.”

“Danovan, don't be dumb. What better investment could we make than a winery that you're in charge of?”

He took a deep breath. He wouldn't kill the messenger. His sister probably wasn't aware of the knife she'd jabbed into his guts. “Look, Stacy. I'm done with the Central Valley. When this harvest is over, I'm heading to Napa.”

“Tucking tail and running, huh?”

Scratch that. She knew about the knife. The option of killing the messenger was back on the table. “Screw you, Stace, and the rest of the investors. Where do you get off, going behind my back...? Find a new charity case. I'm just fine.”

“Don't you dare hang up on me, Danovan DiCarlo.” She hesitated a moment to be sure he hadn't. “Do I need to remind you of how you all bailed me out?”

Stacy was a brilliant forensic CPA, but her investigative skills didn't extend to her love life. Three years ago, the family had loaned her money to divorce her cheating husband, and they'd set her up in her own practice across the country from the loser.

“Looking back, I don't know what I would have done...” The last words choked off.

He didn't have the heart to call the pity card. “Oh, hell, don't you go all soft and blubbery, or I
am
hanging up.”

“Shut up, hardass.” She released a damp chuckle. “Just think about it, will you? You have a couple of weeks until you need to make a decision.”

He ran his hand through his sweaty hair. “I'm not going to change my mind.”

“Oh, and Danno? I love your stubborn, prideful ass.”

Click.

This had to be the bottom of the ocean. Could a grown man sink lower than having his family bail him out without him even knowing? A wave of vertigo washed over him, tilting the horizon.

“Hey, Joe, keep things moving, will you? I've gotta get out of this sun.”

“Sure, boss.”

He trudged to the end of the row then headed for his car in the lot. He had to do some shopping anyway, and the chore would have the added benefit of air-conditioning.

His family meant well. But even so, he felt betrayed. Powerless. Small. A man took care of himself—it was his job to get out of his own messes.

He stopped still, ten steps from his car.

This is how Indigo felt when you went behind her back about the grapes.

Well-meaning people taking your power might have a better outcome than when your enemies did it, but the feeling was the same.

Shitty.

He unlocked the door of the seven-year-old sedan he'd traded the Range Rover, even-up for. His wheels sucked, but it was worth it, not having a payment over his head.

This newly simple life did have its advantages. After the initial panic, he found he kind of liked drifting through the days, not looking ahead, trying not to look back, his only concern the immediate needs of the vines and his body. Once he got used to this new way of life, he'd found it oddly peaceful.

At least, he thought that feeling was peace.

Sliding into his oven with plastic seats, he fired the engine and cranked the AC.

He
thought
he'd changed. Become more humble and appreciative of the small things.

But how could he really know for sure?

* * *

I
NDIGO
EYED
THE
grapes jiggling by on the shaker conveyor, picking out green ones and bits of stems. God, these grapes were beautiful. And thanks to Reece Winters, they had all they could process. She was mixing her crop with Winters's to assure consistency of the end product since The Widow's were higher quality.

Thanks to Danovan.

She picked up a grape and bit into it. Bittersweet. Just like her life lately. Everywhere she turned, he was there: in the driveway, showing her how to drive the tractor; kneeling in the soil, teaching her how to test for moisture; at the bar, instructing her on wine-tasting etiquette.

In the bedroom, teaching you other things.

God, she was seriously considering a lobotomy. As if her own memories didn't haunt her enough, the voice in her head was driving her mad, saying things she couldn't afford to think.

Like the difference between Harry's love and Danovan's, on a physical and emotional level. And the realization that, though Harry had nurtured a young, naïve Indigo, Danovan's love was more what she needed now.

She'd spent a month licking her wounds before she could admit that, even though Danovan took way too many liberties professionally, he wasn't like that on a personal level. He was always respectful and supportive, never grabbing anything she didn't freely offer. He'd followed close, yet let her lead. She missed him at her back.

But he came as a package deal, and professionally, she couldn't trust him.

She sighed, running her hands over the grapes he'd so loved, wishing he'd had a chance to work on that signature wine he'd always talked about.

Oh, well, he'll have that opportunity in Napa.

Jesse had told her recently that Danovan was moving on. How could that fact hurt and make her happy at the same time? He needed to start over somewhere new. Somewhere he would be judged on his brilliant talent and not what happened at Bacchanal.

Or here.

“Indigo, there's a problem with the crusher,” Sean yelled over the sound of the machinery. “Oh, and Marco stopped in and told me they need you to test sugar on the next section of grapes.”

“Okay, hang on.” Her brain shifted two gears as she rearranged her afternoon. Again. “I'll work on the crusher. Go find Vern and ask him to test the grapes.” Thank God she'd kept the old man's résumé from when she'd interviewed managers in the beginning. At seventy, he couldn't handle the physical labor, but his fifty years of experience in the wine business had proved invaluable.

Yeah, but he's no Danovan.

She had to admit, this time, that part of her brain was correct. Vern had been upfront that, though he knew it all, his expertise was more as a vineyard manager than a master winemaker.

Something would have to be done about that soon. Maybe she could contract with someone out of Cal Poly.

Wiping her hands on a rag, she walked to the crusher. Damned thing would have to be replaced next year; there was an electrical short somewhere.

Thanks to the bank loan, she'd been able to hire the extra help she needed for harvest, but most days she still needed four clones of herself.