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I smile, glad he’s caught on. He walks right past Fiona and spins in a circle, intentionally looking everywhere except where she stands with her eyes squeezed shut as though that will make her invisible.
He stomps back over to the porch, slumping his shoulders in mock defeat. “I can’t find her either. Wow, she’s really good at this game.”
“She has her daddy’s brains, so I shouldn’t be surprised,” I tell him.
I’m not flirting. It’s the truth. I’ve never met a kid as sharp as Fiona, and she gets the same intense look as her dad when she’s trying to work something out. She’s all Jackson.
His smile doesn’t carry to his eyes, which are focused on something in the distance. I can’t blame him—when I look out at the vineyards, I find myself lost in reverie as well, but in Jackson’s case, I’m not sure that’s all there is to it.
“Hey, where’d you go?”
He blinks and squares his shoulders. “Eh, just work stuff. Still thinking about it, I guess.” His sigh tells the truth. He’s more than thinking about it.
“Want to talk instead of just thinking? I’m more of a science gal, but if you feel like throwing some numbers at me, I’ll try to keep up.”
Even though he’s been coming home from work earlier over the past week or so, I don’t get a sense that he’s any less stressed about his job.
He rubs the back of his neck, face set in grim resignation. “I have no doubt you could keep up.” His voice lowers, barely above a whisper. “Trouble is I’m not sure I can explain it. Everything comes down to the numbers, and they’re not adding up.”
“Any new idea how to fix that?”
“No.” A muscle in his cheek ticks. I wait to see if he’ll explain more than the little he told me at the burger place, even though it’s none of my business. Maybe the finances of the winery are proprietary information, and I’m just an employee in the tasting room. Even if I do have a college degree, it doesn’t give me any special insight.
“Well, the answer is there, and I’m sure you’ll find it. Or maybe someone on your team will come up with a lead.”
“I’m not discussing it with my team,” he admits, rubbing his neck again. “I don’t really have much of a team, actually. Just my assistant and an accountant who works with the numbers I give him.”
“So you’re a lone wolf, basically.”
“I guess you could call it that.”
I nod. It makes sense. This is the man who was shouldering a job and being the sole caregiver for his daughter until a month ago.
“Ever consider working on that? Letting people help?” I elbow him gently in the ribs, and he catches my arm before I can pull it back. I feel the zing of electricity when his hand wraps around my elbow, then casually slides down the length of my forearm and squeezes my hand.
I stand frozen, unsure if I want to meet his eye and search for meaning where there might be none.
“Youguys. I was hiding right there!” Fiona steps out from behind the vine, hands on her hips, bottom lip jutting out.
Jackson drops my hand like it stings and takes a step away from me.
The seriousness of the moment rides off on the breeze as he strides over to hug Fiona.
“You’re a very good hider, what can I say?”
Fiona laps up his praise and tilts her head, looking from one of us to the other. “Who wants to play tag?” She doesn’t wait for us to answer before poking each of us with a finger and spinning away. “You’re both it! And you can’t catch me.”
Fiona has the spindly-legged gait of a colt as she races down a row of vines with her arms pumping. I watch her blond waves bounce and catch the sun as she runs carefree through the rows of twining plants. Her smile is so wide; I could count her teeth from here when she turns back to see if we’re hot on her heels.
In the distant sky, a glider sails along, something I’ve gotten used to seeing over the vineyards. They fertilize the vines or drop pesticides on neighboring crops, just not at Buttercup because the vines here are organically grown.
I turn back to Jackson, who shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Thanks for offering to talk. Or listen. Maybe I’ll take you up on it sometime.” He inhales, and I think he might say more, but he clamps his lips shut.
“Anytime.”
We turn our attention to Fiona, who’s barely visible now that she’s turned down a row of vines. A whisp of her pink dress is our only indication of where she is, and we take off jogging in her direction.
“I can’t believe how much energy that girl has,” he says, his stride so long it takes me two steps to every one of his to keep pace.
