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He stopped in front of a pueblo-style house.
Viga beams projected through the adobe walls. Built-in steps led to a roof terrace, and rough-wood columns supported the overhang that acted as the front entrance’s portico.
“You said this cabin is original to the property?”
“Yes, it was renovated in the early fifties but was originally built in the late eighteen-nineties. It’s small but comfortable. Want to see inside?”
“I’d love to.” I jumped at the opportunity to connect with history.
He punched the code in the keyless lock, opened the sturdy wooden door, and stepped aside. “After you.”
The viga beams spanned the length of the cabin, their dark wood contrasting against the whitewashed tongue and groove ceiling. A kiva fireplace was the room’s focal point, while skylights flooded the space with sunlight. The floors were gray slate, and the walls were white plaster with dark wood trim. A double bed, desk, table, antique cedar chest, refinished rocking chair, and two chairs furnished the main room, while a breakfast bar separated it from the kitchenette.
“Entering this cabin is like being transported back in time.” The longer I examined the main room, the more details I found to admire. I pushed open a heavy wooden door, and light streamed through the bath’s glass-tiled windows, while colorful, Mexican Talavera tile lined the shower’s walls, vanity, sink, and backsplash. Modern copper fixtures completed the updated yet rustic look and feel. “I love this cabin. It’s so inviting.”
“This is how it looked when I bought it.” He pointed to a framed photo near the fireplace, showing the same room, but with crumbling plaster walls, warped linoleum, and a broken door. “The restoration turned out all right…”
He sounded unconvinced as he regarded the room.
Doesn’t he realize what a fantastic job he did? I chuckled at the irony. “Talk about understatement. If your expansion plans work out even half as well, your winery’s bound to succeed.”
“Thanks. Appreciate your vote of confidence.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, how ’bout lunch?”
“Absolutely, I’m starved.” My stomach growled at the mention of food, and I started toward the truck. “Where are we going?”
“To my favorite restaurant, but no need to drive.” Wearing a mysterious grin, he waved me back. “We can walk.”
“Okay…”
“Are you up for a picnic?”
“In February?” Glancing at the remaining patches of snow, I squinted.
He ushered me toward a small, concrete patio between the vineyard and wine cellar.
A linen-covered table beneath a wooden arbor displayed vintage china, silverware, crystal wine glasses, a vase of pink roses, several covered platters, and an ice bucket holding a carton of orange juice and a bottle of champagne. Beside the table were two cushioned chairs and a gas heater.
“Lunch is served.” Wearing a grin, he pulled out my chair. “And you’re seated in front of the heater.”
“All the comforts of home.” How romantic.
“Would you like a mimosa?”
“This day just keeps getting better.”
He blended the sparkling wine and juice, handed me a glass, and lifted his in a toast. “To…what?” His eyes flashing in the sunlight, he tweaked a brow.
A smile tickled my lips. “How ’bout to fresh starts and new beginnings?”
“I’ll drink to that.” He clinked glasses. Then one by one, he lifted the covers from the chafing dishes. “This is sautéed mushrooms and asparagus, and that’s grilled chicken.” He pointed to the plastic-covered salad bowl. “Maybe you’d like to start with the fresh strawberry and spinach salad? Or would you rather begin with cheese and bread?”
“It’s a hard choice.” I blinked at the unexpected feast. “You made all this yourself?”
“Yup.” His cheekbones lifted in a grin. “Everything but the cheese, champagne, and OJ.”
“You’re a Renaissance man.” Impressed, I studied him. “What can’t you do?”
He bunched his lips as if uncomfortable, then offered me the cutting board with a wheel of brie and a round loaf of bread. “The brie’s so creamy, it melts into the bread.”
