“Oh, don’t be such a snob. I quite like all the regional white varietals and blends they have. Sweet isn’t always bad, you know.”
“And the reds?” Erica pins Marisol with her gaze. The menfolk watch this exchange silently, their opinions unnecessary in this regard. My stomach clenches as Marisol’s defensive expression drops noticeably.
“They’re not a strength, I agree.”
“Are youreallywilling to putEveryday Bon Vivant’s stamp of approval on such substandard wine?” Erica huffs. “Into the Woods is a better choice, and you know it.”
Through all of this, Laine’s grip on my hand has steadily increased in pressure. Before I can slink away, regroup, and come up with a contingency plan for how to change their minds, Laine drags us both forward with sudden conviction. All four pairs of eyes widen at once.
“Marisol, Erica!” I greet them warmly in full actress mode. Gonna play this off like we didn’t just hear them trash our wine. “Good to see you! You, too, Preston and Matthew.”
“We heard everything you said,” Laine blurts.
Well, fuck.
Marisol looks stricken, but Erica turns to us, a smug challenge on her face. Some people just aren’t happy unless they’re telling you the truth, which to them, usually means whatever nasty opinion they have about you. “And? You’re Napa-trained. You worked at Le Jardin. What do you have to say about Bluebell’s red offerings?”
Laine breathes deeply through her nose, her eyes darting to me. With an apology lacing her words, she says, “Poorly executed, basic, and clumsy at best.”
My nostrils flare. It’s not that she’s wrong, but can’t she be less right? I wriggle free from Laine’s grip, but she catches my hand again before I can pull away. She mouthsbig vintner energy, thentrust me.
“Ha!” Erica spins to Marisol. “See? Their own vintner agrees with me.”
“But,” Laine interjects, pulling me closer, “there’s a reason for that. Julie Brennan was chief vintner here and was known for her complex, beautiful reds. And if you knew Cosimo, you’d see how heartbroken he is over Julie to this day. He’s never been able to handle reading Julie’s wine journals, and because of that, he’s never been able to carry on her work in that area.” Laine stops, a tentative smile on her face. “I can, though. I’ve read everything she wrote. And she’s a genius—more inspiring and insightful than anyone I worked with in California, that’s for sure. AndI’m making her wines.”
Erica’s challenge slides from her face, replaced by reluctant intrigue. “You are?”
“I’m working through the blending process now. They’re intended to be young reds, so they’ll be ready by the showcase. The whites, too. We’ll have our popular offerings, but I’m bringing back some of Julie’s creations there, also. With my own spin, of course.”
Marisol’s eyebrows rise. “There’s a story there, Erica—you have to admit it.”
“My mother’s story,” I finally speak up, my voice rusty. Maybe it’s seeing River and Hannah so happy or all those hours I spent alone under Mom’s tree, whispering memories of her to myself, but this feelsright. “We’re finally ready to tell it.”
Marisol shakes her head, a delighted smile on her face as she looks past me to the lantern-lit paths winding through the vineyard. Their honeyed light spills against the lavender skies and hazy blue mountains beyond, a beautiful dream made real. “Julie and Cosimo’s love story, set here in these breathtaking vineyards, with a fresh slate of wines representing a fusion of California winemaking principles with Georgia grapes and heirloom recipes …”
Marisol looks at Erica pointedly. Erica’s mouth goes flat, recognizing a clear nudge from her boss to admit she’s wrong. “It definitely sets a scene.” Erica sighs. “A compelling one.”
“Thank you,” I say, truly meaning it. Everything else in my life may be on fire, but as long as Bluebell Vineyards is safe, I feel safe, too.
“Would you consider working with Into the Woods, though?” Erica asks abruptly. “Collaborating somehow? You’re right next door to each other. That way, your wine offerings could be bolstered by—”
“No.” The word comes out heavy and loud, like an anvil splashing into a river. Perhaps it will drag me down to the bottom with it, but Rachel doesn’t get to benefit from our work after being so cruel to us.
Matthewhmms. “Funny, Rachel Woods said the same thing when we asked her.”
“Let’s just say there’s a story there, too. One that only gets told after shots of tequila.” I smile to dispel any lingering tension.
Marisol laughs. “Well, sign me up for that when this is all behind us.”
“In the meantime, how about we take you around the property so you can see how we set up for big crowds?” Laine slips an arm around me, her fingers pressing against the soft space between hip and ribs. “Zoe’s completely outdone herself with this wedding.” Laine smiles down at me. She’s only a few inches taller, and I fit so neatly at her side that my body believes this story of us, my heart fluttering, skin prickling with chills at her touch. My brain knows better than to put stock in stories, though, and what’s a body without a brain?
A bag of dumb meat. Her fingers caress my back, and my pulse quickens.
Stop it, meat bag!
“We’d be delighted,” Marisol says.
We take them from spot to spot on the property, finding renegade parties broken off from the main group at each location. I have a feeling the revelry for River and Hannah will continue late into the night.I’mcertainly not going to kick any of these people out. We even have the barn stocked with snacks, water, ibuprofen, and sleeping bags for guests too blitzed to drive, a giant sleepover just waiting to happen, as long as they don’t mind Baahlzebub’s occasional bleat.
