“Yes, boss.” This beautiful, sexy wine scientist looks at me like she wants to drink me up. Like she loves me.
And the best part is, I know she does.
“Now, folks, this installation is meant to be experienced the way a night of good stories always is—at your own pace, with laughter and talk and sharing in the simple act of memory,” Tristan announces to the small group of helpers. He presses something that looks like a PowerPoint clicker, and a whoosh of gasps rises from the crowd as the vineyard lights up. Over a dozen projectors going at once, their images stretched across the forest, the hills, the vines themselves. A picture of my mom at the hardware store, waving behind the counter.My father, tiny beneath amassive hiking pack. A long-arm shot of their heads pressed close together at the top of Springer Mountain, our untamed land in the distance. The newspaper clipping announcing Bluebell’s opening. Small cuts of family videos are interspersed with the static shots, too. Dad chasing toddler-me down the Chardonnay vines, our faces lit up in silent laughter. Me blowing out six flickering birthday candles. Mom and Dad slow dancing at a vineyard event, when the patio was just grass with the moon hung above them.
All these images, flickering, distorted by the trees, or the ground, or even the barn roof they stretch out upon. The past overlaid the present, giving a feeling of place that’s heavier than the here and now. The story of my parents, my family, and now,us. Laine sucks in a breath as I lead her toward the pictures of young Zoe mirrored beside pictures of young Laine that Molly supplied. Then there’s Laine with her goggles on, me behind the tasting bar; Laine holding me up while I laugh wildly in front of the Redneck Wine Tour bus. Our own slow dance at River and Hannah’s wedding, a candid shot Tristan took.
“Zoe, baby, it’s incredible.” Laine hugs me closer and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Thank you for making me a part of this magical place.”
I lean up to kiss her cheek. “You make it even better.”
The installation is beautiful, but even better, it’sinteresting. The crowd of workers stands in awe for a few moments before people head off to explore whichever vignette calls to them most.
“All right, everyone! Doors open in THREE MINUTES!” Hannah announces through Darryl’s camouflage megaphone, swiped from the tour bus. “To your stations!”
Laine spins me around to give me a soft, tender kiss. “It’s ho-time, boss.”
I smile, kissing her once more before giving Hannah the signal and throwing my arms wide. “Let the ho-case begin!”
The wine starts toflow.
And it’s magic, this bright October evening. The moon’s not quite full, but it hangs in the darkening sky like a spotlight shining down on Bluebell, onus, us from heaven above. The vignettes look amazing, folks happily ambling along our bulb-lit trails, glasses in hand, oohing and aahing over every chapter of this love story. On the autumn breeze floats the sweet scent of woodsmoke and the rich, heady smell of wine. Everywhere is happiness, and I soak it all up.
“There you are!” Marisol squeezes past the crowds gathering at the cheese tent for the tastings. A worried crease lines her brow.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We received a last-minute press pass request.” Marisol wets her lips. “From Benjamin Soren—the wine critic fromVinitopia. He’s here.”
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. “Oh, god! He wrote a terrible review about Laine!” But Marisol doesn’t look surprised. “You … knew?”
Marisol nods glumly. “Of course we knew. We check up on all our vineyards. Not that we cared in the slightest. We believe in you both, but I’ve been trying to find her before she stumbles into him by accident.”
I cross my arms, a keenly edged protectiveness within me ready to do battle. “I’ll look for her, too.”
“Just remember, his words can’t touch either of you after tonight.” Marisol squeezes my arm. “Everything is perfect, Zoe. I’m so proud of you both, and I hope it’s not wrong to say it, but I know your mother would be, too.”
The air lifts the tips of my hair gently, and I place my hand over Marisol’s and squeeze. “Thank you, Marisol. For everything.”
I jog off, texting Laine as I go, but find her first, glorious and grinning behind the bar dedicated to her new line of reds in the tasting tent. She’spouring glass after glass, graciously accepting the heaps of praise from her customers. A sour note twists in my stomach at the thought of telling her Soren is here. But if he catches her unaware, or worse, says asinglegoddamn thing to her, I’m not sure how either of us will handle that.
Probably with a bottle of our boldest bludgeoning varietal.
I’m still making my way toward the bar when a hand taps me on the shoulder. I’m ready to make a quick excuse so I can get to Laine, but it’s Mayor Esposito.
“Zoe!” Her politician’s smile is brilliant, full of pride for Blue Ridge and glee at the mass of wine tourists entering town. “Congratulations, darling!”
“Oh, thank you, Mayor. I’ve just—” I make a little pointing gesture toward the bar, but she throws her arm around my shoulders, reeling me in.
“Whatever it is, it can wait. Youmustmeet this wine buyer. She selects the full inventory for Publix, and she’s crazy about Laine’s new Pinot Noir blend!” She spins me toward an effusive redhead who already has her hand outstretched to shake mine. When I finally extricate myself from the exciting, if extremely poorly timed meeting, my heart stutters in my chest.
I’m too late.
Benjamin Soren, slouching all his weight onto one leg, holds a wineglass under his nose like a fishbowl he’s reluctantly sniffing. It’s Laine’s favorite of her new red blends, appropriately titled Redemption Red. Laine’s standing there watching him, her jaw clenched. She’s trying to play it cool, but you don’t have to be in love with her to see all the signs of distress. Marisol’s beside her, watching Soren warily, a protective hand on Laine’s shoulder.
My first instinct is to run over and rescue her before this guy can disturb Laine’s hard-won peace of mind. Soren doesn’t know how much isriding on his good opinion. Not that it matters in Blue Ridge what he thinks, but it matters toLaine. I can’t bear the thought of him damaging the confidence she’s painstakingly rebuilt grape by grape ever since his cruel words soured her on her life’s true passion. But something roots me to the spot.
Soren lifts the glass to the pinched line of his discriminating mouth. You can tell he’s prepared to hate it by the faux regret already playing across his miserable face.
