Page 68 of Wild Abandon

I smile at the comment, but the way he’s looking at me with his eyes all adoring and knowing, my breathing stops for a moment, and I’m in shock. “We are not in a relationship!”

Harry’s mouth stops mid chew, the toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

“I just work here,” I continue with a hasty tone. “We’re not…I mean, he could be my father!”

Harry’s forehead crinkles as he takes in my comment, and then he slaps his knee, hard, and lets out a howl. “As if that old bastard could land a filly like you!” He takes his tone down a notch and shakes his head, still laughing. His shoulders stop shaking as he takes a deep breath. “After Ellie got sick, he stopped caring about the world. Turned his back on his friends, on his family. I don’t know what you did, but keep on doing it.” Harry looks down, his expression downturned in concentration. “Now, if only we could get him to talk to—”

“Will you quit hitting on the girl?” Ed is standing over the two of us, seemingly unhappy with the conversation we were having.

“We were just talking about bringing some tour groups back here,” Harry redeems himself. “You know it was always my favorite spot.”

I look over to Harry in confusion, so he explains, his hands outstretched in a show of pride, “Handsome Harry’s Luxury Tours, at your service.”

“Wine tours? Here?” My mouth is agape. I turn to Ed. “Yes! You said it’s time. Can Harry bring the tour group through? What would you serve?”

Mark chimes in, “He has stock. And I know there’s something in those barrels.”

The other men make their way over to the conversation, looking at Ed, waiting to see what he’s going to say.

Ed leans on his cane and nods his head. “Russet Ranch is back open for business.”

The seven of us cheer into the open sky and clap in enjoyment. The men pour more liquor, and Dan the Band Man breaks out his guitar. The two of us play some old folk music that Ed is a particular fan of. Loaded with bourbon, the men sing as loud as they possibly can and keep going until the sun sets, serenading the coyotes under the twinkling lights of the pergola.

Is it strange that I’m nervous? I don’t know why I am. The ranch isn’t mine, and Ed’s been doing this for years. It’s probably because I don’t know what to expect.

I’m standing by the bar, palms sweaty with a dancing butterfly in my belly, when Handsome Harry’s Luxury Tours van can be heard coming up the driveway. I peek out the front door and see him helping the tour group out. There are twelve of them. Harry walks them over into a small patch of vineyard and starts talking to them about the grapes.

I turn around and walk back toward the bar. I straighten the pleats of my sundress and fix my necklace. Ed is wearing a bowling shirt and his staple khaki pants rolled up at the ankles with loafers and no socks. Today, he has on his fedora with a feather sticking out.

When Ed walks outside to greet Harry and the tour group, I notice something new on the side wall by the bar—four photos in old frames. One photo is unmistakably Rosemary. She looks to be in her forties and has long red hair twisted up into a bun on the top of her head, wispy tendrils of hair blowing around her face. She is standing in the rose garden and looks like she is trying to run away from having her picture taken yet smiling uncontrollably. The next is Ellie. She is older in the photo than in her portrait. In her late teens, she’s standing in a barrel with denim shorts and feet buried in grapes. She is laughing, and her hair is flying in the air. She must have been mid crush, dancing, when it was taken. There is photo of an old man seated in a rocker, who I assume is Old Man Russet, and the fourth is of me. I’m seated at the stone bench, playing the cello. The roses are behind me, the sun setting in the distance, and I have a grin on my face. Someone must have taken it the other night.

Ed and Harry walk in, talking to the tour group. Ed tells everyone to stand around the bar. I move out of the way and head to the back door. I watch as Ed pours tasting glasses for everyone and gives them a lesson about the wine, a lesson I sat through a few weeks ago.

On the veranda, I make sure the lunch we prepared is set up. Harry serves his tours a meal midday, and the veranda of Russet Ranch was always his favorite place to bring people. I take my seat and play my cello, waiting for the tasting portion of the visit to complete and for everyone to come outside.

“Napa is for lovers, not loners.”

Nate’s statement is beyond true when it comes to Harry’s tour group. Six couples, all on a honeymoon or anniversary trip of some sort. They sit down at the table together. I always wondered why Ed had such a large table out here. Now, I understand.

The strangers eat together, family-style, enjoying the lunch we had catered and the wine they purchased today from Ed. They ask Ed questions about himself, intrigued by someone who lives here in Napa. He answers and even throws in some interesting facts about the region. The music brings an elegant ambiance to the afternoon. As I play, I look out onto the rose garden, breathing in the northern California air.

After an hour, Harry tells everyone that it’s time to move on to their next location. I follow the group as they exit, walking around the side of the building, and wave them off along with Ed.

When they’re gone, Ed gives me a pat on the shoulder and stalks toward the garage. Today must have been an emotional day for him. His ranch is back—well, almost. My next mission is to get him to reclaim the vineyards as his own, so he can make wine again.

As I walk into the main room of the ranch, my head is in a daze from the afternoon, and I almost miss the man standing in the middle of the old Persian carpet, staring up at the chandelier.

A man whose physique I’d know anywhere.

A strong back whose lines are contoured through his dark T-shirt. His arms hang at his sides, the infinity tattoo visible from his lowered wrist. He has on a hat, covering the buzz cut I know is beneath, and I know that when he turns around, I’ll see lips I’ve tasted and that told me to leave.

Nate’s back stiffens, as if he knows I’m behind him, and he turns around. His face has a look of confusion.

He takes a step back and points up to the chandelier. “Why is that here?”

I purse my lips and consider his question. Why is it here? Because I thought it was pretty and would brighten up the space. It’s similar to a fixture I saw on the show Fixer Upper and knew it would be an awesome contrast against the hardie board, giving it the rustic chic look I was going for.

I would say that, but I have a feeling that’s not what he’s really asking.