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“It’s delicious.”
“Getting used to concentrate?” he asks.
“Contrary to your apparent belief, I drink a lot of concentrate at home. It’s cheaper.”
“You don’t juice your own?”
I take another sip. “Don’t own a juicer.”
He turns toward me, his eyebrows raised. “Really? A Cali girl like you?”
“I’m not a vegetarian, either, as you’ve probably noticed. And clearly I have no problem poisoning myself with alcohol.”
He smiles a little at that one. “You probably know all the health benefits of wine.”
I nod. “I live by them.”
He turns back to the cooktop. “How do you like your eggs?”
“However you like them is fine. I’m not picky.”
He looks over his shoulder. “I want to know how you like them, Ashley. I want to make them for you.”
I smile. Who are you and what have you done with Dale Steel? I say only, “That’s sweet of you. Scrambled, please.”
“You got it.”
A few minutes later, a plate of eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast slides in front of me.
“Thank you.”
“Just wait.” He gestures to a mason jar. “Try some of that on your toast.”
“What is it?”
“Try it and see.” He pushes the jar toward me.
The color is a lovely smoky orange. I spread some of the jam on my toast and take a bite.
“Oh my God!” I say with my mouth full. Lively peach scatters over my tastebuds, followed by cinnamon, cloves, and something I can’t quite identify. I let it sit for a moment, tasting the jam as if I were tasting wine. It’s pepper. Subtle pepper. Maybe white pepper?
“I take it you approve?” Dale says.
I chew my toast and swallow. “That’s delicious. Did you make it?”
“Not guilty,” he says. “That’s Aunt Marj’s creation. Her spiced peach preserves from last season. She hasn’t made this year’s batch yet.”
“I doubt she can improve on this.” I take another bite and swallow more quickly this time. “Is that really white pepper I’m tasting?”
“It’s crushed pink peppercorns, actually,” he says. “The flavor is similar, but they aren’t actually true peppercorns. They’re berries from the Brazilian pepper tree. The taste is lighter.”
“Pink pepper, huh? Is there anything you don’t know about spices and cooking?”
“Not a lot. The pink is a more subtle flavor that doesn’t overwhelm the peaches and other spices. It just adds a light zing.”
I can’t help a laugh. “Zing? What’s that mean, Mr. Don’t-Be-Subjective?”
“It means a sharply piquant flavor,” he deadpans.
I shake my head, still chuckling. “I’ll never win with you, will I?”
Dale doesn’t reply. He says simply, “Just enjoy your breakfast, Ashley. We have a big day today at work.”
I slather more jam on my toast as I realize I haven’t even touched my bacon and eggs. The eggs look perfectly scrambled, too, just the way I like them. I have to eat them. He made them especially for me.
“Oh?” I bring a forkful of eggs to my mouth.
Light and fluffy and perfect with a touch of butter, just as I knew they’d be. I can’t help a satisfied, “Mmm.”
“You approve?” he says.
“Wow. Yes. Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.” I’m not even embellishing.
“Good. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “We’re beginning the harvest of the Syrah today. I figured you’d want to be involved.”
“Your vines,” I say softly.
“Yes.” He looks down at his plate.
“I imagine you like to be there. To…”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. Protect your vines?”
He smiles slightly. Just the thought of his vines makes him happy. “Sort of. They’re vines. They’re part of our business. They have to be harvested. Harvest is my favorite time of the year, honestly. But…”
“But those vines are special.”
He nods. “Yes, more special this year because we’re producing our first old-vine Syrah.”
“Right. You told me.”
“I need to make sure none of the fruit is harmed.”
“But your harvesters know what they’re doing,” I say. “I’ve been with them the last few days.”
“They do.” He offers no further explanation.
He doesn’t have to.
The Syrah vines are special to him. More than special.
He’s part of them.
He loves them.
And I wonder—only for an instant—if he loves them more than he loves me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dale
I both love and hate Syrah harvest.
Ashley won’t understand, and I don’t expect her to. Harvest, when we capture our bounty. This year’s Syrah is so beautiful, so perfect. And while I want to take the fruit from the vines—want to make those beautiful grapes into magnificent wine—still I resist inside.
But it’s the circle of life, as it is with any living thing. Because those particular vines are my sanctuary doesn’t change that.
I just like to be there. Exist next to those vines as their fruit is taken from them.
Watch over them, in a way, like they watch over me the rest of the season.
Until winter, when they’re dormant. I still sleep with them, but it’s different. They’re alive but hibernating.
Winter is hard for me.
I push the thought aside.
Winter isn’t here yet. This is autumn. Harvest time. And Ashley.
