by HELEN HARDT
“Yeah, there is.”
“What is it? Why now?”
“I don’t fucking know.”
“He’s still drunk, Dad,” I say. “We’re never going to get a straight answer out of him.”
“There’s something I need to do,” Floyd says. “Amends I need to make.”
“Amends?” I scoff. “Really?”
“Amends to your mother.”
“My mother has been dead for twenty-five years. You’re too fucking late. And you never gave a shit anyway.”
“Never gave a shit? Man, I gave her two kids. Too pretty decent specimens, if your brother looks anything like you. Can’t say I’m surprised. Cheri was one hot little number.”
“That’s it.” My curled fist makes contact with his jaw in a dull thud.
“Easy, Dale,” Dad says. “He’s already got a head injury.”
“Do I look like I care?”
Except I do care. I want to know why he’s looking for us. Why now? Why not when we truly needed him? When some derelict dragged my little brother and me out of our home, gagged us, blindfolded us, kidnapped us…and did the unthinkable? Where was Daddy Dearest then?
“I don’t care either, but I don’t want to see you brought up on an assault charge.”
“Battery, Dad.”
Dad smiles. “You’re right. Your mother and brother would have my ass for making that mistake.”
“Yeah, I’ll call the cops,” Floyd says.
“When they find out who you are and that you abandoned Dale, his brother, and their mother thirty years ago, no cop in the world would arrest my son.”
“Don’t you mean my son?” Floyd says with a snarl.
“Oh, it’s on now.” Anger roils up my spine. My muscles tense, my fingers curl into fists. I’m so ready to pummel this asshole.
“Easy,” Dad says again. “You lost the right to play the father card long ago, Floyd. I’m his father.”
“I can’t believe it. My sons were adopted by the Steels. My ship has come in!”
“Man, Dad, I’ve got to pound on him. Come on. Just a little bit.”
“Some things are a father’s prerogative.” My dad nails Floyd right in the nose.
“Fuck!” Floyd’s eyes water. “You broke my nose!”
“Consider that a preview,” Dad says.
“I’ll call the—”
“Call the cops. Yeah. Do it. After we tell them we rescued you from drowning in your own vomit, not to mention how you abandoned your kids, I think they’ll see it my way.”
So Dad isn’t worried about battery charges after all. He wants me to keep my hands clean, but he’s willing to dirty his.
That’s so much like my father. He’d do anything for me. For any of his children. All those years, Donny and I never felt “less than” for being adopted instead of natural, like Diana and Brianna. Dad was every bit as much ours as theirs.
I’ve often wondered how I got so lucky.
How Dad and Uncle Ry happened to rescue Donny and me that day.
Why he and Mom decided to take us in.
Because I could give you what you needed.
Is that all there is to it?
He said he’d tell me the whole story. That it’s time.
But first we have to deal with Floyd Jolly.
Dad takes the bathroom cloth I brought out earlier and hands it to Floyd to wipe his nose.
“Hurts like a mother,” Floyd says.
“You think I don’t know that?” Dad shakes his head. “My nose has been broken more times than I can count. Man up.”
Man up. Interesting words. Anyone who abandons two kids will never be able to man up.
At least he stops sulking.
“All right,” Dad says. “First things first. We’re going to get a DNA test to determine whether you’re Dale’s biological father for sure.”
“What about his brother?”
“I had their DNA analyzed years ago. They’re full blood brothers. If you turn out to be Dale’s father, you’re also Donny’s.”
“What’s the other one look like?”
“A lot like Dale. Darker hair. Green eyes.”
“Like mine. They have my eyes.”
I scoff. Except that he’s right. We do have the same eyes. I’ve always liked my eyes. Until now.
“It’s Sunday,” Dad says, “so we can’t get the DNA test until tomorrow. In the meantime, I guess we have to take him home with us to make sure he doesn’t skip out.”
“Bring him to the ranch? Are you kidding, Dad?”
“What other choice is there? This place is a sty.”
“We put him in a hotel room.”
“We could, but he could still run.”
“Where the hell do you think I have to go?” Floyd says.
Dad pulls out his phone. “I’m going to call your mother. Tell her we’re spending the night in the city.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m supposed to work with Ashley tomorrow.”
“Can’t Ryan take care of that?”
Yeah, he can. I never asked to have an intern, and I don’t want one.
But I want Ashley.
I won’t let her down.
God, is this me?
“I’ve already started her training. I took her to the office yesterday and—”
He gestures for me to stop. “It’s okay, Dale. Go home. I’ll order a ride and get him to a hotel and get him sobered up. You’ll have to come to town sometime tomorrow though to get your blood drawn. The earlier the better.”
I sigh. “I’ll just stay here with you tonight. We can hit a lab first thing in the morning, and then we’ll drive home. All I have to do is ask Mom to take care of Penny and tell Ashley we’ll be starting later in the morning.”
“Okay, that’s a plan. I’ll text your mother.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ashley
At ten a.m., I stand in front of Dale’s guesthouse. I got a text from him last night saying we’d be starting later today.
Ashley, it’s Dale. Meet me at
my place at ten a.m. tomorrow.
We’ll drive over together.
Very succinct and to the point. Not that I expected him to compliment me on my oral skills, but an “I’m looking forward to it” might have been nice.
I knock hesitantly. A few seconds later, the door opens. Dale stands there, wearing jeans and a black button-down shirt. His hair is unbound, as usual, and also as usual, he looks absolutely scrumptious.
“Right on time,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Okay. Not a “Good morning, nice to see you.” Not even a “Hi.”
I have my work cut out for me. Penny pants at my heels, and I give her some quick pets on the head. Just seeing her reminds me of my horrible faux pas yesterday. Jade is keeping my secret, but I feel bad about that. Really bad.
I follow Dale to his truck. Although I’m not expecting it, he opens the passenger door for me.
Silence as we drive the half hour to the office.
He parks the truck, gets out, and when I open the door, he’s standing at my side.
“I have some paperwork to get to this morning. This afternoon, we’ll go watch the harvest.”
“When do we make wine?” I ask.
“We’re always making wine. Our tasting room is open this afternoon. From one to five on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”
“Oh!” I clamp my hand to my mouth. “Are we going to do a tasting?”
“Uncle Ry does most of those.”
“Why don’t you do them?”
“It’s more his thing.”
“Can we go? I’m dying to see a tasting.”
Dale’s phone rings abruptly. “Hey, Uncle Ry,” he says.
“Dale, where are you?”
I widen my eyes. The phone’s on speaker. He doesn’t change it, so I assume he doesn’t mind if I hear what’s going on.
“At the office. I’m going to show Ashley how to do some of the
paperwork.”
“That’s ridiculous. Get her over here to the winery. The paperwork can wait.”
“Paperwork’s an important part of what we do.”
“Sure it is, but we’re in the middle of harvest. Don’t bore her on her first day. Bring her over, the three of us will have some lunch, and then you can show her how to do a tasting.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh out loud.
“Hi, Ashley,” says Ryan via the speaker.
“Hi, Mr. Steel.”
“Ryan, please. Don’t let my nephew bore you on your first day. I expect to see both of you over at the winery in fifteen.”
“Sounds good to me,” I can’t help saying.
“Fine.” Dale’s lips form a straight line. “See you, Uncle Ry.”
He glares at me with those gorgeous green eyes. “I guess you’re getting your way.”
“My way? I want to learn everything.”
“I mean you’ll be seeing a tasting today after all.”
I don’t reply, but a smile spreads across my face. I can’t wait.
After a quick tour of the winemaking facility, which is smaller than I expected, we sit down to lunch. “We keep sandwich stuff in the fridge here,” Ryan says. “Of course we always have fruit and cheese on hand for the tastings. On some Fridays, we offer a lunch before the tasting, roast beef sandwiches made with Steel beef, of course, and fruit from our orchards.”
“So all the business flows together,” I reply.
“Exactly. My brothers and I all work together for the good of the entire ranch. My grandfather had a vision, and my father brought it to fruition. We keep it going.”
“It’s amazing.” I take a drink of my bottled water. “When can I taste a western slope peach?”
“How does today sound?” He rises, walks to a box on a nearby shelf, pulls out a peach, and tosses it to me.
It’s huge, the size of a soft ball. And the aroma. My God. “Do you have a knife?”
“Don’t tell me you’re a peeler like my nephew here.”
“Sorry, I can’t eat anything fuzzy.”
“She sounds like you, Dale.”
Dale reddens slightly. So we have something in common other than wine. He doesn’t like peach fuzz either.
Ryan brings a few knives over and hands another peach to Dale. Then he takes a juicy bite out of his own. “Nothing like it.”
I slice my peach in two and then peel it. The peel comes off easily. Just a nick with the knife and I can pull it off. The flesh is tangerine orange, and the juices drizzle over my hand. I cut it into bite-size pieces and pop one into my mouth. The flavor explodes across my taste buds. Sweet fruity flavor with just a touch of acidity. And vibrant hot pink. As I suspected, the taste isn’t peach-colored.
“What do you think?” Ryan asks.
I swallow. “Delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Do you ever make wines from your orchard fruit?”
“I’ve made a few in my day, but Dale here is a purist.” Ryan laughs.
“What’s wrong with thinking wine should be made with grapes?” Dale asks.
“Not a thing,” Ryan says. “But what does it hurt to get creative once in a while?”
“We’re a serious operation,” Dale says. “We make serious wine here.”
“We make the best wine,” Ryan agrees. “But we also have the best fruit at our disposal.”
“Do you have any of your fruit wines available?” I ask.
“Just a few cases of Fuji apple that we bottled last year. Fruit wines need to be drunk young, as you probably know, so when I go that route, it’s a small bottling, and we try to sell all of it the season we release it.”
“I’d love to try it.”
Dale scoffs. “Would you, Doctor?”
“Yeah, I absolutely would. I bet it’s delicious.”
“It is,” Ryan says. “It’s not fine wine, but it’s not meant to be. It’s crisp and fun.”
Fun. Dale needs some fun. Has he ever had fun in his life? At the party Saturday night, he didn’t talk to many people.
“Tell you what. I’d like to sell off these last several cases. We’ll open a bottle at the tasting today.”
“The tasting I’ll be doing?” Dale asks.
“Yup. If you don’t want to pour the apple, Ashley here can do it.”
I widen my eyes. “Really?”
“The best way to learn is on the job,” Ryan says. “I’ve got our Rhône blend, our fine Cab, and our Cab Franc set out for today. Something different will complement those three well. You can take the Cab Franc and the apple. Dale can handle the Rhône and the Cab.”
“This is so exciting!” I pop another piece of juicy peach into my mouth.
Across from me, Dale looks anything but excited.
Oh, well.
I came here to learn, and that’s what I’ll do.
Whether he likes it or not.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dale
I don’t actually mind doing tastings, but Ryan usually does them because he’s got the perfect personality for them. He’s jovial and full of life, and I’m…
Well, I’m not.
I’m an introvert. I’m not good at making small talk, and tastings require small talk. I’ve learned to compensate. Today, though, with Ashley and the feelings she evokes in me plus the added stress of waiting for the DNA blood test results, I’m going to have an even harder time.
Ashley licks peach juice off her fingers.
God. My groin tightens. Our peaches are the juiciest and sweetest, but Ashley’s pussy tastes even better. She continues licking her finger, and I remember her flavor on my fingers, on my tongue.
How the hell am I going to get through this day? The next three months?
Employees come in to prepare the tasting room.
Ryan picks up his phone. “How many today, Stella?” Pause. “Fifteen? Great. Dale’s going to be doing the honors, along with our new intern.” He ends his call.
“All right. You sure you don’t want to be around for this?” I ask him.
“I actually have a phone conference,” he says, “so you were on the hook today anyway.”
Great. Not that I mind. It’s part of the job, but I have to pour apple wine?
Of course, I won’t be pouring it. Ashley will. “Have you ever done a tasting before?” I ask her.
“Just in class, but I’ll do fine. Don’t worry.”
“Let’s do a quick pour of all the wines so you can taste them before the customers get here.” I pull the bottles off the shelf at my right and grab a bottle of the apple out of the cooler. It needs to be poured cold.
I uncork the apple first and insert the stainless-steel wine pourer. I grab a clean goblet, pour a portion, and hand it to Ashley. “Tell me what you think.”
She holds the glass up to the light. “Nice color.”
Looks like light pee, but whatever. “What else?”
She swirls it in the glass and then inhales. “Nice nose. Apples and spring blossoms.”
“See?” I say. “This is why I’m not into fruit wines. They only smell and taste like the fruit they’re made from.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” she demands.
Ryan laughs. “I’ve got a conference to get to, so I’ll leave you two to battle it out.” He leaves the tasting room.
I open my mouth and find I have no answer to Ashley’s question. So I make one up. “Because that’s not what wine is about. Wine is about bringing every nuance of the fruit into the glass. No one tastes a glass of Merlot and says, ‘This tastes like grapes.’”
She laughs, and as much as I don’t want to, I smile. Her laugh is joyful. Infectious, even. Part of me wants to erupt into giggles with her.
“You’re a handful,” she says, taking a sip of the wine.
“I’m a handful? You’re the handful here.”
She swallows the wine. “I’ve got the perfect word to describe this wine.”
�
�Yeah? What’s that?”
She grins. “Apple-y.”
I roll my eyes but say nothing because she’s right. The Fuji apple wine is nothing but apple-y. The apples that made this wine are my favorite of all Dad’s fruit, but they’re meant to be eaten, not fermented.
“It’s fresh and crisp,” she continues. “Semi-dry, which I shouldn’t like, but I do.”
So she doesn’t like sweet wine? Maybe she’s serious about wine after all. I stop myself from scoffing. Of course she’s serious. She’s getting a PhD in wine, for God’s sake.
“Most fruit wines are made to the sweeter side,” I say.
“I tasted a beautiful tart cherry wine once that was quite dry,” she says.
“Really? I’ve never tasted a fruit wine that was dry enough for me.”
“Probably because you turn your nose up at fruit wines.”
Again, I say nothing. She’s not wrong.
“Just because I’m getting a doctorate in oenology doesn’t mean I’m a wine snob.” She swirls the apple wine in her glass once more and then drinks the last of it, swallowing. “This is lovely. Is it fine wine? Of course not, but it has its place.”
“And what place is that?”
“I don’t know. A crawfish boil. A fish fry.”
“A fish fry…maybe. A light red is perfect with a crawfish boil.”
She stares at me intently. “Have you ever actually been to a crawfish boil?”
“Have you?” I retort.
She blushes. Adorably. “Well…no, actually.”
Neither have I, but no reason to put that out there. I’ve been to a Cajun shrimp boil, though, and a Beaujolais-Villages was perfect.
“Time to stop arguing. Our tasters are going to be here soon.” I quickly pour her a portion of the Cab Franc. “What do you think of this one?”
She takes the glass and swirls the red liquid. “Nice nose. I can smell the oak it was aged in. Lovely. Earthy.”
I nod.
“I’m getting blackberries and green pepper, as well.”
“Good.” Okay, she does know what she’s doing after all.
She takes a sip and holds it in her mouth for a moment before she swallows. “Wow. Tannic. I can taste the tannins from the skins and from the oak. But it’s not too much. It’s…flirty.”