Slow Dancing at Sunrise

by Jo McNally

  Whitney tugged Helen into the corner. “What is going on?”

  “Well, your plans for the festival ran into a few glitches last week. And glitches are exactly what friends are made for. After all, if you can’t rely on a friend to help fix a glitch, then why have friends at all?”

  “Damn straight!” Lena called out from her perch on the ladder. Jayla nodded in agreement as she scowled at a bottle, trying to determine if the label was on straight. Vickie walked in from the tasting room and handed Cecile a bottle of water.

  Cecile raised the bottle in a mock toast. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Helen. Friends do more than cheer from the sidelines. They get on the field and fight with you. For you. Ugh, you know what I mean!”

  Whitney still couldn’t wrap her head around it. The festival was days away. Their efforts were sweet, but...

  “There’s no way you can hand peel and replace labels on hundreds of bottles.”

  Helen rolled her eyes. “If we had to, we’d make it happen. But I realized we only need to relabel enough bottles to have at the festival, and to have some on display here in the tasting room. And the only bottles we need to display are the ones actually in the competition—the pinot, the blend and the chardonnay. The thicker replacement labels will be here in another week or so, but that’s a work party for another day.” She nodded toward the mural taking shape on the wall. “The winery looks completely refreshed. We’ll hand out your fancy booklets to everyone who walks by the booth, and...”

  “But we don’t have a booth.” Whitney had barely spoken the words when Vickie started to tsk.

  “You’re right, Helen. She is a Negative Nancy, isn’t she?”

  Whitney bristled. “It’s not being negative when I’m just pointing out the facts.”

  Vickie raised one shoulder. “Before you walked in here, you thought it was a ‘fact’ that you didn’t have any brochures or signage. You thought it was a ‘fact’ that you were going to have to deal with the old labels not matching the new logo. So are you sure you’re stating a ‘fact’ about the booth? Or maybe even a float?”

  The older women were all smiling at her like the conspirators they were, and her mouth dropped open. She’d stepped through the looking glass and was surrounded by silly Cheshire cats.

  She threw her hands up in defeat. “Okay, I give up. Who’s working on the booth? Rick?” He was the only one missing. She shook her head in disbelief. “And a float, too? But how...? Oh, never mind. Clearly I’ve underestimated you all.”

  “Happens all the time.” Lena turned back to her painting. “Comes with the gray hair. People assume we lose our intelligence when we lose our natural color.”

  “Hey, speak for yourself!” Vickie patted her champagne hair, winking at Whitney. “Some of us still have our natural color!” She ignored Lena’s snort. “Rick has some kids from the theater department’s stage crew helping him with the booth display and the float.”

  Oh, no. “Please tell me they’re not using the moose...mooses...whatever.”

  “No!” Helen laughed. “But we are putting them to use for the festival. Sylvia over at the garden center always does a corn maze to raise money for the town’s festival fund. This year’s big attraction will be Mr. and Mrs. Moose at the center of the maze. Anyone who finds them can pay to get their picture taken with them, and it’s already getting lots of buzz.” Helen grinned. “Both of the moose will be sporting grape vine wreaths around their necks, with a sign that says ‘courtesy of Falls Legend Winery.’”

  Whitney couldn’t help returning her aunt’s proud smile. “I’m impressed!”

  For the first time in days, she felt a flutter of hope in her chest. If they could do all of this that she’d declared impossible, what else might happen for the festival? She looked up toward Luke’s apartment, and Helen gave her arm a squeeze.

  “Nothing’s impossible, sweetheart. You have friends here. You have work here. And you have a man who loves you, even if he’s too afraid to admit it at the moment.”

  Iris Taggart came into the room, her white hair gleaming and her blue eyes sharp. Whitney had a hunch not much got past Iris, who looked at her now and arched a brow.

  “I used to be the president of the Rendezvous Falls Business Owners Association, you know.” She smoothed the front of her blouse. “In fact, the organization was my idea a few decades back.” Whitney glanced at Helen, who nodded toward Iris as if telling Whitney to listen. “Meg McAllister is the president now, and I spoke to her yesterday. She said the town desperately needs an accounting firm since Harold Lightner passed away. The business owners group would do whatever was necessary to make sure a new enterprise like that succeeded. You know—marketing, grants, networking opportunities, whatever.” She started to turn away. “Just in case you’re interested, dear. After all, even the stupidest men come around eventually.”

  Whitney stood there, mind whirring with possibilities. Was it possible? Could she win Luke back if she stayed? Lena pointed her paintbrush at Whitney.

  “That’s right. Helen said you’re good with plans, so come up with one. In the meantime, get busy. We need all the hands we can get.”

  Whitney watched Jayla studiously apply a label to a bottle. It would take her all day just to do the pinot at this rate. She shook her head in disbelief at what she was going to say. “Okay, ladies. You’ve got me thinking, that’s for sure. While I’m doing that, I’ll help Jayla. With two of us, it will be easier to keep the labels straight. And faster. We need all the fast, easy and straight we can get.”

  Cecile had turned for the kitchen, but she stopped and held her hand up.

  “That’s what she said!”

  Everyone answered in a unison groan.

  “Cecile!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  LUKE WAS TOO tired to care about whatever had been going on in the tasting room. Vickie and Cecile were still in there tonight, fussing over papers on the tasting counter. He barely acknowledged them as he went by. It was probably something for the festival. That was the problem with the Blessing of the Grapes. The damn thing fell right at the beginning of harvest time, when grape growers were already balls-to-the-wall trying to get everything done.

  Watch the weather. Bottle the previous years’ vintages to make room for the new harvest. Bring in the grapes. Crush the grapes. Start the wine. Deal with the sharply increased tourist traffic. And, oh yeah, take an entire weekend out of that manic cycle to throw a parade and have a freaking wine party in town. He tossed his jacket into the corner so hard that Molly jumped from her bed.

  “Sorry, girl.” She trotted over to accept his apology ear scratch. “I’ve been in a mood.”

  Helen, Whitney and their little posse of helpers had been annoyingly busy around the place. Rick Thomas had some college kids hammering away on some ridiculous float right in the middle of the wine barn. They covered the trailer with fake grass and fake trees and what looked like a giant bottle of wine lying on its side above a waterfall. It was tacky as hell. And it was probably going to win the stupid float contest.

  He’d made it clear to Helen that he wanted no part of the festival preparation, and she’d been surprisingly willing to honor that request. She’d simply nodded and told him it was for the best. That wasn’t like Helen at all, but...gift horse and all that.

  He was only going to be grunt labor for the festival, lugging wine cases and setting things up. Considering the crowd of helpers Helen had scurrying around this place, she probably wouldn’t need him working the booth at all. Which was fine. Totally fine. It was time for Helen to become the public face of the winery now that Tony was gone. That was never going to be a job for Luke. Having a Rutledge front and center would be bad publicity in this town.

  He made himself a quick dinner of rosemary and basil chicken with new potatoes. It had been one of Whitney’s favorite meals. The thought, creeping over t
he boundary wall he’d erected in his mind to keep her memory away, weighed on his shoulders like fifty-pound bags of sand. Everything he did, everywhere he looked, it reminded him of her.

  The empty kitchen chair across from him, where she used to sit and eat, laughing and gesturing with her hands. The battered leather chair, where they’d cuddled together to watch old movies. The bed in the corner, where they’d made sweet love, and hot love, and every kind of love in between. He hadn’t changed the sheets, unwilling to give up the scent of her that still lingered there. Twin dressers stood at the foot of the bed, holding all the clothes that used to be stacked semineatly on the floor.

  He’d surprised Whitney with the dressers—and a clean apartment—before everything went to hell between them. It hadn’t been as big a deal for her as he’d thought it would be. After all her initial griping about his lack of organization, he figured she’d be thrilled to see him leave his Neanderthal ways behind. But she’d turned the tables on him, asking him how he felt about the place looking more like a home. And damned if he didn’t blurt out that it felt like the home he’d always wanted, but didn’t figure he’d deserved. What he didn’t realize at the time was that it was Whitney who made it feel that way, not a few pieces of furniture.

  His food sat on his plate so long it grew cold. Same thing had happened every night this week, ever since he’d told her they were through. He’d pretend everything was normal when he came up here and cooked a meal. Then he fell down the rabbit hole of Whitney memories and Whitney regrets.

  He hadn’t been wrong to end things. If she didn’t take the job in Dallas, she’d take another one. And he was obviously no good for her. Even before the disaster at the Marina Bay Bistro, they both knew that. She kept saying the whispers and stories about his family didn’t matter, but if that was true, she never would have thought he’d take Helen’s money. And she had thought that, no matter how briefly or reluctantly. No matter that she thought he did it for a “good reason.” No matter how sorry she was. She’d looked at him with those sad eyes, and said she could help him “fix it.” And that was the killer right there.

  She’d felt sorry for him when she thought he’d used Helen’s money. It ripped his insides to shreds. He was used to people fearing him because of his family. He was used to people suspecting him. He was used to people laughing at him. But pity? That was the last thing he wanted, especially from the woman he’d fallen in love with.

  He let out a low curse and set his plate on the floor for Molly to finish for him. His appetite had vanished again. Of course he’d fallen in love with Whitney. She was smart and sassy and strong and beautiful. And the chemistry between them was on fire. It was more than the sex, although that was great. Really great. He glanced at the bed again. Who was he kidding? It was the best sex of his life, and he’d never top it. Ever. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the talking, and the laughing, and the arguing and then laughing again.

  It was the way she’d looked at him. She’d looked at him like he was a man she respected. Like a man she trusted. Like a man who was her equal. She’d looked at him like she saw forever in his eyes. She made him feel, however briefly, like a man worthy of her love. And then he’d destroyed it all.

  That’s what Rutledges did. They destroyed things.

  A soft tap at the door brought Molly to her feet, barking as she ran across the room. Luke opened the door and stepped back in surprise.

  “Father Joe!” The good father had never been to Luke’s apartment. They usually had their chats at the bar, or standing around outside the rectory after Luke finished mowing. Joe walked past Luke, looking around the place and nodding.

  “Not so different from my room at the rectory.” He nodded at the dinner plate, still on the floor but shiny clean. “But I don’t have a four-legged dishwasher like you do. How are ya’, girl?”

  Luke scrambled to get the plate off the floor and into the sink while Joe bent over to greet the dog. Molly threw herself on her back for a belly rub.

  “Joe, is everything okay?”

  “Sure, lad. Nothin’ to worry about. I was visiting with Helen and thought I’d stop over.”

  “Is Helen okay?”

  Joe gave him a quizzical look. “Luke, I’m a priest, not the Angel of Death. Just because I appear at your door, it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong. I thought you might have a drop o’ whiskey handy?”

  Luke chuckled. “Sure, Joe. Have a seat and I’ll pour you a shot.”

  “That’d be grand. Pour one for yourself while you’re at it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two men sat at the table and sipped their whiskey in silence for a few minutes before Luke dared ask another question.

  “Why were you checking on Helen?”

  “Well, we just got her comin’ back to Mass, then she and Cecile and Jayla all missed choir rehearsal last night. I was curious about what would keep that group of troublemakers away.”

  “And?”

  “Turns out it was a good deed keeping them busy, so I gave her my absolution.”

  “Good deed?”

  “That lovely young niece of Helen’s...what’s her name? Whitney?”

  Luke went still. “Yes. Whitney.” It hurt to say her name out loud.

  Joe didn’t seem to notice Luke’s change of mood. “Ah, well, after that little donnybrook at the bar last weekend, Helen said Whitney was distressed over a few things that hadn’t gone her way while getting ready for the festival. Helen and her friends decided to pitch in and cheer her up, good folks that they are.” Joe tipped his head to the side and gave Luke that calm I-know-all look of his. “I was surprised you weren’t mentioned as part of the effort.”

  “You know damn well why I’m not part of it.” Luke turned toward the window. “She was hurt because of me.”

  “Which hurt are you taking responsibility for exactly?”

  He frowned. “I...what?”

  Joe sighed, draining his shot glass and gesturing to the bottle. He didn’t start to speak until Luke refilled the glass.

  “Are you taking responsibility for her outside hurt or the inside one? And if it’s the inside one, are you taking responsibility for yours, hers or both?”

  Luke lifted his glass to his lips, but was so busy trying to figure out Joe’s riddle that he forgot to drink, setting it down still full.

  “Don’t play head games with me, Father. I’m tired, and I didn’t ask for a shrink session.”

  “That’s two things I am not, lad. Neither Angel of Death nor shrink. I’m just a simple village priest making small talk.”

  Luke barked out a harsh laugh. “There’s nothing simple about you, Father Joe. And there’s no such thing as ‘small talk’ with you, either. You have something to say, so...out with it.”

  “A few weeks ago you asked me about love, Luke. It was Whitney you were thinking of that day, yeah?” Joe didn’t wait for a response, saving Luke the pain of having to either agree or deny. “And now you’re letting her go. Tell me about that.”

  This was the last thing Luke wanted to talk about, but he knew this stubborn Irishman wasn’t going to quit.

  “She was always going to go. I forgot that for a little while. My bad.”

  “Helen seems to think Whitney was going to stay. Maybe even start an accounting business here. She thinks Whitney may have fallen in love with some guy in town. Any idea who that might be?”

  “Damn it, Joe...”

  “Ah, this is good whiskey.” Joe calmly took a sip. “The incident at the bar wasn’t your fault, you know. The only one who thinks so is you.”

  Luke’s fingers tightened on the shot glass. Molly appeared at his side, as if she knew he was hurting. Hurting so damn much.

  “I don’t care what anyone else thinks of me, Joe. Never have.” He stood and started pacing, ramming his fingers through his hair. “But sh
e got punched in a bar! You think that would have happened if she wasn’t with me?”

  Joe’s voice was steady. “It’s my understanding that was an accident.”

  “Ha! Yeah, she took a punch meant for me. Some accident.” He stopped, unable to keep from asking. “How is she?”

  “I didn’t see her, but Helen says she’s fine. Other than the broken heart.”

  Luke was pacing again, waving off that last comment. “Give me a break. Her heart’s fine. She’d already decided to take that new job in Dallas.”

  “Did she?”

  “She’d be an idiot not to. Huge money. Fancy title. Big city. It’s everything she had in Chicago.”

  Joe nodded. “But she’s not in Chicago anymore, is she?”

  Luke shook his head. “Only because she had trouble in Chicago.” She’d told him the story one night as she lay in his arms. “But you know what I mean, Joe. She’s meant for the big life. Tenth floor apartments and an impressive title after her name. It makes perfect sense that she’s leaving.”

  “Did you ever ask her to stay?” Joe’s voice was soft, but the words fell on Luke like hammer blows. He hadn’t asked. Didn’t want to hear her tell him straight out that he wasn’t enough to change her mind. He stopped pacing, jamming his fingers through his hair with a growl.

  Whitney told him that she loved him. And what had he done? He’d thrown it right back in her face. Told her he didn’t believe it. Now she was leaving. Was it possible he was the world’s biggest idiot? Yes, it probably was.

  His eyes closed tight and he grimaced. “Why are you so invested in this, Joe? Can’t we just drink whiskey together and let that be that?”

  “Ach, you’re a good lad, Luke. I wish you could see that.” Joe tapped his empty glass on the table a few times. “I’ve had all the whiskey I can handle for tonight, so I’ll leave you alone to think about things.” He walked to the window where Luke had stopped, and put his hand on Luke’s shoulder. A still came over the room, and over Luke’s troubled heart. Joe gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You are your own man, Luke Rutledge. You are not your father. Not your brother. Not your name. You are a man, and it’s okay for you to love someone. To be loved. That’s why you’re here. It’s why we’re all here.”