Duet in September (The Calendar Girls)

by Gina Ardito

  “No. More like permanently.” He shrugged. “Well, at least until my mansion in the Hamptons is finished.”

  Disappointment sent storm clouds into my happy valley. “Oh.”

  He chuckled. “I’m kidding, Nia.”

  Was he? I studied him with a critical eye, ignoring the optical illusion of a halo the late morning sun lit around his head. “About the Hamptons or here?”

  “About the Hamptons. I really do live here. Creating a vineyard from the ground up—literally—is a twenty-four/seven endeavor. Especially in the early years. I moved in before we planted the first row of grapes. I live here now, and I’ll probably still be living here when I’m seventy.”

  I don’t know why, but tension left my bones in one huge rush. “Oh, thank God.”

  He cocked his head, and the sun’s rays glinted off his hair in fiery lights. “You are the most…confusing woman.”

  I started to defend myself, but he continued before I could form a coherent argument.

  Taking my hand again, he squeezed my fingers and murmured, “I think that’s one of the things I love most about you.”

  Love? Had he just used the L word? Without prompting? Okay, now I slid from pathetic to downright needy. In all honesty, the man had an unfair advantage over me. Every time he paid me a compliment, I got gooey. If he kept it up, I’d be the consistency of melted caramel in no time. At this stage, imaginary birds circled my head and the lyrics from that old Carpenters’ song, Close to You, played in the background.

  To hide my pleasure, I gave him a dismissive wave of my hand. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I don’t know everything about you, but I’m learning. Either way, you definitely keep me intrigued. I’ve enjoyed what I’ve discovered so far and I can’t wait to find out all your secrets.”

  Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near…

  I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I could hardly admit that I hid secrets because then he might pester me for revelations. Yet, I didn’t want to lie either.

  “To make a really good wine, you have to learn patience,” he crooned in a tone far more suited for seduction than for casual banter. “The first buds need a lot of nurturing. Then, as they break and grow, they need something strong to cling to.” He drew a line down my cheek with a fingertip. “Warmth and tender care bring out the ideal balance of color and juice. With the right attention, in loving hands, you’ll grow an abundance of sweet grapes that yield perfection.”

  The words, so innocuous on the surface, wreaked havoc with my senses. No matter what he said, the intensity in his gaze as he touched me conveyed he discussed something much more personal than grapes and winemaking. I shivered.

  On the day that you were born, the angels got together…

  He leaned closer and brushed his lips against my cheek. “God, you smell great.” Pulling away, he added in a much more conversational fashion, “So…how about we tour the actual vineyard while the sun’s not too strong? After that, we’ll have lunch on the back terrace. Sound good?”

  How on earth could he switch gears so suddenly? Particularly when I could barely draw breath without shuddering. Lost in the cyclone of emotions his winemaking analogy had left behind, I could only nod.

  “Terrific. Let’s get started.” His hand took mine again as he led me past the double-sided staircase, then around the building. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “You do? What?” I groaned as I considered what that favor might be. “Oh, no. Not the grape lamps again.”

  “No.” His laughter rippled down my spine like water in a Jacuzzi, but stopped as he grew serious again. “You know I’ll be having my grand opening here on the first of October. There are a lot of people who’d like to see me fail.”

  I couldn’t hide my amazement. “Who on earth would want that? Do you mean the other vineyard owners?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly. Including my father.”

  “But why?” I couldn’t fathom the idea that a father would see his child as competition. Daddy couldn’t have been prouder than when Paige got her CPA license. I remember feeling a little bit hurt by my father’s boasting about his “chip off the old block” daughter, but at least he’d never wanted Paige to fail.

  “My father and I don’t always see eye to eye. He disagrees with a lot of my choices.”

  I don’t know if Aidan directed that particular statement toward me or not, but I certainly felt the sting. How would his father react to Aidan dating a nobody from Snug Harbor? Unease slipped into my muscles, and I squirmed. “I’m not sure I understand…”

  He waved me off. “It’s not important. The truth is, Nia, I value your opinion. You have an artist’s eye and little experience with vineyards. That makes you an asset to me. I’d like to run some of my plans for the opening by you. Get your take on them. What do you say?”

  What could I say? “I’m flattered, but I really don’t know anything about the grand opening of a vineyard.”

  “Like I said, that’s what makes you an asset. You come into this unbiased. You won’t tell me how so-and-so did it. If you genuinely don’t understand or like something I’ve planned, it’s a pretty good guess that my standard visitor will see things your way. As we go through the vineyard today, I’ll point out my plans and you feel free to give me your honest opinion, okay?”

  I replied with a hesitant, “Okay.”

  A few workers strode past, each greeting Aidan by his first name. Clearly, they didn’t stand on ceremony here. Just another reason for me to melt around him. He might have been born with a silver place setting in his mouth, but he didn’t lord it over anyone.

  He stopped in front of a tremendous open storage area that resembled a dairy barn or stable for Clydesdales—at least three floors high. Gigantic stainless steel towers, reaching nearly to the top of the vaulted ceiling, stood in rows like silver sentries from another planet.

  “Most of our wines are stored in these vats while they age. We’ve got a barrel room, too, for the oak-aged wines.”

  I glanced up at the sheer size of the vats and strained my neck in the process. “You mean all of these are filled with wine?”

  His gaze followed mine upward when he replied, “They will be by next week. At least until bottling.”

  “How many bottles do you make?”

  “In a year? Right now, we do about ten thousand, total. I’m hoping to increase production exponentially over time. My father’s first year at Coffield’s Bluff, he did five thousand. Now, he’s the ‘wine king of Long Island.’” Once again, bitterness sharpened his tone. “Which is bizarre when you consider very few bottles of Long Island wine ever make it off the Island. I want to change that.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if doubling his father’s first year production spoke of that same rivalry he’d mentioned between them. Still, I didn’t utter my thoughts aloud. How could I?

  I glanced past him and studied the landscape, intent on finding a way to change the subject. The colors of nature bloomed and delighted me with their artistic palette. I pointed to several long rows of gnarled trees laden with red and yellow fruit. “Are those apple trees?”

  “Yup. Pear, too.” He turned briefly to look at the orchard, then back to me. “I’m also growing peaches, raspberries, and blueberries back there.”

  Now, there was a contradiction I hadn’t anticipated: smooth, suave Aidan Coffield as Farmer Brown. “That’s pretty ambitious. Are you planning to corner the fruit market or something?”

  He laughed. “No, it’s more about cross-pollinating. Grapes pick up the flavors in the soil and air around them, which carries over into the wine. That’s why a French cabernet won’t taste the same as a cabernet from Chile or Australia. Long Island has a nice salt tang in the air, thanks to the Atlantic Ocean on the south and the Sound to our north. That tang flavors all the local wines. I’m hoping the fruit orchards will create a rich, sweet flavor the neighboring vineyards can’t copy.”

  “Very cl
ever.” I studied the empty vines in the foreground. “So where are all the grapes?”

  “We just finished the picking yesterday. Most of the grapes are already going through the destemmer.”

  “Oh.” I stifled a sigh. “Too bad. I would have liked to try my hand at picking them.”

  His forehead puckered, and a frown marred his features as he looked me up and down. “Most women I know wouldn’t want to get dirty or sweaty doing such manual labor.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “After watching me create glass in thousand degree heat, you honestly believe a little dirt and sweat is an issue for me?”

  Stroking a hand over his chin, he waited a beat before the smile returned to his face. “No. That’s why I saved a small row for us to pick together.”

  Excitement leaped up inside me. I felt like a child who’d just received a pony for Christmas. “I get to pick the grapes?”

  “Only if you really want to. If not, I’ll have Raoul bring out the picker.”

  “Fat chance.” I was the picker today. “Do I get to stomp them with my feet, too?”

  “Not unless I want the Board of Health to close me down before I even open.” He bobbed his index finger like a chastising parent. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll let you use the pressing machine.”

  An embarrassed laugh escaped my lips. “I know it’s stupid, but whenever I think of pressing grapes for wine, I always remember that old I Love Lucy episode. You know that one? Where Lucy goes to a vineyard to learn about winemaking? She climbs into the vat to crush the grapes with her feet and winds up in a catfight with the other woman in the vat? Or would that be considered a grapefight?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Actually, I’d call that ‘farce.’ Trust me, a 1950’s sitcom is not indicative of winemaking, not in that era and definitely not today. In the modern age, we use machines. We’ve got harvesters, destemmers, pressers, even a label maker.”

  I pouted my disapproval. “The modern age hardly seems fun.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s cleaner and a lot faster. And less expensive in the long run. Do you have any idea how long it takes to pick a season’s grapes? A harvesting machine can clear an acre in about an hour and a half. By hand, that same acre takes six hours.”

  “Six hours?!” Panicked regret set in, and I gasped. “Oh my God. You didn’t save a whole acre for us, did you?”

  “No.” His laughter rang out inside the cavernous room, easy and without sarcasm. “Just a row. An hour’s work, tops.” He pointed that index finger at me again. “I have to warn you. It’s dirty work. In fact, come on into the office back here. You can lock up your things in my desk. You’ll want to stow your purse and remove your jewelry. I’ll also give you a work shirt so you don’t ruin what you’re wearing.”

  I looked down at my silk tee and fought back another sigh, this one of disgust. Way to go, Nia. You totally overdressed for the occasion. Okay, but no way I planned to admit my mistake. I waved him off with a careless air. “You don’t have to lend me a shirt. It’s really not necessary.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He turned toward the door marked Employees Only, then looked back over his shoulder, a quirk of humor riding high on his lips. “Besides, I love the idea of you wearing something of mine.”

  There was that L word again. My caramel center liquefied to a puddle of mush.

  Just like me, they long to be, close to you…

  My heart and I were doomed.

  ~~~~

  Paige

  Talk about mind-blowing. Mom was back in town. After twenty-five years.

  Somehow, I had to break the news to Nia before someone else found out and blabbed. I’d tried to explain to Mom that Nia had never forgiven her for her disappearing act and probably wouldn’t stick around long enough to hear the other side of the story. She was Daddy’s ally, one hundred percent.

  Our mother, however, seemed to have pinned her hopes on some kind of sappy reunion. She planned to stay in town—at the ritzy Hermitage, the playground for moneyed elite in Snug Harbor. Apparently, Mom had cash to burn these days.

  Not that she’d buy my affections. Or Nia’s for that matter. No amount of money could ever atone for the years of anger, hardship, gossip, and heartbreak Mom had caused us.

  All day Friday, I tried calling Nia, but got no answer. By two o’clock, when I still connected to her voicemail, annoyance took hold of me. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I snapped at the recording. “Childish much? Listen, Nia, when you’re over your snit, call me. It’s important.” I slammed the phone onto the cradle.

  “Now there’s some sisterly love for you.”

  I looked up from my desk phone and into Sam’s crinkled eyes. He stood a few feet away, that familiar smile warming my tummy like a shot of rum. His uniform only enhanced his he-man attitude, and my heart pitter-patted.

  “Sam?” I managed to say through my quickly drying throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had a disturbance call a block from here. Thought I’d pop in to make sure you were okay.”

  A chill of fright rippled across my bare arms. “Oh, my God. What happened? Should I be worried?”

  “Not unless you groomed Mrs. Pomerantz’s poodle. The old bat just tried to demolish a row of sinks at Petopia Groomers because Tara gave the dog the wrong cut.”

  “Well, in all fairness to Tara at Petopia, Mrs. P. and her fleabag dog, Fury, are evil incarnate. Tara deserves a medal for attempting to take a pair of scissors to that fat ball of fur. Have you seen how low to the ground Fury walks? Take a good look. With his golden fur and sausage shape, I’d swear he’s part gerbil.”

  “Fury’s a gerboodle?”

  I laughed so hard, tears came to my eyes. “Gerboodle. Oh, God, Sam, that’s too funny.”

  He took a bow. “Thanks. I’m here all week.” Sobering, he pointed to the phone. “So what’s with you and Nia?”

  I shrugged. “She’s miffed at me. We had an argument yesterday, and now she’s giving me the ‘silent treatment.’ Normally, I’d give her time and room to stew, but something’s come up, and I can’t play her game this time.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the chair opposite my desk. “What’s come up?”

  I opened my mouth, then clamped my lips shut. It felt disloyal to discuss my mother’s sudden return with Sam before Nia knew. Then again, this kind of news could be the catalyst to getting these two together. To blab, or not to blab…that was the question.

  “Are you going to tell me, or do you plan to stare at me until moss grows on our northern sides?”

  I took a huge breath to buy time and consider the consequences. “Before I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone—not even Nia. Especially not Nia.”

  Leaning forward, he rested his arm on the edge of my desk. “What is this, a slumber party? What’s next? Truth or Dare?”

  “I’m serious. I need to be the one to tell Nia. I just hope I get the chance before someone sees her and spews the news.”

  “What news? What exactly is going on?”

  “Promise me first.”

  “Oh, for cripes…okay.” He raised his right hand. “I solemnly swear not to divulge anything Paige says to me right now, or may I wake to find I’ve become a gerboodle.” Lowering his hand, he widened his eyes at me. “Satisfied?”

  Satisfied? I was downright tickled, but I steeled my emotions into a flat, “It’ll do.” A thought popped into my head, and I added, “You want some coffee?” I jumped to my feet, but his hand came down on my wrist.

  “No time.”

  “Since when does a cop turn down coffee?”

  He rolled his eyes as if we were still in high school. “Will you stop stalling and talk to me?”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” I lowered myself into my chair again. “It’s just hard. I never thought I’d actually say—”

  “Paige!” He snapped his fingers near my nose. “Focus!”

  At his bark, the words flew from my mouth. “Mom’s come back to town
.”

  The big bad cop suddenly looked stunned. “Wait. What? Mom? Whose mom? Your mom?”

  “Imagine that,” I said with a mirthless grin. “I’ve managed to leave you without a clever retort.”

  “Yeah, well, this is big.” He leaned closer, his voice taking on a tender tone. “Are you okay?”

  His concern touched a chord and left me flustered. “Yeah, I mean, no. That is…” I sighed. “I’m a mess. I’ve been a mess since she strolled in here yesterday to pay her respects to Dad. I still haven’t told Nia that she’s back. And if I’m a wreck, this is going to destroy Nia. I don’t know what to do, how to tell her.”

  “What exactly did your mom say? How’d she explain herself to you?”

  “It was weird,” I admitted. “I don’t think she expected to see me here.” I thought back to yesterday’s reunion. “No, wait. I know she didn’t expect to see me here. She came right out and said so.”

  I proceeded to give Sam the gory details. I was an accident victim, describing the truck that had run me down. When my voice started to shake with my words, he took my hand in his. Warmth and strength flowed into my veins. How did he do that? Did all policemen have the ability to offer comfort with a simple touch? Or was this one of the multitude of innate gifts Sam had in his arsenal to devastate the fairer sex? Either way, the contact seemed to ease some of my tension.

  “I actually felt sorry for my mother when I heard her side of things,” I concluded. “But you know Nia. She may be an artist, but she sees life in black and white. No gray ever. Of course, Mom is insisting on seeing her now that she’s seen me. She seems to think Nia’s going to fall weeping into her open arms.”

  “Because that’s what you did?” Sam asked. No condemnation tinged the question and only compassion shone in his eyes.

  I nodded. “It was automatic. The minute I saw her, I became eight years old again.”

  “That’s understandable. When your mother left, you and Nia dealt with her loss the only way you knew how. Neither of you ever fully grew up. Part of you both stayed eight years old.”