Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  Slade stepped aside so Christine could follow them across the hall. She hung the garment bags on the shower curtain and unzipped them. “Let me know if you need help.” She closed the twins in the bathroom.

  “That was very gracious of you.” Slade leaned against the wall, trying to appear as if it wasn’t holding him up. “I hope they won’t ruin anything.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t plan on wearing them again.”

  “You’ve converted to T-shirts permanently?” He could stand and talk so long as he kept his back to the closet.

  Christine shoved boxes farther away from the closet. “Dresses like that can’t be worn more than once or twice in social circles around the wine business, unlike shoes.”

  “That makes shoes a better investment.” He couldn’t seem to loosen his grip on his tie. Slade risked a glance at the closet and then away. He shored himself up against the wall.

  “Don’t ever say I’m not training you right for some lucky woman who loves shoes.”

  Ignoring where that comment led him, he moved to the bureau, ostensibly to look at her pictures. Reality was, he needed to put as much space as he could between himself and the open closet.

  He picked up a framed photo. Christine smiled triumphantly with three blond men and stacks of what looked like T-shirts.

  The scent of vanilla heralded Christine. She leaned closer. “That’s my brother, my uncle, and my dad. I won the contest that year.”

  The next picture was of Christine holding a crystal trophy and a bottle of wine. Her smile seemed brighter than the crystal.

  “Best in class that year at the World’s.”

  He glanced at the clutter on the dresser. “Where’s the trophy?”

  “The winery gets to keep it.” She added wistfully, “Not the winemaker.”

  That didn’t seem fair. Neither did the way the closet seemed to be taunting him.

  The last big picture was of Agnes with Christine and... “Is that your mom?”

  “Yep.”

  If Christine aged as well as her mother, she’d still be a knockout thirty years from now. Not the train of thought he needed. “I can see you got your height from your father’s side of the family tree.”

  There were other photos to check out, but the closet was six feet away. It felt like six inches. It felt like he was so close he could fall backward and... Get a grip.

  Christine hadn’t moved away from him. She had no idea how much he wanted to hold on to her to save him from the closet. He thrust a hand through his hair. “You don’t want your own place?”

  “Someday. My grandmother is lonely, although I hope she doesn’t start imposing a curfew.” She sent him a sideways look, the kind a woman sends a man when she’s gauging his interest in the conversation. “Truth is, I want my own winery, so any chance I get to save money, I take it.”

  He understood goals and moving on. He gestured vaguely toward the corner where she’d stacked her shoes. “How many pairs of shoes are we talking about? Twenty? Thirty?” She could buy a rack for that many.

  Christine glanced at the three large cardboard boxes she’d transferred from the closet. The ones guarding his back. “More like a hundred.”

  He must have made a manly noise of derision because she playfully punched his shoulder. “Hey, I thought you weren’t the kind to judge.”

  “Maybe you need to donate a few pairs.”

  She was aghast. “Some of those shoes cost more than a car payment!”

  “And now you’re going to park them in a custom-built garage.” One that she’d make herself, because he couldn’t do it. He was 99 percent certain if he tried to so much as measure the closet for shelving, he’d pass out.

  He didn’t use the closet in his bedroom. He’d bought an antique wardrobe and hung his clothes in there. His closet doors were firmly closed. Had been for years.

  “You don’t want to build shelves for my shoes.” Christine narrowed her eyes. “What do you have against shoes?”

  “Nothing.” Closets were his kryptonite.

  And right now, he was too close to kryptonite.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “LET ME GET this straight.” Keeping an eye on the bathroom door, Slade shifted sideways away from the closet.

  Christine had never seen him look so rattled. Was it her? Her ego whispered yes. Or was it the girls? That was a more logical explanation.

  One hand rested on his tobacco-brown designer tie. His other hand kept disturbing his normally perfect black hair. “You have the original box for each pair of shoes, yet you want to build shelves, take each pair out and put them on display, and store the empty boxes somewhere else?”

  Feeling as if she was on trial with a weak defense, Christine nodded.

  He reached the closet, slid the door closed, and then seemed to sag onto her stack of shoe boxes. He finally let go of his tie. “Are you going to wear any of these shoes while you’re here?”

  “You want me to give up my shoes?”

  Slade looked at her is if she’d proclaimed she wanted to wear her patent-leather leopard-print Manolo Blahnik pumps to skip through the vineyard after a rain shower. “They’re just shoes.”

  “I’ll give up my shoes if you give up your ties.” Her barb hit home. He huffed and puffed, his face reddening as he prepared to launch a counteroffensive.

  Just then the bathroom door opened, and the twins lifted long skirts to promenade into the room.

  One of the girls had chosen a ballet-pink ball gown. The fabric was gathered and criss-crossed over the bust, not that the little girl had one. It fell to the floor in a puddle of delicate chiffon. The other twin had chosen a bright red slinky satin floor-length sheath with a plunging back. The bodice was beaded with red sequins.

  “You two look beautiful.” Slade seemed to relax when he gazed upon his daughters.

  Inspired, Christine dug into a box and found a pair of red sequined shoes worthy of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz—if Dorothy was into high heels. Next she unearthed a pair of pale pink satin sandals. She handed the shoes to the girls.

  “Did you just happen to open two boxes of shoes that matched their dresses perfectly?” Slade asked softly. “Or did you know which boxes were which?”

  “I catalog all my shoes by color, style, and level of formality.” Christine pointed to the narrow ends of each shoe box, where a small label had been added. “I admit, I’m a little anal. But I’m a scientist, so it’s okay.” Was that uncertainty in her voice?

  “All the more reason to keep your shoes organized and in their boxes.”

  “But they’re so pretty.” There was definitely a note of uncertainty in her voice, darn it. So what if she loved shoes? She said louder, “It makes me feel good to look at them.”

  “I’m just a guy,” he mumbled. “What do I know?”

  The twins wobbled in Christine’s heels, holding on to each other and—yes indeedy—giggling. After spending several hours with his daughters yesterday in the vineyard, she was happy to hear normal-little-girl sounds from their lips.

  Slade stopped short, his normally rigid features melting into that papa-bear expression Christine found so endearing. Something warm spread through her chest at the sight of a man head-over-heels in love with his daughters.

  The rubber band holding the right ponytail of the girl in the red dress had slipped and was nearly falling off. Christine grabbed her hairbrush and touched the girl’s loose lock of hair. “May I? A dress like this needs a more elegant hairstyle.”

  The twins fell silent, passing messages back and forth with their glances.

  “It’s okay, Faith,” Slade said.

  “Faith,” Christine repeated. She was the twin with the dimple in her right cheek. “Did you know you have a big curl below your ear? My grandmother call
s those cowlicks, because it would take a cow’s big tongue licking it to get it under control.”

  Faith gave her a small smile.

  Christine took that as permission to go to work. She moved behind Faith, freed all that long black hair, brushed it into an updo, with a few intricate twists and the ends sticking into the air like a rooster comb. Every once in a while she got a whiff of eau de skunk.

  Grace craned her neck to examine Christine’s work and then cleared her throat.

  Slade butted in. “Grace, can’t you ask like a—”

  “Like Princess Grace.” Christine cut Slade off before he could add like a normal person to the man-at-the-end-of-his-patience-with-silent-girls lament. “She conquered Hollywood, but left to marry the Prince of Monaco.”

  Christine then quickly produced a French braid from above one of Grace’s ears to above the other, combining the extra length in a ponytail on the other side. She didn’t notice Faith’s surprised expression until she was through. “There. Two girls ready to party. Go put on another dress.” She shooed them out of the bedroom.

  The girls took turns admiring each other’s hair and studying themselves in the bathroom mirror.

  “Their hair’s different.” Slade frowned.

  “They’re twins, not clones.”

  “But we’ve always dressed them alike.”

  “That’s a new form of torture.” When Slade’s gaze cut to her as if she’d accused him of wrongdoing—which she essentially had—she tried to remember he was her boss. And failed. “How would you like it if you had to dress like your brother every day?”

  “A. I’m an only child. And B. They don’t have to dress alike.”

  Faith and Grace were looking at him from across the hall, holding themselves very still.

  Christine had a sickening thought. “Does your ex-wife agree with B?”

  “She wouldn’t be that—”

  “Girls, time for a costume change.” Christine waited for the bathroom door to close.

  Slade held up a hand before she could say anything. “Don’t. It’s bad enough I’m an absentee father without pointing out the faults of the woman raising my children.”

  “What do you say we strike a deal? I don’t question what’s going on with them—” she gestured toward the bathroom “—and you don’t question my love of shoes.” She thrust out her hand. “Deal?”

  “Deal.” His grip didn’t feel as coolly perfect as it had in the past. It was the warm handshake of a real man, one whose life wasn’t perfect.

  “You’re right about my organizational system. I’m not going to put up the shelves, since I’m not going to wear the shoes.” Christine chuckled when Slade looked relieved. “How about we sit down and watch the rest of the fashion show? After which you can go do something fun with the girls and I’ll finish my purchasing proposal for you to review.” She sat on the bed and patted a spot next to her.

  Only to pop off her mattress a moment later. “Hold up. Hold up. I keep forgetting that you’re my boss—”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” He grinned wryly.

  She pointed at the pink shag carpet. “You sit on the floor.”

  He did. But he was grinning.

  And when she was sure he couldn’t see her, so was she.

  * * *

  AFTER SEVERAL DRESS CHANGES, Slade was feeling decidedly uncomfortable on Christine’s bedroom floor, leaning against her bed, at her feet, which were bare, the toes painted an energetic orange. They had a business relationship, nothing more. It was time to get down to business.

  And so they discussed projected timelines and her preferred equipment manufacturers. They discussed in depth her favorite methods of harvesting and wine making. He shared the partnership’s views on the winery stimulating town growth. Interspersed between were oohs and aahs for the girls. It was hard to believe that one woman had that many evening gowns. Short ones, long ones, fitted ones, ones with slits and lace and shimmery trim.

  Although he enjoyed seeing his daughters dress up, he couldn’t help imagining what Christine would look like in each evening gown, until Grace came out in a black dress with a long feathered skirt. “Whoa. You did not wear that thing?” Slade glanced up at Christine. “It has feathers.”

  Christine stared down her elegant nose at him. “Feathers were in that year.”

  Slade chuckled. “Grace, you look beautiful, honey, but I can’t see how that dress would look good on a full-grown woman.” He pointed at the dress. “I mean...feathers!”

  “I’m reminding myself you’re my boss,” Christine said through gritted teeth.

  Grace exchanged a look with Faith, who was wearing a white beaded gown with flowing long sleeves. Both girls looked at Christine and nodded.

  “Excuse me a minute, boss.” Christine followed them into the bathroom.

  Great. Add Christine to the growing list of people who understood his daughters’ silent language.

  Slade got up stiffly, stretched out the kinks, and sat on the bed. It was softly inviting. With effort, he kept from flopping onto his back and sneaking a power nap.

  A few minutes later the girls came out dressed in their pink checks and overalls shorts. Their hair was still prom-queen grand. They bounced onto the bed next to him. Grace leaned on his shoulder.

  He didn’t dare move.

  And then Christine stepped out of the bathroom in the black feathered gown. It fit her tight across the chest, with just a hint of cleavage, enough to catch a man’s eye.

  This man’s eye.

  She’d piled her hair above her head in a messy style that begged a man’s hand to smooth it. And then she strode across the hall, revealing the dangerously high slit that exposed most of her leg with every step. A leg that ended in a bright red pump.

  Slade’s mouth went dry as his eyes traveled back up to her face.

  Christine wouldn’t release his gaze. Here was the classy, confident woman he’d interviewed. The woman who knew the power of her appearance and wasn’t afraid to use it. Not that she had to wield her womanly power, given she was rocket-scientist smart when it came to her craft.

  Faith and Grace leaned over to look at him. And giggled.

  Christine burst out laughing. “That’ll teach you to make fun of a woman’s feathers.”

  The girls giggled some more, until Slade found himself chuckling, too.

  “This has been fun,” Christine said. “But it’s almost ten o’clock and I need to get out to the winery and spray for skunk again.”

  He patted Faith’s knee. “Come on, girls. Let’s find Flynn and Truman.”

  Because Slade was in need of some masculine grounding and space without high heels or feathers or closets.

  * * *

  THE LAST TIME Christine had hung out in her bedroom with a guy, she’d been thirteen and her father had just bought her a new video-game console. Her older brother and his friends had camped out on her bed for days.

  Having Slade in her bedroom was extremely different. Often when she’d interacted with him before, he appeared stiff and standoffish, about to turn up his nose and dismiss her at any moment. This morning, his nervousness had been refreshing. His arguments for winery growth compelling. His warm papa-bear personality captivating.

  And every once in a while—not often enough to be sure—she caught him eyeing her speculatively with a look of desire that spoke volumes. I could be in deep trouble here.

  That zing of awareness made uncovering the layers beneath Slade’s perfect veneer even more fascinating. A worried papa bear. She suppressed a sigh. There was nothing wrong with those girls a heavy dose of fatherly love wouldn’t cure. They were testing him, plain as white bread. Grace and Faith would talk to him soon. No girl could hold her silence longer than a few days with such a good-hearted man.
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br />   When Christine arrived at the winery, she power washed the main building’s floor again. The skunk smell was receding, although she suspected it wouldn’t be the last time she had to spray the place down.

  Later, using the tasting-room counter as a desk, Christine stood and shuffled through paperwork, playing with combinations of expensive tractors versus inexpensive tractors, new forklifts versus used forklifts, and different types of truck scales. Every time she added a column and compared it to Slade’s original budget, she went back and changed something else. She ended up with two budgets—one that was her ideal, and one that was a compromise between her budget and Slade’s original plan. Then she sent out more queries about the positions she had available.

  She was flipping through a file of the winery’s legal documents, just starting to read their application for bottling permits, when the tasting-room door opened, practically giving Christine a heart attack.

  “Hello! Remember me? Mayor Larry Finkelstein.”

  She drew a breath, closed the folder, and put it on a stack of others she’d already gone through.

  Thankfully, the mayor was fully clothed. He wore flip-flops and the kind of controlled smile that said he wanted something. “I thought we should discuss your little winery, since we’re neighbors.”

  Christine invited him to sit on the window seat across the room. She really needed to find time to furnish the place. But more importantly, she had to find out what the mayor wanted.

  “I know you still have much to do—set up the bottling facility, landscape the grounds, put up signage at the end of the driveway.” Mayor Larry’s smile hinged upward at signage.

  “Whatever we decide to put up—” and she was a little surprised Slade hadn’t installed a sign yet “—you can rest assured it will be sophisticated and in keeping with town ordinances.”

  His smile wound up into his cheeks until it almost disappeared among his wrinkles. “We’ll get along just fine. Just fine. You don’t, by any chance, bowl?”

  “No.” Bowling was one skill she hadn’t needed to perfect in Napa. “I golf.” She chose not to add poorly.