Season of Change

by Melinda Curtis

  In the afterglow of Christine’s triumph, Takata ambled over wearing his team’s purple tie-dyed bowling shirt. He sat next to Slade, landing with a grunt on the plastic seat. “Grace, you’re twisting your wrist on your release.”

  Grace, who was hefting her ball as she readied her approach, glanced back at the old man.

  “Like this. Wrist to the ceiling the entire time, even after you let the ball go.” Takata swung his arm up. “Not like this.” He swung his arm up again, twisting it this time.

  Grace nodded and stepped forward. She wound up and released the ball, freezing in place long enough to look at her wrist, which was facing the ceiling. Her ball had more velocity than Christine’s and hit the front pin hard enough to knock them all down.

  This time, Slade led the leaping. His tie flew up and down so often he tossed it over his shoulder.

  Grace ran on her tiptoes to the old man and gave him a hug.

  “Eh? I can’t hear you.” Takata cupped a hand to his ear.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Grace planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “You’re welcome. Come by the house sometime and I’ll teach you jujitsu. You’ll be dating soon and you need to know how to keep boys in line.” Takata, who never smiled, was grinning as Grace told him she’d love to kick boy-butt. “Help me up, Slade. It’s almost my turn to bowl again.”

  “Thank you.” Slade helped Takata stand.

  “It’s what family does, prodding you forward, giving advice even if you don’t want it.”

  Slade didn’t comment. They weren’t family. They were just neighbors.

  But Takata, in typical Takata style, seemed to read his mind. “For people like us, who are otherwise alone in the world, your friends become your family.”

  A few years ago, Slade would have denied the old man any claim to him. But he couldn’t, since his words rang true. Will and Flynn were like brothers to him.

  With Takata’s statement still ringing in his ears, Slade couldn’t stop staring at Christine laughing with his daughters, and wondering if she’d still be his friend if she knew the truth.

  * * *

  “TELL ME YOU convinced Slade to build the wine cave,” Flynn said to Christine as they turned in their bowling shoes.

  He was so earnest, Christine chuckled. “I have other things I’d rather spend your money on right now.”

  “I hear this wine cave will create jobs.” Will, the third partner, extended his hand to shake Christine’s. “I didn’t get a chance to welcome you properly. Or throw in my support to build whatever you need.”

  Carte blanche. It was every winemaker’s dream.

  Slade stood at the corner of the shoe counter, frowning.

  “I’m sure a wine cave would need a custodian or a groundskeeper,” Flynn was saying.

  “Maintenance man,” Will added.

  Christine’s toes should have felt as light as air. She should be dancing.

  Slade’s frown deepened.

  “Receptionist.” Flynn was on a roll.

  “Tech support.” Will wasn’t far behind.

  Balls struck pins. Someone hooted. A pinball machine played a techno tune.

  And Slade? He turned away, gathered up the girls, and made for the door.

  Christine knew it was financially irresponsible to sink too much money into a winery in the middle of nowhere. She knew, but the feeling of power was a rush all the same.

  * * *

  CHRISTINE’S NEXT WEEK was filled with phone calls, emails, visiting suppliers, deliveries, and workers installing various items, including desks on the second floor. The skunk smell was finally eradicated. Two skunks were trapped and removed, with a promise to relocate them to a state park many miles away, since they seemed rabies-free. The signs for the driveway and tasting room were put in place. They were, of course, very grand and sophisticated—Harmony Valley Vineyards with their logo, a horse on a weathervane. Mayor Larry, who was busy knitting and tie-dying samples, stopped by to compliment Christine on them.

  Most of their equipment to crush the wine and put it in barrels was either on-site or on-order. Her biggest concern remained finding a company willing to book them for harvest. Secondarily, they still hadn’t received their bottling permits from the government, although they wouldn’t be ready to bottle until sometime next year.

  With Slade’s approval, she hired a young assistant winemaker who’d apprenticed with a small winemaker in nearby Healdsburg the year before, had returned to UC Davis to finish up his enology degree, and was looking for a permanent position that started immediately.

  Ryan Phillips was tall, gangly, and claimed to be calm as a rock in a crisis. He was willing to work the bench, testing and recording the sugar levels in the fruit that would determine when they harvested, sending soil in for analysis, and researching the heritage of their vines, since no one knew their lineage or when they’d been planted. His presence allowed Christine to focus on the installation of equipment and the continued search for a harvesting crew.

  Her father hadn’t found another job. To ease her mother’s mind, Christine would have offered him a position working in Harmony Valley, except she couldn’t afford his salary.

  Of Slade, she’d seen very little since they’d been bowling, which was for the best. For a while there, they’d seemed like one big, happy family. The joy on Slade’s face while they’d bowled went beyond papa-bear adorable. She hoped he continued making progress with the girls, but for the sake of her career, she was glad he was keeping his distance. She liked him, but she didn’t want anything between them to go beyond liking him as a boss and a friend.

  One day, after listening to Christine complain one time too many about how much hotter it was up in the office than downstairs, Nana showed up with bolts of fabric, curtain rods, and a portable sewing machine. Her machine was old, but it did the job and sent mild vibrations through the floor all afternoon.

  Christine had been going at such a fast pace and her grandmother had such a busy social life that she hadn’t had a moment to ask her grandmother about Slade’s parents. She hung up the phone, saw a sticky note Slade had left her about finalizing their design for the website, and turned to her grandmother.

  “So heartbreaking.” Nana carefully cut the lining for the curtains on a card table she’d set up in a corner. “His mother died of skin cancer years ago, right before the mill fire. She hung on a lot longer than they thought she would. Died at home in her own bed, which is really the best place to go. That’s how I want to do it. Don’t let anyone take me away.”

  Ryan very carefully did not look up from his computer screen.

  “I’ll do my best to let you die at home, like Grandpa did.” Christine prayed that was a long time away. “And Slade’s dad?”

  “Daniel...Daniel is a more complicated story.” Her grandmother paused again, clearly not of the generation able to multitask. She finished cutting and folded the panel before saying any more. “He was a foreman at the grain mill and a volunteer fireman. He was one of the first on the scene when the grain mill exploded. Four people died. The condition of the bodies was said to be quite horrific. And they were his friends, his employees. He told me once he felt responsible for their deaths.” She tsked.

  “Slade said he hadn’t opened any windows in the house in eight years.”

  “That would be about the time Daniel hung himself.” Nana looked out the window, her face drawn, as if she couldn’t bear to think of the tragedy. “Slade was home visiting. I think he was the one who found his father upstairs. Daniel did it in the bedroom closet, although I never could figure out how. I suppose it’d be rude to ask Slade.”

  “Nana.” Christine recalled how unsettled Slade had seemed in her bedroom after she’d opened her closet. And here she’d fantasized his discomfort was due to an attraction be
tween them. That misconception had spawned some smarmy dreams involving lace and wedding dresses. Who was she kidding? They were polar opposites. She was cutoffs and flip-flops. He was leather loafers and ties.

  Nana smoothed the already smooth fabric. “I would’ve thought Slade would sell that house long ago, not that any of us would buy it.” She met Christine’s gaze. “Something binds him here. We all have our reasons for staying places, I suppose.”

  But in Slade’s case, Christine didn’t think it was happy memories that rooted him in Harmony Valley. She’d felt the sadness in his home. Slade was a strong man to live there.

  Sometime later, Slade came upstairs as Agnes was finishing tying a bow on the last fancy swag window treatment she’d sewn. As usual, he looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a men’s fashion magazine, instead of out of the afternoon heat. “What’s this? I thought we agreed on plantation shutters up here, the same as downstairs.”

  He was lucky the drapes were blue, not pink. “I can’t get the installer to come out and measure again. He said he’s booked up until October. Nana decided to take pity on us.” Christine handed Slade a stack of invoices. “Those need checks written. Where are the girls?”

  “Over at Flynn’s.” Slade stared at the invoices and then looked at her. Stared at the invoices again and took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner at my house tonight?” He hurried to add, “With the girls and me?”

  Nana exchanged glances with Christine. Nana’s look seemed to say, Don’t turn down a millionaire’s offer for dinner.

  Christine resisted rolling her eyes. She didn’t believe in polite offers of dinner. Not from her boss. “There’s an agenda behind this invitation, isn’t there? What is it?”

  He hesitated too long before answering. “You’ve been busy. I’ve been busy. It’d be nice to get an update.”

  Easy-peasy. She had everything organized in her action file.

  Except Slade wasn’t looking at her, which implied the possibility of a different agenda. “And...”

  He didn’t move, and yet he appeared as if he was squirming in his Italian loafers. “Could you bring...your hair stuff?”

  Christine smiled. “Do the twins want me to do their hair again?”

  “No. I do.” He smiled sheepishly, his gaze bouncing around the room. “They’re still barely talking to me, and the last time you did their hair, they seemed happier.”

  Poor papa bear. Christine sympathized. “Girls can be brutal. I once succeeded in avoiding conversations with my dad for three weeks.”

  That caught his interest enough that he met her gaze. “What made you stop?”

  “Dad took me with him to the vineyard.”

  “I tried that.” He managed a hint of a smile. “They got skunked.”

  His wry humor and clear desire to win his girls over made it impossible to refuse. She sighed. “What time?”

  Slade had barely left when her grandmother started in. “He’s attractive, wealthy, and good-looking. I won’t lie to you, I’d love to see you finally settle down, but then I realized as he was leaving...he’s also your boss. Things haven’t changed so much since I was young. You can’t date your boss.”

  Ryan slumped behind his computer monitor. Hard to do when it was a laptop and you were over six feet tall.

  “You’re embarrassing Ryan,” Christine pointed out. “Not to mention me.”

  “You young people just don’t get it.” Nana frowned, clearly exasperated with the scene.

  Christine couldn’t resist pushing her. “Nana, first you want me to get a life, and then you don’t. Slade and I are friends. Don’t go looking for romance where there is none.” Advice she’d best heed herself.

  “I need to check something outside.” Ryan escaped down the stairs. The back door slammed.

  “Honey, men don’t ask women over because they’re good with their daughters. They ask women over because they want to give them a test run.” Agnes crossed the room, took Christine by the arms, and gently shook her. “This is the perfect job for you. You’re in charge of everything for the first time. Don’t mess it up by kissing your boss.”

  “Hey, no one said anything about kissing. This isn’t a date. We’ll talk business and I’ll help him with his girls. Consider it a pity mission. Poor things, they don’t seem to get enough attention. And Slade keeps throwing gifts at them. When I was at his house I saw they had an unlimited account online and they were ordering whatever they wanted on the internet. Without limits, they’re going to be uncontrollable in high school. What’ll it be like when they turn eighteen?”

  The door below slammed again. No footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  “Ryan?” Christine called out.

  No answer.

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Christine moved aside the curtains and saw Slade disappear down the path toward the river.

  “Crap.” Christine smoothed her hair away from her face. “What did I say just now? I think Slade heard every word.”

  “Nothing really.” Her grandmother packed up her sewing machine. “Only that you were paying your boss a pity visit tonight and his daughters were heathens-in-waiting.”

  Christine thunked herself on the head.

  * * *

  SLADE WAS PRETTY good at barbecuing. He wasn’t so good at taking criticism, especially when criticism involved his parenting skills. But he was willing to swallow his pride and learn, if it was good for his girls.

  After asking Christine to dinner, he’d stopped in the tasting room to answer some emails and text messages before heading back out into the heat. Voices carried in the small house. It was impossible to miss Agnes’s opinion about his intentions for dinner, or Christine’s pity comment.

  He stewed about dinner all afternoon. Should he text Christine and cancel? Should he take her aside when she arrived and admit he’d heard what she thought of his parenting skills? Should he blow her off and drive the girls into Cloverdale for dinner? Should he pretend he’d heard nothing?

  It was hard waffling between cowardice and anger, stomping on his pride.

  He took out his frustrations on the food he cooked. It was guy food. Salad he chopped himself. Baked potatoes he poked within inches of their lives. Seasoned tri-tip he pierced as he grilled. He’d put the twins in charge of the garlic bread, appropriate since they were wearing the colors of Italy—red-and-white striped blouses and green shorts.

  A mistake, as it turned out. They burned the bread and set off the smoke alarm while he was in the backyard with the barbecue. Windows and doors were flung open. The bread came to rest in a severely singed lump on the stove, next to some deflated baked potatoes.

  That was it. He was canceling their ramshackle dinner.

  And that was when Christine appeared, in blue jeans, pink ballet slippers, and a flowery blouse, a far cry from the black Protect the Bears T-shirt and jean shorts she’d had on earlier. The sight of her in casual date clothes brightened up the drab, outdated kitchen and rendered him speechless.

  “Let me give you this peace offering before we have to call the fire department in Cloverdale.” Christine thrust a bottle of wine into his chest and took over the situation, calmly explaining to the girls why it was important to set the timer every time they left something in the oven or on the stove. She took an oven mitt, put it on, and lifted the loaf of garlic bread over the sink. “Here’s how you salvage the bread.” She scraped off the black, burned parts with a knife.

  “I’d throw it away.” Slade set the wine on the counter and rummaged in a drawer for a corkscrew.

  “Spoken like a man who’d rather drive through somewhere than salvage his meal.” She finished scraping. “See? Almost perfect.” She put the bread back on the baking sheet. It looked battered but edible. She glanced around the kitchen. “What else are we havin
g?”

  “The meat!” Slade ran out the back door, down the steps, and into the small backyard.

  The tri-tip was sizzling and only a little blackened on one side. He shut off the grill, put the meat on a plate, and brought it inside to rest.

  Christine poured the wine. It was one of hers from Ippolito Cellars. A deep red Zinfandel. She handed him a glass. “There are days when life gets to me and my mouth filter goes on the fritz. And then there are days when nothing goes right and you just have to start over. I’m afraid both describe my day. I’m sorry. My grandmother was being her usual meddlesome, yet good-natured self and I cracked. I know you mean well with the girls. It’s just...” She swirled her wine gracefully. “It’s so easy to take things for granted when your parents make a good living and give you things. Before you know it, you end up in the middle of nowhere with a hundred boxes of designer shoes you’ll never wear.”

  He hadn’t played out his gifting scenario in those terms before. “And a feathered dress in your closet you only wore once.”

  “Touché.”

  “Did I catch an apology in there somewhere?” Slade didn’t want to admit how relieved he was to hear it.

  “Yes. Let’s make a toast.” She raised her glass. “To burned toast and apologies.”

  Slade studied the burned loaf of garlic bread. Christine wasn’t one to throw something out just because it was burned around the edges.

  “Yes, even burned toast can be fixed.” Her blue eyes sparkled. At him.

  He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had sparkled at him.

  They clinked glasses and drank. The red wine coated his mouth with dry, subtle hits of something fruity. Slade was no wine connoisseur, but he was willing to learn with something that tasted this good.

  Grace dug in the refrigerator. She came out with a juice container. Faith got down two more wineglasses. Grace poured. They clinked glasses and drank, giggling. Their golden baby bracelets glinted in the light.

  “What flavors should I be tasting in here?” Slade tried to swirl his wine as Christine had done without spilling. His wine sloshed dangerously close to the lip of the glass.