The Sweet Spot

by Heather Heyford

  Jamie paced the kitchen tiles. “Well, there’s the energy, and there’s the diversity. The art museum’s world-class. And then there’s the Italian Market and the Magic Gardens mosaic gallery—” She stopped, facing Hank. “There’s something you should understand. Moving away from my home was the hardest thing I ever did. I’m really proud of the way I adapted. If not for those BYOBs, I never would have gotten into learning about wine like I did. Even got a big promotion. But I have missed our farm. That’s one of the reasons I came here.”

  “Promotion?” asked Hank.

  “I’m going to be department head next year.”

  “How come you didn’t mention that earlier?”

  She shrugged. “There was no reason to.” Besides, she didn’t like to toot her own horn.

  “I have no doubt you’ll be a wonderful leader to your fellow teachers,” said Ellie. “But what about the children? Won’t you miss them?”

  “Absolutely! But I couldn’t very well turn down a chairmanship, could I?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well,” said Hank. “Guess that’s that.” He rose and went for his cap on its hook by the door. “I’ll get that ad posted tonight instead of tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll get a couple of hits before long.”

  “Wait.” Jamie held up her hand.

  Hank stopped in place, his hand already on the back door.

  Jamie looked from Hank to Ellie and back.

  She was so open, so lacking in artifice, anyone could see that she was second-guessing herself.

  “Maybe you’d like to take a couple days to think on it,” said Ellie, rising with considerably more effort than it had taken Hank.

  Jamie had seen it, too.

  “I got my evening chores to do. You can let us know for sure Sunday evening. In the meantime, thank you for hearing us out. Enjoy the rest of your stay. And if there’s anything you need, be sure and let us know.” She opened the linens drawer to get tomorrow morning’s napkins.

  Hank gave Ellie a desperate look. Now who’s giving up?

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to sleep on it,” said Jamie.

  * * *

  That evening, Hank was surprised to receive a call from Delilah.

  “Do you remember my friend Stew?”

  “Stew,” he said, racking his brain.

  “He liked you. He said when you’re in town for your convention next week, the four of us should go out to dinner. You, me, Stew, and his wife, May.”

  “Oh, yeah. The guy we sat with at the gala.” Hank recalled Stew’s comments, meant to impress him. In his experience, the people who were truly knowledgeable about wine didn’t need to flaunt it. “I don’t remember his wife, though.”

  “She wasn’t there. Anyway, I got us a reservation at Bennett’s.”

  “Before you asked me?” He wished he had never mentioned the upcoming convention to Delilah.

  “You can’t wait till the last minute.”

  “I’ll have to look at the schedule.”

  “You’d rather eat hotel food at the convention center than at one of the best steak houses in Denver? Please? As a favor to me? You can sneak away for a couple of hours.”

  She had gone out of her way for him the last time.

  “Sure.” Then he could rest easy that he’d paid her back.

  “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven in front of your hotel.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a group that eats as much as this one,” said Ellie, scurrying to fill yet another napkin-lined basket with yet more biscuits.

  There was a soft knock on the kitchen door.

  “I’ll get it.” Hank got up from his bacon and eggs to find Jamie on the other side of the door.

  He stood there looking at her while behind him, Ellie said, “Thank goodness it’s only Jamie. I was afraid it was someone who’d drawn the short straw to come back and tell me they were out of jelly again.”

  He had no choice but to let her in. Wordlessly, he stepped aside.

  “Help yourself to some toast and bacon,” Ellie told her. “Hank got the last of the eggs, but you’re welcome to scramble some more if you want. Might as well take this out to the table. Good thing I made extra.”

  Ellie disappeared behind the swinging door, leaving him alone with her.

  He was acutely aware of her every move.

  She got some toast and coffee and turned to the table. Ellie’s half-eaten bowl of oatmeal still sat at her usual place. A basketful of freshly folded laundry sat on a third chair. That left only the place right across from him.

  In the loaded silence, Jamie scooted her chair in, poured some half-and-half from the carton into her coffee, and took a sip.

  Why was he suddenly so tongue-tied this morning? One thing was for sure: He didn’t think he could take a whole summer of seeing her around every corner, studying that unique hair of hers, feeling uncomfortable in his own place.

  Ellie breezed back in, took her seat, and picked up her spoon. “There! Now. Have you thought any more about staying on?”

  “I have,” said Jamie.

  “And?”

  Hank’s breath stalled in his throat.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Wonderful!” said Ellie.

  Jamie laughed nervously. “It’ll be kind of like getting paid for a vacation that lasts the whole summer.”

  “What about finding a new apartment for next fall?” he said.

  “I’ll research some places online. My sister won’t mind inspecting a couple of places for me if I don’t feel like I can make a decision any other way. How long will you need me?”

  “September would be ideal,” said Ellie.

  “Only until we find someone else,” said Hank, his words getting tangled up with Ellie’s.

  Confused, Jamie looked from grandson to grandmother. “I have to be back the third week of August.”

  Ellie shrugged bony shoulders. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “What about your job at the bookstore?” asked Hank.

  “The store’s in Rittenhouse Square . . . it’s a busy area, surrounded by colleges,” she added when she realized they probably weren’t familiar. “University of the Arts, the Art Institute. They probably have a pile of résumés this high”—she set her hand atop an imaginary stack—“to choose from.”

  Must be nice, thought Hank.

  “Family?” asked Ellie.

  “I haven’t lived at home since college. I go back for holidays and a few weeks in the summer. But there are no expectations. I do have a question for you, though. Can I still take part in the guest events? That is, if there’s room and I’m not scheduled to work? For example, I’m signed up for rock climbing.”

  “As long as the activity isn’t filled. And you’ll have flexible time off,” said Ellie. “If there’s something you really want to do while you’re in Oregon, let us know. Matter of fact, there’s a big wine festival coming up that you might like. Maybe you can get Hank to take you to it.”

  “Sounds great,” she said, taking a delicate bite of toast.

  Behind Jamie’s back Hank gave Ellie a scathing look. He’d been planning to meet up with his group of friends who weren’t part of the wine industry, after the fest. They were his escape. His release valve.

  “Well then,” said Ellie, “it’s settled. The cabin you’re in now is already reserved for the remainder of the season, but there’s an empty suite upstairs. I’ll get it spruced up and then you can move right in. No sense waiting.”

  Now his grandmother had gone too far. The Sunflower Suite was sacred. It had belonged to his parents. No one else had ever slept there.

  And . . . it was located right across the hall from his.

  He got up, rinsed his plate, and put it in the dishwasher.

  “Where do you need her most, Henry?” asked Ellie.

  Hank glanced over at Jamie’s willing eyes, full of innocence, and was hit by a vision of her bronze hair fanned o
ut across his white pillowcase. Immediately he turned away.

  Now, thanks to Ellie, Jamie Martel was going to be around for the rest of the summer, dammit. And not just in one spot where he could easily skirt her, but popping up in all the same places he went throughout his working day . . . the tasting room, the stables, and now even sleeping right across the hall.

  “Tasting room, tomorrow from two to five,” he managed to spit out.

  A server came into the kitchen carrying a tray full of sugars and creamers and the other extras that went with the breakfast meal.

  Ellie clapped her hands down on the table and used them as leverage to get up. “Time for me to start thinking about lunch. Jamie, welcome aboard. I’m looking forward to hearing more of your playing in the evenings.”

  The campfire. She’d be a presence there, too. He’d forgotten about that. “Maybe you can get Bill to update his song repertoire to something after 1960.”

  Ellie extended her hand.

  But instead of simply taking it, Jamie threw her arms around her. “I come from a family of huggers. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “I never turn down a hug,” said Ellie into Jamie’s shoulder.

  Before Hank knew it, Jamie was standing in front of him with her arms wide open. With no alternative, his arms went around her ribcage. He felt her breasts mashed against his chest, smelled the heady blend of vanilla and the voluptuous peonies Ellie cherished above all other flowers in her garden because their blooms were so fleeting, while his hands hovered uncertainly above her back.

  In her excitement, Jamie didn’t seem to notice his reticence. She pulled back quickly and said, “If you don’t need me right now, I have to make some phone calls to the East Coast.”

  With that she disappeared out the back door, already holding her phone to her ear, leaving Hank still wondering what had just happened.

  “I had a good feeling,” Ellie said after Jamie left.

  Hank hid his conflicted emotions behind his eyes as he clapped on his ball cap. “You heard her. She’s a city girl.”

  “Is she?” replied Ellie. Busy clearing away the rest of the breakfast dishes, she didn’t seem to notice his disorientation. “Sometimes in life, you have to look beyond the obvious to find the answers.”

  Hank left without knowing what else to say. How was a man supposed to step into his role as a leader when his grandma was always interfering?

  * * *

  The upstairs hallway led to two doors right across from each other.

  “That suite belongs to Hank,” said Ellie to Jamie. “This one’s yours.” She opened the door and stepped aside for Jamie to enter first.

  Jamie stepped into a sunshine-yellow room anchored by a bed made up with plump feather pillows. Through the flowered curtains she could see miles of vineyards extending all the way to the distant hills.

  “There’s a little sitting area here for you to read and play your guitar.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  Jamie followed her into the spacious bathroom furnished with fluffy white towels.

  “There’s a bathtub! I’ve been stuck taking showers since college. A tub is one of the things I’m looking for in my new apartment.”

  “I hope you’ll feel at home. This room’s kind of special. It belonged to my son and his wife.”

  “Hank told me what happened. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “There comes a time when you have to move on. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather have stay here than you.”

  Her hand flew to her breast. “I’m honored, Miss Ellie. Truly, I am.”

  Her eye was drawn to a row of framed photographs on the dresser next to a tiny vase packed with violets. She was immediately touched, picturing Ellie toddling out to the meadow to search the ground for the low-growing wildflowers, then making her creaky knees endure repeated bends until she had enough to make a bunch.

  Jamie picked up a silver frame. “Who’s the young couple with the old pickup truck?”

  “That’s me and my husband. Henry Friestatt the sixth. Sounds pretty fancy, doesn’t it? You’d never match the name with the man. He was as down-to-earth as it gets. That was our very first grape harvest.”

  Jamie’s eyes lit up. “That’s the same heart-shaped sign I saw over the lane to the inn.”

  “The very same.” A fond look came over Ellie’s face as she took the photo from Jamie. “My husband carved it to look just like the one his grandfather carved, and his before that.” She set the picture lovingly back in its place. “This has been a sweet spot for generations.”

  “This little boy missing his front teeth—is that . . . ?”

  Tenderly, Ellie took the frame from her. “That’s my grandson, all right, in front of my son’s plane. Hank was the center of his parents’ world. Not to say that he was spoiled. His daddy taught him by example. One time in sixth grade he got kicked off the school bus for a week, for swearing. His father not only made him walk the five miles to school, he walked with him. And it was wintertime, to boot. They had to leave the house before it was light.

  “And then we lost them.” She sighed heavily and put the photo back on the shelf.

  “It must have been a terrible time.”

  Ellie smoothed the afghan hanging across the back of an upholstered chair. “I don’t know what I would have done without Hank. He gave up his dream of flying to come back and take over the vineyards. He’s come a long way these past three years. But, time marches on. I just can’t help but worry about the next big change . . . when he’s left to handle everything himself.”

  Jamie laid her hand on the woman’s freckled arm. “Hopefully you’ll be around for a long, long time. But even if, God forbid, you aren’t, Hank will be fine. You said yourself how he was raised, with all that love.”

  “I just hope and pray that he’ll be able to keep ahold of the vineyards for the next generation. Aren’t many places as special as this.”

  “No. There aren’t,” murmured Jamie, thinking of a certain farm three thousand miles to the east.

  * * *

  If there were this many wineaux here in July, Hank wondered what was in store for August through October, the Willamette Valley’s peak harvest season.

  No sooner had he poured for one group and started explaining what was in their glasses and the care and skill with which it was made, when the next thirsty gang came in.

  As he poured yet another sample, he educated his potential buyers. “Grapes grown in the Willamette Valley benefit from a wide variety of diverse soil origins—”

  And then, from the corner of his eye, Hank looked up and saw Jamie enter.

  “Be right with you,” he called to her.

  “Take your time,” she said with an easy smile. “I’m in no hurry.” She slid into a seat at the end of the bar.

  He went back to his customers. “Where were we?” Somehow he’d lost his train of thought. “Right. I was explaining about soil types . . .”

  After he rang up his sale, he only had time to pour Jamie a sample when the next group arrived.

  Every time he had a moment, Hank glanced at Jamie to find her calmly sipping her wine, watching him work, listening intently to what he said.

  When her glass was empty, he refilled it before being asked, in between selling.

  When at last he got a breather, he headed toward the end of the bar, where he found a young couple listening to her with rapt expressions.

  “The special magic of Sweet Spot pinot noir comes from communicating a sense of the place. When you fly over Ribbon Ridge, the white fog lying in the surrounding valleys make it look like some ancient island-hill from another time. Ribbon Ridge soil is very fine. It doesn’t contain many nutrients. Now, that may sound like a bad thing, but a too-rich soil means more foliage and less fruit . . .”

  His heart swelled. Jamie wasn’t just reciting facts. She was painting a picture. Her off-the-cuff description was ten times better than the script his paid docents were required to memorize and
regurgitate.

  “. . . fresh, smooth, and jammy. The sneaky tannins creep up on you and grab you when you aren’t looking. And aging in both old and newer oak gives it complexity and depth.”

  “How do you know so much about this place?” asked the woman.

  Jamie looked over the woman’s shoulder at Hank. “I like learning about wine. Guess you could call it a hobby. But I’m not the owner. Here’s the guy you want.”

  After Hank served them, he suggested they take their glasses outside and check out the view.

  When he and Jamie were finally alone, he leaned on the bar. “When have you ever flown over Ribbon Ridge?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t. But I’ve seen pictures.”

  He rose to his full height and straightened the brim of his ball cap. “I think we need to fix that.”

  Her smile transformed her features and her eyes shone.

  It wasn’t like Hank to be impulsive. The last time he’d flown over his land had been in his dad’s Beechcraft. But once he made a promise, he always kept it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Circle round,” said Hank, holding a clipboard. “Let’s see who’s brave enough to tackle Raven’s Rock. Jamie, I see you made it.” One by one he checked the others off his list. Taylor and Amanda, the newlyweds, and Cole, a fit Californian in his forties.

  “This is Lewis.” Hank indicated a sinewy young man with tangled blond dreadlocks. He stepped up to help Lewis finish squeezing the last of some bulky equipment into the back of the topless Jeep Wrangler. “Lewis and I go way back. He’s what they call a rock hound. Knows every good climb from here to Hood River.”

  “What are those?” Jamie asked, pointing to what looked like bundled-up crib mattresses.

  “Crash pads. We’re going to lay one on the ground beneath each of you when you climb.”

  Lewis drove off in the Jeep along a dirt road toward the rock formations. The rest of them mounted their horses and followed.

  “Bring Dancer over here,” Hank indicated with a toss of his head.

  She fell in next to Hank’s big chestnut gelding.

  “How’re you two getting along?” Hank sat his horse easily, one hand resting on his thigh, the other adeptly controlling the reins.