At Wits' End: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Kenzie Reed

  This vineyard is everything to Aunt Fernanda. Originally she’d hoped to leave it to me, but since the whole Simon disaster, there’s been talk of her leaving it to Sara. Either way, it’s the vineyard that she and Nuccio built together with their own hands fifty years ago, it was their pride and their passion, and I believe, as she does, it’s a legacy worth preserving.

  The problem is, she’s won’t modernize. She sees any change as an insult to Nuccio’s legacy, and she’s also just an old-fashioned grump. She’s refused to embrace anything beyond the most minimal marketing. She pretty much expects people to show up at her doorstep and buy her wine without any promotion whatsoever. That worked for decades, but Oregon has become a world-class destination for wine, and the winemaking business has turned ferociously competitive. The town of Greenvale grows ever more crowded, more vineyards spring up every year, and what used to work just doesn’t anymore.

  We can’t survive the season like this.

  My pity party is interrupted when the office door swings open and Donovan walks in. He’s changed from his jogging shorts and T-shirt into khaki slacks and a blue button-down shirt and loafers. He’s always so perfectly, effortlessly put together. Annoys the bejeepers out of me.

  I quickly swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Hey. What’s up?” I sniffle, ducking my head in an attempt to hide it.

  “I’m going to the grocery store to buy some food that doesn’t need refrigeration, to tide us over until next week. Are you crying?” he asks.

  I sniffle agajn and hide my nose with my hand. “Dust. Allergies.”

  “Lies. Bullshit.” He pulls up a chair and sits down. “Talk to me.”

  Great. Mr. Success wants to dine on my misery. I already know that his family’s wines are in every supermarket in the country.

  “So you can gloat?” I push my chair back away from him. And I see the shutters slam closed in his eyes. He stands up abruptly, brushing his hands on his slacks, lines wrinkling his smooth forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I’m just stressed out right now. I appreciate you being willing to lend a sympathetic ear. I just think… Fernanda doesn’t even know about the marriage, and she has very strong feelings about your family. I don’t think she’d be comfortable having me discuss business with you.”

  His brows shoot up so high they almost hit his hairline. “Pump the brakes there. She does not know about the marriage?” He plops back down in the chair.

  “Oh God, no.” I shudder. “You know how traditional she is about relationships. Marriage is sacred. I mean, Uncle Nuccio’s been dead for ten years and she’s said she’ll never date again because she knows he’ll be waiting for her in Heaven and she couldn’t… Damn it, now I am crying.”

  Donovan pulls out a folded kerchief from his pocket and hands it to me. I dab at my eyes, blow my nose, and hand it back, and he shoves it back in his pocket.

  “How, exactly, are you planning to keep this a secret from her?”

  “Well, she steadfastly refuses to take part in or even acknowledge the 21st century. She doesn’t ever go on the internet, or use cell phones. I’ve reached out to her best friends in town and explained everything and asked them not to say anything to her, because without this financing, the winery’s…” I trail off. “Facing some challenging times.”

  Going under.

  “She certainly is old fashioned. Is that why the vineyard’s got a bare-bones website and people have to come to her doorstep to purchase? Why she still won’t ship anywhere?”

  I heave a sigh. “That and the challenge and expense of applying for licenses to ship wine out of state. She’d have to set up a system to ship wine, even within the state, and it’s not something she’ll ever do on her own. And I ran out on her, and the vineyard, so I haven’t really felt like I could lecture her on how to run things.”

  “Number one, you didn’t run out on her. You just chose not to go into the winemaking business. But you’ve come back for this family again and again to help straighten out their finances whenever they needed it. Everybody knows that. And number two, we’re not talking about seven years ago, we’re talking about now. You’re smart, you’re determined, you haven’t forgotten what you’ve learned from your viticulture degree because you have a mind like a steel trap, and you have the opportunity to help her get things back in shape.” He leans forward. “I mean, my family sells in every single state. I could get one of my sisters to help you with the…”

  I shake my head.

  “Sorry. Aunt Fernanda would put a hex on me.”

  He nods somberly. “Yeah, I understand.”

  “I do appreciate it.” I massage my temples. “I thought you were going to your family’s house so you can use your dad’s office? Didn’t you say you had a whole bunch of work you needed to do for your own company?”

  “Yeah. It can wait, if you need me.”

  The raw vulnerability in his voice snatches my breath away. Is this Donovan Witlocke speaking, or his non-evil twin?

  “I’ve got it, but thank you. Also, who are you? That’s…not at all jerkish.”

  “Don’t get used to it, shortcake.” As if to punctuate his insult, he stands up and towers over me.

  I tilt my head back to stare up at him, and flash a sardonic smile. “That’s better. There’s the man I know and loathe.”

  But there’s no venom in my voice when I say it, and I realize my dark mood has lightened considerably. Because of Donovan. Just knowing that he’s in my corner.

  Is he really, though, or is this all some elaborate con? And what would be the end game?

  He smiles and winks, making my heart flutter, and walks out the door. Fortunately, I’ve become an expert at compartmentalizing my feelings when it comes to Donovan. There’s the “Lust” folder, where I firmly contain my raging arousal, and then there’s the “But he’s a Witlocke” wall, which I have built up around my heart and my vagina.

  I need someone who’s really in my corner, someone I can trust completely. I pick up the phone and call Pamela.

  She answers right away. “Ouch! Hello, Sienna. Ouch, damn it! Sorry, the baby’s biting my boob.”

  “Seriously?” I laugh. “Is that normal?”

  “Doubtful. She’s my daughter, after all. Honey, will you take our vampire child and give her a teething ring?” she calls out to her husband. “Better keep her away from garlic and crucifixes, just in case. Thanks, babe.” She returns her attention to me. “What’s happening? Is it annulment time? Did you say ‘the word’?” she says hopefully.

  “Oh, stop it. I don’t need an annulment. I can handle Donovan with both hands tied behind my back.”

  “Interesting. Are you saying that you want to handle Donovan with both hands tied behind your back? Or rather, you want him to handle you?”

  My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and hazy, kinky images swim through my mind before I banish them to the depths of Hell. Pamela and her Bestie ESP. There’s a thin line between love and hate, indeed.

  “Forget about Donovan. I have bigger fish to fry.”

  “Bigger than a fake marriage to your mortal enemy? Do tell.”

  “Aunt Ferdie’s business situation is a total crapfest nightmare.”

  “Be a little more specific. I thought you guys had tons of business? I mean, I can’t drink since I’m breastfeeding, but my hubby, that bastard, goes over there whenever you have tasting days, and he says it’s always packed.” She yells out, “Love you, honey! Even if you can drink wine and coffee and I can’t, you son of a bitch.” Then she returns her attention to me. “Go on.”

  “It’s packed on tasting days, yes. And we have good sales. Not great. We’ve got a lot of product that we could move if we could just bring in more business, but right now it’s just sitting there gathering dust and not making us any money. And she’s got creditors dunning her, I need to hire more people to keep the vineyard running and we can’t afford it, we have equipme
nt that needs repairing, and I don’t know how I’m going to finance my way through the summer.”

  “Okay, well, the creditors are something I can actually help with. Why don’t you organize all of the bills and bring them to me tomorrow? I’ll act as your attorney, contact her creditors, and arrange payment plans with all of them that will carry you through until the property sale.” There’s a moment of silence. “Do you think there’s any chance that she’ll refuse to take the money from the sale when she finds out about the whole fake marriage thing?”

  “Once everything’s said and done, no. She’s going to be mad as hell at all of us, but she’ll be mad with a few million bucks in the bank, and she can use it to get her business back in the black, hire new people, buy new equipment, maybe plant some more vines so in three or four years we could expand production, maybe expand the seating area and get a restaurant license…” I sigh.

  “So what could you do to immediately raise funds? You’ve got inventory, it’s excellent, how could you let people know about it?”

  I lean back in my chair, massaging my temple with my free thumb. “Well, spring and summer are our most profitable seasons, of course, but there’s no real plan in place to take advantage of that. She hardly does any marketing. Our website is caca-doody.”

  “Yes, it is. My seven-year-old niece makes better websites.”

  That would be Deborah, who, according to Pamela’s Facebook page, just lost two of her baby teeth and has a glitter pen obsession. “Can I hire her? Not even joking.” I could pay her in…coloring books? Chocolate brownies? My chocolate brownies kick ass. They’re at least fifty percent as good as the chocolate-chip cookies baked by Nanny Sue, the Witlockes’ chef.

  “Unfortunately she’s fully booked. Right now she’s busy revamping her dad’s website for the junkyard, and then after that there’s an art supplies store in town waiting for her services. Even better, though – I’ve got an excellent marketing company who could revamp your website, and also set you up on social media. They’re from a town in Bitter End, North Carolina and they totally kick ass. They’ll generate ideas for publicity, set up accounts on all the social media sites, and honestly, I am positive you’d see a really quick return.”

  She names a price that makes my eyes water.

  “Okay, okay, let me run the numbers in my head…”

  Time to get creative. I massage my temples. I’ve already worked out what the winery needs as a bare minimum to keep us operating. If I cash in my 401k and savings, and use my credit cards, I can just about afford the marketing company, the equipment repair, some local advertising, and hiring a few new employees. Cashing out my 401k means a massive tax hit, and fines, but Aunt Fernanda will be able to pay me back when the property sale goes through before I actually have to pay.

  “If they can get started right away, then yes, hook me up.”

  “I will contact them right now. Don’t worry, babe, you got this. Okay, Amelia wants to nurse, or maybe just use my boobs as a chew toy. Pray for me. I’m going in.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SIENNA

  Before I leave to visit Aunt Fernanda, I take a quick walk through the vineyard to take pictures of the vines. Our vineyard manager, Pietro, is out there with his teenage sons, who are being paid ten dollars an hour for a vineyard internship. They’re carefully shaping the canopies of the vines, snipping here and there, repairing trellises, adjusting ties. At Aunt Fernanda’s vineyard, she goes for low production and high quality, snipping off many of the budding grape clusters so there are fewer per vine but the remaining clusters are more flavorful. It’s an art form that takes many years to master, and we were lucky to find someone experienced, who was also passionate about the biodynamic process.

  Heading towards us down the vineyard is Sara, leading a group of tourists on a vineyard tour. She grins and waves at me, and I wave back.

  Her voice drifts through the rows of vines, with the familiar spiel. “That’s right, we don’t irrigate at all. It’s a common practice in organic and biodynamic vineyards; the only water that the vines get comes down from the heavens. The process is called dry farming. Wine grapes benefit from tough conditions and poor soil, from having to work hard for their nutrients. It forces them to develop a stronger root system, as they search deep in the soil for their food. And it results in a more intense flavor. Now, I’d like everyone to kneel down and grab a handful of dirt.”

  Everyone obeys. “That’s pure gold you’re holding,” she says. “Jory soil is the official state soil of Oregon. It’s perfect for grape-growing because it’s low in nutrients and has excellent drainage. And the tale of this soil began millions of years ago…” As she walks, her voice fades.

  Inspired, I pull out a little notebook from my purse and tear out a sheet of paper. I fold it and scrape a little pile of dirt into it, then make the paper into a little envelope, which I tuck into a pocket inside my purse.

  And then I head out to visit Aunt Fernanda. It’s an hour-long drive, but a beautiful one, with the road winding past vineyards and farms, the sky a wash of bleached-denim blue.

  The family has arranged to take turns visiting her, so she’s got people seeing her at least five days a week. I’ve been visiting her on Saturdays.

  The Sunrise Rehab facility is aggressively cheerful. A sign with an enormous sun bursting through clouds tops the mid-century modern building, and there are pots of gingham fabric sunflowers inside. Everything smells like lemony-astringent cleaner. I’m glad it’s clean here, but I feel badly for Aunt Fernanda. She hates fake flowers and artificial scents.

  I sign in and show my I.D., then head to her room in the back of the rehab center.

  Right before I enter, I remember to take off my wedding ring and shove it in my purse. Oh, what a tangled web we weave…

  Standing in the hallway, I hear her voice. “I’m fine! I can do it myself. Oh, hell. All right then. You can help me, but just so you have something to do.”

  I look through the doorway. The nurse’s aide is helping my aunt stand up. She stands by her side as she slowly shuffles across the room to the bathroom, using a walker. Aunt Fernanda nearly falls a couple of times; she’s weak on the left side now. Each time, the nurse’s aide catches her and my aunt curses loudly in Italian.

  I wait for her to finish. The minutes drag slowly by. When I catch a glimpse of her settling back into her chair, I hurry in.

  She’s wearing a yellow flowery house dress and white orthopedic shoes. At home she always wears her thick shiny white hair in a bun. Here she’s let it flow loose past her shoulders. She’s stopped wearing makeup, too. She never used to leave the house without drawing on her eyebrows and applying her signature rose-colored lipstick.

  Every time I see her like this, it’s like a vise-squeeze to the heart. After my grandparents died – before I was born – Aunt Fernanda took over as family matriarch. She bossed everyone around and fussed over them, she was in charge of birthdays and holidays, she worked from sunup until long past sundown. She hates being like this, hates the slow pace of rehab, hates being away from home.

  “Aunt Fernanda!” I hug her, and she hugs me back. I glance at the empty bed next to her. “Scared off another roommate?”

  “Yep,” she says proudly.

  I sigh. “You’re incorrigible. Anyone who’s here is already stressed out enough. Could you try to be a little nice?”

  “I could, but I won’t.”

  Well, at least she’s honest. I plop down in a chair next to her. “I took pictures of the vineyard,” I say, pulling out my phone. “It’s looking fantastic.”

  I click on the photo app. She shakes her head, looking alarmed. “What is that? You know I don’t like those things. Take real pictures, with a real camera, and send them to me in the real mail. Or bring them next visit.”

  I sigh. She’s been in a mood ever since she’s been here, but it’s understandable. “Okay. I can get these pictures on my phone made into prints.”

  “I don�
�t want that. Take them with a real camera.”

  I don’t even have a real camera. “Fine.” I shove my phone back in my purse.

  “And don’t try to fool me with phone pictures. I’ll know.”

  No, she won’t. “I will bring pictures next week.”

  I dig into my purse and pull out the packet of soil, and open it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Soil from the vineyard!” I say proudly. “I can bring you a jar of it next week if you like.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sure it’s fine.” She doesn’t even look at it. My heart does a painful thump in my chest.

  “Never mind, then,” I say gently. But I’ve got so much I need to discuss with her – plans for the vineyard, questions I need to ask her about where she keeps some of the files – and we’re not going to get anywhere if she’s in this kind of mood.

  I fold up the soil and slide it back into my purse. I sit there staring at the floor, not sure what to say. Everything’s changed. Aunt Fernanda was always my safety net. I always went to her for comfort and advice. And now I guess I’m the boss, and I don’t want to be. I want to curl up in her lap so she can brush my hair and French braid it the way she used to.

  “How’s my Nuccio?” she asks suddenly, her voice so sad that it brings tears to my eyes.

  I look up, blinking hard. “He’s doing very well,” I assure her. “We’re in the barn-house, and I have a big cat tower for him to climb on, and I keep the door closed so he doesn’t get out.”