That was all it took.
Lindsay invaded her thoughts once again.
Piper groaned. “Goddamn it.”
* * *
Back at Vineyard, Lindsay locked the door behind the last customers. It was after eleven, but she didn’t care. She considered her experiment a success. There hadn’t been a lot of customers. Two tables, and one was her brother’s, so she wasn’t even sure she could count that. But the other table had stayed and Lindsay believed they were happy not to be ushered out at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. Bridget had stayed until almost ten…nearly an hour past her scheduled end time. There hadn’t been enough customers to keep her busy, but she stayed anyway.
Once she’d finished turning the chairs up onto the tabletops and sweeping the floor, Lindsay stood in the middle of the wine bar and looked around. All four walls were wood, and that made it feel dark. Not necessarily a bad thing, but brightening it a little bit might make it more inviting. She studied the far wall—the only one with no windows, as it butted up against the next store. Maybe something cream? She wouldn’t need more than a couple gallons of paint…
Lindsay wasn’t sure how long she stood there staring at the wall, but a car door slammed outside and jerked her back to the present. Tomorrow was Sunday and the wine bar was closed (something she also wanted to change). It wouldn’t take much time, energy, or money to paint this wall. And if she did it all herself, she wouldn’t have to run anything financial past Piper Bradshaw.
Taking the broom and dustpan to the back to stow them in the closet, Lindsay thought again about how fascinating the difference was between Piper and her sister. Physically, they actually looked very much alike. It was obvious to anybody who looked that they were sisters. The fascination came in the soft versus hard, the casual versus sophisticated, the approachable versus the standoffish. How two women with similar genes could be so different was intriguing.
Lindsay only had stepsiblings, so nobody to compare her face to, nobody who shared the same genes as her. Maybe that was why she couldn’t get the Bradshaw sisters out of her head. Lindsay could see Mrs. B. in both of her daughters, but Gina definitely resembled her more, and Lindsay decided it wasn’t so much a physical similarity but rather the friendly approachableness she exuded. Just like her mom.
Piper, on the other hand…
Lindsay shook her head, not wanting to waste time there. Piper had come by, so maybe she’d gotten her fix, done her duty, and Lindsay wouldn’t see her again for a while. Fingers crossed, because Lindsay had the feeling that it didn’t matter what ideas she had, Piper was going to oppose them all. Why, she had no clue. But she was a good judge of such things, and she’d read Piper like a book. Piper didn’t like her and resented the power her mother had given her. Part of Lindsay was curious, that part of her that had thought at one time she wanted to be a psychologist. She wanted to analyze Piper, dig in, dig down, figure her out. But a larger—and more reasonable—part of her scoffed. She needed to let that go. Piper Bradshaw was insignificant in the grand scheme of Lindsay’s life.
Besides, she had plans for this place. By the time Mrs. Bradshaw came back, Lindsay wanted Vineyard to be the hottest place on the lake. And that was going to take some work.
Chapter Six
“I still can’t get over how amazing that looks.” Bridget sat at one of the tables in Vineyard, Lindsay on her left and Mike, the distributor for Lollypop Wines, setting up his supplies opposite her. She gazed at the wall across from them, the wall that used to be weathered wood and was now weathered wood painted a warm cream color. “It brightens up the room without taking the warmth.”
“Yeah?” Lindsay asked. “Good. That’s exactly what I was going for.”
“And it feels bigger in here.”
Lindsay nodded, unable to keep her grin from widening. “Well, my shoulders are killing me and Rocket still has paint on his pads, but we got it done. I’ll put the pictures and stuff back up when we’re done here. Should be dry by now.”
Mike opened a bottle with his wine key and Bridget gave a tiny half squeal of delight.
“I can’t believe I get to do the tastings with you,” she stage-whispered as she grasped Lindsay’s arm.
“Mrs. B. always said a second opinion was a good thing. Did you eat a big breakfast? We’ve got two of these this morning.”
“French toast, baby.”
“Excellent.”
Mike poured them each a small amount of wine and began to pitch his product, a new red blend.
Wine tastings were part of the job, a part that Lindsay wasn’t privy to until she’d worked at Vineyard for over a year. They were more than just picking wines that tasted good. Taste was subjective. What one person liked, another might hate. The tastings were more about what they could teach the customers as well as what would sell. That’s why Mrs. B. had always had at least one other person taste with her. Once that second person was Lindsay, it had stayed that way. And with Mrs. B. gone, the person Lindsay trusted most was Bridget.
They tasted several wines over the next three hours, both from Mike and from a second distributor who came in after him.
“This is unusual,” Lindsay’d told Bridget. “Mike had to reschedule, so we ended up with back-to-back tastings, which is not ideal.” By the time the second distributor had packed up her stuff and departed, Lindsay was feeling the wine even though she’d ended up spitting some out. She was pretty sure Bridget was as well.
“That was awesome,” Bridget said, shelving the clean glasses she’d removed from the commercial dishwasher in the back. “I learned so much.”
Her smile was contagious. “That’s how I felt the first time I tasted with Mrs. B. When she first taught me that trick for telling how acidic a wine is.”
“You mean that thing where you hold it in your mouth, swallow it, breathe through your nose, and see how much you salivate?”
Lindsay chuckled as she wiped down the bar with a disinfectant spray. “That.”
“That was so cool.”
She tossed the cloth over her shoulder, folded her arms, and leaned the small of her back against the bar. “Tell me something,” she said to Bridget.
Bridget looked at her and must have decided her stance was serious because she stopped what she was doing and faced Lindsay. “Okay.”
“We tasted a lot of Old World versus New World wines today. What did you think?” Lindsay had her own opinion but wanted another. Yes, Bridget was fairly new to the game, but she was quick and she was smart. She’d picked up very quickly that Old World wines were mostly European—Italian, French, Spanish, German—and New World wines were from the US, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada.
Obviously taking time to really think about the question, Bridget inhaled slowly and then let it out. “I liked both,” she said finally. “I really did. And I was surprised by a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“Like the fact that the Old World stuff was subtler. I expected them to be the bigger, bolder wines. I was surprised that the New World stuff fit that bill better. I was also surprised to learn that ‘fruit-forward,’” she made air quotes, “doesn’t necessarily mean sweet.”
Lindsay nodded. “That’s a big misnomer.”
“You know what I was doing in my head during comparisons?”
“Tell me.”
Bridget broke eye contact and went back to shelving glasses as she spoke, almost as if she was embarrassed. “I was assigning celebrity names that fit each wine.”
Lindsay furrowed her brow in confusion.
Bridget laughed at her expression. “Like, that one from Italy? The Primativo? That was Robert De Niro compared to the Zinfandel from California. That one was more…Tony Soprano.” When Lindsay still didn’t comment, Bridget went on, her hands flailing animatedly as she spoke. “Like, the Primativo was subtle and had staying power. It was a more constant presence. Like De Niro. And the Zinfandel, that hit hard. It was a punch to the mouth. Big and loud. Like To
ny Soprano.”
Lindsay brought a hand to her mouth.
Bridget threw a rag at her. “Don’t mock me.”
Lindsay held her hand out, traffic cop style. “No. No, I’m not mocking you, Bridge. At all. No, this actually gives me a great idea for marketing some of the newer wines. Can I use that? Your celebrity naming thing? I think they’re great descriptors.”
Bridget’s face went from slightly pouty to totally lit up. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“What did you think of the blends?”
“As opposed to the single varietals?” At Lindsay’s nod, she narrowed her eyes in thought. “I liked them a lot. Some, I liked even better than the standards. From what the distributors were saying, a lot goes into making the blends.”
“Exactly,” Lindsay said with a nod, remembering her attempt to tell Piper Bradshaw that exact thing. “I mean, they’re not going to replace traditional wines. Duh. But I think they’ve come a long way and I’d like to get more of them in here. I think the younger demographic is more open to blends than the older, traditional crowd.”
Bridget nodded her agreement and went back to the glasses while Lindsay’s head spun with new ideas.
“Hey, I’m going to go grab us some food,” she said to Bridget, who tossed her a look of relief.
“Oh, thank God. I was going to have to break into one of the baguettes in the back.”
“Any preference?”
“You know, Zack is always talking about the burgers at Lakeshore. He says they’re to die for.” Bridget grimaced. “Is that too far?”
Lakeshore was on the other end of the lake, but to be honest, Lindsay relished getting out and breathing in some fresh air. “Not at all. Be back in a bit. Hold the fort.”
Lindsay loved Black Cherry Lake and she loved the lake path that Vineyard was on so much that she often forgot there was an entire “rest of the lake.” She hopped in her car and took her time driving along the water, catching glimpses of spring boaters, braving the still-cold water to catch some fresh fish. The lake path, where Vineyard stood, was a simple concrete sidewalk that ran along the shore of one end of the lake in a horseshoe shape. Parallel to it was a long stream of businesses, from stores to restaurants to bars to ice cream places and coffee shops. The entire lake path ran about three miles, and during the summer, it was hugely populated. Near one end was Black Cherry Park, which boasted a large gazebo where live music filled the warm evenings and food trucks and vendor tables and a beer garden would keep customers full and happy as they listened or danced.
The other end of the lake was like a slightly off mirror image of the lake path. Rather than concrete, this one was asphalt. But it ran a very similar length, boasted several shops, restaurants, and bars, and had a park at one end where local picnics and weekend celebrations were held. No gazebo, though, Lindsay thought, giving her end of the lake an extra point.
The weather was cool and the sky the color of a submarine hull. Rain was imminent. Lindsay pulled into the parking lot of Lakeshore, tugged her jacket around her more snugly, and headed inside, wondering if the rain would hold off long enough for her to get back to her car without getting soaked. Lakeshore had opened at eleven, and she pulled on the heavy door, then stood to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
Once she could see, she headed to the bar where a guy she’d never met polished the bar with a rag. He had brown hair and a Paul Bunyan beard, and Lindsay almost laughed out loud, as he looked like every stereotypical bartender she’d ever seen in a movie. But when he looked up and greeted her, his eyes were kind and smiling and she felt a little guilty.
“What can I do you for?” he asked, throwing the polishing rag over his shoulder.
“Lunch. Can I get some food to go?” She took the menu he handed her and looked it over quickly, even though she knew what she was getting. She ordered cheeseburgers and fries for both herself and Bridget, then took a seat at the bar.
“A drink while you wait?” the bartender asked.
“Just a Coke would be great.”
He slid it her way, then went about his business as Lindsay spun on her stool and took the place in. It had been a while since she’d been there, but it was much like she remembered. Mostly wood, not unlike Vineyard but a bit more on the rustic side, and it looked as if it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be: rural family restaurant, sports bar, or something classier. Booths lined the walls, tables scattered in the center like marbles tossed by a kid. It was about a quarter full, but it was still early. It was true she rarely came here, but since Mrs. B. had left her in charge, it was like something in her had clicked and Businesswoman Lindsay had been let out to play. She thought it important to know what other bars and restaurants were doing.
Turning back to the bar, she sipped her Coke and slid the cocktail menu out of its little holder. The wine flights were definitely new like Bridget said—it was obvious they’d been hand-added to the already printed menu—and she read over the options. Not bad, but one of them was an exact duplicate of Vineyard’s…an Around the World flight of a Spanish Rioja, an Argentinian Malbec, and a California Zinfandel. Lindsay squinted at it. Even the brands were the same. A hell of a coincidence, to be sure.
Ten minutes later, food in hand, she was in her car and headed back to Vineyard just as the rain began to fall in large, wet splotches on her windshield. Once on her own end of the lake, she noted how the whole lake path was slowly waking up, in a sense. Several places closed down in the winter—the ice cream stand, the smoothie bar, for example—but were starting to open doors and dust off cobwebs, as if awakening from hibernation. Wouldn’t be long before she could scoot down the path during the afternoon and grab a cone filled with the homemade black cherry ice cream they made at the Creamery.
“Cheeseburgers, ice cream, the cheese guy later,” Lindsay mumbled as she walked. “My poor hips.” With a self-deprecating grin, she went back to work.
* * *
Rain pelted the window behind Piper’s chair like somebody was throwing small pebbles at the glass. Her mind had been all over the place today, though she wasn’t sure why. Well, no, that was a lie. She knew exactly why.
Her father.
He’d been on her mind so much lately, despite her attempts to keep those thoughts and memories at bay. Any therapist worth her salt would correctly remind her that her mother had just left on her first solo outing since the death of her husband, and that was affecting Piper in ways she hadn’t expected.
That was the simple reason.
Piper groaned softly and slowly turned in her chair so she could watch the rainstorm from her sixth-floor office. It had started with thunder and lightning but had calmed down to a basic gray cloud, lots of water downpour.
The complicated reason—or reasons, plural, rather—were that work was stressing her out, she was worrying about her mom traveling alone, and she was a little bit lonely. That last one wasn’t an easy thing to admit, and she tended to avoid thinking about it. But thoughts of her mother made her think of her parents together and what a great relationship they had and how she was going to be forty in a couple years and didn’t have that yet and what if she ended up alone forever and—on and on and on. An endless loop of panicked self-pity.
These were things she talked to her father about all the time. Work. Politics. Life. Love. No subject was off-limits. Sometimes, Piper felt like it had been two years since she’d had a deep conversation with anybody at all.
Which would be very hurtful to Matthew. To Gina. To Piper’s mom. She knew that. Didn’t make it not true.
Her father had been the COO of a large real estate company for nearly thirty years before he’d retired. He’d gotten bored quickly, found a small bar for sale on the coveted lake path, and before anybody could say Cabernet Sauvignon, Vineyard had been born. He loved that place, put his heart and soul into it, spent a ton of time there. Piper used to go all the time, sit at the bar while he served his customers, talk to him about whatever crap she was dealing wit
h at work. HR issues, sexist treatment, overly demanding clients. He had experienced all of them and he was her sounding board. Whenever she was unsure what to do, how to act, what to say, she’d go to her dad and he’d have just the right advice…or he’d help her come up with the solutions herself, which always made him that much prouder of her. Once her mother had retired from teaching, she’d joined him at Vineyard and it had been their hangout, the three of them. Even Gina would pop in every so often when she wasn’t busy with the kids.
Tom Bradshaw had loved Vineyard. And now Piper was in charge.
She found herself subtly nodding as the rain began to let up and a hesitant ray of sunlight peeked from between gray clouds, then vanished again as if uncertain. Yeah, she needed to pay more attention to Vineyard.
For her father.
A knock on her office door pulled her back to the day at hand. One of her managers she’d asked to see reported for duty, a worried expression on his face.
“Come on in,” she said, gesturing for him to enter, and she got back to her day.
* * *
By six thirty, the rain had decided it still wasn’t finished and hammered at the roof of Piper’s SUV as she sat in the parking lot next to Vineyard. She couldn’t see in the windows from her angle, so had no idea if it was busy. But the parking lot had exactly four cars in it, one of which she knew was Bridget’s, so she figured the weather was keeping people away.
After ten minutes in the car, she gave up on waiting and reached into the back seat for an umbrella. It wasn’t like she couldn’t manage the forty-yard walk from her car to the door of the wine bar, but she was wearing heels and a very expensive suit she’d rather not get drenched. She pushed her car door open with her foot, popped the umbrella up, and hurried to the door, where there was enough of an awning to give her space. She folded the umbrella back up and stepped inside.
The inside of Vineyard was warm and inviting, as it always was. It also seemed…bigger tonight, which was weird. Piper squinted as she shed her wet coat. Two tables were occupied and a handsome man in a suit sat at the bar. Piper headed that way and took a stool. It took her several minutes before she noticed the painted wall.
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