Emotion tried to lift its head, but she ruthlessly wack-a-moled it back into its icy burrow. Freeze the pain.
Footsteps sounded on the floor behind her. Damn, she’d left the door ajar! All she wanted was to be alone in that separate orbit of hers, to work on her anesthetization process. To send the newcomer on their way, she turned.
From the doorway, a stranger gave her a polite smile.
It was a man - late fifties, maybe? Trim and with short silver-shot hair and a thin mustache. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice threaded with an accent. German? “I let my curiosity lead me.”
A refugee from the tour, Stevie supposed. She pasted on a polite smile and told herself that two minutes of effort on her part could lead to profit if he bought a case of wine or - better yet - joined the wine club. She’d made that promise to pitch in, after all, so she tried to widen her smile.
“Your curiosity brought you straight to the root of the winery, actually,” she said. “This is the home of Anne and Alonzo Baci, the founders of Tanti Baci. It’s nearly one hundred years old.”
He strolled farther into the room. “We should all look so well at such a great age.”
Her second smile felt more natural. “It went through a big renovation a few months back. In this central space, we hold weddings and the two adjacent rooms are where the bridal parties prepare for the ceremony.”
Her stranger paced about, his hands clasped behind his back. He wore wool slacks, a sweater, and a hounds-tooth check sports jacket. Expensive-looking shoes.
Definitely a candidate for the wine club, she thought.
He ran a long-fingered hand over the stones of the fireplace. “Beautiful workmanship.”
“Original,” she said. “Alonzo Baci, my great-great-grandfather, built it.” Before she knew it, she was sharing with him the story of the partnership with that other Liam, the romantic triangle, the treasure, and the long-standing feud.
“I heard some of this from the young person leading the tour,” he commented, nodding out the window. “Do people really explore your property looking for the rumored silver?”
“As recent as six months ago. When we were restoring the cottage, someone pulled away the new wallboard looking for a hidden cache.”
The older man ran his gaze around the room. “Then I suppose one must surrender the idea that it’s hidden here at your cottage. It would have been found during the modernization.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “But old legends don’t die easy.”
“Like old habits,” he mused in a quiet voice, strolling toward the doorway to the bride’s boudoir. “And old disagreements.”
He disappeared into the other room, leaving behind an odd sense of something she couldn’t put her finger on. Melancholy, maybe? Regret?
It infused her, too, then, mixing with the humiliation that had swept over her at the knowledge that Emerson had not just dumped her, he’d cared so little for her that he’d cheated on her first. Her chest ached and the chill soaking into her bones wasn’t because she was “freezing the pain.”
It was because she felt lonely. Unwanted, even.
If a friend had been the victim in this story, she would have told them the man wasn’t worth a moment’s thought. That he wasn’t worthy of her experiencing the tiniest sting.
And yet, Stevie felt embarrassed. Rejected.
Closing her eyes, she let herself admit the truth. Yeah, she hurt.
Warm arms drew her against a warm chest. “Mon ange.”
She started, eyes opening even as she was aware it was Jack - his gentle voice, his hard body, his unreadable gaze. His lips brushed her cheek. “Hey.”
Instinct drove her to step away from the circle of his arms. “Hey, yourself,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” He looked down at his clothes. Flannel shirt, down vest, boots, and jeans. They were all dirty enough to make clear he’d been working in Liam’s vineyard again. “I happened to call Roxy. She admitted to me what she admitted to you. I didn’t know the details before and…”
Stevie crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her elbows, pretending a hot wash of humiliation wasn’t climbing her neck. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for me.” Just saying it aloud made her stomach pitch.
“No, that’s not it.” He ran a hand through his hair, looked at her, looked away, then looked at her again, his expression baffled. “I … Damn it, I … I just feel for you, Stevie.”
She stared at him.
His gaze shifted away from hers. “It doesn’t make any goddamn sense to me, either,” he muttered.
“Your cursing, your attire, neither make sense to me,” a cold voice said. “Is this how you dress now, Jack?”
They both turned toward Stevie’s stranger, who had walked back into the main room. Clearly he was not unknown to Jack, though. The younger man’s expression smoothed. His smile was sharp enough to draw blood. “How do you do, sir? Long time no see. I thought you weren’t expected for a few more days.”
“I came in early as a surprise. Which brings up something I’ve been wanting you to know,” the older man said. “Your long absence upsets your mother.”
Was this Jack’s father? Stevie glanced between the two men, noting the similar build and facial structure. They watched each other with the same deep wariness.
“Mom always knows where I am,” Jack answered, his voice mild. “She’s even managed to visit me a time or two.”
“She’s seen you at least once every year,” his father corrected.
Jack shrugged. “There you go.”
The man’s gaze ran over the son again. “You look like a laborer.”
“Funny, because I am a laborer. I’m laboring in one of Liam’s vineyards, trying to pay my way with work since I’m mooching off him for room and board.”
The older man tensed. “You have access -”
“I wouldn’t touch your money.” The words were pointed, yet the tone so pleasant it made Stevie’s stomach clench. “And despite what you’ve heard, I have my own.”
Jack’s father’s expression went even grimmer, his accent more clipped. “I do not understand this. I do not understand you. I do not understand my son working someone else’s land when -”
“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” Stevie said, surprising herself by stepping between the two. This wasn’t her battle, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. “I’m Stephania Baci, and you must be…”
“Excuse our manners,” Jack said. “And Dad is usually a stickler for such things.”
A ruddy flush spotted the older man’s cheekbones, signaling a direct hit. But he moved toward Stevie, his own hand outstretched.
Jack continued. “This is my father, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Ardenia’s k -”
Um,“ the older man said, cutting off his son. ”Just call me Wil, or Mr. Parini, if you find me too old to refer to by my Christian name.“ At Jack’s astonished expression, he even managed a small smile. ”I’m in America. Your mother swore she won’t speak to me if I put on airs.”
“Mom puts on airs.”
“No, Jack.” Mr. Parini shook his head. “Your mother puts on crowns.”
And then they both laughed, though the sounds were so rusty and uncomfortable, that Stevie found herself aching all over again. But this time for Jack … and for his father.
Mr. Parini - she would never call the king of Ardenia Wil - quickly excused himself as if the showdown with his son had sapped him of energy.
That left her and Jack looking at each other, and clearly he felt as exposed as she had a few minutes before. While Jack knew that Emerson’s actions had wounded her, she now knew that his relationship with his father was strained to the point of pain.
Jack reached out, tugged on the ends of her hair. “How are you really doing?”
She looked away until his knuckle tickled her under the chin. His gaze was serious. “Stevie?”
What the hell. �
��I’m a little raw.” She hesitated. “You?”
He glanced in the direction his father had exited. “That’s a good word for it. I’m a little raw, too.”
Then they stared at each other and it was weird, because she could tell he was, like she, coming to grips with how that brief exchange of words felt more like an event. Important. Altering.
As if they’d traded state secrets. Or rings. Or … trust.
And because it all felt so heavy, she was driven to lighten the moment. Desperate, even. “You’re going on the wine walk tonight?” The Bacis, Parinis, Platts, and Bennetts would be taking a tour of the Edenville tasting rooms together.
“Mmm.” His knuckle teased her bottom lip before he backed off. “I suppose I should leave to get ready. I’m dirty and sweaty.”
“But perfect for what I have in mind,” she said, yanking him close again. “I say we go back to my place and get ready for tonight in my shower. Together.”
His eyes gleamed. Clearly he was as happy to divert the discussion as she. “I’m excellent with soap and shampoo.”
They walked toward the door. “We have to be quick,” she warned. “According to my calculations, you’ll have, oh, about eleven minutes to show me what you can do with bubbles.”
Jack groaned. Cursed. Muttered something about men and then swatted her on the butt to hurry her along. She counted it a victory that they were both smiling.
Then He Kissed Me
14
************************************************************************************************
Emerson realized that the evening ahead was a command performance on many levels. He had parts to play: son-in-law-to-be, devoted fiancé, aspiring politician. The final role had been assigned to him at the last minute. As they stepped onto the sidewalk bordering Edenville’s town square, his mother murmured into his ear, “From now on, remember that every time you’re in public, it’s an opportunity. Make the rounds, shake hands -”
“Kiss babies?”
The senator frowned at him. “To travel this path, you need to take it seriously.”
He swallowed his sigh and then leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I will, Mom. I’ll make everything just fine.”
That was his intention for the night. Roxy, her parents, his parents, he was going to reassure them that he was dedicated to the path he’d decided upon. The woman, the wedding, the new career. He wanted each of them, right?
He hustled to catch up with Roxy, walking with her parents a few feet ahead. Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he felt the tension in her delicate frame. Still, he pasted on a smile as if there wasn’t a lingering strain between them. “Ready for your first Edenville wine walk?”
Then he craned his neck to address her parents, who he was still trying to think of as Rayette and Wil. “This is our version of a pub crawl,” he told them, filled with pride for his town. “Thursday evenings in spring, summer, and fall we hold Market Night, and everyone comes into town to sample the area wares from booths set up around the square. Winter, the tasting rooms and cafés stay open late and we do the meet-and-greet inside.”
The king and queen of Ardenia nodded and allowed themselves to be ushered into It’s a Grape Thing, a paneled tasting room that had a carved wooden bar at the rear and numerous tables and chairs filling the rest of the space. Along the left wall, a long buffet held platters of cheeses, crackers, and diagonal slices of crusty baguettes. The Bennett brothers had already arrived. Emerson steered the royals toward the two men and watched them welcome Roxy’s parents warmly. Obviously they were previously acquainted.
When his mother beckoned him toward a group he recognized as local bigwigs, he left her parents with Liam and Seth but grabbed his fiancée’s hand. “Come with me,” he urged. “There are some people I want you to meet.”
She hesitated. “We should talk. I haven’t seen you in days, and -”
“Emerson! Roxanne!” His mother waved to catch their attention. “Over here.”
He looked down at Roxy and his heart contracted in a painful ache. A warning? “Honey…” His hand went to his head before he remembered the haystack, the Glop, the way he shouldn’t touch his hair once the two had negotiated a successful meeting at his bathroom counter. Groaning to himself, he smoothed his palm over his skull. ”I don’t know if now’s the right time for a long discussion.”
“What’s going on with you?” she whispered in an urgent demand. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“About what?” he scoffed, pushing away the question. “Except, perhaps, about starting off with white wine tonight. I’m going straight for an intense red.” A shot of whisky sounded even better, but it wouldn’t do for a would-be politician to go straight to the hard stuff when making the rounds in wine country.
His mother called to him again, and he nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t head her way until he had a glass of an intense zin in his hand, one that he knew to have a good balance of cherry and clove flavors. Roxanne didn’t follow his lead, instead ordering a wine that was the delicate pink color of a young girl’s blush.
“Are you sure?” he asked, watching her take a sip. “That particular rosé has a surprisingly tart kick.”
She narrowed her eyes a little, their blue glittering in the tasting room’s low light. The sharp point of her high-heeled boots nudged his shin. “That might be just what’s needed.”
What he needed, he realized she was saying as he took his own swallow. And, God, he would take the kick, on the shin, on the ass, right in the head, if it would clear out the misgivings that kept invading his mind. “Roxanne…”
She went on tiptoe and placed her mouth against his. Rosé to zin. The blended tastes should have been wrong - the delicate flavor of her wine overpowered by the brawny taste of his. But it worked somehow, he decided, as he held her close. There was enough structure in the rosé to hold its own against his more dominant zin.
“Roxanne…” he whispered against her mouth, a different kind of ache inside him.
She drew away from the kiss, sending him a mysterious smile. “A nice pairing, don’t you think?”
He wanted to agree, but those doubts continued to plague him. As an American, he didn’t stand in awe of her royal lineage, so it wasn’t that. Yet still, she was a princess and he was a guy who
His mother called to him again. “Emerson!”
A guy who was destined to become a politician.
Though, God, it didn’t seem to make sense that he loved his part of the world enough to consider spending months away from it on the other side of the country. But pushing his personal dilemmas aside, he strode forward to reach out his hand to those grouped around his mother. They welcomed both he and Roxanne to their conversation and it only took a moment to realize wine was the topic here, too.
A couple in their small crowd was new to the area and the growing of grapes. Eager instructors were giving them a crash course in winemaking. “A particular vine isn’t a good producer forever,” his mother said. She slid a glance at Emerson. “There comes a time when the old must be replaced with the new.”
The mayor of Edenville, a canny type who was at home with everyone in the valley, from the laborers who worked the vines to the fat-cat status seekers who paid over-the-top dollar to claim they owned a vineyard, cocked an eyebrow at Emerson. “Is this some sort of announcement, Lois?”
Not yet, his instincts wanted to shout. But he’d promised to do his best tonight, so he smiled.
His mother did, too. “We’re talking about winemaking, David,” she hedged, but there was a wink in her voice. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
The new-to-Edenville pair seemed to take that statement at face value, because they asked for a simple explanation of a common word in the wine-country glossary: terroir. Glad to leave innuendo behind, Emerson relaxed and enjoyed his wine as his father took up the topic.
“In simplest terms,” Ned Platt said, “terroir refers to the combination of soil, slope
, and climate.” He went on to explain how growing regions were made distinct through their terroir and given an official designation as an American Viticulture Area, or AVA, by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Then he discussed how a terroir’s attributes might be enhanced or reduced during the winemaking process and ended with why many considered the best wines to come, oddly enough, from the worst soil.
“As in all things,” Emerson’s father finished, gesturing with his glass, “the struggle to grow makes the vine work harder, extending its roots and absorbing elements that make it produce a more interesting fruit.”
“Which right there explains the banality of my grand-sons,” a silver-haired septuagenarian groused. “Things have come too easily to them. They’ve never had to exert themselves or overcome anything.”
“Lucky spermers,” his elderly companion said, as if it was an epithet. Then he glanced at Roxanne. “No offense, young lady.”
“None taken,” she murmured, though her puzzled gaze flicked to Emerson.
He murmured a polite “excuse us” as the discussion continued around them and edged Roxanne away from the group. Duty done for now.
“Uh, ‘lucky spermers’?” Roxy asked as he towed her toward the bar.
During a wine walk, they usually moved along to another tasting room for the next glass, but he couldn’t wait that long. “Winners of the sperm lottery, he means. A reference to those who inherit their wealth and position.”
A blush the color of her wine tinged Roxanne’s cheeks. “I suppose that’s one way to describe me.”
Emerson stopped. “No,” he exclaimed, brushing a strand of hair off Roxanne’s warm face and cursing the old coot who’d unwittingly hurt her feelings. “Not you.”
At fourteen the young princess of Ardenia had been kidnapped. For five days she’d surely wondered what would happen next. For five days, she’d had to have questioned whether she’d get home alive.
Then He Kissed Me Page 17