Page 13 of Gone With the Wine

“Right. Right.”

“We?” Millie says, arching a brow.

I go still. “Did I say that?”

She grins. “You did.”

“Well, I just meant?—”

“Never mind.” She bumps her shoulder into mine. “We know. Anyway, like you said, Jansen needs winemaking help, and here you are!”

Like I want to help him! But I kind of dug my own hole here with my talk of neighborly teamwork. I grit my teeth on a smile. “Of course! Happy to help!”

He doesn’t smile back. “That’s nice of you, but not necessary.”

Fine. He can figure out how to make wine on his own. Good luck with that.

“Okay! Nice to meet you! We should go.” I grab Millie’s arm.

Jansen nods, looks at the shop window again, then back at me. “Nice to meet you, too. And the answer to your question is—yes. Yes, you would.”

He smiles briefly at my friends, turns, and walks away from us down the sidewalk.

Heat rushes to my face. Oh. My. God.

“What does that mean?” Ana whispers.

I start speed walking, tugging Millie with me. “Nothing.”

Chapter3

Jansen

What in the French-fried fuck am I doing here?

Carrying a thermal mug of coffee, I stroll from the house toward the vineyard, with my dog guest running around wildly sniffing everything he can. Somehow I ended up with this mutt last week when I found him on the property, matted and dirty, thin, with sad eyes. And only one ear. When I tried to coax him nearer to me, he didn’t even stand on his scrawny legs, just crawled, inching closer on his belly. And when I picked him up, he was shaking. I hated that.

I took him to the vet where Ana works. I expected to leave him there, but they couldn’t find his owners. I should have taken him to a shelter. But I couldn’t do it. So after paying the outrageous vet bill (I should have bought a veterinary clinic, not a winery), I brought him home. Just until someone claims him. He’s a scruffy mutt, some kind of Jack Russell terrier mix, so I’ve been calling him Jack.

I’ve never had a dog. I don’t know much about dogs, how to train them, what to feed them. We’re in the middle of harvest, a crazy time of year. This isnotthe time to be getting a dog. People already think I’m unhinged for buying this winery.

Early morning fog shrouds the hills with a pale glow as the sun rises behind them. From here I can see the neat rows of vines climbing the hill in shades of green and gold, their curves mirroring the undulations of the land. It’s pretty goddamn amazing.

This place is mine and I have no clue what I’m doing.

After I retired from the league, I bummed around for months trying to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I was a pro hockey player, but I’m not cut out for jobs in broadcasting. I’m not a coach. I have a bunch of college courses in business, but I took those years ago and I couldn’t figure out what I could do with them.

Adjusting to retirement is hard for a lot of people, but for me it was excruciating. Giving up a career you still love isn’t easy. At first, I thought I’d have a whole new life of freedom and fun, but instead I was lonely, lost, and surly.

Then my wife cheated on me.

That fucked with my head and for a long time I didn’t care about doing anything. Even getting out of bed.

Luckily I have a couple of good buddies who knocked some sense into me, got me to a doctor, got me back working out, and eventually sat me down to talk about my future. I wanted to stay in California after playing for years with the Long Beach Golden Eagles. Although maybe as a city guy, I should have stayed in L.A. This rural setting is alien to me.

And I got this crazy idea to make wine.

“Jack! Hey buddy! Get back here!”

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