Page 54 of Gone With the Wine

“Ah.” Jake also peers out the window. “Yeah. We have to check the grapes.”

“Let’s get going.”

As we hike to the vineyard, he fills me in on the blocks they’ve been checking and the samples they’ve gotten. He also tells me about the help they’ve lined up for the harvest. It’s not a lot, but it’s doable if we all pitch in. He’s pretty darn knowledgeable. I’ll feel okay leaving with him in charge of the vines here.

“We can start tonight,” he says, and we make a plan.

“Okay. I’ll be back. I have to go over to Jansen’s and talk to him. Some of his vines are probably ready, too.”

“Have you talked to him about your proposal?” Rosa asks.

“That’s also what I need to talk to him about.”

“Do you still think you can handle it all?” Her forehead puckers.

It’s a lot. I’m not gonna lie. “We’ll see!”

It sounds like Jansen’s better prepared for harvest than we are, so he probably won’t need my help as much.

As I cross the yard toward the path through the live oaks separating our properties, some of my anger and embarrassment from last night returns. I need to keep this about business.

I enter through the front entrance and pass the deserted wine tasting room, coming to a stop in front of Carol’s office. Jansen’s in there with her. “Hi.”

They both look up at me.

“Hi, Bianca.” Carol rises from her desk and comes toward me with arms outstretched. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

“I know!” I smile at her and we hug. She and my mom were friends when they were younger and she kind of checked in on us girls after Mama left.

“Have you heard anything from your mom?” she asks right on cue.

“I haven’t heard from her for a while.” I make a face. “They’re busy with their winery, too.”

“I suppose they are.” She looks a little sad. “Will she come home for Maria’s funeral?”

“I don’t know. I hope so.” In some ways, I feel like I don’t have a mom. I look at Jansen. “Can I talk to you?”

He’s watching me with a look of concern etched into his forehead. “Sure.” He rises from the chair. “We can go to my office.”

I follow him into the small room. There’s a gorgeous new computer sitting on the desk but other than that, it’s bare and spotless. On a shelf sit a few trophies which I assume are hockey related rather than wine awards.

He leans on the edge of his desk and gestures to a couple of chairs. “Have you made a decision?”

My anger about last night is still simmering, and despite my resolve to keep this business, I say, “Why the hell did you get in a fight with Mark last night?”

He lifts an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “You call that a fight? You’ve apparently never seen a hockey game.”

I blink. “I heard there was a fight. After I left.”

He gives me a what-the-fuck look.

“A bar brawl,” I elaborate. “With broken bottles and blood and a bunch of people involved.”

“Whoa.” He shakes his head. “Um. That didn’t happen.”

“What?” I stare.

“There was no brawl. I had a few words with Mark.” He says the name as if he’s spitting out corked wine. “Then I finished my beer and came home.”

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