Page 9 of Let It Breathe
She nodded. “Okay.”
Clay shifted awkwardly, and Reese wondered what to do next. Hug him? Slug him in the shoulder like an old friend? She tried to imagine what his shoulder might feel like under her hand and then realized she knew exactly what it felt like. She remembered it well, hard and solid and bare beneath her clutching palm . . .
“Let’s look at the construction site, shall we?” she blurted, her cheeks burning.
Clay nodded and started to reply. He stopped, turning as a trio of middle-aged women came giggling up the walk behind him in a cloud of perfume so thick Reese could taste it.
“Is this where the wine tastings are?” called a heavyset blonde woman in a pink cashmere sweater and a diamond ring that could double as a paperweight.
“Yes,” Reese said, moving to one side as Clay stepped to the other and held the door open for the women to pass. A second woman wore designer boots and clutched a dog-eared copy of Wine Trails of Oregon. The third woman toted a handbag Reese knew cost more than her car. All three were flushed with wine and the exertion of climbing up the walkway. Reese was glad the new tasting room would be on lower ground with a parking lot and a picnic area and?—
“Aren’t you a gentleman, holding the door for us?” giggled one of the women as she beamed up at Clay. “Very sweet.”
“Ma’am,” Clay said, and pulled the door closed behind them.
“Welcome to Sunridge Vineyards, ladies,” Reese said as she moved toward the wine bar. “Are you here to do some tasting?”
“We are,” agreed Pink Cashmere. “The guy in the tasting room at Larchwood Vineyards said you weren’t open, but I knew you would be.”
Reese gritted her teeth, silently cursing the neighboring vineyard owner. “He does that sometimes, but I can assure you, we’re open. Seven days a week, eleven to six. Will you pardon me for just a moment?”
She scrambled into her office and tucked the baby opossum into a small pouch she’d placed on a heat pad in the cage. Latching the cage door, she turned to scrub her hands at the sink before hustling back to the tasting area. Clay was standing at one end of the bar smiling his old familiar smile at the customers, and Reese felt her heart twist.
“So were you ladies hoping to do our full tasting menu, or just some select wines?” she called.
“The full thing,” piped the woman toting the wine book. “We hear your Pinot Blanc is just to die for.”
“It hasn’t killed anyone yet, but the day is still early,” Reese said with deliberate cheer.
She reached up and grabbed three wineglasses from the overhead rack, tugging the hem of her shirt as it rode up. She glanced at Clay, wondering whether he’d stick around or wait outside.
He was watching her with an expression that gave Reese the strangest sense he could see right through her clothes. She ordered herself not to think about it as the women sidled up to the bar. It wasn’t really a bar so much as a large piece of plywood over two retired wine barrels. The linen cloth Reese had covered it with added a small touch of class, but still.
“Girls’ weekend?” She asked as she lined up the glasses.
“It is.” One of the women beamed. “We’re staying at a cute little bed and breakfast at one of the other wineries.”
Reese darted a look at Clay. One of the tasks on his construction roster would be building several small cabins so Sunridge Vineyards could offer that same perk. He smiled like he’d just read her mind, and she fought back a flurry of butterflies in her belly as she returned her focus to the guests.
“By this time next year,” she told them, “Sunridge will have our own on-site lodging. You’ll have to come back and visit us.”
“We will!” One of the women rested her hip on the makeshift bar. “What’s your name, hon? Are you with the family that owns the place?”
Reese plucked a bottle from the wine chiller behind her. “I’m Reese Clark. My grandparents started the vineyard in 1984 growing grapes for other wineries. It wasn’t until 2002 that my parents opened the winery, and then I stepped in after college as vineyard manager and viticulturist.”
“Viti-what?” asked the second woman as she plunked her massive handbag on the bar and leaned against one of the barrels.
Reese winced as the wood wobbled, but everything seemed to be holding. She gave it a wary glance as she uncorked the bottle of Pinot Gris. From the corner of her eye, she saw Clay move to the opposite end of the bar.
“Viticulture is the science of grape production,” Reese explained. “We look out for pests and diseases in the vineyards, deal with things like fertilization and irrigation, tend to fruit management and pruning and harvest and?—”
“Oh, my, that sounds interesting.” The woman’s tone suggested she found it as interesting as pocket lint. She placed her palms down on the bar and leaned forward to peer at the bottles lined up on the shelf behind Reese.
The plywood gave a faint creak. Reese sucked in a breath, the chilled bottle poised above the glasses as she waited for the whole bar to come crashing down.
She glanced at Clay. He was gripping the edges of the plywood with both hands, trying to look casual, but Reese could see what he was doing. He was holding up her bar.
Ironic, considering how many bars had propped him up over the years.
