Page 86 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
I'm getting quite good at lying to myself.
Merlot follows me outside, his usual boisterous energy replaced by subdued watchfulness. When I open the car trunk, he plants himself firmly between me and the vehicle, a canine protest against my departure.
"You can't come with me," I tell him, trying for a lightness I don't feel. "Your dad needs you here." I load my luggage and close the trunk with a decisive thud. "Be good, Merlot," I manage, voice thick with emotions I refuse to name. "Take care of him."
As I slide into the driver's seat, a flash of movement catches my eye—several figures hurrying up the driveway from a car I hadn't noticed parked near the entrance. I recognize Ruth Fletcher's commanding stride, followed by Margie from the bakery and, astonishingly, Martha Washington supporting herself on her husband George's arm.
"Elena!" Ruth calls, waving with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Thank goodness we caught you."
I step out of the car, puzzled by this unexpected delegation. "Ruth? Is everything okay?"
"Absolutely!" Margie interjects, slightly breathless from her rapid ascent. "We just realized we never properly welcomed you to Angel's Peak, what with the snowstorm and everything."
"And since you're leaving," Martha adds, leaning heavily on her husband in a way that seems somewhat performative, "we simply had to say a proper goodbye."
The transparent nature of their mission would be comical if it weren't so touching. "That's very kind, but my flight?—"
"Won't leave without you," Ruth interrupts, taking my arm and guiding me firmlyaway from the car. "Besides, Margie has brought her famous departure cookies. It's a town tradition."
"I've never heard of departure cookies," I say skeptically.
"Brand new tradition," George mutters, earning a sharp elbow from Martha. "Ouch! I mean, very important tradition. Can't leave without them."
Despite myself, warmth spreads through my chest at their clumsy but sincere efforts. These people, who barely know me, have conspired to delay my departure for reasons I can only guess.
"Ten minutes," I concede, allowing myself to be led back toward the house. "Then I need to get on the road."
"Of course, dear," Martha pats my hand. "Oh look, George, aren't those new grape trellises simply fascinating? We should take a closer look."
With surprising speed for a woman who appeared barely able to walk moments before, Martha drags her husband toward the vineyard, leaving me with Ruth and Margie, who exchange glances loaded with unspoken communication.
"Coffee?" Margie suggests brightly, producing a thermos from her oversized bag. "And my cranberry orange scones—your favorite, if I remember correctly?"
Before I can answer, the sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. A familiar Jeep appears around the curve of the driveway, Dominic at the wheel. My heart performs an acrobatic maneuver that would impress Olympic judges, equal parts hope and dread tumbling through me.
"Would you look at that," Ruth says with patently false surprise. "Dominic's back from The Haven. Heard they worked all night saving the wine."
Margie makes a show of checking her watch. "And exactly on time, too. How extraordinary."
"You called him," I realize, equal parts amused and appalled by their meddling.
"We most certainly did not," Ruth declares, affronted. Then, with a wink: "He called us."
Dominic parks and approaches slowly, one hand behind his back, his expression a complex mixture of determination and vulnerability. He's dressed in the same deep blue shirt he wore the first night we shared wine by the fireplace.
"You're leaving," he says, stopping a few feet away.
"My flight's at three." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the riot of emotions his presence evokes.
Ruth clears her throat dramatically. "Margie, didn't you want to show me that... thing... over there?"
"Oh! Yes, that very important thing. Far away from here." Margie squeezes my arm. "Remember what I said about cookies, dear. Never leave without them."
I have no idea what cryptic message she's trying to convey, but I nod anyway, watching as she and Ruth make a tactical retreat, dragging a protesting Merlot with them.
Alone with Dominic, I find all my carefully prepared parting words have deserted me. We stand in silence, the space between us filled with everything we've failed to communicate.
"I have something for you," he finally says, bringing his hand forward to reveal a wine bottle unlike any I've seen from Silverleaf.
