Wild Abandon Page 8

  He stares at me a beat and then scrolls down. Reading the profile, I see the guy is a high school English teacher and enjoys the symphony.

  “Oh, he has three kids.” My interest plummets.

  “You don’t like kids?”

  “I do. I want them desperately. I’ve just learned that men who have more than one are usually done and are just looking for company at that point.”

  Nate easily agrees with my answer and swipes to the next profile. This next guy has a nice mane of dark hair and sexy blue eyes. He is seated at a computer, which shows me he is a professional.

  “Oh, I like.” I lean forward and take the phone from Nate.

  This guy’s name is Derek, and he’s a Fine Wine Manager. He likes water sports and horses, and he plays the piano. No children, never married, and looking for a long-term commitment. I hit the icon to let him know I’m interested, and I wait for a reply. If he’s interested, he’ll ping me back with a request to meet.

  “You like that guy?”

  “Um, hello? He’s hot as hell, and he hits the checklist. Successful, cultured, and—”

  “Looking for a commitment,” Nate finishes for me. “He looks like a first-rate A-hole.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “If he’s that much of a catch and so openly looking for a commitment, why is he on a dating site?”

  “Is that a dig against people on dating sites?”

  “Kind of. I don’t understand why you’re on there either. You even said it yourself. You’re a catch.” His tone is sarcastic as he quotes my words from the first time I was here.

  “There are more eligible women than there are men. As men get older, their dating pool opens up. They can date women their age or younger. But for us girls, there are a select few men who are looking for someone of the same age. My competition is vast. This”—I hold up my phone—“solidifies the process. Every available man in a twenty-mile radius who is willing to date me is at my fingertips.”

  “It seems a little desperate.”

  “Desperate?”

  “Hear me out.” He puts his hand on the back of my chair and leans in. “You’re smart, funny, and accomplished. When you walk into this bar, every guy in the place looks at the beautiful woman with the killer legs. You can have your pick of any guy in this bar.”

  I snort, a rather unattractive one at that, at his comment. “If that’s true, then why aren’t they clamoring at my feet?”

  “Because you’re closed off,” he says.

  Hello, Pot, meet Kettle. “How so?”

  “You’ve been in this bar five times, and each time, the men don’t know how to react to you. It’s as if they know they’re gonna get shot down before they even talk to you.”

  “That’s nonsense. I’m an imbecile, saying the wrong thing half the time and always pretending to be someone I’m not just to fit the mold of the perfect woman.” I put my hand to my mouth. Did I really just admit that?

  Nate’s eyes shoot up at my admission. “You shouldn’t have to pretend to be anyone but exactly who you are. You’re perfect.”

  Oh.

  “Don’t read too much into that.”

  “I’m not.” Well, not really. “You’re not my type anyway.”

  “I know,” he says with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Don’t you have to work?” I look over to the other bartenders working hard.

  “No,” he states simply. Then, he gets up from his chair.

  I follow him with my eyes as he goes to the back of the bar and comes back with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two shot glasses. He takes his seat again, pours two shots, and then holds them up in front of us. I grab one, and we cheers before downing the shots.

  “How did you know I’d want a bourbon?” I nudge my bluegrass cocktail in front of me.

  “I thought it would go well with your performance. That was very good, by the way.” Nate’s body is facing the bar, his knees hitting the wood beneath, but his torso is turned toward me, his right forearm resting on the bar. “Matching people to their drinks is just something I know how to do.”

  I slightly squint my eyes.

  “You have a vast knowledge of booze.”

  “You can tell a lot about a person by what they drink,” he states matter-of-factly. “You can pinpoint personality traits based on what kind of beer a person buys.”

  Sitting back in my seat, I tilt my head to the side. “Okay…then what does it mean when someone orders a Budweiser?”

  Nate answers easily, “All-American beer, so the person is patriotic, would even venture to guess they’re Republican.”

  I purse my lips. “That’s ridiculous! Just because it’s an American beer? You’re making this up.”

  He shakes his head. “They’re also forty-two percent more likely to drive a truck.”

  I stare at Nate, half-disbelieving because it is so obvious that he’s bullshitting me. Then again, based on his answer, I wonder if Big Ed drinks Budweiser.

  “Blue Moon,” I challenge.

  “You drive a Prius and turn your nose up at an Android phone.”

  “Heineken.”

  “Amex carrier who only wears name-brand clothing.”

  I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, smile, and name the most popular stout I can think of, “Guinness.”

  Wiping the smug expression off his face, he turns his body into me. His eyes skim across my face, assessing, and he says, “You like complex flavors and are intense in your desires. You are creative and adventurous but seek gentle, intimate relationships.”

  I swallow hard. His eyes are fixed on mine, staring, searching, digging, claiming something. I can’t break the contact. I just find myself lost in this powerful expression on his face. His eyes turn a darker green. I suddenly don’t have a taste for Guinness or whiskey. My mouth is dry. The only thing that can relieve my thirst is a long drink of olive juice.

  And, suddenly, the spell is broken.

  Nate jumps back, his body moving away, but his face is ripe with confusion. “Did you just tell me you loved me?”

  Did I just tell him that?

  “No! I said, olive juice.” I close my eyes in embarrassment, and when I open them, he’s still looking at me with this what-the-fuck expression, so I explain, “Your eyes. They remind me of olives, and I was just thinking about how I’d like a martini right now. I guess I spoke it out loud.”

  He is looking from side to side, clearly trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth or if I’m a stage-five clinger.

  “Olive juice. When you mouth it, it looks like you’re saying, I love you. And I do not, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

  Again, Nate is just staring.

  “All right. So, I’m going to go home now.” I stand, grab my purse, and hold out my hand. “Nate, it was a pleasure hanging out with you tonight.”

  He awkwardly takes my hand and shakes it. His mouth is turned up on the side, and those damn eyes twinkle in a mischievous way.

  I turn on my heel and start walking to the door. “Okay then, good night.”

  “Crystal,” he calls.

  I turn around to face him again.

  “See you around.”

  I nod and walk out the door, and I keep walking until I am at the corner and slap my palm to my forehead.

  Olive juice?

  chapter SIX

  My arms feel like jelly, and there’s a severe ache from my elbow up to my shoulder. Just a few more strokes, and I’ll be finished with my masterpiece.

  I started my day with the backside of a hammer, removing every nailhead from the walls of the main room of Russet Ranch. Standing on a tall ladder with a paint can of white paint in front of me and a paintbrush in hand, I spent my morning doing all the trim, stopping when I reached the tower of wine barrels because there was no way I’d be able to get behind them.

  When the top and bottom of every wall was painted, I broke out the painting tray and a pole for my roller. Using large strokes, I tac
kled every wall, twice, transforming the room from a dowdy pink box of dread to a bright and airy room of ivory linen. The newly painted hardie board walls look shabby chic, something any HGTVer would be pleased with.

  Plus, with the front and back doors wide open to help with the fumes, sunlight has been pouring in here all day, making it feel fresh and clean.

  I hope Big Ed likes it. He’s been gone all day. I learned he is not here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. He’d better get his social calendar in check because, when this place opens for business, he’ll need to be here. Our mini lessons on the art of wine are not enough for me to hold court by myself.

  My big hope is that he will start harvesting grapes again. I’d love to smash them with my feet or whatever it is they do when they make wine. It looks like fun when they do it in the movies.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  I jump back, nearly causing me to drop the roller I’m holding. “You scared me!”

  Cane in hand and a flat cap on his head, Big Ed sets his eyes and mouth into a grim line.

  I hold my arms out to the sides and ask, “You like it?”

  He looks around the room, the setting sun from the outside doors casting a faint orange tinge in the room with plenty of light for it to have that open, airy feel.

  The frown of his mouth is still there, “How did you pay for the paint?”

  “With my own money.”

  It’s an interesting topic to be having, considering he has yet to pay me. I don’t even know what my salary is.

  Big Ed walks to the back room where his office is and slams the door. I stand there, confused but not enough to leave. If that were the case, I would have stopped coming here weeks ago.

  After a few moments, the office door opens, and I wait for the lengthy time it takes for Big Ed to hobble from the office back into the main room.

  Leaning on his cane, he brings his free hand out and holds an envelope up to me. Tentatively, I grab the envelope from his hand. Just from the weight of it, I know it’s full, and from the shape of the contents, I know it’s money. I stare into it and see bills. Countless and countless of green bills inside.

  “There has to be five grand in here?” I say as more of a question.

  He clears his throat and points his cane at me. “Take what you feel you deserve, and use the rest to get whatever you want for the place. I can’t have you spending your own money. I was raised right, and a gentleman never lets a lady pay.”

  I smile a bashful smile that makes my stomach curve in. I want to tell him that it’s too much. I want to show him my ideas for the rest of it. I want to ask him what he plans to do with this place, so I know where to start.

  Instead, I just say, “Thank you.”

  The frown of his mouth is still there, but his head is slightly nodding. “These fumes are enough to get an elephant high. Looks like we’ll be working out on the veranda tonight.”

  Not one to argue with the man, I take my last few strokes of the walls, knowing I’ll have to do an evaluation tomorrow when it dries to make sure I didn’t miss any spots.

  After packing up the supplies and washing my hands, I walk out to the veranda where Big Ed is sitting on a stone bench. His argyle socks show as his pants are hiked up mid calf. A bottle of chardonnay along with a plate sit on the bench beside him. Behind him is the setting Napa sun.

  I take a seat on the bench and look at Big Ed, who is gazing out at the roses, lost in thought. I clear my throat, and he snaps out of his memory.

  He hands me a glass, so I take a sip and offer him my opinion. The wine tastes dry, making my mouth actually quench with thirst, something I learned is odd for a white wine. Placing the glass down on the stone, I look back at Ed and make an ugly face at the glass. I’ve learned it’s best to be completely honest with him because he’s usually testing me in some way.

  Big Ed holds up the plate and offers me a piece of chocolate. I oblige and pop a sinfully delicious piece of, what I’m now tasting to be, white chocolate hinted with flavors of strawberry.

  “Now, that’s good!” I say, nearly salivating.

  “Try this.” Big Ed holds up a second glass.

  I take it and swallow a drink. Then, I hold the glass up while I speak, “It’s not great, but it’s far more drinkable than the other one.”

  Big Ed gives a hardy chuckle. “One bottle, two glasses, kid. They’re the same exact wine.”

  I look down at the bottle and feel like an idiot for not realizing I was drinking the same wine from two different glasses.

  “This bottle of crap is from Yellow Stockbridge Winery.”

  “Why do you buy it if it’s so awful?”

  Big Ed takes the bottle and holds it upside down over the edge of the veranda, letting the liquid pour into the soil. “I’ve got cases of it. Bill sends it down here. I think he tries to piss me off on purpose.”

  “When are you going to start making wine again?”

  “My harvesting days are over.” He huffs. “I’ll renew the lease on the lands in a few months.”

  “Is that how you keep this place going? By leasing out the land?”

  “Would you believe they’re worth one hundred fifty grand an acre? Thirty years ago, there was half the amount of wineries. Now, there’s no land to buy.”

  “How did you end up here? I’ve heard you mention Old Man Russet. Who was he?”

  Big Ed looks down and smiles. “Ah, he was a good man. Me and my Rosemary were newlyweds when we met him at a festival. That was thirty-five years ago. Rosemary and I were vagabonds, traveling around, picking up odd jobs where we could. We were young, in love, and thought the world was our playground. I blame the seventies.”

  He chuckles and continues, “You know, I was madly in love with the woman because she’d stop at every single booth and talk. That was Rosemary. She talked to everyone. She had this way about her. It was like she genuinely cared about what everyone had to say. I’d have been jealous if she didn’t always reach out and grab my hand.” He looks down at his palms and stretches his stout fingers, worn and rough from years of work. “She’d make these little circles inside my palm. That was her way.

  “We were just about to leave when she saw one last booth. I don’t know if you could even call it that. All the way in the back, in a secluded corner, where no one was walking, were a lone table and an old man. Everyone else had posters and all this other crap around it to entice people to come over. But not this one. This was just a folding table and a few bottles.

  “The wine blew me away. I remember thinking, This is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life. Old Man Russet was happy someone came over to visit his booth, so he pulled up a chair for Rosemary and a crate for me, and we started to talk. He took one look at Rosie, and I knew he was in love. It was the hair.” He looks over at me with a slight twinkle in his nostalgic eyes.

  “Well, by the time the festival gates closed, I had a new job, and Rosemary and I had a place to settle down. We’ve been here ever since.” His last words are said with a tinge of melancholy. “That man treated me like a son. Taught me everything he knew, and together, we made some great wine. He’s been gone for seventeen years now.”

  “And Rosemary?”

  “Ten years ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He clears his throat and adjusts his hat. “These were her roses. We tried for years to have a baby. Every time she lost one, she’d plant more roses in their honor. The color of them, the deep crimson, means mourning.”

  “I like your Rosemary. She made something beautiful out of a tragedy. She must have been the type to never give up.”

  Big Ed thinks on that for a moment. A revelation appears in his eyes. I must have triggered a thought.

  He packs the thought away and continues, “She was out here every day. Said they were her love roses. Even when we realized how many vines we could plant here and the amount of money we could make off of them, we kept the roses. P
lanted more. Her love for them was greater than any dollar I could make.”

  This man. This rough and grumbly man—who, on the outside, appears to be cranky and decrepit—is really far more fortunate than I ever gave him credit for.

  I almost envy him. Not because he owns a winery—although abandoned. And not because he is sitting on millions of dollars of real estate. But because he has known a love more precious than any material belonging or sheer possession.

  As if Rosemary were calling from heaven, the roses nearby appear to be opening wider, spreading their admiration for the man who tends to them.

  “You kept them for her. Even after she died. That’s beautiful.”

  “I gave up on them once. After Rosemary died.”

  “How did they survive?”

  “Love never dies.”

  My chest surges with an intake of air. Overtaken with emotion, I look down at my fingers and knot them on my lap. “I’ve never known a love that strong. I’m afraid I’ll never find it, or worse, I’ll miss it.”

  Big Ed taps his hand on my knee and takes a long deep breath, inhaling the scent of the burgundy petals blooming, even as the sun rolls down behind the hills. I look back at him.

  His face is mostly in shadows now, but his voice bellows clear and with purpose, “Love is like wine. You can’t add sugar and mask the flavor, pretending it’s something it’s not. Love is like that. When you meet the right person, you’ll know. And you won’t be able to let it go.”

  “Scarlet has a doctor’s appointment on Thursday at ten.”

  “I hate the doctor.”

  “You’ll be fine, Squirt. Oh, babe, there’s a bottle-and-cork show on Main next weekend.”

  “That sounds fun. Crystal hasn’t been to one yet.”

  “Really? Have you even been to a wine tasting yet?”

  “Crystal?”

  “Earth to the Video Vixen.”

  “Is she okay? I think she’s fallen comatose. I read this book—”

  “Scarlet, hush. Crystal, are you okay?”

  “There’s a naked man on the porch.”

  “A UFO was just spotted above Sonoma.”

  “Kanye West was elected President.”

  “Channing Tatum announced he’s gay.”