Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (10 page)

Walt hopped in his truck and, instead of starting the engine, rested his forearm on the open window and leaned out. “Last year my oldest granddaughter got into some fancy art school in Paris. The store was struggling because of that damn DIY megastore and the bank turned us down for a loan, so Connie and I met with Kenneth’s wife, what’s her name…”

“Shady… um, Katie?”

“Yeah, she gave us a line of credit on the hardware store, as a favor since we’re family and all. She even looked past the hit we had taken in the past year and said the bank was investing in us because we had invested so much in the town over the years.” Walt reached out and patted her hand. “Maybe she’d let you do the same, only using your grapes and reputation. Because you and I both know that besides the quality of the plant, there’s nothing more important than proper irrigation. I’d hate to see you bet the vineyard on a pump that’s older than dirt and lose it all.”

Frankie considered that—for all of two seconds. “I won’t lose these grapes.”

He watched her for a long moment and offered her a concerned smile. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, that’s clear.”

What was more than clear by the look on Walt’s face and the way he was holding her hand—something that a smart person would avoid at all cost—was that he thought she’d be making a huge mistake not to blow her entire wad on the new pump and water tank. Although Frankie agreed with his assessment, she couldn’t help but see the good with the bad.

The good news was that Nate was equally responsible in coughing up the bills to pay for this unforeseen cost. If he wanted to plant this spring, which she knew he did, then he’d
need water too, which cut her overwhelming tally to a mere twenty-five thousand and change.

The bad part was that, unlike her, Nate could simply snap his entitled fingers and poof, a personal check covering his half of the costs would magically appear. Whereas Frankie would have to go down to St. Helena Federal and sit in front of her cousin’s wife and bare her financial soul. The bearing would go through the loan officer first, then Shady Katie to sign off, and then—because Katie always had her eye on the prize—finally Charles, who would then write her off completely.

“Maybe.” She tried not to laugh. She must have really done something to piss off the universe if her saving grace was Shady Katie. “Thanks for coming out on such short notice. And tell Aunt Connie I say hi.”

“I will.” He reached for the starter and stalled again. “You’re going to be without water for a little while longer. You okay with that?”

“I’ll manage,” she said smiling.

Between Regan’s and her best friend Jordan’s house, she’d be fine. Although going to Jordan’s house meant dealing with her brooding teenage daughter Ava, and Regan’s meant listening to her new baby wail until Frankie’s ears started to bleed, it wasn’t so bad. She kind of liked watching all the fuss and commotion that goes on with families. Sometime when it got really crazy, and everyone was running around, she could almost feel a part of it all.

But no water was going to drive golden boy crazy.

“Take as long as you need, Walt,” she said patting the hood when he fired up the engine. “The grapes and I will be just fine.”

Frankie waved as Walt made his way down the gravel drive and went to find Mittens. It took twenty minutes, a bag of apples, and a solemn promise that he wasn’t going to Alberta’s Paradise Alpaca Farm and Pet Sanctuary to persuade the poor alpaca to come out from behind the tool shed.

“Are you going to marry my Uncle Nate?” Holly asked, her little girl eyes wide with wonder.

Frankie’s hand, in the process of carefully folding over the top of yet another maple leaf, froze and then tightened, cracking the leaf in half and spearing her finger with the pushpin. A drop of blood beaded and Frankie, not wanting to stain Regan’s rug, grabbed the box of Band-Aids, which still sat directly to her right from the last puncture-emergency, and wrapped her ring finger. Great, now she had a set of four matching fingers on her right hand.

“Cuz if you are, I’d like to let you know that I’m a really good flower girl and my daddy says I look like an angel in blue.”

Holly was Regan’s kid. She was cute, seven, and annoying as hell. She was also a DeLuca, which explained the annoying part, and the self-appointed head of the Maple Leaf Rose Committee for Baby Sofie’s one month birthday. As if being forced to make hundreds of roses out of dead leaves wasn’t bad enough, Frankie had been banished to the kids’ table for improper use of a glue gun and a bad attitude.

The roses and lack of weapons weren’t the worst part. Frankie always felt awkward around kids. Always. It wasn’t that she didn’t like them; she just never knew what to do with them.
Being the youngest in her family by five years, she was never around young kids growing up—never babysat, never coached little league, and besides Jordan and Regan she didn’t have any friends with kids. Okay, besides Jordan and Regan she didn’t have any friends. At least not ones that didn’t qualify for a senior discount at The Grapevine Prune and Clip.

Frankie froze. Maybe it wasn’t kids. Maybe she was just awkward around people, period.

“I could even help you pick out a dress. I’m real good at picking out princess gowns and tiaras,” Holly said, sounding so excited Frankie hated to burst her little joy bubble. Or make her cry.

Frankie studied Holly’s face for quivering lips or misty eyes. The kid sounded so excited, she really hoped she didn’t cry.

“I bet you are,” Frankie clarified as gently as possible, tossing the ruined leaf into the “Whoops” pile, as Holly had so adequately named it. Frankie’s contribution to the “Whoops” pile was bigger than Holly’s. “But Nate and I aren’t getting married.”

“You’re not?” Holly’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “But when Femi Lewis tried to hold my hand at recess, Daddy said it was against the rules for boys and girls to hold hands unless they were dating. And since he says I can’t date until I’m married, I can’t hold his hand.”

Frankie snorted. “You fell for that?” Mini-Einstein just blinked up innocently and Frankie sucked her lips in to keep from laughing. Right. Kid and all. “Maybe your dad didn’t want you to hold his hand because his name is Femi.”

“Making fun of people’s names isn’t funny,” Holly said, defiantly not laughing. “But I bet if me holding Femi’s—” she
paused, looking up at Frankie and waiting for her to snicker. Frankie bit her lip. “—hand is against the rules, then I bet that you living with Nate and not being married is super bad.”

No, Nate invading her space was super bad.

“People should only get married when they love each other, right?” Frankie said.

Holly considered that. “I guess so.”

“Well, then Nate and I can’t get married,” Frankie said, pleased at her deductive reasoning with a toddler. Or was she a tween? Frankie wasn’t really sure. Usually by now she’d be sweating just being this close to peanut butter breath and thinking up some reason to leave.

“Why not?” Holly rested her chin on her knees, her lips pursing with confusion.

“Because I don’t even like Nate.”

Holly gasped, pulling out a pocket sized notebook and marking down a tally to the never ending marks on the page. “Saying you don’t like someone is mean, Miss Francesca. Especially when it’s their favorite uncle.”

Miss Francesca
tried not to roll her eyes. Holly was a big control freak stuck in a pint sized body with bouncy brown curls and cherub cheeks. But Frankie wasn’t fooled because, like her
favorite uncle
, Holly fancied herself the all supreme hall monitor of the world, which explained the notebook entitled
F
RANKIE
’
S
D
IRTY
J
AR
R
ECORD
. It was three-quarters full and meticulously kept. Every questionable word uttered or bad attitude observed by her highness resulted in a twenty-five-cent fine.

Frankie paid the girl fifty bucks upfront, hoping to win her over and praying it would last her a year. That was only four months ago. And she was no closer to the first and almost of out credits.

“You’re right,” Frankie said, blaming Nate for her piss-poor attitude. Being mad at him didn’t mean she had the right to make a little girl upset. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Holly plucked another leaf from the pile. Fold. Press. Tuck. Fold. Press. Tuck. “I’d be mad too if Mommy had taken away my glue gun and made me do baby crafts.”

Well, now Frankie just felt petty.

Deep concentration creased Holly’s little face and her tongue peeked out the side of her mouth. Her fingers moved with graceful ease over the leaf, efficiently folding and tucking until it resembled—a rose.

Huh?
Frankie picked up a new leaf and tried again. Fold, press, tuck, fold, press—

“Crap.”

Holly finished her rose, placed it on her massive “Perfect” pile and jotted down another tally. Then she picked up two leaves, scooted across the carpet, and took up residence next to Frankie.

“Like this,” she said, slowly folding and pressing and tucking, patiently walking Frankie through the steps. Every few folds, her little fingers would smooth down one of Frankie’s creases or tighten her last tuck. Finally, Holly handed her the floral tape and let Frankie wrap the wire that made up the stem. And with the tape secure she speared it with a pushpin and—

“I did it!”

“This is the bestest rose ever,” Holly squealed and, bouncing on the carpet, clapped her hands in front of her face. Finally, Frankie could see the appeal. The kid was kind of cute when she wasn’t lecturing. “Here, try another.”

The two worked in silence, making one rose after another. Frankie was barely able to keep up with Holly’s pace. Not only was the girl faster, but she didn’t have to throw away every third rose.
Baby crafts my ass
.

“If you change your mind about the wedding—”

“I won’t.”

“Okay,” Holly sighed, obviously disappointed that she wouldn’t get to wear a princess gown. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Frankie secured a pushpin. “Um, sure.”

“When my baby sister moved in with my family, she cried all the time. Even at night when we’re supposed to be eyes tight, lights out,” Holly began quietly, focus tightly glued to her rose. “I was sad cuz I didn’t like her and I wanted to send her back.”

“I imagine that it’s hard to like a screaming baby.” Frankie thought of her new roommate and felt an immediate bond form with the girl.

“Yeah.” Holly slid her a worried look. “Mommy told me that I didn’t have to like somebody to love them.”

“Yeah,” Frankie laughed. “And it’s not like you can send a baby back.”

Holly raised a condemning brow.

“Sorry, girl talk makes me nervous.” And she was really nervous right now. Her hands were kind of clammy and her head felt a little light.

“I bet if you asked Mommy about marrying Nate, she’d say that same thing. Maybe you should use your words when he comes back with ice cream. He’s buying Rocky Road,” Holly said rubbing her belly. “And whipped cream. You can have some of mine if you want.”

Frankie didn’t hear anything past
marrying Nate
and
when he comes back
. Because that was it. Girl talk was officially over. Frankie shot to her feet and, knocking the “Perfects” into the “Whoops,” effectively mixing the two piles, looked at the front door.

Holly stood also, blocking the exit, her little pigtails bouncing. “What’s wrong, Miss Francesca?”

“I want to go home,” Frankie blurted out and knew it was true. She didn’t want to go to her little 1920’s bungalow right off Main Street that she’d sold last month, or her grandfather’s house. No, Frankie wanted to go to her beat up old Victorian with all of its creaks and dust bunnies and hug her alpaca.

“That’s okay. Mommy says it’s normal on playdates to get scared,” Holly reasoned.

“This isn’t a playdate. And I’m not scared.
Regan
,” Frankie shouted down the hall, dragging out both syllables of her friend’s name. “Your daughter’s psychoanalyzing me again.”

“Holly,” a stern voice came from the doorway. It was way too low and way too amused to be Regan, and way too sexy to be anyone but—

“Uncle Nate,” Holly squealed, rushing past Frankie.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he laughed.

Frankie turned around and,
whoa
, go easy indeed. Golden boy leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen entry with Holly shrink-wrapped to his legs. He was covered in saw dust, a sweaty tee, and that DeLuca charm Frankie had seen at work more times than she could count on the local public at large. He cradled a squirming pink bundle of ten fingers and toes in one hand and enough testosterone to melt Frankie’s panties in the other.

She knew that she was supposed to be mad at him. He’d kissed her, taken her to court, and then invaded her space, but
she found herself melting at the sight of him and his two nieces. Who knew men and kids were such a potent combination? Frankie wondered if they were as good of a chick magnet as a Frisbee and dog.

“You taking it easy on Frankie?”

Holly lifted her right hand, no Band-Aids present, as though giving an oath. “Yes, sir.”