Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (9 page)

His gaze slid down to the base of her neck. For several long seconds he watched as a pulse leapt beneath her creamy skin. Oh yeah, Miss Untouchable was aware of him, hyper aware of him. And suddenly Nate knew that making this work wasn’t the problem. He was more concerned about what happened if it did. Because she was right. Come tomorrow morning, they
would be staring at each other across the kitchen table, a legal pad full of new emotions to add to the already complicated list.

They both had a lot on the line, him even more so. And doing something as stupid as following through on this, whatever it was, would only backfire. He needed to focus on getting those other ten acres.

Giving her this one win, he pushed off the counter and stepped back—away from temptation. Ignoring the victorious smile on her pretty lips, he made his way into the front room, grabbed his bag, and walked to the front door.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked. He could hear the confusion in her voice, disbelief he had caved so easily.

“Nope, just locking the door. Wouldn’t want to get any unwanted visitors.” Swinging the duffle over his shoulder, he strode past a very pissed off Frankie, narrowly missing an elbow to the ribs, and headed down the hallway. “If you don’t have a preference, I’ll take the master.”

“Too bad, DeLuca. I’m already in the master,” Frankie said, shuffling past, her feet slapping on the hardwood floor and the lace cupping that backside shifting higher with each step, before she slammed the door.

He turned the knob and, no surprise there, it was already locked. The shuffling of furniture sounded as Frankie barricaded the door.

“I hope that bed is a king,” he laughed outside the door. “Since this happens to be on the north half of the property, tomorrow night that bed is mine, sweet cheeks.”

CHAPTER 5

T
he water tank’s only part of your problem,” Walt Larson, the hardware half of St. Helena Hardware and Refurbish Rescue, said as he took in the disaster that used to be Frankie’s well. “In fact, I’d say that llama of yours did you a favor.”

An odd keening sound followed by a belligerent
“Wark”
echoed across the property moments before a low rustling came from the general direction of the tool shed. Mittens peeked his little Rastafarian head out, ears peeled back, dentures bared.

The second Walt had arrived, truck tires crunching down the gravel drive, Mittens, afraid he was about to be tranquilized and carted off to Alpaca Paradise, had hightailed it across the property and taken up residence behind Saul’s old rusted-out tractor.

“Alpaca,” Frankie corrected Walt, and Mittens snorted, then went back to chewing on the tractor seat. He was a nervous eater. “And I know that the property needs a lot of love, but right now I can only afford the water tank.”

“Well, first you need a new water pump,” Walt said, whacking the metal pipe that was connected to the wellhead with a wrench. “The motor’s working too hard just to supply the house and few vines you have.”

Poppycock.

“How long do you think this one will last?” Frankie mentally estimated how much a new motor would cost and then doubled it because that was how her luck seemed to be going. They hadn’t even started the water tank portion of the visit and already she was out of money.

“It won’t.”

“What do you mean it won’t?” she asked, suddenly wondering if the old man was taking her for a ride. “You haven’t even pulled it out to look.”

“Don’t need to. You hear that clanking noise?” Walt yelled over the awful grinding, as though to prove his point. “That’s the motor, struggling. Telling me it needs to be replaced.”

“What are you? The well whisperer?”

“Nope, but I hear whispers all the same.” He raised a disappointed brow. “People coming in the store are talking about how you and that DeLuca are shacking up.”

“We aren’t shacking up, so much as living under the same roof.”

“And how come spring you two are going to plant this whole lot with vines. Together.”

Frankie rolled her eyes. Walt was built like a tree stump, smelled like cooked cabbage, and had a penchant for prattle—which was how he’d managed to keep his hardware store open when one of the big DIY stores opened up in Napa. Knowing everybody else’s business was good for business in a town like St. Helena.

And although his last name wasn’t Baudouin, he was Frankie’s third cousin on her grandmother’s side—she even called him uncle—so, being a good and loyal relative, he harbored the appropriate amount of disdain for the DeLucas.

But what had his lips pursing was that his biggest competition was Tanner Construction, owned by former NFL running back and DeLuca Wine’s newest business partner, Jack Tanner. So if they were developing the land together, Nate would insist on using his guy. Who was cheaper—and faster, Frankie thought as she watched Walt stick a welding rod to his ear, then rested the other end on the pipe like it was some kind of well-stethoscope.

“You and your store have been serving Baudouin Vineyards since before I was born,” Frankie assured him. “So even though we are going to plant all twenty acres, DeLuca will plant his half and I will plant mine. Both using our own chosen suppliers.”

“Good to hear. After the Showdown, there was all that talk about you and the buttoned-up brother necking, then when Charles…”

“Fired me?” Frankie added, but what she wanted to say was
disowned
. Because that’s how it had felt. Still felt. She was within throwing distance from her childhood home, from her grandfather’s land, and yet he hadn’t dropped by once to see her. Hadn’t even returned a single one of her phone calls.

“Connie and I were just worried is all. But you should be proud of yourself, hon. Half or not, you did more than sixty years of Baudouin griping accomplished.” Walt gave her a pat on the shoulder, his eyes flickering to the imposing French chateau, which sat on the other side of the fence. “Your grandpa isn’t going to be happy about his grapes sharing soil with the DeLucas.”

“Yeah well, they’re not his vines, they’re mine. So is this soil. And I’m going to make this work,” Frankie said and a heavy pressure started low in her belly at the reminder of Nate’s suggestion for how things between them could work. Not that they would work, because she wasn’t going there. She could if she wanted to, that much was obvious by the bulge in his jeans. All it would take was one well-placed look from her and he’d be game.

And then what? Wake to find his loafers sitting next to her motorcycle boots under her bed?

No. Nate was one of those guys who liked bed-sex. Not that there was anything wrong with bed-sex. But she’d dated enough to know that bed-sex usually led to talking, which somehow progressed into commitment. And Frankie learned long ago that she wasn’t the type who guys felt committable about.

Sure, she’d had boyfriends over the years, but none of them had any staying power. She was careful about that. Always dating men who, come morning, she had no problem walking away from. Which was fine by her, because she knew that the walking away easily went both ways.

“Well, even if you decide to deny him access to the well, there is no way this pump can handle ten acres,” Walt said, pulling her from her thoughts. “You need a commercial grade pump and triple the tank if you’re going to make a go at this. Otherwise, this time next year, you’re going to have a bunch of planted saplings and a broken pump.”

Frankie braced her hands on her lower back and looked up at the sky. “How much are we talking?”

Walt took off his driver’s cap and scratched his bald head. “I’d have to check on some pricing, see what kind of deal I can get you, but I bet we’re talking about twelve grand.”

“Jesus, Walt.” She didn’t have that kind of money. Okay, she had the money, but it was budgeted for other things she’d need in the upcoming year. “What if we just start with the pump?”

“That was for the pump.” Yeah, she’d thought so, but was hoping otherwise. “For the tank, I recommend a coated steel fifty-gallon horizontal tank. I know a guy in Sonoma who would give you a good deal on one, but we’re still talking thirty grand.”

A distressed
“Wark”
sounded and it may have come from Frankie. This was the moment she had been waiting for. The court hearing had gone relatively well—for her—so she’d been waiting for the bottom to fall out.

A gentle nudge came from behind and a wet nose pressed into the side of her neck.

With a resigned sigh, Frankie reached back and gave Mittens a scratch behind the ear. She stared past the broken pump, past the flattened sheets of plastic, and took in the overgrown pasture and gnarled oak trees whose leaves, one by one, let go of the branch and floated the ground.

“That going to be a problem?” Walt asked as though she had fifty grand sitting in the cookie jar on top of the freezer.

“Nope, no problem,” she said, hoping it was true. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Not just to prove to her family she could do this—that she was a talented enologist—but to finally make her dream a reality.

“You guys do, what,” she said, thinking back to the cooling units she’d ordered for her grandfather’s aging cellar last summer, “a ninety day billing cycle, right?”

“You’d need to come in and see Connie to set up an account in your name before we ordered anything.”

“Sure, great. I can come down this afternoon.”

“We require a proof of collateral from the bank for purchases this big,” Walt said, taking off his hat and studying the brim like it was a matter of national security.

“I’m good for the money, Walt.”

“I know that, hon, but wine is a tricky industry and my company can’t front a purchase this big. Not to mention the matter of my marriage. Connie would have my ass, excuse the language, if she heard I extended a line this big to someone with no collateral or track record.”

Connie Larson was Walt’s wife, the town’s resident furniture doctor, and a woman who had a spending problem as wide as the valley. So when it came to the family business, she held a tight purse string.

“Come on, Walt. Help me out here. How can we make this work?”

“Hell, Frankie. We’re talking fifty grand and we aren’t even adding in all the costs for irrigating the land properly, which you’ll have to do before you plant.”

“I know.” It was what Frankie had allotted the majority of the money in her account for. Irrigation for her saplings. She had a five step plan to plant the land over the next five years; two acres and eighteen hundred vines at a time.

Walt looked up at the sky and sighed. “All right, I bet I can convince Connie to look past you being green and put everything on the company’s tab if Charles agrees.”

Frankie snorted. “First off, I’m not green. I’ve been making wine longer than most people in this valley.”

“I know that, but you were working Charles’s land, taking risks on his dime. Running your own vineyard is different.”

It would be freeing, just like Jonah had said. For the first time in her career, Frankie would be able to make the decisions,
take risks, and follow her gut without having to convince her grandpa.

“And I can tell by your scowl that things between the two of you are still rocky and that even if he’d be willing to spot you the credit—”

“He won’t and nope.”

Walt’s eyes lit. “Hey I know, maybe one of your brothers or Lucinda would be willing—”

“Again, nope.” Not going to happen. She’d made this mess, along with her alpaca, and she would figure out how to fix it. Getting her grandpa involved would be like admitting what a stupid decision buying the land had been. He’d remind her how, once again, she’d acted without thinking things through. Worse, he’d tell her that if she had come to him in the beginning with the deal, none of this would have happened.

Even worse yet, her brothers would find out and, even though she’d beg them not to, they’d get involved. Frankie would unintentionally force them to choose sides—something she swore she’d never do again.

She didn’t need her grandpa’s credit or her brothers’ handouts. What she needed was a plan.

“I can’t plant until late spring anyway,” Frankie reasoned aloud. “So between now and then, the pump will take about the same beating as it has for the past sixty years. If I bought a new ten thousand gallon-tank”—still expensive, but it wouldn’t break her—“do you think you could give this pump a little loving so it could get me through until next crush?”

By then, she’d have hopefully sold her futures and have some cash coming in. She was still waiting to hear back from Susan Jance who was interested in purchasing four barrels of Frankie’s wine, Red Steel, at thirty thousand a barrel. If she
liked it, which Frankie knew she would, she was going to give Susan the opportunity to offer her other clients a great deal on the prepurchase of future barrels.

That meant money upfront on grapes that were not even harvested yet. With most of the two planted acres falling on Frankie’s side of the line, she was estimating a total of sixteen barrels next harvest. A profit that would put her well on her way to breaking even.

“I can try,” Walt said, sucking in a breath through his teeth and making a whistling sound. “But you’re going to have to replace it at some point and doing this in two separate steps is going to cost you a whole lot more money in the long run. And you’ll have to get that irrigation going soon if you want to plant this spring.”

That was what Frankie was afraid of. “Can I have a few days to think it over?”

Even though she knew it was most likely going to be the “long run” plan, she still had to run it by Nate. It was, after all, half his water—and half his responsibility.

“Sure, it will give me time to call around and see what kind of a deal I can get you,” Walt said, picking up his toolbox and heading toward his truck. “Don’t take too long though, we’re expecting another scorcher this week and you’ve got a lot of grapes over there.”

“I won’t,” she said, following behind. Mittens, on the other hand, took off, his little hooves pounding some serious dirt. As though Frankie had the time right now to hog-tie him and toss him in the back of Walt’s truck. Nope, she’d give him another few days to get settled, let his guard down and then she’d drag his fuzzy butt to Paradise.