Once Upon a Wine (10 page)

“After you left?” he said pointedly.

She didn't respond directly to that. “I thought your family had been growing corn for generations.”

“The corn crops took a big hit about five years ago. My dad was in danger of losing the farm. We needed to diversify our income stream, and one of the strawberry plants threw a sport.”

Once again, Cammie felt like farming was a foreign language. “A sport?”

“A genetic mutation,” he clarified. “Happens all the time with plants. A rosebush that should have red roses suddenly blooms with yellow flowers.”

“What kind of sport did our strawberry plant grow?” she asked.

“A bigger berry. It was redder, juicier.” He shook his head at the memory. “I almost didn't notice it at first; it was from the plant that you refused to let me prune.”

Cammie was pleased that after all these years, her instincts had been proven correct. “See? I told you so.”

“You did.” He didn't look at all chagrined. “So, I took the seeds from that strawberry, hybridized them, and started growing more of them.”

“And our magic strawberries saved your farm. It's like a fairy tale.”

“The patent I got on those seeds saved the farm,” Ian corrected.

“You can patent seeds?”

“Sure. There are patents for citrus fruit, berries, roses, shade trees . . .” He shrugged. “Those berries won agricultural awards and a company made me an offer to produce and distribute the seeds. The patent will be good for twenty years.”

“So I could buy these berries out of a seed catalog?”

He nodded.

“What are they called?” she persisted. “I want to look them up.”

“It's a passive stream of income to supplement what we make from the crops,” Ian finished. “It was a fluke. A fluke that saved the farm.”

“What did your dad have to say about all that?” Cammie asked.

“He and my mom retired to Florida. Spent some of the strawberry money on a condo by the ocean and turned the farm over to me and my brother.”

They had fallen into step together and were slowly walking the perimeter of the field.

“Your brother's the father of the girls who sold us the strawberries the day we got into town?” Cammie asked. “A family of entrepreneurs.”

“Yeah, Mike keeps the books, and I take care of the fields.” Ian turned his face up to the setting sun.

“He doesn't want to be out in the fields? He's an indoor type, like me?” Cammie teased.

“He just moved back to town last year,” Ian said. “He thinks he's ready to run the day-to-day operations because he grew up on the farm.”

“But he's not?”

“Not yet.” Ian's expression was obstinate, his eyes intense. “I'll know when he's ready.”

“How will you know?”

“I'll know.” His expression softened. “So, yeah, we're doing well. All because you don't like sweet corn.”

“There you go.” Cammie couldn't quite meet his gaze. “That summer wasn't a total waste.”

“Changed my life,” he said, his voice deepening.

She took a sip of tart, acidic wine and tried not to gag.

“Back to the grapes. You're off to a good start—the soil here is sandy loam.”

She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you have good drainage. Drainage is good for grapes.”

“If you say so.”

“And the land here is pretty flat.” He stretched out his arm to indicate the gently sloping hills. “You know where else it's flat?”

“Iowa?” Cammie guessed.

“Bordeaux, France. Where they grow the best wine in the world.”

“I think Napa would beg to differ with you on that point.” She took another sip of wine and started to enjoy the fact that she and Ian were out here, walking and talking and getting along. Even though their summer romance had been short-lived, their strawberries would live on forever.

It was almost as if that final, bitter conversation had never happened.

The planes of Ian's face were cast in shadows by the setting sun. “The angle of the land determines how much sun the grapes get.”

She rocked back on her heels, marveling. “How do you know all this?”

“It's my life's work.” He hesitated for a second, then reached up to push a stray piece of hair from her forehead. “What kind of wine are you going to make?”

She thought about the labels on the bottles the previous owner had left behind. “Cabernet and seyval blanc.”

“What's seyval blanc like?” he asked.

“It's a white wine.”

He waited for more details.

“I'll let you know more as soon as I find out.” She grinned. “Whatever it is, we can make it work if we market it right. That much I learned from a few years in the restaurant business: There's a ton of peer pressure. Everyone's afraid to admit they like uncool wine.”

“What makes a wine uncool?”

“It's affordable and other people can get it.”

He groaned. “Are you sure you want to get into this business?”

“I'm sure I
don't
, but my aunt does, so here I am.” She spread out her arms. “Keeping the grapes alive.” Even as she said this, she noticed a little geyser of water spurting from a nearby vine. “Crap. The irrigation system's broken again.”

He knelt down and tugged the thin tube of water from the soil. “Give me a minute to look at this, and then we'll fix it together.” He examined the system in silence for a few moments, heedless of the water soaking his shirt.

“We're making wine with your strawberries,” she mentioned as the wine from her plastic cup started to kick in.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It was my mom's recipe, but my aunt's made it tons of times. It's going to be really good.”

“I see how it is.” He shook his head, his tone both teasing and not teasing. “You don't want me. You just want my strawberries and my tractor expertise.”

“Not true.” She sank down into the soil next to him. “I mean, I do want your strawberries. And also your tractor expertise. But . . .”

“But?” he finally prompted.

She scooped out a little hole in the dirt for her wine. “We should probably finish this conversation when I'm not tipsy.”

He looked incredulous. “You've had half a glass of wine. How are you going to be a winemaker if you're tipsy after that much?”

“I'll work on it,” she vowed, watching his hands as they sifted through the dirt.

“You do that. And this conversation is not over.” He got back to work. “To be continued.”

She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but she had a feeling it was juicy and salacious. And after several seasons of drought and
despair, she was ready for juicy and salacious. “When are we going to continue it?”

“Saturday night?” he suggested. “Dinner?”

She could only blame the really bad wine for what came out of her mouth next. “Is
that
a date?”

“You tell me.” He tried and failed to hide a smile. “Is Saturday night a date night?”

“Yep.”

“Well, then . . . ”

Cammie's eyes widened as she remembered her promise to Kat. “My cousin's husband might be in town Saturday. Double date?”

He glanced at her, his brown eyes darkening, and she felt a little frisson of anticipation. “Okay, but I'm driving you home.”

He leaned in toward her. She leaned in toward him. Then she closed her eyes, parted her lips, and . . .

Woof!

The short, indignant bark startled both of them. Cammie whirled around to find Jacques standing behind her, his eyes bright and his ears pricked forward. His expression could be described only as one of betrayal.

“This is Jacques,” Cammie told Ian. “Our farm dog.”

Jacques started panting, which exposed his missing tooth.

“I like the snaggletooth.” Ian reached down to pet him.

“Yeah, he likes to come with me and . . .” Cammie trailed off. She didn't want to talk about counting the rows right now. She didn't want to say anything that would remind Ian of everything that had come before.

Ian watched her, waiting.

“He likes to keep an eye on the grapes,” she finished.

After Jacques escorted them around the remainder of the field, Cammie walked Ian to his truck. She strolled back to the house with a huge smile on her face.

When she stepped into the parlor, Kat glanced up from her website work on the laptop. “Tell me everything.”

“It went well?” Ginger hurried down the stairs. “Oh, I'd better give him some pie before he leaves.” She hurried outside, waving at the pickup truck with a dish towel.

“Spill your guts,” Kat commanded. “Hurry up and tell me the good stuff before she comes back.”

“It was all good.” Cammie sank down on the worn green brocade sofa. “I feel like I'm twenty-two again.”

“Wow.” Kat sounded a bit envious. “That is good.”

“Yeah.” Cammie stretched out, all warm and tingly. “Oh, and we're going to dinner on Saturday. You, me, Josh, and Ian.”

“What?” Kat's jaw dropped. “You were supposed to get in, get a tractor consult, and get out! What happened?”

“Bad wine and magic jeans.” Cammie kicked her feet up as the wine went to her head. “How could I resist?”

“O
ur double date is at a place called the Jilted Café.” Cammie sat in the passenger seat of Kat's car, looking up at the brick building with mounting trepidation. “Promising.”

“This was your doing,” Kat said. “Too late for cold feet now.”

“It seemed like such a good idea at the time.” Cammie smoothed her skirt. When she'd agreed to this, she'd been drunk on sunset and sky and the prospect of keeping the grapes alive. And wine. But over the past two days, she'd realized that the whole situation was fraught with pitfalls.

“Come on, let's get this over with.” Kat reached for the door handle. “I'm having dinner with my husband, you're having dinner with the swarthy strawberry guy, and we're all going to have fun, dammit.” She got out of the car and waited for Cammie to follow.

“Why did I agree to dinner? Dinner's a lot of pressure.” Cammie shut the passenger-side door with a bit more force than was necessary. “We'll have to sit there, staring at one another, small-
talking for an hour and a half, and we'll have to deal with menus and servers—”

“Oh, I know what this is about.” Kat smote herself on the forehead. “This isn't really about the restaurant, is it? This is about the restaurant
guy
.”

“NO.” Cammie spoke so loudly, several nearby pedestrians turned to look at her.

“It's okay.” Kat nodded. “Of course you're all triggery about restaurants after what Zach put you through.”

“This has nothing to do with Zach,” Cammie insisted. “This has to do with me. I'm just not ready for this—with Ian or anyone else. My life is complicated enough right now.”

Kat stopped with the pep talk and started commiserating. “Listen, I'm not ready to face my lawfully wedded husband, either. But we made a commitment—well,
you
made a commitment—and now we have to honor it.”

They stood on the sidewalk, Kat in jeans and a blouse, Cammie in a flowery dress, both of them primped and powdered and petrified. Kat grabbed Cammie's elbow and hustled her into the cozy café. “And remember: If you can get him talking about farming, everybody wins.”

They entered the café and spotted Ian at a table by the back wall. Cammie smiled, though just the sound of clattering silverware from the kitchen made her heart rate pick up. He stood to greet them. She sat down next to him and picked up her menu with trembling hands.

He noticed the shaky hands. She noticed him noticing and put down the menu.

He directed his attention to Kat. “We're meeting your husband, right?”

“Yeah. Josh.” Now Kat looked edgy. She kept glancing at the doorway.

Cammie tried to reassure her. “I'm sure he'll be here any minute. You know how bad beach traffic is on Friday evenings.”

“Where's he driving in from?” Ian asked.

“Maryland,” Kat said.

“But you live here?”

Kat's smile was as huge as it was fake. “Just for the summer. We're figuring out a few things.”

Ian turned to Cammie and wisely changed the subject. “You look nice.”

“Thanks.” She knew it was her turn to make small talk or ask a question, but she had no idea what to say.

Kat jumped in on her behalf. “So, Ian! Did you always know you wanted to be a farmer?”

Ian shrugged. Cammie could see the faintest trace of sunburn near the collar of his shirt. “My parents made me get up every morning at four thirty to check the fields and feed the horses, so yeah.”

“But you like it?” Kat persisted.

He seemed confused by the question. “That's what my family does. We've had the land for generations and it's not going to farm itself.”

“It's your calling?” Kat rested her chin in her hand, a captivated listener.

“I guess.”

Josh arrived, his shirt and khakis rumpled from a long drive in a hot car.

“Sorry I'm late.” He settled into the chair next to Kat. “Traffic was brutal.”

Kat gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Thanks for coming all the way out here.”

“Well”—Josh doffed his baseball cap—“it's not like you were ever going to come to me.”

Kat ignored this. “I'm so glad you're here. We're going to have a lovely dinner. No distractions.” She shot Cammie a look of desperation. “Isn't it great to be able to just focus on each other?”

“It certainly is,” Cammie said brightly. “Ian, this is Josh. Josh, this is Ian.”

Everyone shook hands and complained about traffic and scanned the menus. Cammie started to relax. This wasn't so bad. They were normal people having a normal double date.

As the server arrived with their drinks, Kat's phone chimed. She reached for it, and Josh said, “No distractions.”

After they ordered their entrées, Summer Benson walked through the front door. Kat waved and prepared to get up to say hi. Josh intoned, “No distractions.”

A few seconds after their meals arrived, a teenager with spiked hair and tattoos galore approached the table. He stared at Kat as though she were an exotic zoo animal.

“May we help you?” Josh asked.

“Are you Kat Milner?”

Kat nodded and smiled, though her eyes were bleak. “That's me.”

“You guys!” the boy shouted to his table mates in triumph. “I told you it was her! Can I please have your autograph?”

“Sure.” Kat scribbled her name on a napkin and hissed at Josh out of the corner of her mouth, “I'm not going to be rude.”

Josh set his jaw.

Her fan pulled out a phone and prepped for a series of selfies. “Can me and my friends take a quick picture with you?”

“Um, sure.” Kat turned to her dining companions. “I am so sorry. This will just take a second.”

And Josh was out the door.

Two minutes later, still smiling and waving as her fans snapped photos, Kat dashed out after him.

Ian and Cammie regarded each other over the bread basket.

“And that's my family,” she announced. “We're a little . . . intense.”

“What does your cousin do that she gets autograph requests at dinner?” Ian asked.

“She's a professional skateboarder. Well, she was. She just retired. Spine injury.”

“I didn't realize there were professional female skateboarders.” He offered her a wedge of bread, and she passed him the butter.

“There aren't very many. She was one of, like, three. But she was big-time—she had posters and corporate sponsors and a line of boards she designed and everything.” Cammie took out her phone and showed him some photos of Kat modeling her gear.

“That was her calling?”

“Oh, yeah. She really, really loved it.”

“What's yours?” he asked. “I thought you were going to be a restaurateur in California.”

“Yes, well . . .” Her whole body felt aflame with humiliation. “That didn't work out.”

He hooked one arm over the back of his chair and waited for her to elaborate.

“I opened a restaurant. It went bankrupt.” She glanced up at him, expecting a long-overdue “I told you so,” but she could see in his eyes he wasn't thinking that.

“What happened?”

“My original plan was to open a bar, like a fancy cocktail lounge–type deal. But my boyfriend wanted to be a chef. We decided to open a restaurant together. He'd run the back of the house, and I'd run the front.” Somehow, they'd also decided that since Zach would be providing all the culinary know-how, Cammie should provide all the start-up capital.

Ian remained carefully neutral.

“A wise man once told me that ninety percent of restaurants
fail in their first year,” Cammie informed her napkin. “I couldn't beat the odds.”

“What happened to the boyfriend?” Ian wanted to know.

“He was part of why the restaurant failed.” Cammie had to close her eyes to endure the burn of shame. “Two months after we opened, he left.”

“For someone else?”

She shook her head. “For another restaurant. One of the big-name New York chefs was opening a place down the street and needed an executive chef. He jumped ship.” And now he was lapping up accolades at a Hollywood hotspot where everyone wanted reservations, while she was broke. In Delaware. Farming against her will.

Ian was still listening, so she wrapped up her story with, “So now I'm in the wine business, which also has a pretty high failure rate.”

“But you're keeping the grapes alive.”

“They were alive when I left them tonight.” Cammie allowed herself a little smile. “So far, so good.”

“And you're going to have help from an expert.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“I'll be your consultant,” he offered. “You can pay me in strawberry baked goods.”

“But why?” She had to ask. “We didn't exactly end on the best note.”

He didn't break eye contact. “That was a long time ago.”

She nodded, trying to remember what she had felt like before life got so convoluted and expensive. Before she'd put up all the defenses she couldn't take down.

“Farming's a community.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Everyone helps each other out, because everyone needs help eventually.”

“Well, that's very enlightened.”

“Yeah.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Plus, I have a thing for you.”

“Oh.” She rearranged herself in her chair and tucked her hair behind her ear. She knew she should say something. Anything.

“You liked it?” Ian's gaze intensified as he let go of her hand.

“I . . . What?” She blinked.

“The restaurant you opened.”

“It had its moments.” Her knee rested against his under the table. She could feel the coarse denim of his jeans against her bare skin. “I liked the pace. Something different every day, new people every night. In a weird way, I liked running around, putting out fires. It was a challenge. And you know I'm a night owl.” She shifted her leg against his. “Which is why this whole getting-up-with-the-sun thing is killing me.”

He acknowledged this with an incline of his head. “Yeah, it's work, work, work, work, work all morning, and then nothing to do all evening.”

“Except check the weather,” she said.

“Yeah, except that. Hey, did you see that it might rain tomorrow morning?”

“It might?” Cammie frowned. “My app didn't say anything about that.”

“Oh, you can't just look at the app.” He pulled out his phone to show her. “You always have to check Weather.com. It's the best.”

They huddled over his phone, comparing sites. And, just like that, they were completely at ease. She asked about his family and his house and his crops, and then, finally, when the waitress came to ask if they wanted dessert, she asked the question she'd been wondering about since she first saw him on her way into town:

“How are you not married? I figured you'd have settled down by now.”

“‘Settled down' is a state of mind.” He signaled to their server and pulled out his wallet. “Come on. I'll drive you home.”

•   •   •

Cammie looked around for Kat and Josh as she followed Ian out of the café, but they had vanished. Maybe they were having a mature, productive talk that would lead to a clear resolution. It wasn't likely, but it could happen.

Anything could happen, apparently.

“I'm serious,” Cammie said as they walked toward his truck. “A guy with your agricultural expertise? You must be knee-deep in women.”

“Don't forget the strawberry-seed patents,” he said drily.

“How could I possibly?”

“We do get a lot of women in this town,” he allowed, “especially in the summer.”

“I heard! All the heartbreak tourists.”

“We even had a designated rebound guy for a while.”

“Get out.” Cammie loved everything about this. “That was his job?”

“It wasn't an official position or anything. He just hung out at that wine bar down the street, buying drinks for women who had bad breakups.”

“Is he still there?” Cammie turned toward the Whinery. “I need to get a look at this guy.”

“Too late. He retired.” Ian steered her back toward the parking lot. “I think he met someone.”

“What about you?” Cammie tried to sound casual. “Did you meet someone?”

“While you were off opening a restaurant with your California boyfriend?” He pulled out the keys to his truck. “I met several someones.”

She expected this, had set herself up for it, but was still surprised by the twinge of jealousy. “And . . . ?”

He looked at her for a moment. “And they were all great.”

She crossed her arms, feeling more defensive by the moment. “But . . . ?”

“But it was never the right woman at the right time.”

She squinted through the evening shadows, trying to discern his expression. “You're telling me that all your exes were great but it was never the right timing?”