When Love Calls (24 page)

“Mmm, that smells great, I’m starved,” he said as he entered the kitchen.

Alyssa turned around. “Hey,” she said with a low, sexy voice, “I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by.”

Randolph’s expression was perfect. He dropped his suitcase, rushed over instantly and grabbed her up, holding her tightly, sweeping her off her feet. Then he kissed her hard and long. When the kiss finally ended, he held tight to her, caressing her face gently. “Where did you come from? How did you get here? When? How long have you been here?”

Alyssa was ecstatic that he was overjoyed to see her. His smile was exactly what she needed to see. “Kent handled everything. All I had to do was pack.”

He kissed her quickly, smiling deliriously. “Remind me to give him a huge raise.”

“I definitely will.” She laughed happily.

“I missed you,” he said sincerely, “a whole lot.”

“What a coincidence, I missed you, too, a whole lot.”

“I can’t believe you’re here. Did you come alone or is your grandmother with you?” he said, looking around.

“I came alone. My grandmother had unexpected plans. Apparently Mamma Lou invited her to Crescent Island and, since Raymond and Hope were going for the weekend, she decided to accompany them.”

“Great planning,” he said. “Remind me to thank her, too.”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better I’d say that you and Mamma Lou were working together this weekend.”

He smiled. “Mamma Lou is something else.”

“She definitely is. So, how about dinner? It’s ready.”

As she turned back to the oven, he grabbed her and pulled her back into his arms. “I have a better idea.” He kissed her hard and long, savoring the sweet taste of being together. When the kiss ended, he continued to hold her, smiling.

“What?” she asked, seeing his eyes bright and luminous.

He paused a second. “I love you, Alyssa,” he said. She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her. “No, before you say anything, listen to me. Yes, I know we haven’t been together long or even known each other for long, but I feel it. It’s as if we’ve been together a lifetime. I’ve been looking for you my whole life and here you are, finally. You are so special to me. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.” She started crying. “Don’t cry. I love you, don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it,” she said, “I love you, too. For everything you just said and more.”

He wiped her tears.

They kissed again, this time slow and lingering. “Come on, dinner’s ready and you’re gonna need your strength,” she said.

“Is that right?” he said, smiling.

“Most definitely.” She turned and opened the warming oven. A swell of heat burst out, carrying the delicate aroma of baked fish.

“I guess you met Mrs. Andrews.”

“Yes. She’s pretty nice, I like her.”

“Nice? The woman’s a pit bull having a real bad day. And that’s a direct quote from a local newspaper reporter who tried to slip in here last year.”

“I’m sure she has her temperamental side if rubbed the wrong way. She’s very protective of you and that’s a very good thing, especially in today’s political climate.”

He reached up and pulled down two china plates, then got silverware, napkins and glasses and placed them on the kitchen table. “I guess you heard.”

“Yes, it’s all over D.C.,” she said, pulling the heated platter of food out of the warming oven and placing it on trivets in the center of the kitchen table. “It’s a good thing you’re here already or you would have been right in the middle of all that craziness.”

“Actually being here is the same thing. This is my constituency. I was at the office here all day, meeting with local leaders and explaining the ramifications of Senator Goode’s pending indictment.” He pulled the cork out of a bottle of wine and filled two glasses.

“I hear that he intends to take a few people down with him.”

“He probably will, and I can tell you, off the record, that there are quite a few senators and congressmen who are very nervous this evening,” he said, pulling her chair out for her.

She sat down, then smiled up at him. “And what about you, Senator Kingsley? How are you this evening?”

Randolph kissed her sweetly. “Very, very excited to see you.”

“Really? I think I like the sound of that.”

“Just wait, it only gets better.”

They ate and drank and talked more about California, her trip there and the vineyard. Together they cleaned up the kitchen then sat out on the terrace, sipping his vineyard wine. The sun hovered low and was just about to set in the west beyond the vineyard.

“It’s so beautiful here. How do you ever manage to leave?”

“Oh, it can get crazy around here. During harvest it’s insane. There are dozens and dozens of workers and only a small window to get everything done.”

“Well, my compliments. This is delicious,” she said, raising her wineglass to toast him.

He stood and reached his hand out to her. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

They started out down by the lap pool, then walked through a series of sheltered arbors and trellises. Small thin vines were woven through the trellises along with sweet-smelling floral plants. They passed a large seating area with picnic tables and benches. Beside that was a nice-size playground with swings and slides and rope pulls.

She veered toward the playground, then looked back at him. “All work and no play?” she joked.

He smiled. “We have grade-school students come up here all the time. The kids sometimes get bored, so instead of letting them swing on the vines and trellises and throwing grapes at each other, we installed this small play area for them. It worked. Believe me, Mrs. Andrews was the only one who could calm them down before we installed this.”

Alyssa smiled, imagining Randolph and his workers trying to control fifty or sixty excited children, then calling out to Mrs. Andrews for help.

They continued farther out into the field. With rolling hills as their backdrop, they slowly strolled through the neatly lined rows of grapevines beneath them, a soft mixture of sand, soil and knoll grass.

Between rows of posts hung thick wire that supported hundreds and hundreds of grapevines. Big, fat canopy leaves, wide and veined, floating gently in the warm breeze seemed to protect the tiny fruit, packed tightly in a triangular outline. The thick treelike vines, some slightly over ten feet, were more stable than she imagined.

“There are no grapes yet. Why?” she asked, amazed.

“No, not yet, it’s still a bit early in the season. A winery has a seasonal cycle. From November through February, the vines are pretty much dormant. Then they’re trimmed and cut in preparation. March and April are our spring months, but we’re still concerned with the frost. By May and June, the leaves form, tiny buds develop and by mid-July, we have fat, ripe grapes at full growth.”

“What happens after that?”

“The best part, in August, the grapes are ripe and ready, but disease and overwatering or underwatering can still occur. September is the harvest. October, the grapes go into fermentation tanks to bubble for a while and the first stage of winemaking begins. After that, it starts all over again.”

“Wow. Okay, you said that at times—I guess, in September—dozens and dozens of people are here to harvest. How many people usually work here day-to-day?”

“That depends. We have a general manager who maintains a small staff. Then at certain times of the year, staff are added when needed.”

“So every month, something’s going on here?”

“Yes, all year round.”

“Do you have a processing plant of some kind?”

“Yes, beyond that hill over there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the sunset. “We have massive tanks, hundreds of oak barrels, a bottling system, presses, sanitizers and drainage systems.”

“Why are these grapevines so small?”

“They were planted two years ago. We purchased the shoots from a small vineyard in France. They’re young, but their rapid growth has exceeded our wildest expectations.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a cabernet sauvignon. The previous vines in this part had to be destroyed.”

“How?”

“A controlled burn.”

“So, how do you actually make wine? Are there a bunch of women in back stomping on grapes?”

“No. Machinery replaced bare feet some time ago. Do you want the short version or the detailed scientific version?” he asked.

“Short version, please.”

“Okay, you very carefully handpick grapes from the vine, making sure not to bruise them. Wash and press, then add yeast for fermentation, which takes place in very old French oak barrels. Afterward, the liquid matures in the barrels for no less than eighteen months. Then the product is bottled for at least another four to five years, called bottle-aging. Then voilà, you have wine.”

“That’s it?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s it. Sounds easy, right?”

“Definitely. What’s that building over there?” she asked, pointing through to the other side of the path.

“That’s the house winery.”

“The house winery,” she repeated.

“It’s a small storage exclusively for private use.”

“Your private wine cellar. May I see it?”

“It’s dark and dirty and usually very chilly and damp.”

“Come on, you don’t mind getting a little wet and dirty, do you?” she teased, backing up toward the small building. He followed slowly. Then as they got halfway there, she heard the sound of clicking echoing through the vineyard. The first thing she thought was that there was a wild animal, then discounted the thought instantly. Seconds later, Randolph grabbed her hand and her heart jumped. “What’s that?” she asked as the sound got louder.

“Come on, run,” he instructed as he pulled.

Having no idea what was happening, Alyssa did exactly as he said; she ran. Then, a few seconds later, it all made sense. The clicking stopped and a sudden spray of water shot out through sprinklers positioned around the vines. She’d never even noticed them. In no time, they were completely drenched.

Chapter 17

L
aughing uncontrollably, Alyssa was near bursting with tears by the time they got to the entrance of the small building. They came through the door in a burst of laughter and quickly shut it behind them. Randolph flipped a switch and turned on soft, muted overhead lights. “Wait here,” Randolph said as he walked farther into the dimly lit room, footfalls echoing on the sandy wooden floor.

Randolph was right, it was dark inside. Even with the muted lights on, she could barely see any details as her eyes tried to adjust to the dimness. The room seemed to be a huge, open space almost barnlike in appearance. There was a narrow walkway and an upper level running all the way around the building with what looked like stairs leading to a loft in the rear.

Neatly lined rows of huge wooden barrels mounted on top of each other covered one entire wall just at the entrance. Each was labeled and stamped with a date. Alyssa walked over and touched the nearest barrel. It was rough and seemed old.

Suddenly, fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling flickered and blinked on, becoming brighter and brighter. Soon Alyssa could see all around her. She was right, it was a huge barn with barrels everywhere, but there was also a lower level.

Standing there, soaking wet, she shivered in the chilly dampness. She wrapped her hands across her and rubbed her bare arms just as Randolph approached with a towel and a thick blanket. He handed her the towel and draped the blanket around her, then rubbed her arms as she had moments earlier to ward off the chill.

Her teeth chattered. “That was fun,” she said.

He laughed. “You think so, huh?” She nodded, still shaking.

“This is really nice. It’s a lot bigger than it looks from the outside,” she said.

“Believe it or not, it seems extremely small to me at times. During harvest we store extra barrels and cases of extra bottles in here. You can barely move.”

“So there’s wine in these barrels?”

“No, most of them are empty, actually. The ones over there,” he began, pointing across the open area to the far side of the wall, “are being held for vintage.”

She nodded, then continued to look around, noticing a sectioned-off area leading to a lower level. “What’s down there?”

“My private wine cellar. Come on, I’ll show you.” She followed as he led her down the narrow stairs. The temperature seemed to get cooler and cooler as they descended. “Careful, watch your step.”

She grasped the iron rail at the last few steps but was so intent in looking around and taking everything in at once that she missed a step and nearly fell. “Careful,” he repeated as she regained her balance. He switched on a button and light instantly illuminated the area.

“Wow, look at all these bottles,” she said as her eyes twinkled excitedly each time she turned her head in a different direction. “This is amazing,” she added as he moved aside and allowed her to go ahead. She stepped to the side and gently touched one of the bottles.

Some were covered an inch-and-a-half thick with dust, while others looked as though they were brand-new. She looked up, then down the narrow aisles. From the corked flooring to the wood-vaulted ceiling, the tiny compartments each held a single bottle that rested on its side at a slight downward tilt.

“How do you know which one to get?” she asked.

Randolph flipped another switch and a soft amber glow washed the bottles and backlit them, making the labels easy to read. Alyssa peeked into a compartment, tilted her head to read a label, seeing the date. “What’s the oldest bottle you have?”

“That would be 1861.”

“Eighteen sixty-one,” she repeated. He nodded. “Do you realize this country still permitted slavery in 1861?” He nodded again. She turned down another narrow aisle and walked through, examining rows of bottles on either side. “Which is your favorite?”

He moved ahead and turned down a side aisle and walked to the end. There was a small lattice-door cabinet there. He unlatched the handle and carefully pulled out a bottle and handed it to her. She took it and, handling it carefully, gently turned it to read the label. “This is a Kingsley?”