Ellen Crosby: The Sauvignon Secret

“Move in here.” I said it without thinking.

He looked up and our eyes locked. “Is that a serious offer?”

“Of course it is. It’d be great to have someone in the house besides me. Mia’s not coming back from New York and I just rattle around here by myself. It gets … lonely sometimes.”

What I didn’t want to say, much less think about, was that I never expected to be living on my own with my thirty-first birthday looming on the horizon in a few weeks. I always thought that by now there would be someone to share it with, maybe even a family.

He was silent for a moment. “I’ll pay you rent, we’re not freeloading. Cover our share of the groceries …”

“We can talk about that later. You know what I really need? Someone to fix the gazillion things that need repairing around the place. We could trade that in return for room and board.”

“Luce, I don’t want your charity.”

“Eli, you haven’t seen my list.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“I think it would be great. I’ll get to spend more time with Hope.” He eyed me. “And you, of course.”

He grinned and punched me lightly on the arm. “You know, I just thought of something. How about if I fix up the old carriage house and turn it into a studio? Maybe I could pick up enough work on my own to make a go of it, especially if I could keep Hope at home with me. What do you say?”

He busied himself spreading a perfect layer of jam all the way to the edge of his croissant while I stood there and watched him.

“I say your nose just grew an inch, Pinocchio. ‘I just thought of something.’ Jeez, Eli, I must be losing my edge. You didn’t used to be able to play me that easily. You had this whole scheme all cooked up before you showed up, didn’t you? Please don’t tell me you spilled milk on your shirt on purpose and fished an old pair of pants out of the laundry basket just to make me feel sorry for you,” I said.

He looked sheepish. “Ixnay to the clothes stunt. To be honest, I didn’t think of it.”

“Eli!”

He pretended to duck. “I didn’t mean to set you up, but you’re a good sister, Luce. Family means everything to you, so I kind of figured you might offer to take us in. Well … hoped.”

“But you did set me up.”

He flashed a cheeky grin and I threw a dish towel at him.

“In the nicest possible way. All kidding aside, I owe you. Raising a kid on my own … man, who knew? Now Hope will have you around because, let me tell you, I just don’t get this girl stuff.” He shook his head and set the towel on the counter. “Did your barrettes have to match the lace thingies on your socks when you were little?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You bet they did.”

“I don’t suppose you have a to-go mug I could borrow? I could take this on the road. And, uh, I could get a van lined up from a buddy, but I can’t have it until Sunday. We don’t have much stuff. That work for you?”

He’d started rummaging through the cabinets for the mug, but I knew it was so I wouldn’t see the giveaway expression of “mission accomplished” on his face.

“Jesus, Lord, Eli! Yeah, of course it’s fine. I’ll have the housekeeper air out your old room in the attic. Hope can have Mia’s room since Dominique’s bedroom has turned into the guest room. Pépé’s got it now … that is, unless you’ve got other plans you haven’t let me in on yet?”

He turned around grinning as he tossed the to-go mug in the air and caught it one-handed. “Nope, that’s kind of what I figured you’d do.”

“Glad I at least called that one right.”

He planted a kiss on my cheek—a first for him—and said, “You’re a good egg, you know that? I’d better take off. I met a guy who might be interested in a kitchen renovation. We’re getting together in half an hour at his place in Aldie. I’ll call you, Luce. Tell Pépé I’m sorry I missed him, but we’ll catch him at the party tomorrow night.”

“Right. See you later,” I said, but he’d already vanished up the staircase.

A moment later, I heard the roar of his car engine and he was gone.

I cleaned up the kitchen, propped a note for Pépé against the coffeemaker asking him to call me when he woke up, and left for the winery. The Mini stirred up plumes of reddish-brown dust as I drove down Sycamore Lane, the private road we’d named for the two-hundred-year-old tree, now mostly a lightning-shattered trunk, which stood at a fork that branched off in one direction to the vineyard and the other to my house.

The talk on the radio station call-in show was nonstop anxiety about the drought and the possibility of water rationing. For anyone who grew crops or raised livestock in this still-very-agricultural county, the parched weather had been devastating. But a vineyard suffered less because vines actually thrived when the stressed roots had to dig deeper into the soil for nutrients and moisture. The good news for all of us was the cool front coming through later in the day. Though it wouldn’t bring rain, at least the soupy humidity would vanish and the temperature would drop pleasantly into the eighties.

I pulled into the winery parking lot and parked next to Francesca Merchant’s BMW. For Frankie, running the tasting room and planning all of our events was her empty-nester hobby after retiring from a high-powered government job in Washington that I’d never actually understood, and being the perfect eighties television show PTA-soccer-music–bake sale mom. Fortunately for me, she’d taken on her position at the winery with the same zeal and energy. In fact, she’d mostly taken over running the sales end of the business and I was spoiled rotten for it.

I climbed the flagstone steps to the ivy-covered villa designed by my mother where the tasting room and business offices were located. The whitewashed walls, large stone fireplace, and furniture covered with cheery Provençal fabric in the enormous rectangular room were her homage to her childhood summer home in the south of France; for me, everything was still marked with her indelible stamp and eye for beauty—a place she loved. Morning sunlight streamed through the glass panes of the four sets of French doors, striping the quarry tile floors and Persian carpets, glancing off the exuberant oil paintings of the vineyard, and reflecting off the mosaic tiles on the bar so they glowed like jewels. Frankie had classical music on the satellite radio—it sounded like Vivaldi—turned up loud.

I smelled coffee coming from the kitchen and heard her singing “dum-dum-dum-da-da-dum” with the loud off-key abandon of someone who believes no one is listening. A moment later she came through the swinging door carrying an enormous cobalt Biot vase filled with red gerbera daisies, red and white roses, and white stargazer lilies. She’d switched to “la-la-la.”

She stopped openmouthed when she saw me, setting the vase on an oak trestle table we used for overflow wine tastings and rearranging the already-perfect arrangement. I watched her hands flying, busily tucking and turning the flowers and the vase.

Frankie always looked smart and pulled together, even if she’d just spent the morning digging up weeds in our flower gardens. Today she wore a ruffled white silk top, black capris, and hot pink sandals. She’d pushed a pair of hot pink reading glasses up on her head to keep her shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair off her face.

“Morning,” I said. “Those are gorgeous. Red, white, and blue for the weekend?”

She looked up and pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear with her forearm. “I hope I’m not getting too carried away with this French tricolor theme. Antonio told me no Mexican in his right mind would wear a beret, so that’s out. How long have you been out here listening, by the way? You should have yelled ‘yoo-hoo.’ ”