Laura Drake - Twice in a Blue Moon

* * *

“I WASSORRY to hear about your baby girl, Danovan.” Reese Winters sat across the executive desk at Winter Wines. His wrinkles were set in nervous lines, as if waiting to get a root canal. With no Novocain.

Danovan DiCarlo felt the same but knew if it showed, this interview would be over. He shut his mind to the words that delivered the brass-knuckle punch to his chest. “You’re aware that I have a degree in agribusiness from UC Davis, and that I worked my way up at Bacchanal Winery to become one of their trusted vintners. But what you may not know is that I single-handedly took their sauvignon line from ten percent of—”

“Danovan.” Reece’s fingers drummed the edge of the desk.

“Yes, sir.” He leaned forward, anxious to make his next point. He was just getting to the good stuff.

“Spare me the résumé. You know I can’t hire you.”

“But, sir, I’m an excellent manager.”

“My respect for your abilities is what got you this meeting. I’d wager you haven’t gotten many others. Am I right?”

“Well, I’m just now starting to—”

“Son, I don’t believe the rumors the family is putting out about you.” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair. “But that doesn’t matter. They buy my grapes.”

“You’re going to let the Boldens dictate—”

“I am. And so is every other winery in the area. What’s more, you knew that when you set up this appointment.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t mean to stand in as your daddy, but it seems somebody needs to.” He put his knuckles on the desk and leaned in. “You got a bad deal. But you have to admit, you had some...input into your situation.”

Danovan shot to his feet. “I didn’t come here to—”

“So, I have to ask you.” He squinted across the desk. “Did you learn anything?”

Heat pounded up Danovan’s neck until his face throbbed, engorged with it.

“No one ever choked to death swallowing his pride, son.”

Sanctimonious sonofabitch. If Winters hadn’t been old enough to sell wine to King Tut, Danovan would have pulled him across the table by the collar of that polo shirt and vent his frustration. Instead, he snatched the file folder of documentation from his chair, retrieved his résumé and dropped it in the folder. Even if all Danovan had left was a string of dynamite-rigged bridges, he couldn’t afford to burn any. Anger drained out of the hole that opened in his guts.

He looked across the desk and saw the truth in those mournful blue eyes. In his own twisted way, the old man was trying to help.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Winters.” He squared his shoulders, did an about-face and marched out of the office, through the huge tasting room and out the front door of the winery. Finally, standing beside his car, he let out the breath he’d been holding.

I’m firmly and durably screwed.

He slammed his hands on the hood. When Winters agreed to see him, he’d had a glimmer of hope that one grower in the valley had a big enough set of balls to stand against the Boldens. But apparently they’d stopped making them that size.

He unlocked his Land Rover with a click. He pulled the door open, and the smell of almost-new car washed over him as he settled into the seat. If he didn’t find a job soon, he’d be forced to sell this last sweet perk of his old life. He inserted the key and fired the engine.

Sure, he could widen his search. He probably should. Napa Valley had more prestige, anyway. But there still would be the issue of a recommendation from his last employer. Who would an owner believe—the largest winemaker in central California, or a prospective hire? He pounded his fist on the burled wood dash, startling a passing tourist.

Besides, dammit, he liked it here. He may have chosen the Central Valley right out of school because it was a small pond he could make a big splash in, but sometime over the past five years, he’d become attached. He liked the quaint small-town feel of downtown Widow’s Grove. He liked the prissy Victorians that lined the King’s Highway into town. But mostly, he loved the land. The rolling, golden hills dotted with live oaks quieted his edgy restlessness.

But not his drive.

Throwing the car into Reverse, he backed out. Goddammit, he wasn’t leaving until he’d interviewed at every winery he could get through the door of. The colossal screwup with Lissette might have trashed his ego, and his daughter’s death, his heart, but the Boldens were not taking his career, too.

It was all he had left.

* * *

INDIGOWANTEDTOgo out the way she came in, so she chose Pacific Coast Highway. It took longer, but she and Barney weren’t in a hurry.

The heavy mantle of Hollywood lightened with each mile of road that passed under her tires. This town wasn’t just a geographical location, but a state of mind—and she was delighted to change states. She played Harry’s favorite CDs, singing along with Van Morrison as the sun tipped over its summit to begin its descent to the sea.

“What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.

But the moment of doubt didn’t stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown. Her Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.

At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she’d return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.

Or maybe she’d use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.

She’d loved Harry’s Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow’s Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry’s projects. They’d sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob’s cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.

Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he’d been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.

It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry’s marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she’d refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.

It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry’s rants, because it didn’t matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he’d lose everything. Bob’s respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry’s courtship.

Uncle Bob’s death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he’d left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who worried about her future.

She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob’s death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.

Now she was going to see if it could be more.

She watched the surf racing to keep pace with her car, realizing her future was in an odd sort of balance. Her first lifetime in northern California as a free-spirited earth child had been the polar opposite of her lifetime in the other end of the state. Like Goldilocks, she could only hope that this one, in the middle, would be just right.