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I refuse to admit this attempt was doomed from the start, but the voice of my previous partner keeps weaseling into my determination. Freakin’ bastard. It wasn’t enough he twisted events so I was fired from my last position. Not enough he then took full credit for every wine we’d developed together, and for one—the best one—that was my solo creation.
Before the memory takes over again, I push away from the counter, return the flask to its place, and rinse the pipette. I was damn lucky this new winery hired me. I was upfront about most of what happened at my last job. There are just some things you don’t admit in a job interview. I held little hope the owners would take a chance on a mostly inexperienced vintner for their new operation.
The moment I received the offer, I committed myself to making Turquoise Creek Wines the best in the area. Then on to best in Nebraska. Then… let’s just say I have high aspirations.
Revenge is only a part of my drive and determination. A larger part than I’d like to admit, but there it is.
Unfortunately, a good wine doesn’t magically appear when the first crop of grapes hasn’t even been harvested. It can take years to develop the most flavorful mixture of grapes. The proper aging techniques and timing. I could do everything right and still end up with a wine that’s not good enough. Or the end result might be spectacular
The owners understand, but I can’t hinge my entire future here on such a time consuming possibility.
So, I suggested developing a mead because we could get that into bottles and on the shelves sooner than the wine. Micah, one of the owners, suggested the possibility of using native fruits and local honey to flavor the mead. I hadn’t counted on those native fruits growing in ditches along the road or in tangled patches near some of the many ponds and small lakes in the Sandhills. Harvesting wild plums and sand cherries isn’t easy. Especially for the relatively small amount ending up in the gathering basket.
I’ve enlisted some of the older kids who live on the ranch to help and so far they’ve been a great help. Just today one stopped by to tell me some plums we’ve been watching are nearly ready for harvest. Probably in a week or so. Luckily, this thicket of plums is on the ranch property so I won’t be picking along the side of a road. Some of the locals use the fruit for jams or jellies and I don’t want to deprive them of the fruit.
Until then, there really isn’t anything to do except go over my notes to see where this batch of mead went wrong. Getting the mix of honey, juice, and yeasty must just right is tricky since the flavor of the fruits is slightly different from plant to plant. Or how ripe they are when picked. Or… so many variables.
I will conquer this and by next spring the first libations will be available from the Turquoise Creek Winery.
I pause and grab my journal. There might be a way to incorporate some of the fruit in a wine as well. A different flavor profile that’s pleasing to the tongue. With that in mind, I lock up my workroom and decide to go sit by the pool for a bit.
Relaxing there always seems to help me focus.
After toeing off my shoes and wading through the quiet end of the small splash pool, I find relief from the hot sun and nearly ever-present wind under a three sided cabana near the building. There’s just enough moisture in the air from the nearby water feature to keep me cool.
I’m not going to complain about the quiet, but on this hot afternoon, I’d expected many of the ranch’s kids to be enjoying the pool. Wondering why there’s no noisy water games happening I settle back and open my journal.
Then I remember there’s some special guest arriving today and the ranch owners asked for the kids to stay clear of the area. Hopefully my presence won’t disturb anyone. I don’t know how long the prohibition is supposed to last. It’s a shame that one supposedly important person can disrupt the entire area and keep kids from expending energy and cooling off in the new pool.
I don’t care how important or famous this person is. Nor do I care to know. The only thing in my focus is doing what I was hired for and creating special wines for the new winery. There's no time or energy for anything else. I open my journal and stare at a blank page.
Five minutes later my vision blurs and I blink back my frustration. I know my skill, my talents as a vintner. With no new ideas, I’m ready to slink back to my apartment above the public access part of the winery and bury my emotions in a pint of ice cream. Cliché I know, but there are times when there’s truth behind the old ideas. And, for me, ice cream is comfort.
As I rise, a shiny black limo drives past. That must be the special guest. I roll my eyes to the sky. Someone who arrives in a limo doesn’t seem like the type who will fit in here. I guess that doesn’t matter. If the person is here to escape their normal world, maybe the rural atmosphere is what they need.
I’ve been happy here—when my work is going well. Today, not so much. The mint chocolate chip ice cream is calling.
After I slip on my shoes, a niggle of curiosity holds me in place for a long moment. As far as I know, most of the guest oriented operations of the ranch are only available for rare, one day events. The guest housing is ready but not available for anyone to stay there. So who is this person everyone seems determined to disrupt the normal routine for? And what’s with having the hands watch the ranch entrances? After it was mentioned at the gathering Alice had to announce this guest’s arrival, I hadn’t thought about it again.
My curiosity ratchets higher and before I think better of it, I enter the event building and peek through the windows on the far side. The limo pulls up beside the largest guest house and the driver unloads the trunk, carrying cases and baggage inside.
I count two guitar cases. And a large rectangle that looks like the keyboard my high school jazz band used. My fingers twitch. I used to be a pretty good pianist but I haven’t played in years. So, this must be a musician of some sort. Not sure how I feel about that possibility I lean forward until my nose presses against the glass.
Finally a man exits the back of the limo and hands something to the driver before bending to speak to someone still in the vehicle. Within moments the man stands watching as the limo heads back toward the main houses. As he turns toward his cabin, his gaze skims the area and for a second, just a second, lingers on where I’m half hiding behind a drapery panel.
Praying he doesn’t see me, I back from the window. Half way across the room, I turn and escape, striding as fast as I can past the pool toward the winery building.
I don’t know why I feel the need to hide. Or why this man’s appearance settled low and tingly in my belly. He’s lean, his jeans riding low on his hips, but without any extra bagginess hiding his ass. He has the slight scruff of a beard, just dark enough to tell me it’s intentional not a didn’t shave today moment. Dark brown, casually messy hair.
I rush up the stairs to my apartment and slam the door behind me, pressing my back against the cool wood. How did I see so many details in those few seconds? And at a distance that should have hidden so much. It’s as though part of me knows what he looks like without seeing him.
Knowing him.
That’s impossible. As strong as the unusual attraction hit me, I would assume I’ve encountered him in the past. Except other than the tingling, the longing, there’s nothing about him that’s familiar.
Or maybe everything is. I’m confused. Feel like I’m untethered and drifting aimlessly looking for my anchor. A dream man like him.
Maybe I’m dehydrated and delirious. Grabbing water from my fridge, I plop down on the loveseat facing a large clear window. The view stretches out over the new vineyards toward the huge house where the overseer lives. Shifting slightly, I can see a corner of the pool area. Then by craning my neck, there’s the man’s guest house. I’ve always loved the view of the growing grapevines. I never realized I could see any of the guest accommodations.
