Page 22 of Just for Tonight

6

Mackenzie

I am trying to forget that Jake Cavendish is in town and that I have his number, and I am failing completely. It only makes sense that I’m disappointed. I can’t blame him for falling asleep – his tight muscles told me all the secrets he would never confess – but still.

But still.

And yes, I did have this idea that he would call, maybe apologize, maybe suggest something for tonight.

But there is only silence.

I remind myself that he was raised by wolves, or by one particular wolf, and it doesn’t help.

It is only 7:30 – ha. 7:34 – but I’ve been thinking about this half the night. It seems like I left the townhouse a million years ago. I’m not the most patient person alive. Once I decide I want something, I’d like it now, thank you very much.

And I want another night with Jake Cavendish.

The trick is figuring out what I’m going to do about it – or more accurately, how I’m going to make that happen.

Fortunately, it doesn’t matter that I’m distracted, not at this time of year. Grapes are growing, vines are being managed and pruned, visitors are few during the week. Everything is running smoothly, as it tends to do every month except September and October when the harvest is coming in and we’re all running on fumes.

Maybe that makes it worse. I have just about nothing pressing to do today. I meander through the fields, chat with this person or that one, consider the way the Baco Noir is fruiting and engage in our foreman’s daily debate as to whether the amount of rain we’ve had so far this season is enough or too much. My assistant viticulture manager, Sloane, is on a one-day course at University of Guelph so I can’t even do any tutoring.

Rhodes Vineyards is a family business: my grandfather is officially in charge, although my uncles and I, along with a huge team of workers, do most of the actual labour. Opa had three sons and was always determined to build a legacy. I sometimes wonder if Oma died comparatively young because his ambitions wore her out. He would have had a dozen sons if she could have managed it. Of course, he was only doing the fun part.

My dad, the oldest son, was the viticulture manager until he died when I was a teenager. Opa took the reins again until I was able to step into Dad’s shoes, after bunches of education and training. It’s a great job and I love it. It has the right balance of routine and challenge – after all, running a winery in Canada is not for the faint of heart. I like that it’s not easy. Grapes, the best ones for making wine, really would prefer to be in Italy or France. Argentina or Chile maybe. Spain. Not southwestern Ontario so much. It can be done, but it’s not a gimme.

I love having a career that demands everything I’ve got. I have plans for the vineyard, plans for expansion and a bigger future, and I know that achieving them won’t be easy either. I enjoy that and am comfortable with the sacrifices I need to make to ensure those dreams come true. My cousins will have the kids who take over the place. Or maybe we’ll diversify our management beyond blood family. It could happen, but won’t while Opa is alive.

My uncle Franz is brother number two and the oenologist – he’s our winemaker. He has a real gift for blending beautiful wines. His daughter, Jennifer, is training as his eventual replacement and working at other vineyards to gain experience right now. She spent four years in Chile and is now in California. I did my internships in France and Washington State.

My uncle Victor was the indulged baby of the family. Even in his sixties, he’s incredibly handsome and charming to a fault. He manages the sales team and I think one of his sons might join the firm after finishing his university degree. Opa isn’t very subtle about his hopes in that direction, which means I’m hoping he doesn’t spook my cousins completely. I inherited my drive and ambition from Opa, that’s for sure.

As if sensing that I’m at loose ends, my mom sends me a text to confirm our weekly phone call tomorrow, Saturday morning. She was the bookkeeper for the vineyard, staying on after my dad died, and retired last year. She then moved back to Vancouver Island where she grew up. Her sisters and their families are still there, and Mom was done with Ontario winters.

I text her back that I’m looking forward to it. I am.

It’s just me and Opa at the house now, along with Mrs. O’Neill, our housekeeper since forever. I suppose she’ll retire one of these days, too, but maybe not so long as Opa keeps complimenting her cooking.

Opa calls me as I’m leaving the breakfast table and asks me if I could deliver some documents to Richard Bradshaw, the lawyer in town. It’ll only take me half an hour and I could do with the distraction. I agree and head downtown.

Richard is standing at the door when I open it, looking out at Empire. He appears thoughtful, his hands shoved in the pockets of his suit trousers. He rouses himself to smile at me.

“Ah, those contracts from Augustine. Thank you, Mackenzie, although I could have stopped up to get them.”

“It was no trouble, Richard. Things are slow this time of year.”

He smiles at me. “And you’re impatient to get on with the harvest.”

“I am, but I have to wait a few weeks on Mother Nature.”

He chuckles and offers me a coffee.

“I don’t want to interrupt your morning.”

“I’m having a slow day as well. Join me, please.” He pours me a coffee and I realize that his secretary, Mrs. Prescott, is missing. She must be having a day off. I ask and Richard confides that she had an appointment this morning. “Did you see Jake Cavendish’s car?” he says, changing to precisely the topic I most want to discuss.

“No. Was he here?”