Page 28 of Just for Tonight

Cameron must have been the dark-haired one who hit on me.

I realize Luke is waiting for me to reply. “When is Abbie going back to Vancouver?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

I make the offer before I think twice. It would be good to see Abbie. “I could give her a ride to the airport, depending on the time of her flight.”

“I think it’s in the evening.”

“I’ll give her a call. I could ask her about the house on the way. I mean, there’s no point if she doesn’t even want it.”

Luke nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

I find myself smiling as Luke heads out and shake my head at the sound of his bike.

Who would have thought that Luke and I could not only mend fences but understand each other so well? It wouldn’t have been me, but I’m really glad he took a chance and came here today.

Damn. There has to be some cash somewhere. There’s at least ten thousand in credit card bills due this month. I have to be able to find that much.

I have a terrible thought then. What if that’s not all of the debt?

I need all of their wallets and all of their cards, and I need them now.

This is going to go over well.

After that mission is complete, I’ll visit Mike at the greenhouses and give everyone a few minutes to calm down.

No, first I’ll stop at Rhodes Vineyards with this title that I found this morning. Maybe I’ll even catch a glimpse of Mackenzie, and have a chance to apologize.

8

Mackenzie

I stop back at the house for lunch as usual and am not surprised to hear voices when I open the kitchen door. There’s a red car in the driveway, so my grandfather must have a visitor. Probably some local politician, although that’s a pretty expensive car. Someone hitting him up for a donation maybe.

Opa is chuckling, which can only be a good thing. He’s probably telling some tall tale and I should intervene to save his guest. His stories can go on and on. He just loves telling them so much that we all indulge him. No sign of Mrs. O’Neill, although there’s a pot of soup simmering on the stove and a note that there are sandwiches in the fridge. Ah, she’s gone into Havelock for more groceries.

The tea pot is still hot, so I pour myself a mug of it and follow the sound of Opa’s voice. I smile as his words become more clear. It’s the usual lecture about the vineyard, the one I almost have memorized.

Someone looking for a donation, then. I prepare to smile politely.

“The wine grapes of the world are of the species vitis vinifera, and all originated in Europe,” Opa says. “The most popular are Chardonnay, Cabernet, Gamay, Merlot, Pinot Noir, and Riesling. They must be grafted onto more weather-resistant root stock to survive in our climate. We grow them all here.”

This statement, I know, is always accompanied by a sweeping gesture toward the fields. The house was built with massive windows overlooking the vines in their neat rows, a sight that gives my grandfather enormous satisfaction.

Truth be told, it gives me that, too.

“There also are hybrids,” he continues, “bred to avoid the grafting process, like Baco Noir, Seyval Blanc, and Vidal. We grow Baco Noir and Seyval Blanc. You can see them there, to the right, on the higher land.”

“There are 1400 acres of vineyards in southwestern Ontario,” I say as I step into the room. “Which is at similar latitude to that of French Riviera, Northern California, southern France, and Madrid, Spain.”

Opa chuckles.

I stop cold, before mentioning the moderating effects of Lake Erie on the local temperatures, the long hours of sunlight that give our grapes higher sugars and moderate acid levels, and the comparatively early regional harvest that is the result of both.

Because Opa’s guest, to my astonishment, is Jake Cavendish.

He meets my gaze and the corner of his mouth lifts in a little private smile, one that I feel right to my toes. My heart bounces like a rubber ball, as if it’s made a leap for my throat. No, it’s bouncing along the top of the words for a singalong. (We will not speculate on the song.)