Page 10 of Sigh of Relief

He snipped the excess canes, showing Elton exactly where and how and explaining the why too. Making sure he understood. Elton repeated it on the next vine and more easily on each one after that until he and Archer were moving as fast as Daniela and Miguel a row over.

“Miguel’s only partially joking,” Archer said as they moved on to their third row. “You seem like a natural out here.”

“It’s nothing like this, but my parents always grew vegetables in our backyard. Taking care of the plants was part of growing up.”

“They local still?”

He shook his head. “Retired to Arizona a few years back, but they still own the house in Piedmont. Rent it for a mint.”

“I bet. So you grew up in the East Bay, and then . . .”

“Strayed all the way to Stanford for college.”

“You daredevil,” Archer teased.

“Was foolish in my youth,” Elton said. “Wanted less fog.” He waited for Archer to finish laughing, then asked, “What about you? You grew up in LA and then . . .”

“Davis for school, then landed in Lompoc until Ezra lured me away.”

“How’d you two meet?”

“At a party.” The smile that spread across Archer’s face was pure fondness. “He strutted over to me in red lace panties and told me his wife wanted to order us around for a night.”

It was Elton’s turn to bobble his shears, the scenario melting his brain. Not so much the idea of Ezra in red lace panties, though admittedly hot, but that Archer had been receptive to orders. And enjoyed it, judging by his rosy cheeks and glazed-over gaze, lost in the memory.

“Good night?” Elton asked.

He righted his gaze, the hazel warm and without an ounce of shame. “One of the best.”

Elton mentally traced over yesterday’s Maybe now, darkening the ink, the possibility solidifying. Every new tidbit he learned about Archer made that wild hair Elton had followed to find Archer after all these years not so wild after all.

“How about you?” Archer asked. “Anyone special?”

“Not since my divorce.”

“I’m so⁠—”

“Don’t.” Condolences were everyone’s first instinct and sorely misplaced in his case. He didn’t deserve them; only his ex did. “Tanya moved home to Georgia, remarried, and has the life she always deserved.” The life he hadn’t been able to give her. The decisions he’d made, the parts of himself he’d chosen to hide, the sacrifices they’d made for his career, were wrong to ask of her in the first place and increasingly felt pointless. Like he was going to lose what he thought was important, regardless. Like he’d maybe had his priorities completely wrong.

Maybe now . . .

Archer had moved on to the next vine, giving him the space he’d needed to wade through his regrets. Elton caught up with him as he was laying out the two reserve canes, coaxing them to breathe. He was talking to the vine—Elton had seen and heard him do it several other times today—but this time, Elton also inhaled, then let some of his regrets go on the breath out.

“When we prune the vines this time of year,” Archer said, “we say they sigh with relief. They don’t have to work so hard for a spell.”

“Just them or you too?”

Hazel eyes lifted to his and the understanding, the empathy in them, nearly sent Elton to his knees. “All of us.”

Chapter Seven

“I really want the tourists and locals to appreciate wines from the Old World too. They’re not all stuffy.”

“I don’t disagree,” Elton said, nodding enthusiastically. “Racy French whites, Spanish Rioja that ages forever.” He raised his glass. “A thirteen-dollar Austrian Blaufränkisch.”

“Not stuffy at all!” Jake of the coiffed blond hair, New England accent, and tweed, elbow-patched jacket exclaimed.

Archer muffled a snicker behind his hand. The twenty-something som was earnest in a golden retriever kind of way, but if one opened the dictionary to the word “stuffy,” Jake’s picture would be there for illustration. He was a good kid, one of the better up-and-coming soms in the area, but someone needed to purge the tweed and ascots from his closet. Especially in this part of wine country that was still more farmers and locals than bougie tourists.