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“I think that’s my cue,” Mom said. “Love you guys.”
“Love you,” we both said before I hung up. “Seriously, where’s the fire?”
“Do you know how many places you could set up as an office? Next door, about three places in the Cellar, in your own house, for God’s sakes. Why here?”
Since I lived on the property—in a house with Marco, actually—I did sometimes work from home. But rarely. “You know why.”
“Because you like a change of scenery. Wonderful. But sometimes I do have to work.”
I had a thousand comebacks but kept them to myself.
“Speaking of work, I’m dying for a cinnamon donut.”
My sister was out of her mind. “What does work have to do with a cinnamon donut?”
She shrugged. “Nothing.”
Then she looked up at me with the eyes.
“No, Min. I can’t go into town. I have a ton to do today.” The wineries were closed, but after harvest and the festival, I was absolutely buried with work.
“Please?” She blinked, too many times. That might have worked on Dad. And Cosimo. But not me.
“No. And it’s raining.”
“Are you gonna melt?” Then, a bit sweeter, “I’ll finish your newsletter.”
That gave me pause. “How do you know that’s what I was doing?”
“Because I know everything.” And then, “Okay, because that’s the only time you actually come into my office. Lucky guess.”
And a good one too.
I hedged. It was a tempting offer. “I really don’t feel like driving all the way into town.”
“All the way? It’s like seven minutes. Besides, Thayle is there. You can check in on her.”
“She’s working again?”
Min nodded. “Rich was told to take it easy. I think Brooke hooked them up with someone to work part-time, but they can’t start for two weeks. So she’s helping out.”
I didn’t doubt Thayle could do her job as wine club manager for us and fill in for Rich, but I worried she was working too hard.
The lure of seeing Thayle really shouldn’t have had me reconsidering. But it did.
“Please?”
I figured I could at least milk this. “I’ll go grab donuts, but,” I said, and added quickly, “you have to finish the newsletter and not tell Brooke.”
Min pursed her lips together. Clearly, she’d planned on ratting me out. “How much do you have left?”
“Two paragraphs.”
“What do you want me to focus on?”
“It’s a harvest report. I was talking about the difference between this year and the last, not having as much rain. I’d planned to mention the extreme diurnal temperature shifts, with the nights dipping into the 40s and how that affected—”
“Are you trying to entertain people or put them to sleep?”
