Once Tasted: A Silver Creek Novel (8 page)

There was another positive to consider. He realized that the reason his mother had been pushing Mia had more to do with their financial investment than with her matchmaking habit. Her chirping wasn’t the omen signaling the end of his prized bachelor days.

But none of this solved the Mia problem, he thought. “Mom’s an eternal optimist. Of course she thinks everything’s going to go swimmingly tomorrow. I’m a little more realistic. So help Mia out if you see she’s having problems.”

“Yeah, ’cause I’m such a wine expert,” Quinn drawled. “I’m the one who buys a bottle based on the label’s design, remember? You’re the one in the family who can tell the difference between a maligned Merlot and a princely Pinot.”

That had been his parents’ line of argument for choosing him to be the one to help manage the winery, too. Neither Ward nor Quinn cared much about what went into making a fine wine.

Lifting the fender on her saddle, Quinn loosened Tucker’s cinch and slipped the saddle and blanket off his back, revealing a sweat-darkened coat. Even a short training session was stressful for the gelding, the equivalent of a two-hour ride for Sirrus.

Quinn propped her saddle against the rail of the corral at a safe distance from Tucker’s hooves, grabbed a hand towel from the plastic carryall, and began to rub him dry. “Here’s an idea: Why don’t you help Mia out if our wannabe cowgirls’ eyes start rolling? Who knows,
if you save her butt, Mia might even smile at you.” The idea was entertaining enough to make Quinn snigger.

Reid shook his head in mild disgust. “You really are an alien, aren’t you? Let me explain human psychology to you. Mia’s not going to smile at me if I help her out with her talk. She’ll just resent me more.”

“Yeah, that’s possible. But it isn’t as if she’s ever been a fan—which, by the way, shows astoundingly good taste on her part—so why should you care now?”

Good question, and one he wasn’t about to answer. Locking his jaw, he felt the muscle along his cheek jump.

Sharp-eyed Quinn noticed. She sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this to you, but you need to relax, dude. It’ll all be good with Mia.”

“Just trying not to blow our cowgirls’ weekend. Tess wants those ladies happy.”

“Yeah. So does Phil Onofrie. He’s fantasizing about every one of them booking a return stay—with all their girlfriends and kin.”

“I’m all for a guy having his fantasies fulfilled.”

“Eww. I don’t want to even contemplate Phil’s fantasies—or yours. I shudder to think which are pervier.” She looked at him and her eyes narrowed. “Yours, probably.”

“You have no idea.” He grinned. But as he walked away, an image of Mia’s naked feet flashed in his mind, and his grin faded.

Her feet were long and slender.

It wasn’t often he got a glimpse of Mia’s skin. She covered a lot of herself up. Her clothes, shapeless and drab, were only marginally more stylish than a nun’s habit. He thought of that saying—how certain women could wear sackcloth and still look beautiful. Mia was the proof. She dressed like crap, hardly ever wore
makeup, yet he was still obsessed, hungering for every glimpse of her he could get.

It explained why the sight of her bare feet had affected him so strongly the other day, jolting him with an erotic charge strong enough to make sweat bead and then trickle down the length of his spine. Powerful enough to make his fingers bite into the painted wood of the porch railing behind him.

A damned good thing Thomas had been there to prevent him from doing something insane, like pouncing on Mia and stripping her of every god-awful piece of clothing she wore and taking a good long look at the rest of the body she hid so ruthlessly.

Even now his mouth went dry at the thought of freeing her of those criminally baggy clothes.

But damned if he was going to let Quinn or anyone know what fantasies Mia’s bare feet engendered.

Mia the last of all.

M
IA COULDN
’
T UNDERSTAND
what was wrong.

The bottling company had come as scheduled, and the day had been celebratory. Thomas had chosen a favorite, Bizet’s
Carmen
, for the background music. The opera’s soaring notes were the perfect accompaniment to the percussive and deeply satisfying clink of glass as the sanitized bottles moved in a regimental line along the narrow conveyer belt to the fillers. There, a thrilling stream of wine flowed from barrel into bottle. The fill line reached, the bottle was then inched forward to the next automated station, the corker, where a presoaked cork was driven into the neck.

Next came the wrap and crimp of the maroon-colored tin cap over the mouth and neck, adding a protective layer to preserve the wine. Then the final touch before the bottles were packed into cardboard cases: the affixing of the glue-backed labels.

The sight of that first bottle, its label sporting the words
BODELL FAMILY VINEYARD
, never failed to raise a cheer.

Everything had gone perfectly, without a glitch.

And even after the bottling company’s truck had left, rattling down the road, the celebratory atmosphere had
continued. Mia had gone into the house to put the finishing touches on the pesto pasta and the equally large radicchio salad with Manchego vinaigrette she’d prepared, and she’d warmed two sourdough loaves in the oven.

Thomas had plucked six bottles of their 2010 Pinot Noir from the cellar to pair with the meal. Tired from the long day but beaming nonetheless, Roberto and Paul, along with their wives, Anita and Sue, and Leo and Johnny, who worked at the winery as Thomas’s cellar rats—apprentices—gathered around the two picnic tables Mia had pushed together.

As the sun disappeared behind the lavender-hued mountains, the early-evening air had been full of laughter and reminiscences. Over coffee and a dessert of rich, gooey brownies that Sue had baked, they’d watched the bats come out for their nocturnal hunt, their pointy wings beating jerkily against the sapphire sky.

Bats were good.

Life was good.

By all rights, Thomas should be happy. The cases of the newly bottled wine were now safe in the climate-controlled warehouse, where they would rest and bottle-age until they were shipped to the local retailers and restaurants.

Yet he wasn’t. Over the next few days he seemed more distracted than ever. No, that wasn’t quite it, Mia thought. He wasn’t so much distracted as
withdrawn
. He spent hours holed up in his room. When he did venture out, it was to announce he was going for a walk or a drive—with no invitation to accompany him extended. Her own suggestion that they go into Acacia for a blueberry binge of pancakes and muffins at the luncheonette was met with a vague “We’ll see.”

Now it was Friday afternoon and Mia was at her wits’ end trying to figure out if she’d done something
wrong and disappointed her uncle somehow. Worry gnawed.

It didn’t help that her stomach was already aching with the fluttering of a thousand nervous butterflies at the prospect of giving a talk at Silver Creek Ranch.

Thinking that maybe she could go over her talk with Thomas—a kind of dress rehearsal—as a way to calm herself and clear the air between them, she left Roberto and Paul thinning leaves in the vineyard and walked up to the house.

The truck was back—Thomas had taken it on one of his undisclosed errands, skipping lunch. Entering by the back door, she slipped off her shoes and gulped down a glass of water at the sink. It had grown hotter today.

She heard his footsteps above her, moving along the upstairs hall in the direction of his bedroom. She opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of home-brewed iced tea and poured a tall glass, adding some ice cubes to it.

Drawing a deep breath, she hurried up the stairs with the tea, her peace offering. She knocked on the half-closed door and peered around it, a determinedly bright smile pinned on her face. “Hi, I thought you might like some tea.”

Thomas spun around from where he’d been bent over the bed. “Mia,” he said uneasily. “This isn’t a good time—”

She saw two open suitcases behind him on the bed. Clothes covered the remaining space. “What are the suitcases for?”

In the short silence that followed, something awful crawled through her. It left her as cold and sweaty as the glass in her hand.

“I’m going to France.”

“Oh.” She relaxed. Of course. Thomas loved France and adored tooling through Burgundy. And, really, this was the perfect time for him to leave. He’d come back
refreshed for the harvest. “Well, I’m happy to look after the cellar while you’re away. I promise I won’t break too many pipettes or glasses.”

“No, Mia.” His voice was gentle. “I’m going to live there. I’m leaving on Tuesday.”

“How could you not tell me?” It seemed to Mia that she’d been repeating these six words for hours now. She was trying to keep her voice steady. She was failing.

What if she hadn’t gone upstairs? Would Thomas have waited until he was asking her for a ride to the airport? The muscles in her throat clenched.

“I didn’t know how,” Thomas answered. “Listen, I understand you’re upset, but what I’m doing isn’t just the best for me—though it is—it’s the best for
you
.”

She fought the panic. “But, Thomas, we’re a
team—
”

He shook his head. “You need a chance to come into your own. If I stay here, you’re never going to believe in your abilities as a winemaker. I want to still be alive to enjoy your wines. I want to be able to crow with pride when you begin winning awards. But you know what I also want? A chance to live out the rest of my days with the woman who’s made me remember what it is to love. Would you deny me any of those things?”

“No, of course not.” She swallowed the lump of pain that was lodged in her throat. “I’m happy you’ve found someone. You deserve it. It’s only—” Didn’t he understand how she felt? “France is so far away.”

“Well, there’s email and Skype. Pascale and I have gotten very savvy at Skyping. You and I can, too.”

Skype? Email? As if those things could ever replace her uncle’s presence. Once again, she was losing someone she loved. Her mother. Aunt Ellen. And now Thomas. She hadn’t really thought about her future or
what would happen if she found someone to love. But Thomas had been a given. A constant. She’d thought that she would care for him as he aged, her way of thanking him for taking her in and raising her like a daughter. But now he was leaving her.…

“And with Reid advising you—”

“What?” She scrambled to recall what Thomas had been saying just now. “What does any of this have to do with Reid?” The awful, crawling sensation was back.

Thomas looked surprised. “As I explained, the Knowleses have invested in the winery. A very sizable stake. It goes without saying they’d like to see a return on their investment. Adele, Daniel, and I have decided Reid is the best person to oversee the business end of the operation.”

“Reid? No.” She shook her head. “I don’t need, I don’t
want
—” For a second her mind went blank, overwhelmed by an avalanche of things she didn’t want. How could she have been so happy on Monday, so optimistic? Now her life was falling apart. And how could Thomas stand by his nearly packed suitcases and offer up Reid Knowles as the answer to her misery?

“Mia, we both know the winery needs help. Badly. This arrangement will allow you to make something of this place. You’ll be able to make great wine and have it actually reach consumers. Reid will make—”

“Thomas.” She fought to keep her panic at bay. “I’ll grant that the Knowleses are talented businesspeople. Adele and Daniel are smart. Ward, too. But Reid? He doesn’t really do much except ride and have fun and—”

“Reid’s talented.”

She snorted. “In many areas, I’m sure. But not in the winemaking business.”

“I’m surprised at you, Mia.” Thomas’s tone was uncharacteristically severe. “I thought you were a better judge of character.”

When she remained silent, he sighed and glanced at his watch. “It’s a little after three o’clock. Why don’t you go over to Silver Creek now? Perhaps Reid will be free and you two can have a chin-wag. Break the ice, so to speak.”

Right, she thought. That would happen when grapes ripened on a willow.

She arrived at Silver Creek Ranch’s main lodge at ten minutes before five, her uncle’s suggestion that Reid and she enjoy a “chin-wag” be damned, but found not a single cowgirl, real or aspiring, in sight. Reid wasn’t around, either. No great surprise. Why would he be at the main lodge just because she was due to give her talk in a few short minutes?

The guest ranch was impressive in any season. But Mia loved it in summertime especially, when the shrubs and gardens were in bloom, their blossoms vivid and fragrant. The landscaping was brilliant. It pleased the eye and fooled it, effectively camouflaging the cabins behind the plantings. A person could wander along the bluestone and gravel walkways that wound through the property and hardly notice the guests’ lodgings. It made for a private and peaceful atmosphere.

She paused a moment to appreciate the gardens in the front of the main lodge, which held the reception area, restaurant, bar, and lounge, as well as the back offices where the Knowleses and their staff ran the business. The flower beds were filled with perennials. Daylilies, delphiniums, and roses welcomed the visitor with a riot of warm color. The lodge’s pale stone and cedar façade was the perfect backdrop.