Chapter Eleven
Julian stood in the low-lit kitchen, drumming his fingers on the island, the sound weaving together with the tick of the clock to create a pattern of sorts. Even by his own punctual standards, he’d gotten dressed too early for the Wine Down Napa event this evening. Anything to avoid the blinking cursor on his computer screen. And memories of a certain energetic gardener gasping for air against his mouth. Jesus. He couldn’t get the fucking taste of her out of his head. It stayed with him day, night, and every second in between.
Turned out, he’d almost kissed her once before. Fifteen years ago. That night, he’d drunk too much out of pure irritation with his sister. Vodka and anxiety had blurred the details of the evening. But ever since the memory resurfaced, details were returning. Vivid ones that made him question how he could have ever forgotten in the first place—even after checking out for a brief window of time afterward. Now? Julian remembered the fading light on her hair and the overwhelming urge to kiss her. The smooth skin of her back.
And the realization that she was a freshman, after which Julian was fairly certain he’d hustled her back to the party with his face on fire.
How did he misplace a memory that had the power to rock him now?
Julian didn’t know, but it appeared that Hallie was determined to turn up once every decade and put cracks in his concentration. He couldn’t fit his regular thoughts in between the ones of her moaning, thighs shaking with her orgasm. And what happened afterward.
What had happened afterward?
Still unclear. He’d been thrown the hell off, he knew that much. Normally, with a woman, there was an orderly physical progression from kissing to more. With Hallie, he’d operated on blind instinct, his body in total control, not his mind. Yeah, he’d been off-kilter when the fever cooled, trying to put his head back together. By the time he’d succeeded, she was halfway to the door.
Which was for the best, right? He’d been trying to convince himself of that for two days.
Obviously she was a danger to his control. Control he relied upon so he wouldn’t aggravate his anxiety. With Hallie, he’d lost any sense of self-preservation and . . . took. Gave. Got lost. With her breath on his mouth and her green-thumb scent infiltrating his brain, he’d moved without conscious thought. If he’d wanted to keep touching her, if he’d wanted release, he’d had no choice. But coming down had been like crashing into a wall. His mind wasn’t supposed to go offline like that. His impulses were meant to be . . .
Subdued.
Funny, he’d never thought of them that way.
Julian jerked his chin to the side, setting loose a series of cracks in his neck. Tension that continued to build with the passage of time since Hallie’s hasty departure. Now Saturday night had arrived, and his mood was not the kind he should be unleashing on the general population, especially when representing Vos Vineyard, but what choice did he have? At least he could get away from the blank page taunting him in the office for a few hours.
Natalie trudged into the kitchen in stoic silence, dressed in all black, oversized mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes. One might think they were on their way to a funeral, instead of an outdoor wine event on a fine summer evening in Napa. And Natalie could easily be the grieving widow, considering she’d only gotten out of bed for the day an hour earlier.
What was going on with his sister? Despite a rebellious phase in her youth, Natalie had turned into a Grade A overachiever once she’d gotten it out of her system. Once, after not hearing from her for a while, he’d checked her Facebook page and found she’d posted a Forbes article in which she’d been touted as a rising star in the world of investing. Add in her missing engagement ring and things had obviously taken a turn. But the Vos family operated on a need-to-know basis. They didn’t exactly shoot the shit. Information was given out as needed and, more often than not, kept to oneself.
Why was that?
Growing up, he’d more or less assumed that sucking it up and handling a crisis alone, so as not to disappoint or inconvenience anyone, was normal. In college, he’d been shocked by his roommate’s semiweekly phone call to his parents, during which he told them every piece of information under the sun, from his cafeteria meals to the girls he dated. Then, as a history professor, he’d witnessed the close relationships his students had with their parents, as well. On Family Weekend at Stanford, they showed up in droves wearing red sweatshirts and bearing care packages. They . . . gave a shit.
Perhaps not every family was close, sharing trials and triumphs as a matter of course. But based on the real-world data he’d witnessed with his very own eyes, families that cared about one another were more commonplace—and healthier—than his.
I would tell her you’re glad she’s here with you. But before you say it, make sure you mean it. She’ll be able to tell the difference.
He cut Natalie a speculative glance, hearing Hallie’s words in his head—far from the first time today. In fact, since she’d left Thursday night, braving a storm to get away from him, he’d been hearing the gardener’s voice in his fucking sleep.
Natalie removed a flask from her purse, unscrewed the cap lazily, and tipped it to her lips. After a second gulp, she offered him the metal container.
“No, thank you,” he said automatically. Why, though? Didn’t he want a belt of whatever was in that flask? Yes. Obviously. He hadn’t slept since Thursday night due to his brain’s insistence on replaying every second of his interaction with Hallie on a torturous loop. “Actually . . . yes, I’ll have some.”
Natalie’s eyebrows shot up behind her sunglasses, but she passed him the flask without comment. “Rough going on the book, big brother?”
He studied the opening of the container for a moment, trying not to make a mental list of all the reasons he shouldn’t imbibe hard liquor at five o’clock. For one, he’d have to interact with the public on behalf of the family business—which might be in more trouble than anyone realized. And two, he desperately needed to get back to his book at some point. But if he had a drink this early, he would almost certainly have two, which would lead to lethargic thoughts tomorrow.
Hallie running away from him into the rain, feelings hurt.
“The hell with it,” he muttered, tilting the flask to nearly a ninety degree angle, letting the river of whiskey warm a path down his throat and hit his empty stomach like a boulder. “I can already tell that was a terrible decision,” he said, handing the whiskey back to Natalie.
She took another rip of the drink, then stuffed it back into her purse. “Evidently I’m rubbing off on you.”
Normally, he would let that cryptic statement go without comment. Letting someone’s bad mood go unaddressed was the standard. None of his business. Only, it was, wasn’t it? “Why do you say that? Have you . . . made any bad decisions lately?”
“What?” Natalie did a double take. “Why are you asking me that?”
Apparently communing with one’s family was harder than he thought. “For one, you slept until four o’clock in the afternoon. Now you’re dressed like you’re going to deliver a eulogy instead of shaking hands at something called Wine Down Napa.”
“Maybe I’m eulogizing the grapes. Do you know how many of them had to die so people from Oklahoma can pretend they’re getting an oaky aftertaste?”
She would get along great with Hallie.
That thought came out of nowhere and stuck like an arrow in his jugular.
Well, he might as well let that possibility go right now. Natalie and Hallie would probably never spend time together, unless one of these days Natalie actually went outside and introduced herself in the yard. After all, Hallie probably never wanted to see him again—and rightly so. How could one woman draw him in so intensely, while throwing him so far outside his comfort zone?
He rubbed at the throb in the center of his forehead. “I just wish you would tell me what has brought you back to St. Helena, Natalie.”
“You go first.”
Julian frowned. “I’m writing a book.”
“‘I’m writing a book,’” she mimicked. “If all you wanted was to write a book, you could have done it back at Stanford.” Her fingers fiddled with the air. “Subtract two hours of gym time per week, eat your meals five minutes faster. There’s your writing time. You didn’t have to come to Napa to write Wexler’s adventures.”
He blinked. Shifted against the island. “How did you know my hero’s name is Wexler? Have you been reading my manuscript?”
Did her color deepen? “I might have skimmed a page or two.” She looked like she was considering reaching for her flask again. Instead, she threw out a frustrated hand. “How long are you going to leave him dangling over that stupid cliff?”
“You seem oddly invested,” he sputtered, kind of . . . touched that his sister seemed concerned about old Wexler?
“I’m not,” she said, waving him off. “Just, like . . . he has a grappling hook attached to his belt. In case you forgot.”
He’d totally forgotten. “I didn’t.”
“No, of course not.” She sighed, pursing her lips. Then: “Why did you make him blond?” His expression must have betrayed his utter puzzlement, because she elaborated. “Blond men are unrelatable.”
A laugh came very close to sneaking out of him. That was happening more and more frequently lately, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember his chest ever having felt this loose. But then why, around Hallie, did it get so tight again? “That sounds like theory, not fact.”
“Nope. It’s fact. Have you ever stood there talking to a man with white-blond hair and not speculated on his lifestyle? You can’t not do it. It’s impossible. You don’t hear a single word coming out of his mouth.”
“So you’re saying I should make Wexler a brunette.”
“Obviously, yes. Look. Blond men say things like ‘hot tubbing’ and they go hiking in Yosemite with the cool girl. I want to root for a guy who is unlikely to go on an adventure.” She gave him a wry look. “Like you.”
Julian made a sound. “I’ll take the hair-color change under advisement.”
“Great.” She waited a beat. “So you are just going to own the unadventurous label?”
“No arguments there,” he said briskly, nudging the brass mallard on the kitchen island. “Unless you count having a secret admirer as adventurous.”
“What?” Natalie slapped a hand down on the marble. “No way. What? You are lying.”
“Nope. They’ve been sitting right here. Maybe if I’d kept them in the wine refrigerator, you’d have found them.” He grinned at her middle finger. “At first I thought you wrote it as a prank, but they’re too . . .”
“There’s sex stuff in them?”
“No. Nothing like that.” Lines from the second letter drifted through his head. “They’re just . . . more personal than one would get when pulling a prank, I suppose.”
She raked both hands down her face, dragging the skin beneath her eyes farther than seemed wise. “Oh my God. I need to know everything.”
“There is nothing important to share.” Saying that made his stomach sour. Why did he have such a loyalty to this unknown person? Perhaps because, although he knew Hallie hadn’t written those letters, some part of him secretly wished she had. Out of sheer masochism, he’d imagined her penning those words on the pages, and he’d sort of gotten stuck picturing her as the admirer. Which was nothing short of ridiculous and yet another way for the gardener to occupy his brain day and night. “I’m not going to write back.”
“Fuck that. Yes, you are, Julian.” She clasped her hands together beneath her chin. “Please let me help? I am so bored.”
“No.” He shook his head, the bitterness in his stomach turning even more acidic. “I’m here to work. I don’t have time for some sort of ridiculous pen pal.”
Natalie’s shoulders slumped. “I officially hate your guts.”
Guilt trickled in slowly. Why was he denying his sister something that might serve as a distraction from whatever was causing her to drink too much and hibernate in her dark bedroom? Anyway, maybe he should write back to the admirer. If for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity. Obviously at some point he would have to put the gardener out of his mind. He could either do it now or when he inevitably returned to Stanford. If he could stop picturing Hallie when he read those words, moving on eventually would be a lot easier.
Still didn’t feel right, no matter which way he sliced it. Damn, she’d gotten to him.
Although, writing the return letter didn’t necessarily mean he had to send it. But having a mutual project might create an opening for Natalie to confide in him. He wanted that, didn’t he? “All right, since we have some time to kill before we leave, you can help me write a response,” he said grudgingly, already regretting the decision. At least until his sister started fist pumping her way around the kitchen, more animated than he’d seen her since she’d come home.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Julian and Natalie trudged up the path to the main house. Natalie walked to his right, freshly written letter in hand, rows of grapes extending out past her like outstretched arms into the evening. Light from his mother’s windows beckoned ahead, crickets chirped in the near distance, and that elusive vineyard smell hung in the air. Kind of like a three-day-old floral arrangement. He’d forgotten how familiar it could be.
“Where are we supposed to leave the letter again?”
Julian bit back a sigh and pointed at the tree stump about twenty yards away, shaking his head when Natalie skipped toward it gleefully. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he would come out later tonight and take it back. Nor could he regret the time they’d spent together writing the response. Such a simple activity had loosened something between him and his sister. Enough for him to pry?
“You mentioned that you’re bored in St. Helena,” he said slowly. “So why aren’t you back in New York, Natalie?”
She finished tucking the letter into the stump, turned, and rolled her eyes. “I know. I’m intruding on your solitude.”
“No, I’m . . . I’m glad you’re here with me.” Her step faltered as they started up the path again, side by side. And Julian must have meant what he said about being glad, because she didn’t call him a liar. In that moment, he had the most pressing urge to tell Hallie what was happening. To call her right in the middle of it, although she probably wouldn’t even answer.
“I guess you could say that I’m . . . worried,” he tacked on around the goose egg in his throat. “About you. That’s all.”
Several seconds ticked past before she laughed, turned, and carried on up the path. “You’re worried about me? You haven’t called me in a year.”
His stomach sank. “Has it really been that long?”
“Give or take.”
“Well.” Following her, he clasped his hands behind his back. Unclasped them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let so much time pass.”
He felt her considering him from the corner of her eye. “I guess it’s not that hard to understand why. After everything that happened . . .”
“I’d rather . . .” He avoided looking at the vineyard. “Do we have to talk about the fire?”
“Do we have to talk about the fact that you were a total hero and saved my life?” She let out an exasperated laugh. “No, I guess not. I guess we can ignore the fact that you were incredible that night, but our father only saw what happened afterward. He had no right to judge you like that, Julian. To call you unfit to be involved with your family vineyard. He was wrong.”
Julian couldn’t unclench his jaw to respond. He could only see images from that night. The nighttime sky lit up like something from the apocalypse, putting the people he loved in danger. People he was supposed to protect. Needles digging into his chest. His fingers curling into his palms and remaining that way. Stuck. Everyone watching him come apart.
That slow slide into nothingness afterward that he couldn’t break free from, no matter how much he commanded himself to focus, to pull it together. No, instead, he’d gone dark. Left everyone else to sort out the mess while he navigated his mental fallout.
“It’s my fault,” Natalie said quietly.
That broke Julian out of his haze of discomfort, his attention whipping to the right. “What are you talking about?”
Even in the muted light, he could see the red staining her face. “If you didn’t have to save me, if I hadn’t put you through that, you wouldn’t have lost it in front of him. I shouldn’t even have gone into the shed. The fire was moving too fast—”
“Natalie. Don’t be ridiculous.” Realizing how harsh he sounded, he softened his tone. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing is your fault.”
She made a sound, kept her face averted. “Could have fooled me. I mean, we weren’t exactly the Tanner family to begin with, but we’ve barely spoken at all since then.”
“I take responsibility for that. I should have been better about . . . being in your life. Obviously you’ve needed some—”
Natalie stopped walking abruptly, a glint in her eye that he could only interpret as dangerous. “Some what? Guidance? Advice?”
“I’m going to go with ‘support.’”
A few degrees of tension left his sister, but her expression remained suspicious. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Turned in a circle and looked out at the vineyard. “Okay, since you’re so deeply concerned, Julian. I . . .” The corners of her mouth turned down. “I made a play on an investment and it tanked. Hard. Like . . .” Her tone turned choppy. “A billion dollars hard. I was asked—forced, really—to step down at the firm. And my fiancé . . . ex-fiancé . . . broke our engagement to save face.” A lump moved up and down in her throat. “Morrison Talbot the third was too humiliated to be associated with me. And, of course, since I am no longer being paid, I was the one who moved out of the apartment.” She splayed her hands. “So here I am. Half-drunk, talking shit about blond men and writing love letters with my brother. Wow, that really doesn’t sound good out loud.”
Julian couldn’t hide his shock. She’d just been quietly living with this baggage since arriving in St. Helena? He didn’t have a clue where to begin . . . what? Comforting her? He really should have clarified his goal before he started to question her. “Your ex-fiancé’s name is Morrison Talbot the third and you’re calling blond men unrelatable?”
Natalie stared at him blankly for long moments, but it only took Julian half of one of those moments to know he was not good at this. At least, until his sister burst into laughter. The loud kind that rang out across the vineyard and loosened that elusive something inside of him a little more. He started to think maybe—maybe—he would join her in laughing, but a voice sliced abruptly through the evening and cut off the sound.
“I had a feeling you weren’t just home for a visit,” his mother said, coming down the porch steps of the main house. Her features were backlit by the flickering lanterns hanging on either side of the front door and mostly hidden, but Julian swore a flash of hurt crossed his mother’s face before she replaced it with a mask of indifference. “Well.” She ran a hand along the loop of her silk scarf. “How long were you planning to wait before asking for money?”
His sister’s spine snapped straight. Julian waited for her to issue a denial, to say that she wouldn’t be asking for money—if for no other reason than pride—but she didn’t. In the end, she looked their mother square in the eye and took a king-size pull from her flask.
“Lovely,” muttered Corinne.
It wasn’t lost on Julian that they were standing in the same spot—or close to, anyway—where the Vos family had been informed the fire was moving faster than originally predicted. Of course, they were minus one member. His father was in Europe racing Formula One cars. But they were here. They had problems to solve. Was he going to let an absent presence dictate how and when that was done?
No. Julian didn’t think he would. What had four years of silence yielded, except for the three of them suffering alone, stubbornly refusing to turn to one another for support or solutions? “Corinne.” He coughed into his fist. “Mother. Natalie isn’t the only one who has been hiding something.”
“What are you talking about?” Corinne snapped, quickly. Too quickly.
When he noticed the layer of panic in her eyes, he softened his tone. “The vineyard. We haven’t quite made it back after the fire. Sales are down. Competition is fierce. And we can’t afford to implement the changes that will make us viable again.”
Natalie dropped the flask to her hip. “The vineyard . . . isn’t doing well?”
“We are doing fine,” Corinne stressed, letting out a forced laugh. “Your brother was probably speaking to Manuel. Our manager is a worrier, always has been.”
“Our equipment is malfunctioning and outdated. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The public relations team is on permanent leave. We’re behind on production—”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Corinne hissed. “You think it was easy to be handed a burned-out vineyard along with divorce papers? It wasn’t. I’m sorry it’s not up to your standards, Julian.” He started to argue that he wasn’t blaming anyone, let alone her, but his mother wasn’t finished. “Do you know I have to attend a luncheon next week in his honor? It’s the twentieth anniversary of the Napa Valley Association of Vintners being formed, which I’ll admit has done a lot of good in the region. He might be their founding father, but he’s not even here! This place is falling into disrepair, and yet they want to celebrate the glory days. Your father trailblazed a path to them lining their pockets. They don’t care that he abandoned this place and his family. He’s still their hero. And I’m . . .”
“You’re the one that kept the doors open, despite it all. I’m not blaming you for the decline. Please, I wouldn’t do that. I’m asking . . .”
In the back of his mind, he could hear his father’s voice echoing through the vines. You’ve always been a fucking head case, haven’t you? Jesus Christ. Look at you. Pull yourself together. Stick to teaching and just . . . stay away from what I’ve built, all right?
Stay away from the vineyard.
Whether his father’s assessments were true or not, he wasn’t leaving his family to carry their burdens alone anymore. His father was gone. Julian was there. He could do something. “I’m asking to help, Mother. I know I’m not necessarily welcome—”
“Not welcome?” Corinne shook her head. “You’re my son.”
His throat muscles felt stiff. “I’m referring to what happened. And I understand if my input makes you uncomfortable, but frankly, that’s too bad. You’re getting it, anyway.”
Corinne made a small sound, burying her face in her hands a moment. Just when Julian assumed she was working up the courage to ask him to remain detached from the business, she came forward with open arms and embraced him. For several seconds, he could only stare dumbfounded at his sister before she, too, came forward and wrapped her arms around both him and Corinne. “I did not have this on today’s bingo card,” Natalie sniffed.
“I’m sorry. To both of you.” Apparently having reached her capacity for emotional displays, Corinne shifted free of the group hug. “It has been a long four years. I just . . . I never wanted either of you to feel unwelcome in your own home. You might have noticed I have a hard time admitting I need help. Or even . . . company.”
“Well, you’ve got it now,” Natalie crowed, hoisting her flask. “I’m never leaving!”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Corinne said, smoothing the sleeve of her dress.
Julian needed more time to process the revelations of the last five minutes. For now, he needed a distraction from the growing notch in his sternum. Remembering the small box stuffed into his jacket pocket, Julian removed the object, holding it out to Corinne. “This is only a small start, but I thought we could hand these out tonight at our table.”
Corinne shied away from the white box like it might contain a garter snake. “What is it?”
“Business cards. For Corked on Grapevine Way.” The two women stared at him in expectant silence. “There is a new wineshop next door giving the owner, Lorna, some competition. I thought we could send some business her way. In the process, we’re giving people an incentive to buy our wine. Here, look.” He flipped open the top. “It’s a small discount on Vos wine. Nothing major. But it’s a first step toward selling the stock currently on shelves and making way for the new vintage. Wholesale orders will remain low until we clear what’s already there—and there’s a lot. Let’s get the money we need to make this place whole again. It won’t be restored overnight, but we have the framework, and that’s half the battle.”
His mother and sister traded an eyebrow raise.
“What brought this on?” asked Corinne while examining a business card. “Have you secretly been wanting to help all this time?”
Hallie. Making her happier. “Obviously, I don’t have a stake in the situation. I just . . .” Breathe easier when there is less of a chance of our gardener crying. “Thought it could look good for the vineyard. You know, one local business helping another.”
Though visibly skeptical, Corinne finally took the box and removed the top, sighing at what she revealed. “Well, at least they’re not tacky.”
“Thank you,” said Julian, briskly.
“Wait. Did you design business cards for a local retail shop?” He nodded, prompting his sister to continue. “And you’re getting secret admirer letters.” Natalie looked down at the metal container in her hand. “I need to get out more.”
“You are looking quite pale,” his mother commented.
Natalie turned and let out a strangled scream over the rows of grapes.
Yes. Things certainly wouldn’t change overnight. With them or the vineyard. But hell if they weren’t at least pointed in the right direction now.
“We should go,” Julian said, heading for the courtyard and driveway of the main house. “Wouldn’t want to be late to Wine Down.”
“You don’t have to say it like that,” his mother complained in a withering tone. “Sarcastically.”
“He’s not,” Natalie interjected. “The name itself is doing all of the sarcasm heavy lifting. Do I have a minute to run inside and pee?”
Julian and Corinne groaned.
“Shut up,” Natalie called over her shoulder, trotting back toward the house. Despite his exasperation, the night didn’t feel like a total chore anymore. If he’d spent tonight working, he would have missed the revelation from his sister. Or these awkward family moments with Corinne that were semi-painful, but also . . . them. For so long, he’d been focused on making every minute productive. But perhaps his definition of “productive” was beginning to shift.