Chapter Nine
Julian ran extra hard the next afternoon.
He’d woken with purpose that morning. Plowed through four writing sprints, made himself a protein shake, and now he was focused on beating yesterday’s running time.
Yes, that was the plan—and he’d be sticking to it.
Unfortunately, his feet had other ideas. When Julian spied the line outside of UNCORKED, the loitering mass of people blocking the entrance to Corked, he jogged to a stop and frowned. At them. At himself for once again being unable to stay on schedule.
Initially, the unfairness of UNCORKED’s success had gotten under his skin. They were making a mockery of the long-standing shop next door and, frankly, insulting the whole process of wine tasting by turning it into a stunt. A thumbing of the nose at the wine industry wouldn’t normally bother Julian, except that everything these assholes did bothered him now.
Because they upset Hallie.
He loathed her being upset. The real version of her and the fantasy version.
She should always be smiling. Simple as that.
Was there something he could do about this?
Back in high school and even slightly beyond, he’d been more inclined to reach out a helping hand to those who needed it. He’d gotten involved. Tried to make himself useful. Somewhere along the line, he’d become focused on his own agenda, never glancing right or left.
Hallie’s passionate defense of Corked had really brought that into focus, and he couldn’t seem to continue on his merry way this afternoon. If Hallie could burgle hundreds of dollars’ worth of cheese, he could certainly make his presence known.
In the process, perhaps he could help Corinne. And Lorna.
After he’d finished picking grapes yesterday, he’d invited Manuel into the guesthouse for coffee and . . . yeah. Suffice it to say, the manager had pulled off Julian’s blinders. Corinne was doing an admirable job of maintaining the winery, but quality had begun to fall by the wayside in favor of expediency. Vos Vineyard needed money, so they churned out wine, but the superiority they once claimed had been slowly waning.
His mother had not asked him for help. Maybe that was in deference to his father’s wishes or perhaps she didn’t have any faith in Julian, either. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t stay on the sidelines and watch his family legacy fade into obscurity. Nor did he want his mother carrying this load by herself when he was willing and able to pitch in. Was Hallie’s refusal to let UNCORKED bully her friend’s shop responsible for this head of steam?
Yes. In a way, perhaps it had reminded him that legacy was important.
Maybe there was a way to give Vos Vineyard a boost and make Hallie happy in the process. The possibility of a Hallie Smile over something he did made his pulse knock around.
Refusing to let himself hesitate any longer, Julian made his way through the line of tipsy tourists who would probably benefit from sitting out their next tasting, and walked into Corked. He was greeted by soft music and lighting, and a woman with a lined, smiling face behind the register. She couldn’t quite manage to hide the fact that he’d startled her by simply walking in.
“Hello,” sang the woman, who had to be Lorna. “Are you . . . here for the tasting?”
“Yes,” he lied briskly, perusing the shelves, relieved and maybe even slightly prideful to see a wide selection of Vos wines for sale. “What is on deck today . . . ?”
“Lorna. This is my shop.” She emerged from behind the counter, fussing with her hair. “To be totally honest with you, I didn’t think anyone was showing up, so I haven’t even set up glasses.” She rushed to the back of the store, clearly excited to have some life within the shop’s walls. “Choose any bottle you want and we’ll crack it open. How about that?”
Julian nodded after her, continuing his trip up and down the aisles, circling back to the front of the store. Behind the register was a black-and-white picture of Lorna as a young woman holding hands with a man outside on the sidewalk, the Corked storefront in the background. The man was her husband, most likely. Both of them looked so optimistic. Proud. Ready to take on the future. No inkling that someday a disco ball would be stealing their business. No wonder Hallie was fighting the decline of Corked so fiercely.
That sealed it. He was going to be the best customer this woman ever had.
As he waited for the older woman to set up two glasses and produce a corkscrew from her apron, Julian selected a Vos Vineyard Cab from 2019. Ideas to aid Lorna formed, one after the other. Some bigger than others. But he thought it best not to overwhelm the woman all at once.
She poured him a half glass of wine, and he took a brief moment to mourn his productivity for the rest of the day. “Thank you. Are you joining me?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, eyes twinkling.
Yes, it was becoming quite clear why Hallie felt the need to rob and vandalize in this woman’s honor. Kindness rolled off her in waves. “Great.” He sipped the wine, holding it on his tongue for several counts before swallowing. “Wonderful. I’ll take three cases.”
She almost spat out her wine. “Three cases?”
“Yes, please.” He grinned. “I’ll pay now and pick them up later, if that’s all right.” Seemingly in a daze, she took the American Express he handed over, but like any smart businesswoman, she beelined for the register before he could change his mind. “With an established shop like this, you must have local regulars.”
“Lately, everyone seems so busy. And it has become increasingly easy to order wine online.” Her tone retained its pep, but he could see wilting beneath the surface. “I do have some loyal customers, though, that refuse to let me down.”
“Oh? Who might those be?” Good God, he was fishing. “Maybe I know them.”
“Well, there’s Boris and Suki. A lovely couple that come in every other day for a bottle of their favorite Shiraz. There’s Lavinia and Jerome—they own and operate Fudge Judy and make the most delicious Boston cream pie donuts. But I’d have to say my most loyal regular is the granddaughter of one of my dearest friends, God rest her soul. A local gardener named Hallie.” Lorna brightened. “Actually, she’s close to your age. A bit younger, maybe.”
Yeah. No mistaking that his heart had picked up speed. “Hallie Welch?”
Lorna ripped the credit card receipt with a flourish. “That’s her! Did you go to school with Hallie, then?”
Sore spot prodded, he hid a grimace. Why could he not remember?
“Yes. High school.” He took a casual sip of his wine, set it down, twisted the stem. “She’s doing some gardening work for my family at the moment, actually. Small world.”
“Oh my, isn’t that a coincidence?” laughed Lorna over the register, her lips turning down at the corners after a beat. “Poor girl took it very hard when Rebecca passed. I don’t think she knew up from down. Came to the funeral in two different shoes and everything.”
The sensation of having his chest stomped on was so visceral, he actually looked down to make sure nothing was there. Hallie in mismatched shoes at a funeral, not knowing up from down, made him feel very helpless. Was she better now? Or just better at hiding her grief?
“Of course, she does have some very good friends to see her through. She’s joined at the hip with Lavinia. And of course there’s that lovely Owen—but I doubt you know him, he moved here about—”
“Owen. And Hallie. Have they . . .” He relaxed his grip before he could snap the stem of the wineglass. “Dated?”
The older woman went right on smiling, clearly unaware there was a shiv to his throat. “Yes, I think they have. Casually, though.” She spoke in an exaggerated whisper out of the corner of her mouth. “Although I think Hallie is the one who keeps putting on the brakes.”
“Oh.” Tension escaped him like air leaving a balloon. “Interesting.” He barely restrained himself from asking Lorna why Hallie continued to put on the brakes. Did Owen have any annoying habits? Did he double dip, perhaps? Any reason to validate Julian’s irrational dislike of the man would be welcome. But he’d gone far enough with this line of questioning. Going any further would be considered stalking in at least twenty states.
No more inquiries about Hallie. But . . . the whole making-her-smile thing was still on the table, wasn’t it?
“Lorna, do you happen to have business cards of any kind?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve always relied on foot traffic. It used to be enough to have a sign outside that said ‘free wine tasting.’”
“As it should be.” He twisted the glass right to left. “I would be happy to make you up some cards. Maybe . . .” It had always been rare for him to drop the Vos name, but there was no way around it in this instance. “My family owns a vineyard here in St. Helena. Maybe we could give cards for Corked out to our visitors. If they bring in the card, ten percent off their first bottle? Does something like that sound agreeable to you?”
“Your family owns a vineyard?” She handed him back the credit card, along with his receipt to sign. A blue pen. “Isn’t that nice. Which one?”
He coughed into a fist. “Vos Vineyard.”
Lorna lurched against the tasting table, nearly upsetting the open wine bottle. “Vos . . . Are you the son? Julian?” Her mouth opened and closed. “I haven’t seen you in years. Forgive these old eyes, I didn’t recognize you.” She shook her head a moment. “And you would really offer to hand out cards for me?”
Julian nodded, grateful she didn’t seem inclined to make a huge deal out of his last name. “Of course.” She chewed her lip as if waffling. Perhaps scared to be hopeful? So he added, “Your shop is a landmark. If you haven’t been here, you haven’t been to St. Helena.”
The older woman’s eyes sparkled at him. “You’re damn right.”
That competitive streak of his was ticking like a metronome. “Actually, I’ll take a few bottles to go now.” He winked at her. “In case I get thirsty on the walk home.”
Which is how Julian found himself in the neighboring yoga studio eight minutes later, handing bottles to the men and women emerging from class. “Lorna sent these,” he explained to the sweaty and confused people.
They traded perplexed glances. “Who?”
“Lorna,” he said again, as if they should know. “From Corked. Next door. The longest-standing wine store in St. Helena. No trip to Napa is complete without it.” He smiled at the girl behind the counter. “I’ll drop off some business cards for you to hand out.”
When Julian left the yoga studio and restarted his watch, his shoulders were lighter. He continued down Grapevine Way for a while, past the health spa and several cafés. As he got farther from the center of town, the shops he passed were more for the locals. Pizzerias and a dance school for children. A car wash and a donut shop named after Judge Judy, which he could not find fault with. And that’s where he turned right and cut down the wooded path leading to Vos Vineyard. Another three-quarters of a mile and he’d be at the guesthouse. Sure, he had a slight wine buzz, but he wouldn’t let it postpone his shower, and then it would be straight to work—
Up ahead, a square, white object, totally out of place among the greenery, snagged his attention. Julian stopped so abruptly, his sneakers kicked up a dust cloud.
No way. Not again.
Another envelope. With his name on it. Stuck in the crack of a tree stump.
Standing in the center of the path, he looked around, positive he’d find Natalie hiding and snickering behind a bush. Apparently she hadn’t gotten the prank out of her system yet. But she must have come and gone a while ago, because he was quite obviously alone there, no sound save the afternoon breeze sweeping down off the mountain. What kind of bullshit had his sister written this time?
Shaking his head, Julian plucked the letter out of the stump—and immediately noticed the handwriting was the same as last time, but more controlled. And the further he got into the correspondence, the more it became clear Natalie had not written it.
Dear Julian,
There is something so easy about an anonymous letter. It puts less pressure on both of us. There is less fear of rejection. I can be totally honest, and if you never write back, at least I let out the words that have been trapped in my head.
They’re your problem now—sorry.
(Forget what I said about less pressure.)
When you run down Grapevine Way in the afternoons, a solitary figure on a mission, I wonder how you feel about your solitude. If it’s the same way I feel about being alone. There’s so much space to think. To consider where I’ve been and where I’m going. I wonder if I’m who I’m meant to be or if I’m just too distracted to keep evolving. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Do you ever get overwhelmed with the silence or are you as content in the solitude as you seem?
What would it be like to know you completely?
Does anyone know you completely?
I’ve been loved by someone for all my faults. It’s a wonderful feeling. Maybe you want that for yourself. Or maybe you don’t. But you’re worthy of it, in case you’re wondering.
This is getting too personal coming from a stranger. It’s just that I don’t truly know you. So I can only be honest and hope something inside you . . . hears me.
I’m sorry if you found this letter strange or even terrifying. If so, please know that I meant the opposite. And if nothing comes from this, your main takeaway should be that someone out here thinks about you, in the best way possible, even on your worst day.
Secretly Yours
Julian finished the letter and immediately read it again, the tempo of his pulse increasing steadily. This letter was nothing like the last. It was more serious in tone. Earnest. And despite the oddness of finding a letter on his jogging path, he couldn’t help but respond to the wistful tone woven into the words. No way Natalie wrote this, right? He couldn’t imagine his sister taking an emotional deep dive like this, even for a joke.
The envelope was bone-dry, meaning it hadn’t been there since last night. The morning dew would have dampened it, at the very least. Although noon had come and gone, Natalie was asleep when he left for the run, plus there had been two empty wine bottles on the kitchen counter, neither of which he’d had a single glass from. He supposed his sister might have battled through a hangover to prank him—she’d never lacked dedication. And she would have had opportunity, since he’d run for nearly half an hour, plus his pit stop at Corked.
Maybe he just hoped Natalie hadn’t been the one to write the letter, because the damn thing had unexpectedly struck a chord with him. It was written by the same person who penned the last letter, meaning their interest was romantic in nature.
What would it be like to know you completely?
The closer he got to home, the more that question circled his head.
I wonder if I’m who I’m meant to be or if I’m just too distracted to keep evolving.
Four years had passed since he’d been home, and he’d barely registered the length of time. Not until he’d arrived in St. Helena to find his mother keeping the winery’s troubles a secret. His sister going through a crisis, and he didn’t even know the barest details. What if his coping mechanisms weren’t helping him anymore?
What if keeping rigid schedules was harming him . . . and his relationships, instead?
Julian entered the house and immediately strode toward his sister’s room.
She was asleep. Sprawled out, an empty wineglass on the floor near her dangling hand.
When the scent of alcohol hit him, he closed the door again with a wince.
If she’d left the house this afternoon with all of the alcohol in her system, she would have either burst into flames or passed out somewhere along the trail.
Which meant he actually had a secret admirer in town. The first letter had been real. Should he write back?
Jesus.
He should forget about the letters. Cast them aside as a disruption. But he continued to think about the questions she’d posed in the second one. He’d read the letter only twice, and he could already mentally recite it, word for word.
How odd.
What if Hallie is my secret admirer?
No. Impossible. She was not a serious romantic interest, despite the amount of time he spent fantasizing about her, leading to an embarrassing amount of breaks being taken from work to relieve himself of sexual frustration.
Julian, I don’t think there are two more different people in this whole world.
Hadn’t she said those very words? Not to mention, she’d been the one to suggest a relationship based purely on friendship. He’d never met a more bluntly honest person. If she was his admirer, she would simply tell him, wouldn’t she? She didn’t lie about her faults—no, she practically bragged about showing up late and flying by the seat of her pants.
Or her annoyingly tight cutoffs, as it were.
Whoever was on the other side of these letters, there would be no writing back, despite his being reluctantly intrigued. Something about establishing communication with this person didn’t sit quite right—but exploring that too deeply could come only at his own peril, so Julian quickly stuffed the letter back into his pocket with the intention of forgetting about it.
Again.