Wild Abandon (7 page)

I turn my cheek to the right and look at Gavin, who is now looking at me with an impressed expression. “I believe this is where we call it a night.”

“Yes. I understand. I’d love to see you again.” His face is lit up with delight.

Talk about an asset. He thinks I’m a freaking brain surgeon.

“No.” The word pours out of my mouth nice and slow. “No, Gavin, we won’t be seeing each other again,” I say.

His shoulders hunch down. I grab my purse and rise from my seat.

But before I walk away, I look down at him and say, “While my only assets might be looks and beauty, your only offer is a career that sounds to be based on interest rates and an upturned housing market which, as history has promised, will fall. And so will you.”

Gavin looks like he’s going to speak, but I continue, “You think beauty fades? A woman’s attraction to a man fades as well. What’s left are humor, morals, and etiquette—three values that you, sir, do not have. So, even if a man is handsome or—as you hope to be—rich, a woman will reject him if she is not attracted to his soul.” I lean in slightly and lower my voice for dramatic effect. “And, in case you were wondering, I have many, many hidden assets, and my looks are only a percent of what I have to offer.”

“Here’s your check.” Laurie is back and places the bill on the table, directly under Gavin’s nose.

I smile at that move as I walk to the farthest end of the bar, around the corner from where my table was. There is a cordless phone sitting on the edge, so I grab it and stand, pretending to be on a call, as I watch Gavin rise, leave money on the table, and stalk out of the bar.

When he is gone, I slam the phone back in its nearby holder and walk over to the bartender, who is pouring a drink for a customer.

I point my finger at him. “I did not need to be saved!”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the pour. “I can see that.”

“What were you thinking?” My foot stomps in a childlike manner.

He places the drink in front of the patron and then walks over to where I am standing. The bar is between us, and while I am standing here, hand on my hip and my stiletto tapping, he is poised, looking at me, practically eye for eye—aside from the fact that my chin is raised and his is lowered.

“I was thinking that guy was an idiot who didn’t understand the value of a woman.”

“And you do?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just stares at me with this blank expression.

Folding my arms over my chest, I add, “It was also incredibly cheesy. I can’t believe he fell for it.”

He incredulously looks at me. “Really? You’re surprised that buffoon fell for a stupid line like,
Doctor, you have a call
? I’m surprised you were even out with him. You came to Napa to find love, and he’s the guy you go for?”

Whatever exciting physical connection I thought I shared with him the last time I saw him has been shattered. I still want to touch him, but this time, it’s to punch him in his perfect nose. And, instead of some witty comeback or jab I can throw at him, I have nothing.

My words are reduced to that of a fourteen-year-old girl. “Just don’t do that again. I can hold my own.”

“I know. You’re from New York.”

His mouth tilts up in a way that I would have missed if I wasn’t staring at him hard. I clench mine tight, not to return it.

“Yes, I am. And I can take care of myself.”

He slightly nods his head.

“And I can order my own drinks.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

His forehead crinkles. “Is that all?”

Oh, damn him. “Yes, that’s all. Good night.” I turn on my heel and start to leave.

“Good night, Doctor.”

And, for some stupid reason, I smile at that comment.

But he doesn’t see it.

Thank God.

chapter FOUR

When someone tells you to arrive at nine a.m., you assume they’ll be there to greet you. Not Ed Martin. The old man is nowhere to be seen, so I push open the steel back door and step onto the veranda. The paint on the pergola above is warped from sun and rain, yet the structure still looks sturdy. Empty pillars where plants once lived are begging for something to thrive in them, and an old teak table that seats about twelve needs a polish.

I am about to walk over to the garage when I spot him in the rose garden. Stepping off the stone steps, I make my way toward him. He is seated on a small stool in between two rows of rose bushes. His khaki pants are hiked up at the ankles, revealing argyle socks. Today, he has on a short-sleeved bowling shirt and a brown stockman’s hat. And, if I’m not mistaken, he’s singing a song from “Hello, Dolly!” as he prunes the plant in front of him.

I take a moment to stop and smell the roses. I’ve heard the expression, but I’ve never gotten it until now. I’ve never stood in a field of them before. The smell is fruity with hints of apricots, pears, and apples. The deep purple-red burgundy color reminds me of a fine wine, something heady and rich. The blooms are large and growing in clusters on what I guess to be half an acre, surrounded by the most magnificent backdrop of mountains and blue skies.

“Never sneak up on a man with cutting shears,” Ed’s says from below.

I quirk up a smile. “You have a gorgeous garden. Why only roses?”

On the other side of him is a large basket that he is filling with the beautiful blossoms. “Why is the Pope Catholic?”

I cross my arms and tilt my head. “You didn’t plant these?”

Ed turns to face me with a rose petal caught in the coils of his beard. “No. And, for some reason, no matter what I do, they won’t die.” He stands up and grabs his cane and the stool off the ground. “Come on. We have a lesson to do. And bring the basket.”

“A lesson?” I ask, following him through the garden, roses in hand, and up the veranda steps. “What kind of lesson?”

Ed makes his way inside and places the stool on the floor. Then, he takes the basket out of my hands and places it up on the bar next to a bottle of wine and two glasses. He sits down on his stool behind the bar and adjusts his hat. Before I take my seat, I lean forward, pull the rogue rose petal from his beard, and hold it up in front of him. He grumbles and then throws it in the basket with the dozens of roses he cut.

He opens a fresh bottle and then pours it into the glass. “There are four steps to the wine-tasting method. Look—which we already covered—smell, taste, and conclude.” He has a gruff, teacher-like way about him.

I place my hand around the stem and swirl it, as I saw him do the other day. I pinch the end and hold it up, as I was taught. The red has a nice dark color, and the outside line is light without looking watery.

He places his glass up to his face, nose inserted all the way inside until the rim of the glass is nearly resting against his face. I mimic his action. He swirls the wine and smells again. I follow suit.

“What do you smell?”

I move my nose to different positions around the glass. There is a scent that’s familiar. It almost smells like—

“Pipe tobacco?”

“What else?” His voice is surprised yet encouraging.

I lean forward again and take in hints of—

“Dark chocolate?”

Ed’s mouth is downturned. Not in sadness. It’s more of a
huh
kind of expression.

“Am I right?” I raise my eyebrows in question.

He clears his throat and then looks at his wine. “This particular vintage also has hints of blackberry and baking spices.”

I sniff my glass again and can now smell the spices, which is interesting. As for blackberry, I never found them to have much of a smell to begin with.

Moving forward, I have a taste. Ed’s brows are furrowed at the action.

After I swallow, I bow my head and apologize, “Sorry. I had to try it.”

With a grunt, he continues his lesson, “Now that you had a taste, take a few more sips. Try to pick out three flavors. Swirl it around your mouth. The tongue registers different tastes on various areas. Sweetness is toward the front, acidity makes your mouth water, and tannin dries you out.”

My mind has tobacco and baking spices on the brain, but that’s not what I’m tasting. “It almost tastes like plum. Am I right?”

I place the glass on the table and look back at Ed, who is looking back at me with a puzzled expression. I sit back and wait for an answer. He just nods his head and then kicks back the rest of his wine.

As I have nothing better to do, I polish off the rest of my glass as well. The label on the bottle says
Ellie Creek Cabernet Sauvignon
. “This wine is delicious.”

He nods again. “We made this vintage five years ago. Hand-sorted the grapes myself. Aged for twenty months in French oak.” His tone is a bit melancholy for someone who should be proud of his product.

“You make wine here? Was the bottle I had the other day yours, too?”

Ed scrunches his face at me. “That piece-of-crap wine? No. That was from Yellow Stockbridge Winery. They’re crooks over there. Make shit wine and sell it for too much. Even you knew it was junk.”

I grin, knowing that was the moment Ed decided to hire me.

He continues, “I couldn’t hire someone who likes the stuff.”

“I like your wine. Where do you make it?”

Ed’s face falls. His eyes drift to the bar top, and I have a feeling I asked the wrong question.

“We stopped making wine a few years back. I lease the land to another winery. They harvest the grapes and make their own.”

I didn’t realize the property had…property. “How large is your vineyard?”

“Twenty acres.”

I blink at him in amazement. This place must have really been something at one point. Twenty acres of growing grapes, harvesting the fruits, and then making barrels of wine every year. I don’t know a lot about wine, but I know this is a good bottle.

“Why did you stop making wine?” Ed doesn’t answer, so I ask the same question I asked yesterday, “What’s the plan? Naomi said you wanted someone to play music during wine tastings.”

“I never said I wanted to do wine tastings. She came here with her laptop and that quirky little kid. Before I knew it, she was redesigning my logo and telling me she had a new hire for me who plays the cello.” He raises his finger to me. “That is one pushy broad.”

Despite my manners, I laugh out loud in agreement with his description of Naomi and use of the term
broad
. From anyone else, I would have found it rude, but in his old-school curmudgeon tone, it’s endearing.

“She is, and I’m here. So, what are we going to do?”

My question surprises him, and if I’m honest, I’m surprising myself. I should be hauling ass up to Moet where my experience and music should be welcomed, and quite frankly, be a far better fit. Yet, for some reason, I feel comfortable here at Russet Ranch.

Without a word, Ed turns to his left and opens a door. He reaches a hand inside the closet and pulls out a mop. He makes his way around the bar and hands me the mop.

A mop?
“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Walking away from me, he says, “If we’re gonna open her back up, we’d better make these floors shine.”

My voice comes out in a huff. “I wasn’t hired to clean. I was hired to play the cello.”
Wasn’t I?

With his back still to me, he says, “Can’t play if they won’t come to this mess.”

And he walks out the door.

I blow out a puff of air and look at the stupid mop. I feel like this is some kind of Karate Kid moment. Maybe I’ll learn some awesome winetasting skill based on the movement of mopping the floor.

Yeah, I know. Not likely.

It’s been two weeks since I stepped off the plane. In two weeks, I’ve gone on three bad dates, had eight days of employment where I’ve cleaned an old barn turned winery—like I belong to the Merry Maids—and had several lessons on the art of wine by a man whom I can’t say no to for some reason. Something about Big Ed makes me want to hug him, but I wouldn’t dare because he’d probably ask me if I were on acid before he walked out of the room.

The way I hear him humming old show tunes makes me smile. Earlier today, I was reorganizing the bar area—which I have learned is where the wine tastings will occur—and sorting through the cabinets. I was making piles of old wine bottles and cork, coming up with craft ideas I could do with them, when I heard him whistling while walking through the room. It took me a moment to decipher the song. I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

And then he started to sing in a very low voice to himself, “
I feel pretty. Oh, so pretty…
”

Silencing my chuckle, I placed my hand over my mouth and hid on the floor behind the bar, hoping he wouldn’t see me. When he was safely out of the room, I let out a laugh and went back to work.

And here I am, at a restaurant, contemplating the contradiction that is Ed Martin.

“What do you know about Big Ed?” I ask Naomi, who is sitting across from me at ZuZu, a tapas restaurant in Downtown Napa.

“Nothing. Scarlet and I were driving around, looking for boutique wineries and places off the beaten path. Did you know there are over four hundred wineries in Napa Valley, and ninety-five of those are family owned? There are a ton of these smaller wineries that produce fewer than five thousand cases of wine annually. Those are the ones I want to work with.