Читать книгу Twice in a Blue Moon - Laura Drake - Страница 13

CHAPTER THREE

“I SEEYOU’VE worked as an assistant vineyard manager...” She consulted the résumé before her. “...Craig. But I need more than that. I need a generalist.”

The earnest-faced young man leaned forward in the guest chair. “I know. But I learn fast. I thought I could start in the vineyard then advance.”

“I appreciate your aspirations and your attitude. But as you can see—” she spread her arms “—it’s just me. I need someone who knows it all.” And who can teach me. “I’ll hold on to your résumé for when I can affo—expand enough to require a vineyard manager.” She stood. “But thank you for coming by.”

The kid stood and extended a hand. “I hope you do keep me in mind. I’m looking for an opportunity to move up.”

From the office window a few moments later, Indigo watched his car peel out of the parking lot, leaving a haze of dust and desperation.

That was the last interview. The posting had run for a week, and she hadn’t had a call in three days. As Harry would have said, “It’s time to kill the engineer and start production.” But there had only been six applicants, and two had ended the interview when they heard the salary. One had the nerve to chuckle on the way out.

She lifted the three remaining résumés from the desk. The old man would be a great teacher, but with his huge-knuckled, arthritic hands, she had doubts that he could withstand the physical work required. She dropped his résumé in the overflowing trash can. The next looked great on paper, but two of his references had sung the same song about complaints from the serving staff. Sexual harassment complaints. Since the manager would live on the premises and Indigo’s closest neighbor was a half mile away... She shivered, imagining a knock at the cabin door late at night. Or maybe not even a knock. His résumé followed the rest into the trash.

That left one. She studied the heavy ivory paper.

The arrogant Italian.

Yes, his attitude bugged her, but she was used to that. After all, if arrogance was a crime, all of Hollywood would be incarcerated. She’d checked his references. No one had a bad word to say about Danovan DiCarlo, from his expertise to his knowledge to his work ethic.

But something still nagged about him. Like the shredded remnants of a dream upon waking, something lingered, leaving her with an uneasy feeling and the memory of his sad smile. Her hands swept the papers on the desk into stacks, almost without her being aware that she’d done so. Whenever she was upset, her body craved movement, as if action could help sort the knots in her mind.

What was it about him?

For one thing, he’s overqualified. He’ll walk as soon as he gets a better opportunity.

But he already had a better job than she was offering.

How very convenient for him.

Are you looking for reasons not to hire him?

“Yeah, I am, kinda.”

Barney looked up from the blanket that she’d put in the corner for him.

On what grounds? A feeling? What a joke. She was batting O-fer when it came to being able to trust her feelings.

Maybe she should broaden her search to include the entire country. But that would take time, and meanwhile, money was flowing out of the checkbook with damned little coming in.

The chair squealed when she collapsed against the back. In spite of her vow to make her own decisions, and regardless of how it felt to cave this early, she lifted her phone from the desk to call in a lifeline.

Uncle Bob’s baby was just too important to risk on feelings. Especially hers.

“The People’s Farm. This is Sky.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Indigo! How good to hear your voice. Tell me what the winery’s like. Have you settled in?”

Indigo could hear the bustle of the market in the background. The commune had barely been feeding itself when her mother took over and expanded the operation until they had surplus to sell. Her mother was half late-blooming flower child and half drill sergeant. The combination worked, for now the organic farmer’s market she’d begun drew people from three counties.

“Not settled yet, but I’m working on it. First, tell me what’s happening there.” She smiled at her mother’s happy chirping about business and growing things. Wistful thoughts drifted in with her mother’s voice, but Indigo knew that as much as her childhood had been peaceful and pastoral, she’d no longer be happy living that simple existence. Hollywood had stripped her of the innocence required for membership, and like a hymen, once broken, innocence wouldn’t grow back. She shivered.

“Indigo? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Mom, sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Metal pellets of worry clicked in her voice.

“Not a big deal, I’m just calling for some advice.” She needed a lifeline, not a life preserver—her mother couldn’t save her, only she could do that. “I’m about to hire my first employee. How can I know he’s the right person?”

Her mother chuckled. “Lord knows, I made enough mistakes in the beginning to sink this place.”

“That’s what scares me.” She wriggled in the chair to shake off her body’s craving for movement. “How do you decide?”

“First, do your research. Then you take a leap of faith.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I always sucked at the broad jump.”

“Indigo Blue. What’s going on?”

She’d never discussed the dirty details of her life in Hollywood with her mother. In the beginning, she’d been too proud and embarrassed to admit that her pretty teenage dream had become a nightmare. After Harry, it had been easier to tell her a version closer to the truth. “Let’s just say I’ve learned some things the hard way, okay?”

“Of course you did. That’s the only way we learn.” Suddenly her voice barked, “No, Moon, not there. Put the radishes beside the arugula. It’s more visually appealing.”

“You’re busy. I’ll let you go.” She didn’t want her mother digging further into her past. Indigo’s stories wouldn’t stand up to more than casual interest.

“Honey, you know how to do this. Go to a quiet place, put on some soothing music and open some lavender oil. Just trust. The answer is inside you.”

“I will, Mom, thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.” She clicked End. Her mother meant well, but meditation wouldn’t fix the winery’s problems—knowledge would.

She’d read through the The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Starting and Running a Winery three times and had learned enough to know that she didn’t know enough. Running a winery from a book was like a blind man attempting brain surgery.

Which led her back to the résumé that lay, front and center, on the newly tidied desk.

“Shit. Why am I putting myself through a mental rat maze? I don’t have a choice.” And that rankled.

* * *

ATTHESOUNDof a car engine, Danovan came back to himself and took a quick glance around the grassy hill dotted with marble rectangles. No visitors marred the perfect green lawn. Thank God. The family might have reclaimed his wife, but damned if they’d keep him from his daughter. He scanned the drive coming up the hill. He wasn’t prepared for another confrontation. The cuts to his soul might have healed, but the scars were red and shiny, too tight.

He bent and placed the nosegay of baby’s breath and tiny white roses on the headstone below the name Esperanza DiCarlo. He’d named her for the hope she’d brought, but the few months between the two dates below her name reminded him that hope was fragile.

“Sleep, cara. I will visit again soon.” He wiped a drop of regret from his eye and turned away.

He opened the door of his Range Rover and dropped onto the seat. The phone rang. “DiCarlo,” he answered.

“Mr. DiCarlo, this is Indigo Blue, of The Tippling Widow Winery. You applied for my generalist position earlier in the week?”

As if he could forget either the job or the husky quality of the owner’s voice. “Yes, Ms. Blue.”

Her laugh was as smoky as her voice. “I think we’d better be on a first-name basis if we’re to work together.”

Thank God. He let out a breath it seemed he’d been holding forever. He’d sweated out the past four days, waiting for both the splash page on the Bacchanal site to be changed, wiped clean, as if he’d never existed. And for a call from Indigo, telling him she’d chosen someone else.

“That is, if you still want the job, based on the terms we discussed.”

“Oh, yes, I want it.” It might not be good form to smile in a cemetery, but his daughter wouldn’t be offended; wine was in her blood on both sides. “I can start tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Don’t you have to give notice at your current position?”

Crap. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t land the job that he hadn’t planned this far ahead. Thoughts ran through his mind in a blur, like a manic news feed. He snatched at one. “I put in notice after my interview with you.”

“A bit sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Her voice might be smoky, but he now remembered that smoke sometime came from ice. Dry ice.

“Oh, no, not at all.” His panicked brain snatched at another speeding excuse. “I’m committed to my new course. If you hadn’t hired me, I’d have looked in Napa.” That was the truth—he’d planned to start looking on Monday.

“I see.”

His gut clenched at the silence on the line. He wanted to jump in, to convince her. But his father had always told him, “When you’re in a hole, stop digging.” So he stopped.

After a lifetime of agonizing moments, she spoke. “How about tomorrow, say, ten?”

“Yes, of course. See you then. Thank you.” He hung up and started the car. If she thought that a vintner’s hours ran on Hollywood time, she had a lot to learn. And for as long as she stayed, he’d teach her.

But he didn’t expect that to be long at all.

He drove down the hill to the exit. Oh, that’s nice. She’s put her trust in you, and you lie to her. When a wasp’s sting of guilt hit, he soothed it with the vow that he’d fulfill his side of the bargain. He’d run the place to the best of his ability after she scurried back to the Cush Life. He owed her that, for giving him a second chance. Even if she didn’t know she had.

He drove to the apartment that would no longer be his home, whistling a Paganini concerto.

This job would be a great do-over. He had every intention of doing it right this time.

* * *

INDIGOSCRABBLEDTHROUGHthe office desk’s lap drawer, searching for the scrap of paper she’d seen among the ancient business cards, crumpled receipts and leaky pens. “You should have started on the cabin yesterday.” Or the day before. Odious as it would be, setting Uncle Bob’s home to rights should be her job alone. But with Danovan reporting for work in the morning, she’d have to vacate the manager’s quarters, and the only other bed on the property was in the cabin. She was out of time and needed help.

“Ah, here it is.” Squinting at the smeared numbers, she dialed.

“Hola,” a lilting feminine voice said.

“Hello. Is this Rosalina?”

“Sí, señora. Can I help you?”

“You own the service that cleans The Tippling Widow, right?”

“Yes.”

Indigo blew out a breath. “We need to talk.”

“We did not do a good job?”

“Oh, no. You’ve done a great job. That’s why I’m calling. I need help cleaning the cabin on the premises. You know, the one at the top of the hill?”

“Sí. Señor Bob’s.”

At the tenderness in the woman’s voice, a bubble of sadness rose into Indigo’s throat. “Yes, that one.” Her voice squeezed around the blockage, coming out skinny.

“But the manager, he no let us in there.”

“He doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. I’ll be living in the cabin, but...” She searched for words that wouldn’t scare the woman off. “It needs a good going over before I move in. Could you send someone today?”

Papers rustled. “No one free today. We can come next week. That’s our normal schedule.”

“No one? Are you sure? Could you check again? I really could use some help.”

“I am so sorry, missus. No one today.”

Her heart shriveled to a small ball. She should have known it would come to this. It was her job to do, really. “You mean you don’t come every week?”

“The manager, he tells us no.”

She couldn’t afford it, but they were making and selling a food product; a clean facility was a must. And her time would be better spent learning than cleaning. She forced the words past the banker side of her brain. “Can I get on a once-a-week schedule, including the cabin?”

When they’d worked out the timing, Indigo thanked her and hung up.

One more call to go. “Cross your toes, Barney.”

The carefree mutt looked up from his blanket and yawned.

“Okay, a good-luck yawn. I can live with that.” But just in case, she threw a prayer to any god listening before dialing the next number.

“Yes?”

“Is this Sandra Vanderbilt?”

“This is Sondra.” She drew out the name, as if chastising the mispronunciation.

“Yes, sorry, Sondra.” She didn’t stretch it. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner of The Tippling Widow. I’m calling to—”

“I wondered when someone would call. Do not ask. I will not work with that vinous degenerate.”

Note to self—search Google for vinous. “If you mean the former manager, that’s no problem. He’s gone. I understand from the records that you are the serving staff manager.”

“I was.” Delicate sniff. “I enjoyed working for Robert, but since his death the place has gone downhill to the point where I was embarrassed to admit I worked there.”

Robert? Uncle Bob was salt of the earth. He was no more a Robert than Indigo was a Bambi. “Well, I intend to change that. I have already hired a new manager, and I was hoping you would agree—”

“Whom?”

“What?”

“Whom did you hire as manager?”

Indigo had heard that I’m-dealing-with-an-idiot tone before, but never from an employee. She might live in the country now, but the taint of Hollywood uppity was still fresh in her nostrils. And it burned. Dammit, she’d come here looking for some respect. Why rehire a snotty employee? Indignation filled her chest, squaring her shoulders. She took a breath to tell Sooondra to pound sand.

Then a shotgun blast of reality hit her inflated chest, and all the indignation bled out. You need this woman. A complete staff turnover was more than The Widow could survive right now. After all, Indigo didn’t know enough about wine to interview, much less hire, competent serving staff, and Danovan wouldn’t have the time to interview or train them. “Danovan DiCarlo is the new manager.”

“Oh, reeeally?”

She would have given quite a bit to know what caused Sondra’s surprise, but damned if she’d ask this woman for gossip. Loosening her jaw muscles, she bit her tongue.

Sondra sniffed. “I suppose I could consider that, though I am contemplating several other opportunities.”

“I plan to honor Bob’s dream to make The Tippling Widow wines the pride of the region. Surely, given your years of loyal service, you’d want to be a part of that?”

“I would. For a ten percent increase in salary.”

You can’t afford it. Besides, she’s bluffing. Indigo’s gut told her she was right. She put a hand to that notoriously unreliable part of her anatomy. But what if she’s not? You sure don’t have the knowledge to do the job. Not yet, anyway.

Sondra broke into her thoughts. “I’m waiting to hear about another position. Why don’t I just call you back next week?”

One big mistake at this point could be the weight that sank The Widow. Figures streamed through Indigo’s mind. “I’ll give you five percent more, but only if you can convince the rest of the serving staff to return.”

Another haughty sniff. “They will follow wherever I lead.”

Without choke collars? “Good. Contact them and all of you report for work at...” Blood pounded to her cheeks. “What time do you usually start?”

“Nine-thirty. The doors open promptly at ten.”

“I’ll see you then, Sand—Sondra.”

“You will.” Click.

Indigo stared at the dead phone, then dropped it onto the desk. Bob had made running the winery seem effortless, yet she’d not encountered one easy task since she’d set foot on the property. Well, hopefully that would change tomorrow when the new manager showed up. She imagined Danovan DiCarlo galloping up the drive on a white steed, skidding to a stop at the porch steps.

She snorted. Like I’m some damsel in distress. She glanced out at the empty porch. The cobwebs swayed in the breeze, and trash fluttered in the weeds. The tasks she was capable of doing could fill several pages of lists, but the ones she was incapable of could fill a book the size of Webster’s dictionary. Okay, so I am in distress. But it’s not going to be a chronic condition.

She’d only need all of them—Danovan, Sondra and her crew—until she got her feet under her and some experience. Then, if any of them weren’t working out, she’d fire them and start over.

The vow soothed her chapped ego. “Hey, Barn. Wake up.”

The dog opened droopy eyes.

“How’d you like a hamburger? We have to shovel out the cabin yet, but we need a break.”

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the gravel parking lot of the barn-red, low-slung building that the wooden sign declared The Farmhouse Café. She parked, turned off the engine, then sat frozen, watching two ghosts walk to the glass entrance door. The painfully young woman smiled up at the much older man as if he held the secret to life and was about to bestow it upon her.

Her savior. Her love. Her Harry.

In the suddenly too-hot car, the older but not much wiser woman sat mesmerized, swamped by yearning.

Harry’s long gray hair was held in his signature ponytail, and his face was saddle-brown with white lines from squinting into location suns. The couple was too far away for Indigo to see his eyes, but she didn’t need to. She remembered the sky-blue sparkle that had always been there just for her.

Harry had never seen her as the tainted mess he’d stumbled upon that horrific morning. He’d just picked her up, washed her clean and treated her like she was something special—like a diamond that someone had dropped in mud. And because he’d believed it, over time, Indigo was able to believe. Because of that look in his eyes.

The python of grief in her chest writhed, constricting her heart, squeezing a sob from her throat. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, trying to charm the snake back to sleep.

A cold nose nudged her elbow, burrowing until Barney’s head lay in her lap. He let out a long sigh that ended in a whine.

She ran her hand over the velvet head. “We are truly a mess, Barn.” She leaned back in the seat. “This place has great cheeseburgers. What do you say we drown our sorrows in some grease?”

When she looked up, the ghosts were gone. She snapped a leash on Barney’s collar, gathered him in her arms and clambered out. Not a graceful exit, but Barney’s legs were too short to jump out on his own. Together they crossed the almost deserted parking lot to the door the ghost couple had entered.

She slipped the leash over a metal post at the entrance. “Sit, Barn. I’ll be back with your burger in a few.”

A bell clanked against the glass door when she pulled it open and stepped into chilled air laden with the smell of bacon. Looking around, she noted the silvered wooden floor, the old pot-bellied stove in the corner—and the fact that she was the lone diner. Except for the ghosts, who sat in the booth by the window.

She turned away and walked to the long Formica bar with chrome and red vinyl stools. The cook’s window framed a happy picture—a large man, white T-shirt riding up his ripped biceps, bent a blonde woman over his arm, kissing her. No, not kissing—consuming her.

Indigo’s heart stuttered, then pounded heat through her: the base of her throat, beneath her breasts, at the back of her knees. A wicked whiplash of jealousy bit deep, and yearning spread, burning like alcohol on the cut.

She must have made a noise, because the couple turned their heads. They separated, and the woman put a hand to her poofed-up French twist.

“Oh, hello.” She trailed long nails down the man’s throat, and Indigo saw his shiver. With a last private smile that said she knew exactly what that did to him, the blonde walked away, entering the restaurant through a swinging door. She smoothed her hands over the too-tight-to-wrinkle white pantsuit, her cheeks only slightly pink. “Hon, before you go getting the wrong idea, we’re married.” She flashed a Hollywood-worthy smile.

Indigo slipped onto a stool. “Hey, don’t mind me.”

“Welcome to the Farmhouse. I’m Jesse, and that sexy hunk back there is Carl.”

The giant waved a hand in her general direction, but ducked his head, suddenly busy, a bit pink in the cheeks himself.

“You’re not from around here, are you, hon?”

“I am now.” Indigo snatched a menu from behind the napkin dispenser.

“Well, Widow’s Grove is a great town. I’ll bet you’ll like it here.” She tilted her head and tapped a long carmine nail on her cheek. “You look familiar.”

“My husband and I used to eat here.” She resisted the urge to glance to the booth behind her. “Years ago.”

“Well then, welcome back...” Jesse raised a blond eyebrow.

“Indigo. Blue.” Seeing the cogs turning in Jesse’s eyes, she ducked her head to scan the menu. “Could I have a veggie omelet?” The smell of bacon taunted her. “No, wait. Make that a bacon cheddar omelet.” She closed the menu, vowing to eat better—tomorrow. “And could I also get a hamburger patty without the bun for my best guy out there?” She glanced to the door, where Barney sat patiently waiting, watching her every move.

“Oh, what a cutie! Of course you can, hon.”

“Coming up,” the giant in the kitchen window said.

“Let me guess. You’re settling in Widow’s Grove because you missed our great cooking, right?” Jesse smiled, leaned a hip on the counter and waited.

Oh, she’s good.

Indigo should know—she’d been grilled by the best reporters in Hollywood. Jesse’s down-home style was much easier to take. She couldn’t help but return the smile. “Only partially. I’m the owner of The Tippling Widow Winery.”

“You are?” Jesse’s full lips pursed. “We were so sorry to lose Bob. He was a good man. One of the old guard around here. Did you know him well, hon?”

“Yes.” Indigo knew a small-town gossip when she saw one. She wasn’t discussing her relations with a stranger. Especially since it would lead back to Harry. The snake in her chest shifted, and she rubbed her breastbone to settle it back to sleep. She took a breath and focused forward instead of back. “I’m going to make The Tippling Widow a winery Bob could be proud of again.” Local rumors spread fastest. The Widow’s troubles wouldn’t be news here.

She looked up just in time to see the tumblers fall into place in Jesse’s eyes. “Oh.” Sympathy replaced curiosity. “Harry Stone is—was—”

“Hamburger’s up, Jess.” The Nordic hunk slid a small plate through the window.

Jesse retrieved the dish and set it on the counter.

“Excuse me.” Indigo grabbed the hamburger patty and hustled out the door to deliver it to Barney.

Dammit, she’d hoped to make a new start here, where no one knew her. She should have known better. Her name was so distinctive and Harry so famous... Squatting, she set the plate in front of Barney. He wolfed the burger, tail whipping.

Funny how it was easier to deal with Hollywood’s ire than to endure sympathy from a well-meaning stranger. On the flipside, if this woman is the gossip you think she is, she’ll pass the word, and at least you won’t have to explain to everyone you meet. She stood and forced herself to grasp the door, wishing she could snatch Barney’s leash and trot to the car.