One Perfect Year

“There you go again.” There was a snap in his voice that indicated the cantankerous old dog was about to bite. “Just because an old man takes a breath doesn’t mean he’s finished speaking.”

Gage wisely refrained from any jokes about Dr. Wentworth’s age, old dogs and new tricks.

“What I’m trying to say is that we’d make a good team. I can mentor you, like I used to.” The old man drew an audible breath, as if he’d spoken too quickly. “Young people are slowly moving back here. They’ll be having kids, adopting dogs and getting hamsters and all kinds of creatures who’ll need a vet. Don’t tell me you can’t come back. Why, Shelby moved in with me yesterday. I’m sure she called you along with the other volunteers they’ve rounded up to help harvest grapes this Friday night.”

This was news to Gage. Shelby hadn’t called. She’d stopped calling over a year ago.

Secretariat stared down on him with a gaze that had never backed away from a challenge. Of course, Secretariat had his choice of women.

If Gage’s career decision was racehorses versus some old woman’s shaggy milk goats; the excitement of the training yard, breeding stables and track versus the slow paced life in small town Harmony Valley; or a life where no one knew his past versus a life where everyone knew why he had a scar on his right temple...

It didn’t matter how many pros and cons Gage thought of, the life of a racehorse veterinarian was the one he desired. It was the one he’d choose every time he was asked.

So it made no sense that he didn’t reject Dr. Wentworth’s offer outright, other than to show his respect and spare the old man’s feelings.

Because Gage refused to acknowledge that Shelby Hawkley—Doc’s granddaughter—had anything to do with his return to Harmony Valley.

CHAPTER TWO

THE WHOLE TOWN came out to support Harmony Valley Vineyard’s first grape harvest. At least, that’s what it felt like to Shelby as she stood on the winery’s patio Friday night waiting for their volunteer harvesters to arrive. And it felt wonderful. She’d come home. Home to friendly greetings and shared histories, to warm welcomes and “how’ve you beens,” to people who looked you in the eyes when they asked how your day was going and then listened to your answer.

The sun was receding and Shelby turned on the tall propane heaters one by one. During night harvest, the crew would need a warm place to take breaks.

“Shelby, I heard you were back in town. You’ll be registering to vote, of course.” Mayor Larry claimed one of her hands with both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. The unlikely politician—a former hippy who still sported a waist-length ponytail, albeit gray—had been in office for decades. He also ran a profitable online T-shirt business. The mayor reached into a cloth bag on his shoulder and shook out a purple and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt. “How about a shirt? It has the Harmony Valley Vineyard’s logo silk-screened on it.” A black running horse on a weather vane.

“Don’t make it sound as though she has to buy one, Larry. It’s free.” Christine Jennings, Shelby’s boss and head winemaker, plucked the shirt from the mayor’s fingers and gave it to Shelby. “We bought enough for all our workers and volunteers. And you made a tidy profit, Larry.” Christine softened her words with a kiss to Larry’s cheek.

Before Shelby could do more than thank them both for the shirt, another Harmony Valley resident appeared before her.

“I was wondering when I’d get to see you.” Agnes Villanova had been a friend of Shelby’s grandmother. Her big heart came in a petite package. She was barely five feet tall, and one of the town’s most active citizens. She wore a red stocking cap and a bright green sweatshirt. At first glance, she looked like a beardless garden gnome.

Shelby leaned over to receive her hug. “I’ve been meaning to come by.”

“You young people are always so busy.” Agnes moved closer to Christine and slid her arm around her granddaughter’s waist. “First you move home and we think we’ll see you more often, and then you work just as hard as you did before you moved here and so we still never see you.”

“The grapes wait for no one,” Christine said.

“Nor the wine,” Shelby added, exchanging a smile with her boss.

“There’s Ryan. Yoo-hoo!” Agnes waved to the young assistant winemaker. “You ladies go easy on him tonight.”

“Grown man. Paid employee.” Christine’s words were clipped as if this argument was oft repeated. “Don’t baby him.”

“Ah, but he’s so sweet.” Agnes’s expression turned sly. “Until I have great-grandchildren, who can I dote on?”

Christine rolled her eyes.

Just then, Shelby noticed someone shuffling in her direction. It was Hiro Takata, or Old Man Takata as everyone in her generation called him, the town’s retired undertaker. The nip in the air suddenly permeated her bones.

“My dear.” He came close enough to reach for her hand. “It’s good to see you back and doing well.”

The same soothing voice. The same gentle, compassionate handhold. She hadn’t seen the old man since Nick’s funeral.

Old Man Takata used his grip to reel himself to her side. He grunted as he strained to straighten hunched shoulders and lift the kindly aging face of his Japanese ancestors to her. “Where’s your grandfather? Did War skip out on the excitement?” Cigar smoke laced his words.

“He’s at home, hip deep in research.” Shelby couldn’t get Grandpa to promise to stay out of his stacks while she was gone.

The older man smiled. “Are you by any chance a bowler?”

Slade, one of the winery owners, appeared before them. He was knock-your-socks-off handsome, a former Wall Street whiz, and Christine’s fiancé. “She won’t be bowling for your team, Hiro. If she bowls for anyone, it’s the winery.” Slade gave Shelby a brief once-over, like a coach checking out a new recruit. “The winery bowls in a league in Cloverdale. Do you bowl, Shelby?”

Bowling? Athletics? Disaster. “Does pumpkin bowling for the Harvest Queen crown one year count?”

The older man laughed. “It’s coming back to me. A wonky release that nearly took out the spectators.”

“Only Gage,” Shelby muttered.

“Slade, you may have her. Now, find me a seat under one of those heaters.” Old Man Takata released her. “Oh, and, Shelby.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need company visiting Nick’s grave.”

Her breath caught. How had he known she hadn’t been able to go alone?

Needing a moment, Shelby faded away from the crowd, retreating to the banks of the Harmony Valley River on the edge of the vineyard.

She drew her green army jacket around herself as the water drifted past with slow swirls that caught the last rays of sunset. Had coming here been a mistake?

The first time Shelby’d moved to Harmony Valley was more than eight years ago. She’d learned quickly she could rely on two things—the steady flow of the river, and Gage Jamero. He had the smile of a heartbreaker and the smarts of a Rhodes Scholar. But most endearingly, he was kind and tongue-tied.

He’d introduced her to his best friend, Nick Hawkley. Nick was handsome and had a way of putting people at ease. She’d felt as if she’d known him forever. Nick had asked her out and that was that. She’d gained a love and a best friend in less than a week. It only took one day to lose both.

She hadn’t visited this part of the river since she’d been in high school. Memories came rushing back. The emotion from events she hadn’t thought of in years welled inside her.

The trouble with being a relatively new widow were all the “firsts.” The first night she’d slept in their bed after Nick died. The first time she’d passed by the church where they’d been married. The first holidays without him at her side.

Firsts were gut-clenching, cold moments. They clogged her throat, flooded her eyes and cut off her breath. It took time to process them. To acknowledge the innocence, to accept things would never be the same again, and to release the melancholy.

Yeah...the melancholy.

She’d once floated around this picturesque river bend on a raft with Nick and Gage. They’d been talking about college options—although they all knew they’d end up at the same university. They were that close. Then Gage had announced he wasn’t coming back to Harmony Valley after graduation.

Because of the scars of her parents’ nomadic, career-driven lifestyle, Shelby had been doggedly against Gage moving elsewhere. She’d lived in six cities by the time she was sixteen while her parents climbed corporate ladders in the advertising world. Always the new girl, always on the outside.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be someplace else. Nobody knows you like they do here. Harmony Valley cares about their neighbors.” She’d pounded the raft’s sides. “We’re all coming back here. Nick’s going to be mayor. I’m going to teach science. And you, Gage?” She’d shot him her most imperial look. “You’ll take over Grandpa’s practice.”

“Come on, Shelby. At eighteen nobody knows what they really want to do or where they’ll end up,” Gage had scoffed. “You think you love...some...something, but it’s just a phase. I loved chicken nuggets when I was four. Now I love sushi. I don’t know what I’m going to love ten years from now, but I do know I’m not coming back here. I want to go someplace where people don’t know my life’s history, including all the stuff I want to forget.”

Nick had been unusually silent.

She hadn’t understood Gage’s sentiment when they were kids. But after Nick’s death, Shelby knew exactly how Gage had felt. She hadn’t wanted to return, either, not because she didn’t love Harmony Valley, but because she couldn’t handle the town’s grief for Nick along with her own.

So instead, she’d taken a job at a winery at the foot of the Sierras, where no one knew her. She worked hard and kept to herself. Ice cream was her best friend. Nick’s pillow her midnight confidante. She was lonely, but loneliness was a guarantee that her heart would never be torn apart again.

Then a few months ago, her car had broken down on a stretch of less-traveled highway north of Sacramento. It was dark and deserted. She’d had no one to call for help. Her parents were working at an ad agency overseas. She hadn’t talked to them in several weeks. In a blink, she’d realized her life was an empty shell. Those things she’d craved growing up? Close friends, being part of a community, the feeling of permanence? She had none.

The next day, she’d heard about the Harmony Valley Vineyards job posting from her grandfather. She’d decided a compromise needed to be made.

A barking black dog ran by her, drawing her attention back to the present. Behind the dog was a panting, ginger-headed young boy.

“Hi, Shelby! I get to stay up late tonight picking grapes.” Truman, a nephew of Flynn, one of the winery’s owners, high-fived her before he disappeared into a row of grapevines behind her.

A few seconds later, Slade’s daughters, dark haired, identical twins, burst out of another row.

“Did you see Truman?” one asked as she gasped for breath and fanned her face.

Her twin, similarly red-cheeked and breathless, scanned the area.

“You can’t catch me,” Truman taunted from deep within a row. His laughter danced over rustling grape leaves.

Giggling, the girls raced after him, leaving Shelby with a lightened heart. It was good to see children back in town, good to see the kind of friendships she’d had the year she’d lived here.

In the distance, cars rumbled over the winery’s gravel driveway. Her Harmony Valley past was returning. Without Nick’s optimism and humor. Without Gage’s wit and blinding smile.

“Shelby, they’re here,” Christine called from the farmhouse porch several hundred feet away.

Shelby walked through rows of bushy grapevines dotted with the occasional browning leaf. The white two-story farmhouse had been renovated into an elegant tasting room on the first floor with open office space above. To the right, the winery’s main building had been constructed over the original barn’s footprint, and housed wine processing equipment along with some expensive wine barrels. It was a very small operation set in the middle of a beautiful vineyard. If done right, the wine would be exquisite. After Christine worked her winemaking magic, it was Shelby’s job to make sure the wine aged to perfection.

The sky softened to twilight gray as cars shut off and headlights dimmed. The nip of evening breathed over the vineyard. Soon the temperature would drop and the only light would come from portable metal booms as they harvested the Chardonnay grapes that would make up the first vintage of Harmony Valley Vineyards wine.

Christine gestured for Shelby to join her on the porch, next to Ryan, and Slade, who was being teased for not wearing a tie—an inside joke, for sure. All three owners—Slade, Flynn and Will—were hometown boys, a few years ahead of Shelby in school and relative strangers until recently. They’d made their fortunes by designing and selling a popular farming app.

On the other side of Slade, Flynn had his arms linked around his nephew, Truman. He nodded to Shelby. “Are you ready for this?”

“I should be asking you that. I’ve done this before.” Shelby bent to pet Truman’s dog. The black fur on her head was velvety soft and immediately settled the last of Shelby’s pensiveness.

Will stood at the opposite end of the porch. His arm was draped over his fiancée’s shoulders. Emma touched his cheek with paint-stained fingers. Come spring, the up-and-coming artist was going to paint a mural on one side of the barn that housed the winery.

“Here they come. Our volunteers.” By the pride in Christine’s voice, one might have thought she was talking about her own children, the ones Agnes was waiting to dote on.

The winery had been unable to entice a professional harvesting team to work on such a small job in this isolated, northeastern border town of Sonoma County. A bit of networking had resulted in former residents being recruited to help. Twenty acres of Chardonnay grapes. Less than an eighth square mile to cover. Together they could be done by dawn. In another few weeks, if the weather remained mild, the final acres with Cabernet Sauvignon grapes would be ready to harvest, and the request for volunteers would go out again.

“This is going to be perfect.” Christine rubbed her hands together. “We’ll divide them into teams and show them how to cut grape clusters. And if someone can’t cut—”

“Or cuts off their finger...” Ryan crossed his gangly arms over his chest as he inspected their volunteer crew.

Shelby silently agreed with Ryan. There were so many ways this could derail. Inexperience led to accidents. Cockiness led to catastrophe. Thank goodness, the aging population was only here to greet their younger relatives and provide emotional support. She couldn’t imagine Old Man Takata shuffling down a row cutting grape clusters all night in the cold.

Christine gave Ryan the stink eye. “If they aren’t skilled at cutting, they can transport grapes to the de-stemmer and then the crusher. Everyone works. Everyone should feel needed. That’s the most important take away from this experience tonight. They’re getting paid with a T-shirt, a bottle from our first vintage, a thank-you on the web site and our graciousness.”

“Compensation enough to come back for the Cab harvest,” Ryan deadpanned, stroking the long, sparse whiskers on his face. His dark hair curled in disobedient waves that nearly brushed his shoulders. It was a mark of pride that male winemakers didn’t shave or cut their hair from the beginning of harvest season until the last grape was picked and crushed. Female winemakers were more civilized.

“It’ll be enough.” Christine narrowed her eyes at her young assistant. “Say you believe me.”

“Of course. Optimism is my middle name.” Ryan waited until Christine turned away to whisper to Shelby. “Twenty bucks says we lose half of them by break time.”

“Was it just a few months ago that I hired a sweet, shy assistant?” Christine shook a finger at Ryan. “Whatever happened to him?”

“He blossomed under your tutelage.” Ryan grinned.

“More likely in my grandmother’s kitchen eating her homemade strudel. She’s spoiled you.” Christine turned away again, and rubbed her hands together as she took in the group on the porch. “Let’s welcome our workers.” She led them down the steps and into the growing crowd.

The young volunteers embraced their elders, called out greetings to their other hometown friends, hugged each other and shook hands, looking as if they were coming to a family reunion instead of a race to pick grapes before they over-ripened.

Shelby mingled with friends from her past—Emily Johnson, Carl Quedoba, Tanya Romero, Umberto Escabar. She met the recently hired town sheriff for the first time, as well as a woman who was thinking about opening a bed-and-breakfast in her grandmother’s ancient Victorian.

A lone vehicle turned down the driveway, its headlights high between the palms. A truck. A white truck. A white truck with a dented rear fender.

It can’t be. Shelby held her breath.

The driver parked and got out, flashing a dazzling smile beneath a faded red Harmony Valley Hedgehogs ball cap.

A brisk wind rustled the grapevines, chilling her.

It was Dead Gage.

* * *

AWARENESS OF SHELBY kicked through Gage’s system like an electrical current wearing combat boots.

If Gage had been a lab rat hooked up to sensors, every time he saw Shelby scientists would record an intense release of dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine. He wasn’t a lab experiment, but the trifecta of his body’s chemicals heightened his perception at the sight of her. They focused his attention on the things he found physically attractive about Shelby—her slender curves, her warm smile, her big blue eyes—and the things he admired about Shelby—her intelligence, her gentle humor, her nurturing tendencies— It was all imprinted in his memory.

Luckily, no one kept track of his internal responses except Gage. And to this day, since he’d been careful, no one knew how Shelby affected him.

He was a doctor, a scientist. He could catalog his physiological response to her, rationalize his feelings and control his behavior. And if that control was threatened, a joke to break the tension was always the answer.

And so, upon seeing Shelby, he didn’t smile like an idiot when he admired her in body-hugging jeans. He didn’t let his gaze linger more than a second on her sweet face. And he didn’t reenact his fantasy of staring into Shelby’s sky-blue eyes as he reeled her slowly into his arms, brushed aside her short, soft blond curls, and kissed her.

Not when their small town friends flanked her.

Not when, presumably, her new boss stood nearby.

Not when he hadn’t talked to her since Nick’s funeral.

Gage took off his old high school baseball cap and wiped his brow. The hat was useless anyway, as it did little to hide his seminervous expression from Shelby.

Two years ago, he’d overslept and missed meeting Nick for a day of kayaking on the swollen Merced River rapids. That was the day his life changed forever.

If Gage had woken up on time, he might have talked Nick out of getting on the raging water that day. He might still spend Saturday mornings snowboarding black diamond slopes in winter. He might still spend Saturday mornings in summer free-climbing cliffs in Yosemite. And Nick might still be alive.

Born a month apart, and raised a block from each other, Nick and Gage had been more like brothers than friends. Gage would do almost anything for Nick, even ignore the feelings he had for Shelby.

Take the day he’d met Shelby. She’d stumbled into his high school science class during his senior year. He’d felt as if he’d been sucker punched. Unbelievably, he, who’d always relied on proof and facts, had fallen in love at first sight. How else could he describe how discombobulated he felt just seeing Shelby? But while he’d overanalyzed those strange, new feelings, Nick, who’d never hesitated in his too-short life, acted right after Gage introduced them.

Once Gage discovered his feelings for Shelby were substantial and real, it was too late. He’d fallen for his lab partner, and she’d fallen for his best friend. And his feelings hadn’t waned. Not at their high school and college graduations. Not at the engagement party. Not at the wedding. Not at the funeral.

He’d never acted on his impulses. And tonight would be no different.

“Gage?” Shelby’s voice. So unsure.

He closed the distance between them slowly. The slower he approached the longer he had to take note of her features. That no-nonsense, short blond hair beneath a yellow knit cap. That slender figure bundled against the late October chill. That tentative look in her eyes.

He was the reason for that look, while she was the reason his pulse kicked up a notch.

He stopped and brought out the heavy artillery—his smile. “Did somebody call for a grape picker?”

Without missing a beat, she put her hands on her hips. “You didn’t answer any of my messages.”

He shook his head. The crowd of volunteers watched silently, as if this was enthralling cinema.

“You didn’t reply to any of my texts or emails either.”

His smile dimmed.

“You un-friended me on Facebook.”

The crowd gasped. A few chuckled.

“I shut down my Facebook page,” he told her, and the crowd. There, at least that was a defendable excuse.

“And your phone?”

Don’t do this to me, Shel.

He’d never admitted to anyone that he was supposed to have been with Nick the day he died. The secret ate away at him. It probably always would.

“Gage?” Her vulnerability was strong enough to slip past his guard.

“I couldn’t.” The words were wrenched out of him.

She made a sound that was half disapproving huff, half sob and ran toward him, practically tripping over her own two feet. He couldn’t say later if he’d met her halfway, couldn’t remember much beyond her arms coming around him, pressing against the hoofprint contusion near his spine. But the hug...the hug was worth every pang in his bruised and sore back. She held Gage as if he was a precious gift she never wanted to lose.

For a moment, Gage drew Shelby close, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair, imagining what life would be like if she were his: no-overanalyzing. No careful responses. No distance.

Like there was a chance of that happening.

The power of his emotions made him realize coming home was a good thing. He’d needed to see Shelby again, if only to say goodbye to her once and for all.

“This makes up for nothing,” she whispered, before pushing Gage away to introduce him to those he didn’t know.

Her boss divided the volunteers into different groups—bin runners, crush pad operators, but mostly grape harvesters. Gage ended up with Shelby’s group of harvesters, along with several of their friends.

They were outfitted with plastic tubs, work gloves, and curved, serrated knives. Shelby led them between two rows of grapevines, halting beneath a boom with lights that illuminated three rows across, positioning them six feet apart on either side. “We’ll go through each corridor tonight. You’ll locate a cluster of grapes, and cut the stem as close to the cluster as you can.”

Gage’s breath caught as Shelby held up a very sharp-looking knife. Back in high school, after she’d sliced open her finger while dissecting a pig—twice—Mrs. Bernhardt had forbidden Shelby to wield sharp instruments in her biology class.

“Plant your feet. Grab hold of the vine. And...” Shelby smoothly slid her knife beneath a leaf, made a cut, freed a grape cluster bigger than her hand and set it in the bin next to her. Then she demonstrated her technique again, slower this time, surprising Gage with how capable and confident her movements were. “Hold the cluster in one hand, make a diagonal cut with your knife and then show the grapes some love as you put them gently in the bin.”