Season of Change

Truman was locked in the cell when she descended. The girls stuck their faces through the bars at him, making the little boy giggle. The children barely stopped playing to acknowledge her leaving.

She’d wanted to get away from Napa, someplace where people didn’t schmooze her for favors, someplace where people didn’t judge her by the price of her car. She’d landed someplace where people cared more about the jobs she was going to create than the job she was going to do in the vineyard.

Maybe she’d gone too far.

* * *

“WHERE’S WILL?” SLADE asked sometime after Christine stopped by. He and Flynn were downstairs sitting on the bench in the jail cell. As soon as Will arrived, Slade planned to have a frank discussion about money and the winery.

“You’ll be happy.” Flynn settled his baseball cap more firmly on his head. His grandfather had worn that hat the last week of his life. Flynn treated it as if it was made of solid gold. “Will started programming our new app. He said he’d work on some of the basics this morning and let me have at it this afternoon.”

The perk of interest Slade had felt this morning over their Good Samaritan to-do list was nothing like the burst of excitement he felt at Flynn’s news. “When do you think it’ll be available for launch?”

Flynn gave Slade his best don’t-rush-me look.

Slade held up his hands. “I’m just saying, I can’t do a thing until we create a launch timeline.”

Lately, he’d been worried his partners would never go back to designing. Will had fallen in love with his sister’s best friend, Emma. Flynn had fallen in love and married his grandfather’s caregiver, Becca. They’d made enough money that, if managed well by Slade, they’d never have to work again. Not that they planned to retire. The money gave them freedom. With this new app, they weren’t bothering to ask for venture capital.

Slade flexed his fingers against damp palms. No investors to manage. And the winery situation a continuing drag on their bank accounts. How much longer would Slade be a vital part of the partnership? If he were Flynn and Will, he’d be preparing to give Slade the boot.

“I wanted to wait until the three of us were together to talk about the winery.” Slade fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt. “Unfortunately—”

“There is earthquake damage.” Flynn slapped a palm on his knee. “I knew it. How bad is it?”

“There’s no damage,” Slade said.

Flynn did a double take. “Is Mayor Larry causing more grief?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“We didn’t build a wine cave,” Slade blurted.

“A wine...a wine what?” Flynn stared at Slade as if he’d morphed into a puppy and misunderstood a command.

Slade wiped his damp forehead and proceeded to explain their need for climate-controlled storage and Christine’s options. He ended with an apology.

“You’re sorry?” Flynn resettled the ball cap on his head. “I should be apologizing to you. No one I asked about building ever mentioned a wine what’s-it.”

“Wine cave,” Slade supplied. “Since your friend’s friend works in Monterey, where the temperature never goes above seventy-five, they probably don’t need wine caves.”

“Oh, man. It sucks that we need to spend more money. We should get in touch with an architect right away.”

“No.” That came out more forcefully than Slade planned. “We’re not going to become like those lottery winners who go bankrupt because they give all their money away.” He felt sick just considering it. Flynn had a family to support. Will was just about to get married.

“This isn’t giving it away,” Flynn argued. “This is giving back.”

Slade shook his head. The omission of proper wine storage combined with Christine’s logical arguments about slow growth had shaken his confidence. “What if we f-fail?” The word stuck on his tongue. Financial failure meant emotional upheaval, like that he’d experienced at the Death and Divorce House. “Think of your future. Think of Becca. As your moneyman—”

“You worry too much.” Flynn’s smile didn’t often annoy Slade, but it did now as he slapped Slade on the back. “Build the wine cave. You know it’s the right thing to do. Another building creates more jobs.”

“But—”

“The farmer’s market is open!” Truman ran in from the sidewalk, Abby at his heels. “Come on, everybody!” He spun around and ran away, the little dog still by his side. Truman was staying with Flynn while his mom was in rehab for alcohol addiction. In the past month, the little guy had gone from a shy, quiet boy to a talkaholic. Slade hoped Harmony Valley would have the same effect on his daughters.

The twins, who’d been twirling in office chairs, stood up and looked at Slade.

“Go on,” Slade said. It wasn’t much of a farmer’s market. One vendor came in from Jimtown with baked goods. A few residents sold their extra fruits and vegetables. The tomatoes and corn were usually excellent. “We’ll talk about this with Will later.”

“You worry too much.” Flynn stood.

“And you don’t worry enough.” Slade wasn’t going to throw away a million dollars on the winery without seeing some kind of projection of return. It was irresponsible. He’d get Will on his side, and then the two of them would outvote Flynn.

“Thanks for the help. I think we’re ready for the plumber.” Nate came down the stairs, ending the partnership conversation. He studied the rusted bars. “These just need a good sanding and a coat of paint.”

Nate had accepted the job of sheriff, which could only be funded when Harmony Valley’s population topped eighty residents. They were currently at seventy-eight, not counting Slade. Having been put on paid administrative leave from his last job, where he’d lawfully arrested the mayor’s son with good cause and refused to drop the charges, Nate was happy to prepare for his new position, despite burst pipes

Flynn loaded up his tools. “I say it’s time for some of Olly Bingmire’s ice-cold lemonade. She’ll be out at the market about now.” He carried his toolbox to his truck.

Olivia Bingmire had been making fresh-squeezed lemonade for the farmer’s market for as long as Slade could remember. It wasn’t a cure-all for the blues, but it came close on a hot day. Slade headed toward the door, pausing to look at Nate. “You coming?”

“What about the plumber?”

“He’s got Flynn’s cell-phone number on speed dial.” Slade waited for Nate to join them. “It’s time you started meeting the people you’re going to swear to protect. Besides, we could use your hammer on our next few stops.” They left the jail door open in case the plumber showed up.

“I thought you told Truman he could hammer the nails into Sam’s fence?” Nate looked confused.

“I did.” Slade fought to keep a straight face. “That’s why we’re going to need an extra hammer.”

The three men walked toward the town square, leaving their trucks parked in front of the sheriff’s office.

A slender woman with long dark hair came around the corner of El Rosal, a cloth bag tucked in the crook of her arm.

“Becs!” With a nod to the men, Flynn veered across the street to meet his wife, Becca, who’d wisely brought a cloth bag to make it easier to carry her purchases home.

Truman dragged the twins from table to table, his shrill, happy voice carrying down the street. “Make sure you always, always, always buy the brownies from the Jimtown table early. They go fast.”

“Your daughters aren’t very talkative.” There was a hint of polite inquiry behind Nate’s statement.

“They’re shy.” Slade watched his daughters, hoping it was true.

Nate had a long-legged amble that made him look as if he was walking slowly, when in fact he was covering more ground in fewer steps than Slade, who considered himself tall at six foot. And yet, there was something rigid about Nate’s posture that contradicted his easy stride.

Wanting to change the subject, Slade, who didn’t normally pry, found himself prying. “Did you serve in the military?”

“Two tours in Afghanistan. Army. You?” The sheriff was a man of few words.

Slade shook his head. “Four years at Harvard. Two years on Wall Street.”

They exchanged respectful grins.

Flynn and Becca walked arm in arm in front of them.

For some reason, an image of Slade walking with a certain blonde came to mind. For the right reasons, Slade erased it. “You ever been married, Nate?”

“No...I... No.” His stilted answer was out of character for the normally staid sheriff.

This time Slade chose not to pry.

About thirty residents clustered about the tables, many leaning on canes and walkers. The only residents under the age of sixty were Nate, the partners, Truman, and the twins.

They reached Olly’s table. Slade bought a glass for himself, the sheriff, and the girls, who ran to him obediently when he called.

Nate was quickly snatched up by the locals, who circled him as if he was a celebrity.

Slade stood with the girls, drinking lemonade, wishing one of them would lean against him or hug him like they used to.

Grace looked at Slade’s hand three times before gripping it and tugging him over to the Jimtown table to look at their baked goods. Faith skipped next to them.

Slade could hardly breathe, for fear of making the girls go back to their no-touching, somber silence. Grace pointed at the brownies and then looked up at him with big green eyes and a sweet little pout.

Slade nearly tossed his wallet to her, barely daring to ask, “Only if you say please.”

Grace and Faith exchanged glances. Worry and determination flashed across their faces. Grace waved a hand as if swatting away a bug and faced Slade. “Please.”

One word. Barely a whisper. His heart was lost.

Slade ordered two brownies, feeling like the luckiest man in the world, so lucky that when he saw Old Man Takata sitting alone on the wrought-iron bench beneath the oak tree, he bought the man a glass of lemonade and sat with him.

“Weren’t you sitting here this morning?” Slade asked.

“I was. I like watching the world go by.”

“It’s getting hot outside.” The temperature was quickly climbing to uncomfortable. Slade knew all too well about uncomfortable summer days. He tugged at his tie.

“I have lemonade.” Takata raised his glass.

Mae Gardner, president of the bridge club, flounced over in a flowered dress and brown orthopedic sandals. Her shoulder-length gray frizzy hair curled like a storm cloud about her lined face. “Slade, dear, when are you going to move out of that house?”

Takata, who was normally as slow and deliberate as a turtle on land, snapped to attention. “Ain’t nothing wrong with his home.”

Unwilling to give ground, Mae plopped a fist on her hip. “Why should such a fine young man live there after the shameful thing his father did?”

Shameful. The word spiraled up Slade’s windpipe, closing it off to vital functions, like breathing and calls for help.

“Shameful?” Takata scoffed, sloshing his lemonade cup in Mae’s direction. “You and that bridge club of yours know all about shame, don’t you? Going down to Santa Rosa for those male dance reviews.”

Air returned to Slade’s lungs in a chuckle-suppressed gasp.

Mae’s face turned pinker than the pink sapphires flanking the diamond Will had chosen for Emma’s engagement ring. Mae spun and stomped away.

“Dang town gossips. Think they’re better than everybody. Don’t listen to her. What your father did was sad, not shameful.” Takata drained his lemonade and handed his empty glass to Slade. “I’ve never met your daughters. Last time they were here, they were too young for a proper introduction.”

Not to mention circumstances had Evy whisking their daughters away.

Slade called the girls over and introduced them, knowing Takata wouldn’t be able to tell his identical twins apart as soon as they moved away. Slade handed the girls each a twenty and asked them to buy strawberries, tomatoes, and corn, and then run back to the house to put their purchases in the refrigerator. It was only a block and a half away, a safe errand in a small town.

“You gave them too much money,” Takata complained after they’d skipped off.

“My ex-wife says I don’t give them enough.” It was a pleasure to give them something instead of writing a check to Evy every month.

“Kids who don’t learn to work for things don’t have a good work ethic.” Takata eyed Slade. “Why do you think you’re so successful?”

“Because I worked my butt off instead of living.” From high school to his last job on Wall Street. He’d worked until he’d lost sight of what was important.

The old man scoffed and tilted closer, as if sharing a secret. “You’re not living now.”

Slade couldn’t move more than his lips. “I live.”

“You exist.” Takata sat back, watching Grace stay just close enough to Truman, Becca, and Flynn that she could hear what they were saying, but far enough back that she wasn’t part of their family unit.

Slade struggled to draw in air. He knew how it felt to be on the perimeter of relationships, to feel as if you’d never quite belong. He didn’t expect to recognize the same thing in his daughter.

“Grace is an old soul,” Takata was saying.

Lucky guess.

“And Faith looks before she leaps.” Takata gestured to Faith, who was skipping by the Jimtown table, as if contemplating buying another sweet.

“You don’t know that,” Slade said gruffly.

The Jimtown clerk pointed at a plate of frosted cookies. Faith stopped and nodded enthusiastically, digging in her pocket for money.

Takata hammered his cane into the grass again. “As a funeral-home director and mortician, I’ve looked at a lot of faces and listened to a lot of stories. I think I know what someone’s about when I look at them.” He glared at Slade. “Your soul is wounded and trapped. Looks like it should be set free.”

“Are you telling fortunes now?” Slade stood, tugging at his tie, feeling it tighten like a noose. The last thing he wanted was to rehash the past with the old man.

Takata caught his sleeve above the cuff. “I’m telling truths. You need to forgive, if not your father, then yourself.”

Slade couldn’t move. Not from the sudden unbridling of grief and guilt, or from the spot where his feet seemed to have taken root.

“Now,” Takata stood unsteadily, “I’m ready to go home. If you let me lean on you, it’ll go much quicker.” When Slade didn’t move, he raised his voice. “Are you deaf? Lend me your arm.”

The twins ran by, heading for home with their purchases. He could almost feel the air move as they passed, feel grief and guilt recede. They were his hope.

Slade stepped closer to the old man and held out his arm.

“’Bout time.”

CHAPTER FOUR

CHRISTINE HAD THE vineyards to walk and the morning sun was already hot, the air dry, her T-shirt damp with sweat.

Slade and his partners had bought forty acres, which wasn’t even half a square mile. It was Christine’s job to familiarize herself with the soil, vines, and fruit. The property wasn’t large enough to justify hiring a full-time vineyard manager, full-time cellar manager, or full-time winemaker. She’d have to wear many hats and hire staff who could do the same.

Christine used a notebook and a stubby pencil to record the slope of each row, how it drained toward the river, the angle of the sun and where it was blocked by trees in the early morning or late afternoon. She recorded which blocks and rows of vines were lusher, which seemed almost scrabbling to survive. She sifted dirt through her fingers and checked that the vines had the proper support.

Grape clusters were developing nicely. She tried a bit of each fruit at different places in the vineyard. Most were tannic and promising in their complexity. The arid soil and growing conditions in Harmony Valley were influencing the taste of the grapes and would also influence the taste of the wine. Substance in the glass. Something Christine would be proud of. Something to finally prove without a doubt to her father and the world that she knew what she was doing.

She snapped pictures of a few grape clusters with her cell phone. The grapes on the Cabernet Sauvignon vines were still green, but soon the heat would begin veraison, when the sugars increased during ripening, reducing the acidity in the fruit and turning them a deep purple.

The vines were terribly overgrown. There was too much fruit, which meant as it ripened it wouldn’t be as flavorful. And the fruit was becoming heavy, dragging tendrils down to the ground, which made the grapes available for any passing snail to take a nibble. Tomorrow she’d need to get out here with hand clippers and twist ties and sunscreen. It’d be nice to have helpers. Maybe she could put together a crew like the one she’d seen in the sheriff’s office.

Christine paused, staring out over the vineyard. Why not exactly like the one she’d seen in the sheriff’s office?

She returned to the tasting room, where she’d left her laptop bag.

The partners had installed a communications tower on Parish Hill, a granite-faced mountain to the east. The tower provided Harmony Valley with free Wi-Fi and cell-phone service. Otherwise, they’d be too far out, in too deep a valley to receive any signal.

She called a few friends, putting feelers out for someone with diverse skill sets willing to relocate. She called some equipment suppliers on her cell phone and emailed a few more for bids. Slade had only collected ballpark estimates for equipment. They’d need companies to come out and measure their space, and provide a more detailed and precise bid, as well as timelines for installation. At this point, twelve or fewer weeks until harvest, she’d only approve purchases if they could guarantee delivery and setup.

She also got in touch with someone she knew who built wine caves to ask some initial questions. She was willing to make compromises to find wine-storage solutions locally, but long-term, she wanted a state-of-the-art facility in Harmony Valley.

She texted Slade: Who did you arrange to harvest the grapes?

If this heat wave lasted through July and into August, as it was projected to, they’d need to harvest earlier, rather than later.

His reply: Make arrangements with whoever you want.

“Are you kidding me?” Wineries arranged for harvesters up to a year in advance.

Christine made another round of calls and sent off more emails looking for a company available to harvest in their remote location. Initial response wasn’t good. No one wanted to talk to her after learning where they were based.

For the second time that morning, Christine wondered if she’d strayed too far from traditional wine country.

She texted Slade again: Will need a work crew tomorrow at the vineyard.

His reply was predictably prompt: Hire however many bodies you need.

She laughed the kind of evil laugh that Slade would have known, had he been here, meant trouble for him: I choose you and Flynn and Nate and Grace and Faith and Truman and whoever else you can find. Bring pruning shears, hats, and sunblock. 6 a.m.

He didn’t answer right away. And when he did, it was an anticlimactic Okay.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING Slade and his crew reported for work, as Christine requested.

Slade knew the heat would make him miserable, but he still wore black slacks, a blue long-sleeved shirt, and tie.

Slade sought out his girls. At least the twins were dressed appropriately for the temperature in cutoffs and matching royal-blue tank tops. Each had her hair in a ponytail that swung through the hole in the back of a royal-blue baseball hat.

Christine was prepared for them with thermoses of coffee and hot chocolate, as well as a cooler full of water bottles, and her grandmother’s banana-nut bread. She also had a box of old work gloves and pruning shears. She, too, was dressed for the heat in canvas shorts and a canary-yellow T-shirt featuring another rock band. Her hair was braided tightly so that only pigtails peeked out from either side of her floppy white hat.

Standing next to her, Slade felt more overdressed than he had in years. His tie felt too tight and heavy. Before he’d been able to talk to Will, he and his fiancée, Emma, had left for San Francisco a few days ago for a series of art-gallery openings featuring Emma’s paintings. Slade was starting to think it’d be better to iron out the budget with Christine first. At least then he wouldn’t be talking in generalities. He’d have hard figures to present. Will and Flynn were sentimental about Harmony Valley. They let it cloud their judgment.

“I know I asked you to, but you didn’t have to bring the kids,” Christine said to Slade as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I don’t expect them to work much.” Slade didn’t expect them to do more than run around and have a good time. “It’d be nice if they felt useful before the real work starts.”

Christine reached over and squeezed his shoulder, as if they were old chums. “That’s so doable.”

“I’m feeling guilty that we did nothing to the vines since we bought them.” Flynn wandered over, tugging on a pair of gloves. “To Christine, it must be like ignoring your children.”

Slade set down his coffee. It was too hot for what already promised to be a hot day. “It’s not like that at all. We bought the property and didn’t get rezoning approval for months. It wasn’t as if we knew we’d be harvesting grapes this year.”

“Are you going to be okay in this heat?” Christine pulled lightly on his sleeve. “Please go home and change.”

“He won’t be caught dead without the tie. I lived with the guy for five years. Trust me,” Flynn said. “It’s a fetish.”

If there was a possibility Slade could ditch the shirt and tie, he would have. Instead, he unwisely took inventory of the rest of the crew. The guys wore shorts and T-shirts. Only Abby and Slade were overdressed. And Abby, being a dog, had no choice but to wear a fur coat. Soon, Slade would be panting just as loudly as she was.

Slade rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Don’t worry about me.”

“We’ve learned not to.” Flynn grinned.

“Let’s start before it gets unbearably hot.” Christine stood next to a row of grapevines and shook a baggy full of what looked like short wires. “We’re going to use twist ties—yes, just like from a loaf of bread. I know, highly technical stuff here. We’ll use twist ties to fasten the load-bearing shoots to one of two support wires on the trellis system.” She showed them how two wires were strung at two different heights from a post at one end of the row to the other end. “Too many clusters on the vine dilutes the flavor of all the grapes, so we’ll want to thin the secondary clusters. That way, the primary clusters will be bursting with flavor.”

Slade bent over for a closer look. There were a lot of clusters on the vine. “By thin you mean...”

“Cut back and toss in the bin.” She gestured to two large containers with wheels. “You’ll also be cutting back the tendrils that you can’t tie, the ones that get in the way of the corridor between rows.” At the group’s blank looks, she added, “Imagine driving between the rows. If anything would brush your car’s fender, cut it back.”

“Shouldn’t we hire experts to do this?” Slade would pay good money to be sitting in front of an air conditioner about now.

“Normally, I’d hire a crew.” Christine gazed out over the vineyards. “But this should have been done months ago and I’m finding that no crews want to come out this far to work. Besides, it’s not rocket science. These are plants. If you make a mistake, they’ll grow back.”

“But what if the cluster I cut off is the best cluster?” Slade’s muscles knotted with stress. Anything he did, he wanted to exceed expectations. “What if we mess this up?”

Christine put a hand on his shoulder and smiled up at him. It was a sparkly smile, one that said, Have no fear. “At this point, there is no best based on taste. The ripening process hasn’t shifted into full swing. We’re doing damage control, which means damage will be done, but more good than harm.” She stepped closer, bringing the coconut smell of sunscreen and the light scent of vanilla. “Just think, this is only five thousand cases worth of grapes. You want to bottle eighty.” And then, grinning, she pushed him forward and they got down to business.