on the bar, making a loud buzzing sound, breaking the spell of the moment. I look down and see Naomi’s text, saying that she’ll meet me at the car.
My heart is pounding, and I wonder why I’m reacting this way. When I lift my head toward him, he’s gone, having moved a few feet away. His body is keeping a safe distance, but his eyes show a yearning I’ve never felt before. I must have been looking at him for too long because he turns his back to me and leans his hands on the counter, his back rising and falling.
I blow out through my lips as I rise from my seat and pull a ten-dollar bill from my purse. I place the money on the bar and start to make my way toward the exit. The room is so damn silent, and the walk to the door feels like it is ten times longer than when I walked in.
And it still smells like Clorox.
“Hey, Red,” he calls. There’s a change in his voice. It’s softer, sincere.
I have one foot out the door, but I stop and momentarily decide if I should turn around or not.
“We have local bands here on Wednesday and Saturday nights. It’s a good spot to come to if you want to meet someone.”
I glance over my shoulder to see him still standing behind the bar with his back to me.
I don’t know who hurt him, and I don’t know why he feels the need to carry the burden. What I do know is, that statement was worth more than any apology he could have offered.
With a nod, I walk out of Henley’s Pub.
chapter TWO
I am using a map for the first time in a decade. Yes, a map. An honest-to-goodness gigantic piece of paper that takes up the entire passenger seat.
The hybrid car I rented doesn’t have navigation, and my cell isn’t getting a lick of service in this area of the valley. Jeremy warned me this morning that I’d need to take a map. I was about to laugh at his joke—I mean, who uses a map anymore?—when he handed me one and sent me on my merry way.
Makes me wonder where the hell I’m going.
And I don’t mean just the location.
For an area that is high in tourist traffic, I feel like I am in backcountry. When I take a left off the Silverado Trail, dry dirt kicks up from the road as I make snakelike turns.
I follow the road through the cliffs. Rows of gorgeous vines with perfectly formed grapes clinging to ropes and wires, luscious in the morning dew of the valley. The amazing thing about the scene is that the vines grow low in the valley and high up into the mountains. There is no place these miraculous plants are not thriving.
Plants? I wonder if that’s the correct term or if I’d get my head chewed off by some vine enthusiast.
My lack of knowledge in wine and vines is making me a little nervous about the interview I am about to go on. Naomi was sparing with her knowledge of Russet Ranch and exactly what it is I would be doing there. All I know is, I am meeting with the owner, Ed Martin.
Dressed in a crimson sundress and a pair of tan wedges, I pulled my hair back into a braid, taming the curly mane to look as polished as possible. I’m also wearing my favorite gold chain necklaces that layer from the base of my neck down to the center of my rib cage. I paired it with large gold hoops and a couple of Alex and Ani bracelets that jingle as I turn the steering wheel into Russet Ranch, making a quick right as I almost missed the sign altogether.
A worn, weathered wood sign with the name written in green, red, and white paint is stuck into the ground on the side of the road. It is smaller than those of the larger vineyards, but I’m sure that it was eye-catching when it was new. At this moment, the wood is grayish, and I’m sure easily missed.
I drive up the long road that leads to the winery and stop just beyond a trellis of green that hovers over the road. I park the car and step out, admiring the seclusion of the property. Hidden in the shadows of the hill is a large red barnlike building.
My shoes crunch on the gravel as I walk up to the barn. It is a large structure,
My heart is pounding, and I wonder why I’m reacting this way. When I lift my head toward him, he’s gone, having moved a few feet away. His body is keeping a safe distance, but his eyes show a yearning I’ve never felt before. I must have been looking at him for too long because he turns his back to me and leans his hands on the counter, his back rising and falling.
I blow out through my lips as I rise from my seat and pull a ten-dollar bill from my purse. I place the money on the bar and start to make my way toward the exit. The room is so damn silent, and the walk to the door feels like it is ten times longer than when I walked in.
And it still smells like Clorox.
“Hey, Red,” he calls. There’s a change in his voice. It’s softer, sincere.
I have one foot out the door, but I stop and momentarily decide if I should turn around or not.
“We have local bands here on Wednesday and Saturday nights. It’s a good spot to come to if you want to meet someone.”
I glance over my shoulder to see him still standing behind the bar with his back to me.
I don’t know who hurt him, and I don’t know why he feels the need to carry the burden. What I do know is, that statement was worth more than any apology he could have offered.
With a nod, I walk out of Henley’s Pub.
chapter TWO
I am using a map for the first time in a decade. Yes, a map. An honest-to-goodness gigantic piece of paper that takes up the entire passenger seat.
The hybrid car I rented doesn’t have navigation, and my cell isn’t getting a lick of service in this area of the valley. Jeremy warned me this morning that I’d need to take a map. I was about to laugh at his joke—I mean, who uses a map anymore?—when he handed me one and sent me on my merry way.
Makes me wonder where the hell I’m going.
And I don’t mean just the location.
For an area that is high in tourist traffic, I feel like I am in backcountry. When I take a left off the Silverado Trail, dry dirt kicks up from the road as I make snakelike turns.
I follow the road through the cliffs. Rows of gorgeous vines with perfectly formed grapes clinging to ropes and wires, luscious in the morning dew of the valley. The amazing thing about the scene is that the vines grow low in the valley and high up into the mountains. There is no place these miraculous plants are not thriving.
Plants? I wonder if that’s the correct term or if I’d get my head chewed off by some vine enthusiast.
My lack of knowledge in wine and vines is making me a little nervous about the interview I am about to go on. Naomi was sparing with her knowledge of Russet Ranch and exactly what it is I would be doing there. All I know is, I am meeting with the owner, Ed Martin.
Dressed in a crimson sundress and a pair of tan wedges, I pulled my hair back into a braid, taming the curly mane to look as polished as possible. I’m also wearing my favorite gold chain necklaces that layer from the base of my neck down to the center of my rib cage. I paired it with large gold hoops and a couple of Alex and Ani bracelets that jingle as I turn the steering wheel into Russet Ranch, making a quick right as I almost missed the sign altogether.
A worn, weathered wood sign with the name written in green, red, and white paint is stuck into the ground on the side of the road. It is smaller than those of the larger vineyards, but I’m sure that it was eye-catching when it was new. At this moment, the wood is grayish, and I’m sure easily missed.
I drive up the long road that leads to the winery and stop just beyond a trellis of green that hovers over the road. I park the car and step out, admiring the seclusion of the property. Hidden in the shadows of the hill is a large red barnlike building.
My shoes crunch on the gravel as I walk up to the barn. It is a large structure,
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