Twice in a Blue Moon (8 page)

“Don't think it didn't cross my mind.” She couldn't help a small smile. “But I don't have the knowledge to replace her. In fact, there's only one position I am qualified for.”

“What?” He quirked the eyebrow with the white scar bisecting it, making him look skeptical before she even said anything.

That stung.
He just doesn't know you. Yet.
“Vineyard rat.”

The brow developed a furrow. “No way. That's a dirty, backbreaking job.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “So what? You saying I can't do physical labor?”

“I'm not saying that. I'm saying...” He looked like a man who'd stepped in something nasty and was trying to back out of it. “I don't think you'd want to.”

“Well, you've obviously gotten the wrong impression of me.” She raised her chin.

He leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs. “I'm realizing that.”

And the way his gaze lingered on her face like a caress, that wasn't all he saw.

“After all, it's not like Sondra's going to offer.”

He choked out a surprised laugh. “Not bloody likely.”

“I wonder what her problem is.”

“Sondra is like very dry sherry—tart, potent and best sipped sparingly.”

“I'd say she's more like cleaning vinegar.” Indigo winced. “She sure seems interested in you, though,” she said in a teasing tone. “Maybe you should ask her out.”

His face tightened to a clench. “I'm not interested in dating. Anyone.” His lips moved, forming the clipped words, but his jaw didn't.

She held up her hands. “Point taken.”

“Sorry. Bad breakup. Guess I'm still a little...singed.” He rolled his shoulders. “I just want to focus on The Widow and getting her back on her feet.”

“Now there's something we can agree on. No dating. Focus on business.”

He held up a hand for a high-five.

She returned it, then gathered the papers in front of her. “I now have a small marketing budget. I'll get to work on that.”

“I have a contact with a distributor. I'll get in touch with him.”

“Wonderful. I'll focus on our local market—retail, restaurants and ways to increase our foot traffic.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He collected his notes and stood. “Well, it's late. If you'll excuse me.” He turned to go.

“Can you meet me in the vineyard in the morning to show me what needs to be done?”

He turned back with a smile so stiff it looked as though it were ironed on with heavy starch.

Her defenses snapped into place with a click. “I did say in your interview that teaching me the business would be part of your duties.”

“I'll rearrange my schedule, then.” He walked to the door then turned back again. “We'll want to get an early start. It's spring, but it still gets hot out there. I'll meet you, say, seven?”

She'd have to set an alarm to get her yoga in. “I'll be there.”

“Don't forget sunscreen. And a hat.” Then he was gone. The door fell closed behind him.

She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. This was his first week, and he had a ton of work. He was just busy. There was no reason for her to believe he didn't want to be around her.

But that was what she thought, just the same.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
WARM
YELLOW
glow on her eyelids woke her. Indigo lifted her head from the marketing book she'd been reading, groaning when something in her neck popped. Last she remembered, the clock had just gonged two. She stretched. Yoga, then some toast... “What?” The clock had to be wrong. She snatched her phone to check. Nope. Six-fifty. “Crap!” She jumped up and ran for the bedroom.

As proof that dogs were smarter than humans, Barney remained stretched out on the bed. “We're late, Barn. Get up!”

So much for yoga, breakfast and good intentions. She didn't even have time for coffee. Skidding around the corner to the bathroom, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Hair flat on one side, wild on the other. And the book had left creases on her face. Was that a drool track? “Oh, nice look, Blue.” She snatched her toothbrush. The creases would fade, and a hat would fix the hair.
Surely vineyard rats don't need to dress for success.

Maybe not, but vineyard owners should, especially in front of their employees. So she got to work.

The clock on the mantel was gonging seven when she closed the cabin door behind her ten minutes later. She'd come back for Barney, since he refused to budge from the bed right now. Shaking a bottle of sunscreen, she squeezed some into her palm and spread the cool balm over her face.

From the vantage point of the porch, the vines looked deserted. But she'd thought that yesterday, too. “Danovan?” Then louder, “Danovan?”

Her answer was the sound of a tractor firing up behind the winery. She snapped the cap closed on the sunscreen and dropped it in a chair. Slapping a hand on her floppy straw hat, she ran down the hill. Just before she got there, a small green tractor turned out of the lot behind the winery. It had a bucket loader in the front and weird, disc-like things hanging off both sides of the back.

Danovan brought it to a halt in front of her and yelled over the sound of the engine, “Hop on!”

She walked to the side. There was only one seat. “Where?”

He extended a hand. She took it and maneuvered to fit onto the tiny platform. The engine rumbled, vibrating through her feet. He positioned her behind the driver's seat. “Stand there.” His eyes narrowed, and he reached up to run the back of his finger down her cheek.

She jerked and almost tumbled off the back.

He caught her upper arm. “Easy there.” He held up his index finger, displaying a white smear. “Sunscreen, I assume.” He dropped her arm, lowered himself into the driver's seat and yelled over his shoulder, “Do you know how to drive a stick?”

“Yes!” She glanced at the pedals on the floor. Harry had taught her, insisting that she know how to drive his Jaguar. But would those skills transfer to a filthy, beat-up old tractor?

“Hang on to my shoulders and watch what I do.”

She gripped the seat back instead.

He shifted the column stick into gear. “There's no accelerator. You push this up and down to regulate the speed.” When he lifted a lever on the dash, the tractor eased forward.

As they rumbled up the hill, she got a good view of the entire vineyard. Fifteen acres didn't sound like much in LA. But now, faced with responsibility for their care, she felt like a single mother who'd given birth to sextuplets.

You have green thumbs in your genes. Look at Mom. You can do this.

She pushed down the panic trying to slash its way out of her stomach.

You have to do this.

The sun was warm on her back even as the morning air chilled her face. She closed her eyes and took in a lungful of the rich smell of dirt and decaying things. Her shift from Hollywood wife to vineyard rat hit her in a dizzying whirlwind that, inexplicably, lifted her spirits. The future might be uncertain, but today...today was beautiful. Joy, simple and clean as the morning air, blew through her, escaping her lips in a manic cackle. Leaning forward for balance, she raised a fist. “Vineyard rats rule!”

Danovan smiled big and yelled, “I kind of envy you. It's hard work, but this is one of the best jobs at a winery.”

They rumbled past her cabin to the end of the road. He turned the wheel, centering the tractor at the head of the first row. “Straw and mulch is put down in the fall to protect the vines from the cold during the winter. It needs to be cleaned up in the spring because it will hold moisture and spread mildew. The rubber pieces in the back of this tractor rotate, sweeping the straw into the center of the row. Then we make another run, push it to the end and dispose of it. Now watch.” He pressed a button on the dash and hydraulics whined, lowering the apparatus in the back. He hit another button, and the rotators started spinning, adding a bass hum to the tractor's head-banging song.

She leaned over his shoulder to hear him above the noise.

“The sweeper can damage the vines, so be careful to keep the tractor centered in the row.” He lifted the accelerator slide a bit, and they inched forward. “I'll do the first row. Then we'll switch places.”

He turned to check the sweepers, then faced forward, his profile a mask of concentration.

Who wears cologne to work in a field?
Not that it wasn't pleasant. It was one of those signature scents that fused with the wearer to become something richer, fuller. Palpable. His long, capable fingers nuanced the wheel with constant small adjustments.

Capable.
That summed up Danovan DiCarlo in a word. His calm, can-do attitude helped keep her grounded, focusing on the solution instead of the freak-out. So far, she was more than happy with her hiring decision. He was a manager she could rely on.

The capable manager, Danovan may be.
But there was still something about the guy that bugged her at odd moments like a snagged hangnail.

At the end of the row, he hit the button to raise the sweepers, then turned into the next row and took the tractor out of gear. “Your turn.” He stood and stepped as far out of the way as he could.

It was a tight fit. She squeezed by him, releasing her breath with a whoosh when she fell into the seat. She clamped her jaw tight, took the wheel in a death grip and stared down the row.

“Relax.” He touched the back of her hand. “No wasted motion. If you try to muscle it, you'll be sore in an hour. Just flow with it, making adjustments slow and easy.” He squeezed behind the seat. “Remember, no wasted motion. You'll need all your energy. Now, lower the sweepers and put it in gear.”

This isn't going to be hard. It's not like when you dented the Jaguar on the Dumpster. You can't hurt a tractor.

Yeah, but she could hurt the vines. Loss of one would mean less product at the end of the season. Worse, it would take a replacement vine two years to produce grapes.

She jumped when his hands closed on her shoulders. “You can do this, Indigo.” His voice came from beside her ear.

Time to get it in gear, Blue.

She lowered the sweepers, pushed in the clutch and shifted. Gripping the wheel in one hand, she eased the accelerator lever up...and dumped the clutch. The tractor jerked forward and stalled. And what might have been Danovan's crotch hit the back of her head. “Shit. Sorry.”

He grabbed the seat and pushed himself away. “It's okay. I should've been ready for that.” He cleared his throat. “You let the clutch out too fast. There's less travel on a tractor clutch than a car, but you still need to ease it in. Go ahead, try again.”

Running through the steps, she attempted to channel peace.
Feather the clutch. Feather the clutch...

The tractor chugged straight at the vines on the right. She hauled the wheel and headed for the vines on the left.

Danovan's chest bumped the back of her head, pushing it forward. His hands came down onto hers and straightened the wheel. “You're okay.”

She head-butted his chest. “I will be, if you don't break my neck. Back up, will ya?”

He released her hands and straightened.

White-knuckled, nose inches from the wheel to gauge her trajectory, she trundled down the row, sticks and trimmings stirring up dust.

When they neared the end, Danovan shouted, “Be sure the sweepers clear the vines, then make a broad turn to come around and center for the next row.”

It took her three tries, but she did it. Tractor lined up at the start of the row, she stopped to take a breather, shaking out her hands to relieve the cramps.

“I think you've got it. I'm going to pound end posts.” Danovan hopped down. “Yell if you need me, okay?”

She glanced at the dashboard to see if she'd overlooked anything mechanical before he left. “What's that red button for?” Leaning forward, she pointed.

“Don't touch that!”

She snatched her hand back, her heart jackhammering. “What is it?”

His smile was all white teeth. “I'm just messing with you. That's the button to lower the bucket in the front. We'll use that to clean the aisles once they're swept.”

She put a hand to her chest. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

“Yeah, but it got you out of your head for a second, right?” He winked. “Relax. Think of this as rat initiation.” He turned and walked down the row.

She blew out a breath, tempted to run him over. But when she lowered the sweepers and put the tractor in gear, her hands had lost their life-preserver clench.

* * *

H
OW
CAN
THE
SUN
burn so hot in April?
Danovan shrugged to blot a rivulet of sweat running down his back. His shoulders reminded him how long it had been since he'd done heavy labor. This morning he remembered what he'd forgotten in his sprint for the gold. He'd forgotten how working the vines pared problems down to their essence. Forgotten how he loved the smell of tilled dirt and the gratifying potential of new tendrils. Forgotten how life could change with a shift of focus.

Lifting the mallet, he hammered the next post, feeling the thump in his elbows and the ground's satisfying give in his chest. No impossible personnel problems here. No schmoozing snooty clients. He'd forgotten his first love—creating a beautiful wine from dirt.

Or maybe he'd just allowed himself to be enticed away by doe eyes, a great pair of legs and his own ambition.

“Danovan!” Her voice drifted to him on the small breeze that cooled his face. Indigo stood seven rows away, waving from the porch of the cabin. “I've got lunch!”

His stomach growled approval. Using the tail of his shirt to blot his face, he lifted the mallet and trudged.

Her brown hair pulled back, damp tendrils straggled, framing Indigo's face.

“Did you take a shower?” He put a foot on the edge of the porch and leaned his forearms on his knees.

“I just dunked my head under the faucet to cool off. You could do the same. Wash up. I'll get the iced tea and sandwiches.”

“Do you have a hose?”

She waved him up. “Come on in, silly.”

“I'm good here, thanks.”

She cocked her head. “Are you being all weird because I'm a woman?”

Little did she know, what was weird was him
not
getting up close to a pretty woman. But he needed to keep strong boundaries.
And
his promise to himself. “The other night, you seemed a bit anxious about my walking you back here in the dark. I assumed you were worried about my...intentions.” And the pink on her cheekbones told him he'd assumed right.

“Look, Danovan. We're going to be working closely together. And if we want to turn this winery around, we don't have time for all that Mars/Venus crap. Even if I weren't the owner, you told me you're not looking to get involved with anyone, and I'm not either.” She dusted her hands. “So neither of us should have a problem, right?”

He couldn't think of a valid argument that wouldn't bring up his past, so he stepped onto the porch. “Where's the bathroom?”

The room smelled of her. The source of her light jasmine scent turned out to be her shampoo and the hand cream on the sink.
Which you shouldn't be noticing.
He scooped some water from the tap and finger-combed his hair, shivering when the cold drips ran down his hot skin. He couldn't help it if his sense of smell was sharp. His job required it, to detect subtle shades of quality in wine. But wiping his hands on a threadbare towel that had to have belonged to Bob, he had to admit surprise—he hadn't expected such a Spartan bathroom. And as he glanced into the bedroom on his way by, he was surprised by the furnishings there, too. A simple double bed made up with a striped blanket, and a chest of drawers in the corner with nothing on top. Nothing.

Stop noticing.

When he opened the screen door to the porch, her droopy dog lumbered out ahead of him. Indigo sat sipping iced tea in one of the two chairs, a plate of sandwiches on the table between them.

He sat, and the dog plopped in front of him with a longing look, his tail thumping the boards of the porch.

“Barney, mind your manners. Go play in the vines.” She made shooing motions, and the dog wandered off.

Danovan took a long swallow of tea, then rolled the glass on his forehead. “Man, that's good.”

“You told me to wear a hat. Why didn't you?”

“I left it on the table and didn't realize until I'd fired up the tractor.” He took another long sip.

“Well, I've got sunscreen. You'll need to put some on before you go out again.” She put a half sandwich on a plate and handed it to him. “You're getting sunburned.”

“Yes, Mom.”

She took a bite of her sandwich and looked out over the vineyard. “Spring at the winery is the best.”

He should use this time as a teaching opportunity. But he didn't want to talk about Chardonnay. He didn't want to discuss grape varietals. He wanted to know more about her. “So, what was it like, being a Hollywood wife?”