The Prodigal Son

Not to stay, Matt assured himself as he steered the four-wheeled ATV down a row between thick, leafy vines in the eastern section of Queen’s Valley’s vineyards. He shut off the ignition. Never to stay.

The worst part about going back to Jewell? This wouldn’t be the first time. No, he’d visited his hometown plenty of times since making his impassioned vow never to return ten years ago. He smiled ruefully. That was the problem with making dramatic, heartfelt declarations. They were hard to stick to. Especially ones made in the heat of anger.

Lesson learned.

Which was why he rarely made promises. They were too hard to keep.

Shaking his hair back, he got off the ATV and unhooked the bungee cords holding his equipment bag to the rack behind the seat. He took out his refractometer and slid it into the front pocket of his loose cargo shorts before grabbing a heavy plastic bag. Going down the row, he picked samplings of the Chardonnay grapes, tossing them into the bag.

Queen’s Valley was forty acres of vineyards nestled along the Murray River in South Australia. The grapes thrived in the warm, temperate climate. All around him the vines reached well above his head with heavy clusters of healthy grapes and a well-maintained canopy, the leaves lush and green. He’d worked at wineries in Napa, France and Italy and could honestly say Queen’s Valley was one of the best vineyards he’d seen.

And for the next three years, it was all his.

But first he had to return to where he’d begun. Oh, he’d tried to keep the vow he’d made graduation night. The next day he’d flown out of Virginia and told himself he’d never look back. For over a year he’d kept his distance from his family, the only contact with them an occasional email from one of his brothers, a weekly phone call to his mother. During that time he’d worked two jobs while going to school. Though it’d been a struggle, he’d managed to juggle everything and had put himself through college.

He’d figured out how to take care of himself. And as much as he hated to admit it, his father had been right about one thing. He’d had to grow up. He’d also discovered that he liked being on his own. That he didn’t need his family.

Knowing that made it a lot easier to rip up the checks his mother sent like clockwork at the beginning of each month. It also let him swallow his pride and go home for Christmas during his sophomore year. Three days where, for his mother’s sake, he’d tried his best to act as if everything was all right. As if all was forgiven.

But during his stay, he remembered his graduation night. His hurt and anger and resentment that his father couldn’t appreciate him for who he was. Couldn’t support him in what he wanted for himself.

Then, less than a year after that awkward, tension-filled Christmas, the unthinkable happened. Tom Sheppard, the man who was larger than life, had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Six months later, he was dead.

And he and Matt had never discussed that night or the many issues between them, never came to terms with each other. There were no apologies. No heart-to-heart talks. No closure.

Matt gave his head one sharp shake. That was in the past now. All in the past. He was more interested, more vested in the future. And his future was right here in Queen’s Valley. Continuing to pick grapes, he walked down the row, taking samples from different vines and tasting an occasional grape.

For over twenty-five years, Queen’s Valley had provided top quality fruit to local wineries. Now the owner, Joan Campbell, had decided to branch out and start making the vineyard’s own wines. She’d spared no expense building a state-of-the-art facility and she’d hired Matt to run it all. He had final say in every decision from the variety of grapes to what type of oak barrels to purchase to the shape of the wine bottles. And everyone, save Joan and her daughter, Suzanne, were to report to him.

Total control.

Whistling, he repeated his picking process on the other side of the row. It was like a dream come true. He got to work for a winery that had everything at its disposal to produce the finest wines. A chance to build on his growing reputation, to be known as the man who put Queen’s Valley on the map as one of the finest wineries in Australia.

The best part? It was halfway across the world from Jewell, Virginia.

As he made his way back to where he’d started, he heard the sound of another ATV approaching. A moment later, Joan came into view, her chubby body leaning over the handlebars. Her straw hat, tied around her throat with a string, sailed behind her as she sped down the row at twice the speed Matt would consider safe.

She came closer, and closer still. There was no room for her to get by his ATV without plowing through the trellised vines, but she showed no signs of slowing. Matt’s heart thumped heavily in his chest. Instead of running him over, she stopped quickly, her rear wheels sliding. Clumps of grass and dirt shot out from the spinning tires and Matt jumped back to avoid getting sideswiped.

He wiped the back of his free hand over his forehead. Knew the sweat there wasn’t just from the heat. “You are hell on wheels,” he muttered when Joan shut off the vehicle.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Believe me. It wasn’t meant as one.”

“Now, Matthew, is that any way to speak to your employer?” Her words were like machine-gun fire—short, choppy bursts that came at a man fast and furiously. Combined with her raspy, smoker’s voice and heavy Australian accent, he hadn’t understood half of what she said the entire first month he’d worked for her.

And no matter how many times he’d asked her to call him Matt, she still insisted on using his full name.

Joan combed both hands through her windblown gray hair before putting her hat on. She tipped her head up so she could see him from under the wide brim. “I thought you had a plane to catch.”

“Not for a few hours.” He squeezed the grapes through the bag, crushing them and releasing their juice. “I wanted to check these one last time before I leave.”

Chardonnay, along with Pinot Noir, were early ripening grapes. He wanted to make sure they weren’t set to ripen while he was gone, since it would be impossible for him to decide they needed harvesting when he was on the other side of the world.

“Suzanne was just asking about you. Why don’t you stop by and tell her goodbye?” Joan climbed off the ATV, her shrewd gaze on him. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

The nape of his neck tingled. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he lied.

He ducked his head and pretended dipping the slide of his refractometer into the juice took all of his concentration. At the previous wineries where he’d worked, he’d had to deal with long hours, early frosts, drought, blight…but never a matchmaking boss.

Not that he had anything against the pretty Suzanne. In fact, if the situation was different, he’d have done his best to charm her into his bed. But he preferred to keep his personal life separate from his career. No mixing business with pleasure. No ties. No commitments to hold him to a place other than a legal contract. And when that contract was fulfilled? He was free to go. No hard feelings. No repercussions.

No one trying to guilt him into staying.

Looking through the refractometer, he noted the grapes’ sugar content—twenty-four and a half Brix. The higher the Brix in the grapes, the higher the alcohol content in the wine. But the best winemakers didn’t go just by the numbers. They took into account everything from the color of the skins and seeds to the taste of the fruit and the health of the vines and leaves.

He picked a plump, green grape and tossed it into his mouth. The sun rose over majestic, copper-colored limestone cliffs. It was the middle of February and he was sweating, his shirt sticking to his back. Even his scalp was burning. The breeze brought with it the scent of the river.

God, he loved it here. For now. And when his time at Queen’s Valley was up, he’d be more than ready to move on to the next place. To the next challenge.

“You going to tell me your verdict,” Joan groused, “or stand there and eat all of my fruit?”

“Skin’s thick,” he said, still chewing. “They’re fairly sweet and fruity but still acidic.” He swallowed. “They need more time on the vine.”

She narrowed her eyes until they practically disappeared in her round face. “You sure you’re not just saying that, not delaying our harvest so your plans don’t get interrupted?”

He didn’t bat an eye at her accusation. He’d quickly learned over the past few months that if he took offense at every brusque, argumentative word Joan said, he’d be pissed off all the time. Besides, he’d had tough bosses before. The most demanding being his father.

And the most important lesson he’d ever learned from Tom Sheppard? Never let them see you sweat.

“You hired me because you wanted someone knowledgeable,” he told her, handing her the refractometer and the mashed grapes. “But if you don’t believe me, see for yourself.”

“Cutting it close,” she said after checking the sugar content. “What if they turn while you’re gone?”

“They won’t. The next few weeks will be cool in the mornings. We have time.”

Ripe wine grapes were at their best for only a few days, which made the decision of when to harvest important, but also risky. Matt wasn’t worried, though. They’d had a colder than average summer and were experiencing a late harvest year. And the cool, foggy mornings would ensure the grapes finished ripening slowly.

Too bad Joan didn’t seem convinced.

“Look,” he said, “if they were ready or if there was the slightest chance at all that they could ripen during the next eight days, I’d stay.”

“You’d miss your own brother’s wedding?”

Miss a chance to spend over twenty-four hours of travel—most of them on planes—followed by a week of living in his family’s pockets? Of dealing with his brothers. Trying not to feel guilty because he rarely came home, and when he did, couldn’t wait to be gone again.

Gladly.