A Fine Year for Love

“Not if you confirm what I heard. Are you making champagne out of vines you brought back from France?”

She knew she shouldn’t confirm even one iota of a fact for him. But if she didn’t, she might not ever learn the real reason for his trespassing.

“Yes. I am.”

“No kidding?” A smile broke across his face and he slapped his thigh as he looked across at the rows of chardonnay vines. His smile dropped off his face in an instant. “How good is it?”

“I don’t know yet. Last fall’s harvest was adequate. My chef de cave, Louisa, has riddled some bottles. They have to age another ten months or so before we try the first bottle.”

Gabe seemed impressed, and Liz knew she’d gained his respect. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s good business,” she replied. “I’ve never been satisfied with the status quo. I want more. Much more.”

“I get that.” He nodded. “I really get that, actually.” He glanced to the south, his gaze going past her land into the distance. He was silent for a long moment.

Whatever he was thinking obviously didn’t please him. What was wrong with having ambition or challenging oneself? Liz wondered. She didn’t care what he thought of her plans for her future. She had the right equipment, vines and people to ensure her success. She only had the unpredictable vagaries of the wind, rain and sun to contend with, just like any other farmer. Gabe ought to know that much.

He looked back at her. “You’ll need a lot of luck, Liz. I wish you that,” he said.

She chortled. “Luck? You don’t think I’ll make it. You don’t know me very well, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’d like to change that.”

She felt surprise mingled with distrust. She leveled him with a glare hot enough to wither healthy vegetation. “Yeah, right.”

“Well, I do owe you an apology. I want to make up for trying to steal your dirt.”

“You know, Gabe, I would have given you a sample. Farmer to farmer.”

This time, he was the one to be cynical. “No, you wouldn’t, Liz,” he retorted sharply. “You would have asked me a thousand questions, just like you’re doing now, because you don’t know me. You know of me. I’m Angelo Barzonni’s oldest son. These days I run his business more than he does, truth be told. That’s all people know. They don’t want to know anything else.”

Liz could almost taste his bitterness, though he spoke with the calm and detached observation of a journalist, as if he were only recording his life and not living it. Her empathy nearly went out to him, but then he flashed his charming smile. He had practiced this masquerade. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was reeling her in...but why?

“I’m going to ask you again, Gabe. Why are you really here?”

“I thought it was obvious. I want to pick your brain.”

She stuck her left hand into the back pocket of her cutoffs and slapped the bouquet of flowers against her thigh as if she could beat down her rising anger. “And the only reason you would want to do that is because you’re going into the wine business.”

Silence.

Gabe kept his eyes on Liz.

“You must think I’m a fool, or that I’d fall for your good looks—”

“You think I’m good-looking?” he interjected.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Look, I came here to taste that great chardonnay of yours. I wandered off to check out the grapes after a bunch of tourists left. I had a soil-gathering kit in my trunk and I went and got it. The gate was open.”

“It’s always locked,” she countered with a glare.

“It was open, okay? I told you. I’m naturally curious. Just as I was collecting the soil, you came up.”

“Caught you red-handed.”

He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Can’t you let it go? I’m sorry.”

She ground her jaw and glanced away, wondering why he unnerved her this much. “You better leave. We have nothing more to say.”

“Liz, come on.”

She shot him a stinging look. He shut up. “You want me to get my gun?”

“No!” He put up his hands. “I’m going. Okay?”

He started past her and as he reached her side, he stopped and leaned in close to her ear. “We have a lot in common, Liz. I can see it. Why can’t you?”

He walked away, got in his car and drove off.

Liz walked up the porch steps and stopped at the front door, noticing her grandfather was standing just inside. The door was opened just wide enough he could have easily heard their conversation.

“Hi, Grandpa,” she said with a wave of the bouquet.

Sam Crenshaw was as tall as Gabe, about six-foot-four, with a thatch of white hair that had thinned over the years and which no pair of scissors could ever tame. Liz always said she inherited her wild curls from Sam. He stood straight-backed and square-shouldered, as he always did when he sensed confrontation. Liz smiled to herself, validated that her grandfather also sensed the presence of a foreign substance. Gabe was like a sliver, Liz thought. Inconsequential at first, but the longer you took to deal with it, the more harm it could cause.

“So that’s Gabriel, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied, glancing back as Gabe’s convertible left a dusty rooster tail in his wake.

“Good-looking kid. Resembles his mother.”

“I guess,” she said, moving inside.

“He give you those flowers?”

“Yep. I’ll throw them in the compost heap. It’s all they’re good for.”

Sam nodded resolutely. “Very wise. I’ve never met a Barzonni who wasn’t up to no good.”

Liz was surprised by Sam’s pointed comment. She’d never heard him mention anything in particular about the Barzonni family in the past, but judging from the way his jaw was set as if he’d just tasted something acrid, her curiosity was piqued.

Sam’s eyes had narrowed to piercing blue slits. Liz knew he used these discerning eyes when he needed to ponder a situation. She also knew he didn’t want to talk about Gabe, at least for the moment. Later, she might be able to coax an explanation out of him.

“I’ve got work to do.” Sam plucked his straw hat off the hall tree stand and stepped outside, leaving Liz alone.

Liz looked sadly at the summer bouquet.