early rains had forced him to harvest too soon and leave un-ripened grapes hanging. Part of the small crop was in barrels, but it would be another year before he could bottle and sell the wine. The rest of the grapes had been sold at a good profit, at least he’d thought so at the time.
But he was still pumping cash into the business and it was disappearing at an alarming rate.
Almost too fast.
His manager, Jacques, had told him everything was in order, but Marcos couldn’t shake his unease.
The miles passed beneath the wheels of his car, the sun taking on the warmth of midday. Vineyards, heavy with the fruit of summer, covered the hills. He turned off the main road a little north of Avignon and began to wend his way on small roads and through even tinier vineyards.
Jacques strode out of the winery to greet him, a beret cock-eyed on his head.
“Why is it you insist on wearing that thing?” Marcos asked. “It’s so old-fashioned.”
Jacques gave a Gallic shrug. “
C’est moi
.”
“It’s you all right.”
The men hugged and patted each other’s backs.
“So?” Marcos asked.
“It goes.”
“A little more than that, please. I’ve got everything riding on this harvest. Last year we didn’t break even. If we have another year like that … ” He imitated Jacques’ Gallic shrug.
“The water and sugar levels are good.” Jacques walked toward the nearest vine and Marcos followed. The men spent the next hour walking the vineyard, pulling leaves and occasionally popping grapes into their mouths to taste them before spitting them out on the ground.
“If we manage the leaf canopy right and the rain holds off, we should get a good harvest,” Marcos said at the end of their walk. “But I’m going to need you to take over more of the management here so I can handle the Italian vineyards, and maybe one in California.”
“California?” Jacques’ eyebrows peaked. “Very dear, California land. You must be doing well.”
Marcos was startled at the man’s boldness. He shook his head. “No, not so well. You see the books for this vineyard. We’re in the red. But I want to move forward with my plan. Land is cheaper with the recession.”
Jacques looked at the ground. “
Peut-être.
But we need more money to make it through harvest since the government has given the workers a pay raise.”
“
Mannagia tua
!” Marcos blew out a deep breath. “So be it. How much?”
Jacques told him.
“I’ll wire the money when I get home.” Marcos shook his head and walked to the winery, his shoulders slumped. Even if the minimum wage had been increased, the figure Jacques had indicated seemed too high.
Marcos spent the rest of the day in the cool of the barn he’d converted, tending the three barrels of wine he’d made from last years’ grapes. The pinot noir was aging well, but still hadn’t developed the peppery zing he’d hoped to get from it.
During his evening meal in a small café, Marcos’ thoughts turned back to Elizabeth. The kiss had been a tease. He wanted more. What would she look like with her hair mussed and spread out on a pillow, her lips swollen from his kisses? It had been a long time since he’d had a woman in his bed.
He shifted uncomfortably. Probably not a good idea to continue down that path of thinking. Instead, he took out his phone and pulled up a calendar. Harvest came in late September at the earliest. A few weeks of hard labor and he’d be able to make a brief trip to California in October.
He’d intended to spend all his time in Napa, but Elizabeth’s description of the Santa Cruz Mountains intrigued him. Of course, he could only go if he could depend on Jacques to complete the vineyard chores after harvest.
He’d known Jacques for years. But all of a sudden he began to feel he didn’t know the man at all.
Marcos shook his head. He was imagining things.
But was he imagining the attraction between Elizabeth and him? He could see her, find out if the desire was
But he was still pumping cash into the business and it was disappearing at an alarming rate.
Almost too fast.
His manager, Jacques, had told him everything was in order, but Marcos couldn’t shake his unease.
The miles passed beneath the wheels of his car, the sun taking on the warmth of midday. Vineyards, heavy with the fruit of summer, covered the hills. He turned off the main road a little north of Avignon and began to wend his way on small roads and through even tinier vineyards.
Jacques strode out of the winery to greet him, a beret cock-eyed on his head.
“Why is it you insist on wearing that thing?” Marcos asked. “It’s so old-fashioned.”
Jacques gave a Gallic shrug. “
C’est moi
.”
“It’s you all right.”
The men hugged and patted each other’s backs.
“So?” Marcos asked.
“It goes.”
“A little more than that, please. I’ve got everything riding on this harvest. Last year we didn’t break even. If we have another year like that … ” He imitated Jacques’ Gallic shrug.
“The water and sugar levels are good.” Jacques walked toward the nearest vine and Marcos followed. The men spent the next hour walking the vineyard, pulling leaves and occasionally popping grapes into their mouths to taste them before spitting them out on the ground.
“If we manage the leaf canopy right and the rain holds off, we should get a good harvest,” Marcos said at the end of their walk. “But I’m going to need you to take over more of the management here so I can handle the Italian vineyards, and maybe one in California.”
“California?” Jacques’ eyebrows peaked. “Very dear, California land. You must be doing well.”
Marcos was startled at the man’s boldness. He shook his head. “No, not so well. You see the books for this vineyard. We’re in the red. But I want to move forward with my plan. Land is cheaper with the recession.”
Jacques looked at the ground. “
Peut-être.
But we need more money to make it through harvest since the government has given the workers a pay raise.”
“
Mannagia tua
!” Marcos blew out a deep breath. “So be it. How much?”
Jacques told him.
“I’ll wire the money when I get home.” Marcos shook his head and walked to the winery, his shoulders slumped. Even if the minimum wage had been increased, the figure Jacques had indicated seemed too high.
Marcos spent the rest of the day in the cool of the barn he’d converted, tending the three barrels of wine he’d made from last years’ grapes. The pinot noir was aging well, but still hadn’t developed the peppery zing he’d hoped to get from it.
During his evening meal in a small café, Marcos’ thoughts turned back to Elizabeth. The kiss had been a tease. He wanted more. What would she look like with her hair mussed and spread out on a pillow, her lips swollen from his kisses? It had been a long time since he’d had a woman in his bed.
He shifted uncomfortably. Probably not a good idea to continue down that path of thinking. Instead, he took out his phone and pulled up a calendar. Harvest came in late September at the earliest. A few weeks of hard labor and he’d be able to make a brief trip to California in October.
He’d intended to spend all his time in Napa, but Elizabeth’s description of the Santa Cruz Mountains intrigued him. Of course, he could only go if he could depend on Jacques to complete the vineyard chores after harvest.
He’d known Jacques for years. But all of a sudden he began to feel he didn’t know the man at all.
Marcos shook his head. He was imagining things.
But was he imagining the attraction between Elizabeth and him? He could see her, find out if the desire was
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