Ty. Whatever I have to do, I protect what's mine."
Blowing out a breath, she looked down at the contracts, then lifted her gaze back to his. "I guess we're on the same page here."
"Looks that way."
"Got a pen?"
"No."
She walked to a server, found two in a drawer. She offered him one, flipped through her contract to the signature page. "I guess we can witness each other's." She drew a deep breath, held it. "On three?"
"One, two. Three."
In silence, they signed, slid contracts across the table, witnessed.
Because her stomach was churning, Sophia topped off their glasses, waited for Tyler to lift his. "To the new generation," she said.
"To a good season."
"We won't have one without the other." With her eyes on his, she clinked glasses. "Salute."
CHAPTER FOUR
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The rain was razor-thin and mean with cold, a miserable drizzle that sliced through the bones and into the spirit. It turned the light blanket of snow into a mire of mud and the dawn light into a gloomy smear on the sky.
It was the sort of morning when a reasonable person snuggled in bed. Or at the very least lingered over a second cup of coffee.
Tyler MacMillan, Sophia discovered, was not a reasonable person.
The phone woke her, had her sliding a hand reluctantly out of the covers, groping for the receiver, then dragging it under the warmth with her. "What?"
"You're late."
"Huh? I am not. It's still dark."
"It's not dark, it's raining. Get up, get dressed, get out and get over here. You're on my time now."
"But…" The drone of the dial tone made her scowl. "Bastard," she muttered, but she couldn't dram up enough energy to put any punch into it.
She lay still, listening to the hiss of rain on the windows. It sounded as if it had ice around the edges. And wouldn't that be pleasant?
Yawning, she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She might have been on his time now, she thought, but before long he'd be on hers.
The rain dripped off the bill of Ty's cap and occasionally snuck under his collar to slide down his back. Still, it wasn't heavy enough to stop the work.
And a rainy winter was a blessing. A cool, wet winter was the first crucial step toward a rare vintage.
He would control what he could control—the work, the decisions, the precautions and the gambles. And he would pray that nature got on board with the team.
The team, he thought, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and watching Sophia trudge through the mud in her five-hundred-dollar boots, that had increased by one.
"I told you to wear rough clothes."
She puffed out a breath, watched the rain dissolve it. "These are my rough clothes."
He studied her sleek leather jacket, the tailored trousers, the stylish Italian boots. "Well, they will be before it's over."
"I was under the impression rain delayed pruning."
"It's not raining."
"Oh?" Sophia held out a hand, palm up, and let the rain patter into it. "Isn't that strange, I've always defined this wet substance falling out of the sky as rain."
"It's drizzling. Where's your hat?"
"I didn't wear one."
"Jesus." Annoyed, he pulled his own cap off, tugged it over her head. Even its wet, battered ugliness couldn't detract from her style. He imagined it was bred into her, like bones.
"There are two primary reasons for pruning," he began.
"Ty, I'm aware there are reasons for pruning."
"Fine. Explain them to me."
"To train the vine," she said between her teeth. "And if we're going to have an oral lesson, why can't we do it inside where we'd be warm and dry?"
"Because the vines are outside." And because, he thought, here he ran the show. "We prune to train the vines to facilitate their shape for easier cultivation and harvesting, and to control disease."
"Ty—"
"Quiet. A lot of vineyards use trellising techniques instead of hand pruning. Here, because farming's an unending experiment, we use both. Vertical trellising, the Geneva T-support and other types. But we still use the traditional hand-pruning
Blowing out a breath, she looked down at the contracts, then lifted her gaze back to his. "I guess we're on the same page here."
"Looks that way."
"Got a pen?"
"No."
She walked to a server, found two in a drawer. She offered him one, flipped through her contract to the signature page. "I guess we can witness each other's." She drew a deep breath, held it. "On three?"
"One, two. Three."
In silence, they signed, slid contracts across the table, witnessed.
Because her stomach was churning, Sophia topped off their glasses, waited for Tyler to lift his. "To the new generation," she said.
"To a good season."
"We won't have one without the other." With her eyes on his, she clinked glasses. "Salute."
CHAPTER FOUR
Contents - Prev | Next
The rain was razor-thin and mean with cold, a miserable drizzle that sliced through the bones and into the spirit. It turned the light blanket of snow into a mire of mud and the dawn light into a gloomy smear on the sky.
It was the sort of morning when a reasonable person snuggled in bed. Or at the very least lingered over a second cup of coffee.
Tyler MacMillan, Sophia discovered, was not a reasonable person.
The phone woke her, had her sliding a hand reluctantly out of the covers, groping for the receiver, then dragging it under the warmth with her. "What?"
"You're late."
"Huh? I am not. It's still dark."
"It's not dark, it's raining. Get up, get dressed, get out and get over here. You're on my time now."
"But…" The drone of the dial tone made her scowl. "Bastard," she muttered, but she couldn't dram up enough energy to put any punch into it.
She lay still, listening to the hiss of rain on the windows. It sounded as if it had ice around the edges. And wouldn't that be pleasant?
Yawning, she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She might have been on his time now, she thought, but before long he'd be on hers.
The rain dripped off the bill of Ty's cap and occasionally snuck under his collar to slide down his back. Still, it wasn't heavy enough to stop the work.
And a rainy winter was a blessing. A cool, wet winter was the first crucial step toward a rare vintage.
He would control what he could control—the work, the decisions, the precautions and the gambles. And he would pray that nature got on board with the team.
The team, he thought, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and watching Sophia trudge through the mud in her five-hundred-dollar boots, that had increased by one.
"I told you to wear rough clothes."
She puffed out a breath, watched the rain dissolve it. "These are my rough clothes."
He studied her sleek leather jacket, the tailored trousers, the stylish Italian boots. "Well, they will be before it's over."
"I was under the impression rain delayed pruning."
"It's not raining."
"Oh?" Sophia held out a hand, palm up, and let the rain patter into it. "Isn't that strange, I've always defined this wet substance falling out of the sky as rain."
"It's drizzling. Where's your hat?"
"I didn't wear one."
"Jesus." Annoyed, he pulled his own cap off, tugged it over her head. Even its wet, battered ugliness couldn't detract from her style. He imagined it was bred into her, like bones.
"There are two primary reasons for pruning," he began.
"Ty, I'm aware there are reasons for pruning."
"Fine. Explain them to me."
"To train the vine," she said between her teeth. "And if we're going to have an oral lesson, why can't we do it inside where we'd be warm and dry?"
"Because the vines are outside." And because, he thought, here he ran the show. "We prune to train the vines to facilitate their shape for easier cultivation and harvesting, and to control disease."
"Ty—"
"Quiet. A lot of vineyards use trellising techniques instead of hand pruning. Here, because farming's an unending experiment, we use both. Vertical trellising, the Geneva T-support and other types. But we still use the traditional hand-pruning
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