Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (14 page)

Frankie was mad. In fact, frustration and fury were two of the main reasons she wound up at the yoga studio Get Bent, drenched in spandex and sweat, joining the Mommy and Me Yoga class at the request of her friend Jordan. Oh, and Nate. Nate was the third part of that equation.

Even thinking about him—combined with her earlier meeting with Susan Jance and the woman’s easy dismissal of Frankie’s wine—made her stomach burn and every muscle in her body cord with tension. And here she thought things had been going so well between them. They’d managed to work side by side installing the new tank, to cohabitate for three days without a single argument—or kiss.

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Jordan hissed from the mat to her right. “This is supposed to be relaxing, and how can I relax when I can feel your inner confliction stinking up the entire room?”

“That stink is the unsanitary amount of dirty diapers.” She turned her head and glared at Jordan. Her best friend, and the
reason Frankie was currently surrounded by screaming ankle-biters in Gerber poses, glared back in a very un-zen-like way.

“I have thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to relax and enjoy today, so don’t you dare ruin this,” Jordan threatened, in a strained whisper. Yup, zen was definitely absent.

Properly chastised, Frankie looked out over the sea of yoga-clad backsides sticking up in the air and focused her attention on the instructor at the front of the room twisting herself into knots, and took a deep, cleansing breath.

It didn’t help.

The kid directly in front of her let out a low, concentrated grunt and Frankie felt a rash break out on her arm. Death grip on the mat, legs stretched in some inhumane position, she lowered her head to the floor and averted her gaze.

Maybe if she focused on her breathing, she would forget that Susan Jance had all but shot down any chance Frankie had at saving her vineyard, forget that nearly every mat was taken, and forget that half the population was wearing diapers. She also wouldn’t have to admit that the two-foot-tall-tot next to her, who had applesauce on her face and was in desperate need of a tissue, was better at yoga than Frankie.

“Why did you drag me here, again?” Frankie whispered to Jordan—the only other person in the room without an infant.

“You called me and threatened to light Nate on fire. I couldn’t let you do that. Not today, because then I’d have to bail you out and I would miss Mommy and Me yoga.” Jordan was toned, insanely flexible, and indeed a mother. “Ava and I have been looking forward to this for weeks, right honey?”

“Whatever,” Ava mumbled, looking as though she’d rather light herself on fire than be in the same room with good old Mom. Today Frankie’s goddaughter was sporting blue streaks
in her red hair, white dance pants that barely covered her butt and finished off the proud-to-be-an-American look, and enough teenage angst to fuel a revolution.

“I heard you got another acceptance letter,” Frankie said quietly, thankful they were in the next to last row, so as not to disturb the class. Although it was hard to disturb when half the students were gurgling, crying or chanting, “Binkie.”

“Yup, NYU.” Ava flashed a satisfied smile at Jordan before going into plank. “As in New York and Not Here.”

For years, Jordan had overlooked Ava’s bad attitude, her hoochie wear and body piercings, blaming her ex-husband for their daughter’s less-than-sunny disposition and self-expression for her stripper-like persona. She’d put up with the below-average grades, the rolling of the eyes, even the constant use of words like “Whatever” and “Meh.” But the moment she’d walked in on Ava and her study-buddy playing pirate and the fair maiden in the bathtub, Jordan had gone DEFCON-freak-the-fuck-out. She’d nearly castrated the kid, put Ava on house arrest, and became the founding member of the purity-for-eternity coalition.

Ava, realizing the only way she’d ever get to date was to move away, far away, spent her incarceration hitting the books and memorizing mathematical theory, resulting in straight As, a near perfect SAT score, and early admissions into every college she applied to—all conveniently located a cool three thousand miles from home, and her mom.

With graduation only a year away and acceptance letters piling up, Jordan, desperate to give her daughter the correct foundation for school, had signed up for every class and event that being a young, single mom hadn’t allowed for.

“Which is why I was hoping you could talk to Jonah. See if he would give us a tour of the Sheriff’s Station,” Jordan asked.

Frankie looked at Ava, who rolled her eyes. But instead of her usually mopey mumble, she actually spoke. “My school went to the sheriff’s station when I was a kid. Mom couldn’t come because she was working, so she wants to recapture that precious family moment. And maybe if I’m lucky, she’ll bring juice boxes and sliced oranges and we can all pretend that I’m not
sixteen
.”

“Maybe if you stopped acting like a shit, she’d stop acting like some psycho helicopter mom,” Frankie said, none too nicely. Too bad every mommy in a three foot radius skewered her with a glare for the profanity.

“Gee, and maybe you can even come along, like one big happy family, and show me what cell you were held in.”

She got Ava. Understood why she was so angry. Her dad had walked out, married someone else and started family 2.0, forgetting that he had already had a kid who wanted nothing more than to be Daddy’s little girl.

Only Ava wasn’t a girl anymore, and even if Steve managed to pull his head out of his ass, which Frankie highly doubted, it was too late for Ava to be his little anything. And that had to hurt.

“Or maybe you can treat your godmother with some respect, go to the station with me and I’ll consider letting her take you to the city on her motorcycle and pick out matching tattoos?” Jordan offered on an exhale.

Ava dropped her arms to her side and blinked. “Are you serious?”

“No way,” Frankie blurted out at the same time.

“If you manage to make it to summer without giving me one more sleepless night or gray hair, I will let you get a tattoo for graduation,” Jordan said. “It has to be small and able to be hidden underneath clothes. What?” Jordan said glaring at Frankie. Ava, who was diligently paying attention to the instructor as though she was in the running for Daughter of the Year, ignored them. “Don’t look at me like that and don’t you dare judge me.”

Frankie put her hands up in surrender. A hard task when she was supposed to be balancing on one leg like a stork.

“No look. No judgment,” she said loudly, then leaned in and whispered to Jordan. “Are you drunk? Is that what is going on? Jesus, first Mommy and Me, now a tattoo. Have you completely lost it?”

“Maybe, but at this point I am willing to do anything to make it to graduation without killing my child. Do you know how little sleep I get, how many nights I hide outside her window with my taser gun waiting for Mr. Sex on Wheels?”

“I thought Mr. Sex on Wheels had been effectively shut down.”

“He was. But do you know how many horny high school boys have cars? Bikes? Scooters? Legs?” She practically shrieked the last word. “A limitless amount of possibilities to come to my house and impregnate my daughter? Possibilities that a 500-volt zap to the nuts eliminates.” Frankie opened her mouth to say that maybe Jordan was being a wee bit paranoid, when she added, “I know what you’re going to say and before you do, just take a look at the rack on my kid.”

Frankie did and saw Jordan’s point. Sixteen going on bombshell. When had that happened?

“And if the promise of a discrete tattoo and a ride on your bike will get me even a single night’s peace, it will be worth it.”
Jordan now studied her with the assessment of a worried mother-slash-best friend. Frankie leaned forward, reaching toward the front of the room, but couldn’t help feeling that she too was another reason Jordan had lost sleep as of late. “Now, tell me why you were considering lighting Nate on fire.”

“Not Nate, his car. And the rat fink cork-blocked me with Susan Jance.”

“Oh,” Jordan froze, leg in the air. “You were trying to land her new client that everyone is all abuzz over?” Frankie shrugged and Jordan’s face went soft as she sat back on her knees. “Sweetie, Nate didn’t cork block you, not on purpose.”

Frankie willed her eyes not to roll. The DeLucas had taken Jordan and Ava in when Jordan had lost everything and she was to this day a loyal, if not misguided, advocate in her DeLuca support.

“Yeah, well purposely or not, he gets the added bonus of screwing with my life.”
Again!
“Susan was so excited to talk about my wine last week and I was so sure that her client had already decided on me. Then Nate came in with his Italian swagger and impressive heritage and wooed her away.”

“The man does know how to woo. You know what’s impressive? His butt. Nate has the best backside in the Valley. I think it comes from all of the bending and squatting while he works his vineyard.” Jordan smiled and Frankie could have sworn that she actually swooned a little.
Great.
“And to clarify, Susan came to him.”

“I’ll bet,” Frankie mumbled. He probably flashed his Prince Charming smile and his even flashier credentials, and the woman came fluttering. They always did. Hell, even she had.

One kiss and she had sold him the farm.

“I can’t believe I let him talk me into changing my planting
schedule. If I had stuck to my original plan”—
instead of losing my mind over a stupid, calculated and totally incredible kiss
—“this wouldn’t be so bad. But I was counting on that sale to pay for the tanks and irrigation that Tanner’s already installing.” Her stomach heated with anger. Anger at Nate for playing her, and herself once again being played. “God, it was like I walked right into Nate’s trap.”

“There’s no trap, Frankie. Not with Nate, that isn’t his style. Besides I took Susan’s call.” Which still didn’t mean that Nate hadn’t approached her first. Or that he hadn’t known about Frankie. “She said that her client was looking for a name in the valley that had some history behind it.”

“Yeah, she told me the same thing. Said that she needed a brand that had some heft, credentials as impressive as her black book.” Frankie shrugged. “I just figured that after tasting my wine, which by the way she said was the best she’d had in years, she’d be willing to take a chance.”

“Of course she said it was the best, because it is, which means the hard part’s over. She has tons of clients, so you aren’t the perfect fit for this particular one. So what?” Jordan shrugged. “All you need to do is give her a reason to recommend you and her clients a reason to say yes.”

“Even if she could find another collector in time, I would face the same problem.” That was why she had been banking on this client. He was the only collector who had shown interest in Frankie despite her winery’s lack of heft. Without Susan’s public stamp of approval she would have a hard time selling. No sale meant no loan, and it could quite possibly cost her the first few years of grapes.

“Collectors want credentials, right? Then give it to them.” Jordan pulled her shoulder-length red hair into a haphazard
knot at the back of her head and with the flick of the wrist managed to look effortlessly sexy. Frankie would need a stylist and a gallon of hair goop to get the same effect. “The Cork Crawl is two weeks away. Enter your wine.”

“Already thought of that, but Charles is entering with Kenneth and Tom.”

“Creepy Kenneth, your slug of a cousin?” Jordan made a sour face. “What about finding a sponsor?”

The Cork Crawl was established as a way to allow local wineries to shine in the presence of wholesalers and collectors. In order to keep the festival small and exclusive, the only way a new winery could participate was under a veteran vineyard’s stamp of sponsorship approval. So in the event that a winery didn’t have a team to enter or must, for whatever reason, forfeit their spot, the winery could use their entry to sponsor a new winery into the competition.

“Yup but since the opening ceremony is a week from Saturday, I doubt there are even any sponsorships left.” Frankie tried to laugh, but lying flat on her stomach with her feet tucked behind her ears made it hard. Or maybe it was because she just couldn’t seem to find any humor in the situation.

“I know of one.”

Frankie held her breath. “Really? Who?”

“I happen to know the exclusively female winery I sometimes work for is not competing this year.”

“Are you serious?” Frankie said. Feet firmly back on the mat, heart lodged in her throat, she turned her head to look at Jordan.

She couldn’t be serious. The only one-hundred-percent pro-chick winery in the Valley besides Frankie’s was Ryo wines. Relatively new to the scene and already with awards up the
wazoo, Ryo was owned and operated by none other than Nate’s sister Abby and their grandmother. Which was too bad.

Being crowned king of the Cork Crawl was exactly what she needed. It would give her credentials, reputation, and something tangible for her to point at when looking for buyers—or a loan.

Competing under the DeLuca sponsorship, however, was just what Frankie needed to avoid. Another tie to the DeLucas was one other surefire way to piss off her grandpa and give him another reason to never speak to her again.

Then again, she was already sharing toothbrush space with Nate, Charles had already given away the farm so to speak, and that kind of endorsement would prove to the town that Frankie got that sponsorship on her own merit. Because to convince Abigail, the DeLuca Darling, to sponsor her was going to be impossible—well, impossible for someone without Frankie’s talent.

Jordan smiled and… no way, she was serious.

“ChiChi is already a fan,” Jordan said, exhaling and going into a lotus position. “She was raving about your wine last week at the board meeting. Said it was better than Nate’s.”

Better than Nate’s?
Frankie couldn’t help but share her own secret smile. She’d been trying to get her grandpa to change things up for over a decade. It was why year after year they lost the Cork Crawl to the DeLucas. Because Charles was determined to keep with tradition, which was fine, but sometimes the most beautiful things could come from shucking tradition and saying screw you to science and going with the unexpected. Sometimes it led to something really amazing. It was how she’d created her Red Steel Reserve.