Between the Vines (43 page)

“You bet I am,” Ed called behind them.

Outside it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and only a slight breeze stirred, tossing some autumn leaves across the ground.

“Do you want to change?” Pete asked.

Taylor had put on her yellow jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt to work in the office. “I've got flat shoes and I'll take off my scarf.” She'd become pretty efficient at plunging, hardly splashed a drop
anymore.

They made their way around to the old shed and Pete opened the door.

“So this is the last time we have to plunge the NS18?” In spite of getting better at it, Taylor had to admit she'd found it hard work and she had only done a small amount compared to Pete and Antoine. She hoped it might be one of the things she could change about the way Pete processed the wine.

“It gets pressed next and then we'll barrel it.”

“How long till it's bottled?”

“Two years.”

“It's a long time to wait for an end product.”

“But worth it.” Instead of picking up the plunger Pete turned to her and took both her hands in his. He locked his gaze with hers.

She closed her eyes and leaned in ready for his lips to reach hers. It was almost this very same spot where they'd first kissed. Taylor pursed her lips together to stifle a grin. That had ended badly for Pete.

“I don't have much,” Pete said. “This wine was the most special thing I had. Until you came along.”

Taylor opened her eyes. He looked so serious she wondered what on earth he was going to say next.

“I want to share it with you, Taylor. Me and everything I have. Will you stay here and be–”

Taylor pressed her fingers to his lips, cutting him off. “Wait a minute.” Her heart raced, not from excitement but from fear. She was so happy but she didn't want anything to spoil it. She hadn't known Pete all that long and it had sounded like he was about to propose. “I want to stay here with you. But can we take things slowly?”

“I'm not my brother. I've fallen in love with you, Taylor. That means forever to me.”

“And for me. I…well, I've made a few blunders in the love stakes and… I want to be sure.”

Pete looked crestfallen.

“I'm not going anywhere. It feels right to me. I just need a bit more time to make sure. Then you can ask me.” She peered at his sad face. “Can you cope with that?”

“If it's what you want?”

“You is what I want.” She hugged him tight. “I'm sorry I can't say more than that for now.”

“Okay. I can wait.” He kissed her and let her go. “I'm a winemaker, I know what patience is.” He sighed. “I also know we need to get this plunging done. Antoine will have the press ready to go.” He took up the plunger and climbed up onto the plank.

Taylor leaned her arms on the cement edge of the tank and watched. It was hard to imagine this wine had to go into a barrel for two years before it could be drunk. How could he trust it would come out all right at the other end? She watched Pete's strong arms lift and push the plunger, his face intent on his work. Her heart went out to him. He'd put himself on the line for her and she'd knocked him back. Why couldn't she make up her mind like he had? It was what she wanted after all. Someone who she truly loved and who loved her back. Someone she could share her life with. She already felt she knew Pete well. They had so much in common. Her resolve deepened. Like a barrel of wine she had to trust it would turn out okay.

She put her foot on the step, steadied herself and climbed on to the plank. Pete was halfway across. He looked back at her, surprise on his face.

“Can we do it together?” she said. “So in two years' time when we drink it together we can look back on this moment.”

“You've changed your mind?”

“No. I've made up my mind.”

He lifted the plunger as she stepped up to him but instead of taking the elbow he offered she reached for the handle. It rose higher, upsetting her balance. She waved a hand in the air and let out a scream as she felt herself falling. She felt Pete's fingers slide across her hand but she slipped from his grasp.

Taylor hit the lukewarm liquid and slid below the surface. Her feet scrabbled on the slippery bottom and she rose to the top as Pete's hand gripped her arm. She stood in the liquid up to her chest gaping up at him.

“Are you all right?”

She was horrified. “I've ruined your wine.”

He hiccupped. “It'll be fine.”

She peered closer. He was laughing at her.

She gritted her teeth. “I'd like to get out.”

He moved to the side and helped her slide up onto the plank. She lay there a moment listening to him laugh. She pushed herself up, slid her feet over the edge and rounded on him.

“We are definitely changing from this manual plunging.”

“No we're not.” He reached over and plucked a grape skin from her hair. “It's part of the process that will make this wine so special.”

Taylor glared at him. She ran her tongue around her mouth, pushed out a grape skin and spat it to the ground. She froze. There was a flavour, almost imperceptible. She licked her lips, ran her tongue around her mouth again and grabbed Pete's arm. “I can taste it.” She started to laugh. “I can taste the blackberries.”

Pete pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. “Mmmm. So can I.”

A chuckle burst from both of them forcing them apart. Pete scooped her into his arms.

“I reckon you're going to need a long shower or you'll be the colour of a good red for a while.”

Outside the wind chilled her through her wet clothes. Taylor rested her head on his shoulder and let him carry her. She had a fair idea her yellow jeans would never be that colour again but it didn't matter. She didn't care about anything but being here with Pete. She was sure about that. Wriggly Creek was home and she planned to stay.

The inspiration for this story developed on visits to the beautiful Coonawarra wine region of South Australia. There are such a variety of wineries and cellar door experiences and so many different wines to sample, all in the name of research of course, however there's far more to wine than just drinking it.

To get a feel for what happens when producing a good wine and find out what is special about Coonawarra wineries, I had some interesting chats with Wendy Hollick who co-established Hollick Coonawarra in 1983 and John Rymill who is following in his great-great-grandfather's footsteps producing wine at Rymill, Coonawarra. I would like to thank them both for their willing and thoughtful support with my research. I also listened to many passionate winemakers from other wineries who helped to round out the picture, however, words cannot express my gratitude to my son Jared and his partner Alexandra for their fantastic help with the background for this story.

It has been very handy to have a son who is a winemaker and Alexandra who has worked in various aspects of the industry. They've patiently answered my many questions and given suggestions when I've been stuck. Jared also read the early manuscript and replied to my desperate emails at all hours. How lucky am I? Thank you both so much. Your name's not on the front of the book, Jared Stringer, but I hope you're happy to see it here.

So with all this wealth of winemaking knowledge you would hope I've got my information correct. I am a storyteller and sometimes we storytellers can't help ourselves – we can't let the facts get in the way of a good tale so any mistakes within are my own. Most of the places mentioned in the story are also fictitious. I want you to discover the real Coonawarra for yourself.

This writer's journey is assisted by all the usual suspects. In particular I'd like to thank my dear friends Dawn Greig, Kathy Snodgrass and Sue Barlow who have accompanied me on various road trips including a few to Coonawarra. We've had some great times, shared so much and I've managed to fit in some research along the way. Cheers to you, girlz.

Fellow writers are an important support. We're from all over the planet but the willingness to share and encourage is always there. Thank you all from Career Boosters, to Masterclassers, to Romance Writers of Australia and all those in between. And a special thank you to Meredith Appleyard. We've had a couple of very productive writing catch-ups and retreats this year. So good to have another writer just across the table to bounce ideas off when you need it.

The folks at Harlequin are a wonderful team. Thanks to Jo Mackay for her ongoing support and initial feedback and to Annabel Blay for her insightful editorial work – who knew commas were so versatile? And cheers to you both for your quirky quips and delightful senses of humour; timely reminders that I'm not really alone at the keyboard. I know it's hard to single people out but I also want to thank Laurie Ormond and Sarah Fletcher for their proofing expertise, Romina Panetta and the design crew who've excelled with another beautiful cover and Adam Van Rooijen for all the marketing ideas and ready support. So many other wonderful people at Harlequin have had a hand in the publishing of this book. You're a fantastic bunch. Thank you all.

I am also very lucky to have the backing of my other grown-up children and their partners. My daughter Kelly is my number one reader and together with my two young grandsons, my family is the best cheer squad a writer could have. I also have a wonderful extended family and dear friends whose encouragement I appreciate very much. Thumbs up to my husband, Daryl, who keeps me grounded, fed and watered (or should that be wined) and is a steady support in my often crazy writing life. Thank you all.

Last but by no means least, thank you to readers, librarians and booksellers who champion my books, give such valuable feedback and encourage me to write the next story. I appreciate it so much and…I'm onto it!

The first chapter of
Heart of the Country
by Tricia Stringer follows.

Heart of the Country
is an epic historical saga of three Australian families forging their paths in a land both beautiful and unforgiving…

Available where all good books are sold

1846

The biting wind tugged at Thomas Baker's hat as he turned the corner. He pressed it tightly to his head with his hand and bent into the wind. Another miserable day in Adelaide but he would not be deterred from his purpose. He kept to the wooden palings that served as a footpath in front of the assorted stone buildings that made up Hindley Street. Most were single storey, and on this part of the street there were no verandahs. The few people brave enough to be out huddled against the cold with bowed heads and moved quickly. Horses and carts churned along the muddy street. Thomas hunched his shoulders and pulled his coat tighter against the chill, thankful at least that he wasn't wielding a shovel trying to keep the road passable.

He came to a stop in front of a white picket fence and peered up at the sign suspended from a wooden post. The Black Bull Hotel was written in bold lettering and beside it someone had painted a picture of a serene-looking bull. This was the place. He pushed open the gate. Below the name of the hotel there were more words in smaller print.

The warning in the words fitted the brooding appearance of the grey stone establishment. A short sharp shower of rain propelled him forward. He shook the drops from his coat and ducked his head through the door.

Inside the hotel, he stopped and peered through the smoky air and was pleased to see a fire flickering in the grate. A bar ran the length of the large rectangular room and several rough tables and chairs were scattered along the opposite wall. Most of the occupants stood, crowding the space in front of the bar. They were a rough-looking lot; from their dress they were mainly sailors and bushmen.

Raucous laughter and a jaunty female voice drew his gaze to the bar. A barmaid was flirting with the men in front of her as she set down their drinks. She glanced in his direction, but he looked away. He had no intention of buying a drink. With any luck he could conduct his business and be on his way quickly. He sought one man in particular but he could see no-one who met the basic description he'd been given. He squeezed behind two sailors arguing about whose turn it was to buy the next drink. One of them swayed and someone knocked hard against him. Men complained around him. He collided with a chair.

“Steady up.”

“Beg your pardon, sir.” Thomas dipped his head to the seated man he'd almost fallen over. Even though his clothes were unlike any Thomas had seen a gentleman wear, the tone of the man's voice and his stature put him a cut above the rest of the patrons. The man gave him a good look then went back to eating the food in front of him.

Thomas edged into the corner. The sight of the gentleman's steaming bowl reminded him he'd eaten nothing since the pitiful porridge he'd been given at his lodgings that morning. He eased off his damp outer garment and hooked it over the back of the chair. At least from here he could better inspect those at the bar and he would see anyone who came in the door.

Slowly the warmth of the room thawed him. So far the fourteen grey, damp days he'd passed in Adelaide had done little but remind him of the miserable cold of England. They had shown no signs of producing the fresh start his father had predicted. But today would be different. The fledgling hope that had been with him as he stepped ashore all those weeks back, and which had gradually ebbed away, was strong in his chest again. Today was the start of something new.

A pot of ale hit the table in front of him with a thud. He lifted his eyes to those of the barmaid. She leaned in. He pulled his head back from the smell of sour beer and sweat.

“If you're going to sit here you have to buy a drink.”