Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (10 page)

“How much are you producing annually?”

“Between twenty-five hundred and three thousand cases, depending. Most of it is sold to our wine club members and restaurants, but I’m getting ahead of myself,” he says. “Tour starts after we eat. Follow me.”

We step out onto the veranda where most of the guests have migrated. Immediately I spot Possum, the bartender from The Tangled Vine, his hair still brighter than a traffic cone. He has an arm draped around a woman who exudes personality despite not being taller than five feet in heels. The pixie cut, the half sleeve of pirate-themed tattoos and full color chest featuring intricate artwork, the cat-eye glasses, and the bright red lips all scream confidence.

Hundreds of white lights are strung in the trees, and the air is thick with the scent of steaks charring over the applewood-fire grill on the far side of the patio. While I stand idle beside Ryan, people slap him on the back and offer their congratulations on another fantastic crop of grapes.

“This is going to be our best vintage yet.”

“Yields for Petite Syrah were lower than normal, but the quality is there.”

“The Cab Sauv took her sweet time getting into rock-and-roll mode, but she came through,” says one man with bushy eyebrows and purple-tinted fingertips. “The extra hang time on the vine should really enhance her flavor development.”

Ryan answers them with praise of his own for their efforts and dedication. He’s good at working a crowd. Almost too good. For an instant, I get a glimpse of someone else—someone polished and educated and who knows how to win—and I realize there’s more beneath his rugged exterior than I thought.

Ryan slips behind the outdoor bar and fills two glasses with white wine the color of hay bales, and passes one to me. “It’s a Viognier. To wake up your palate.”

“Really? I thought it was cat pee,” I say.

“Do you ever stop being a pain in the ass? Just drink it.”

I’m getting under his skin. Perfect.

I swirl the glass, holding it up to the slowly fading light, and sniff the wine, inhaling the aroma of overripe apricots, melon, and orange blossoms. I take a sip, letting the liquid rest in my mouth a moment. Having never tried Viognier before, I expected a syrupy, sappy flavor to match the bouquet, but instead it’s crafted in a dry style with a creamy texture and tastes of tropical fruits and a touch of spice.

Ryan watches me the entire time, waiting for the verdict.

“It’s no Chardonnay, that much is obvious,” I say, which of course is a positive thing, because I hate Chardonnay and its oaky, buttery profile, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I thought you’d appreciate this varietal of grape since she’s so much like you. Difficult to handle. Finicky about her growing conditions. You have to pick her at just the right moment or else she throws a fit and the wine turns out wrong.”

Cheeky bastard.

I start to respond when sixty pounds of white-and-gray canine barrels up to me, paws landing on my chest, tongue licking all over my cheeks. I stumble in my wedges, and a split second before I’m about to fall over, I grab the edge of the bar. Wine sloshes out of my glass and onto my blouse and neck, which causes the dog to lick harder and more frantically. I gag as I try to push it off me.

Ryan snaps his fingers. “Bordeaux, off.” His voice is deep and commanding and a little bit rough, and I bet it’d sound even better when spoken in my ear. The dog sits and stares at me with an eager look, as if she wants me to pet her.

I prefer goldfish.

“Cute,” I say, wiping off the saliva on my clothes. The dry cleaner is going to love me.

Ryan pats his leg and the shaggy beast struts over to him like a model on a runway. “She’s a bearded collie puppy. Eventually she’ll settle down.”

“Except Bordeaux is almost four years old, so it’s not likely,” Moose says, approaching with a plate crowded with what appears to be every offering from the grill.

“Ignore him. Moose is envious of your spirit,” Ryan says to Bordeaux, scratching behind her ear. Without warning, my mind conjures up all the ways those capable hands and rough fingers could make me melt, causing heat and anticipation to rush through me and settle low in my stomach.

Moose elbows me in the arm, knocking me back into my good sense. “I’m glad you came tonight,” he says, plucking a spear of asparagus off his plate and eating it in two bites.

“I had to thank you in person for your suggestion,” I say. “And you’ll be happy to know I figured out a way to accomplish it.”

A grin crosses Moose’s face that tells me he understands my meaning. “Excellent. I hope there’s a little something in it for me if it’s successful. I’m partial to sweets.”

“I wouldn’t stress it, Marge,” Ryan interjects, winking at me. “Moose has a very loose definition of sweet. He seems to like you well enough.” He thinks he’s so witty. I bet if he knew what Moose and I were referring to, he wouldn’t be so proud.

I sneak another sip of wine, summoning up a quip of my own, when Big Boobs McGee, the blonde who was hanging off Ryan during the pool game at The Tangled Vine, joins us. Tonight she’s dressed more appropriately in jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt with the Camden Cellars logo printed across the chest. She carries a plate of food and the attitude of a jealous ex-girlfriend.

“Well, who do we have here?” She sidles up to Ryan so her chest presses against his arm. It’s a subtle claim of ownership, yet I feel the move more acutely than Ryan seems to. The manipulation, the passive aggressiveness reminds me of all the times I pulled similar stunts on Nick, and for what? He still chose Lillie. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Bonnie Cantrell. I work in the tasting room. Are you new to town?” she asks me.

“Margaret,” I say. “I’m . . . visiting.”

“You two have met before,” Ryan says, stepping away from her, closer to me, and I wonder if the move was conscious on his part. “The night of the Gansey house prank.”

I should have guessed Big Boobs McGee is Bon Bon.

“Funny. I remember that night, but I don’t remember you,” she says, inspecting me as if I’m invading her territory. It’s possible that even back then, while Ryan and I were kissing in that dilapidated kitchen, they were a thing. Or maybe it was an unrequited crush. After a pause, recognition lights up her eyes. “You’re Joy’s granddaughter. So that means . . .” She faces Moose, then Ryan. “Well, your family certainly knows how to grease the wheels of the gossip mill. You were the hot topic for weeks after that, which of course just brought old rumors and gossip back to life.”

Ryan shoots her a glance and she quiets under his subtle head shake.

“How sad that I was the focus of such interest. Life here must be terribly boring for those of you who never manage to leave,” I say, showcasing my signature bitchy smile.

“All right, I’d better feed Marge before she reaches a new level of snarky.” Ryan steals my wine and polishes it off in one gulp before finishing his own. What a wart. I was intending on drinking that. He sets both empty glasses on the bar and places a hand on my lower back. As he escorts me over to the food area, I catch the sour expression on Bon Bon’s face.

“Is Bonnie your ex-girlfriend?” I ask.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” Ryan says, then greets the chef manning the grill. They spend a minute chitchatting about the upcoming wine dinner at the chef’s restaurant. Finally, Ryan glances at the chalkboard menu and orders the center-cut filet served with a Zinfandel demi-glace, Boursin mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables.

After I order the same, I turn to face Ryan and ask, “How about your paramour?” He stares at me like I’m talking in some secret fairy language. “You know, your occasional sex partner?”

“Leave it to you to make a fuck buddy sound snotty,” he says. “And, no. Not recently.”

“So you’re sticking to second cousins for pleasure these days?” I ask. “That’s how you country boys do it, right?”

Ryan shakes his head, as if I’m an infuriating creature he can’t make sense of. “Please never change.”

He’s joking—I know this—but still his words spark something inside me. A hope, a possibility, that maybe someday someone will accept me for who I am and deem me worthy all the same.

But there’s a reason people say hope, like love, is fleeting.

9

A
fter we eat and bottles of private reserve Cabernet are passed around and toasts celebrating the harvest have concluded, Ryan whisks me away for the official tour. It’s time to put my plan into action and amp up the charm, enough so he thinks I’m interested but not to the point I get carried away. Coaxing him to the bed-and-breakfast’s property will be tricky if he suspects I’m up to something, so I have to play this right.

He guides me through an arched doorway and into the wine production area. The air in here is cooler and less humid, a sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside. Goose bumps pop up all over my skin.

While Ryan adjusts some controls on the wall, I sneak several sips of Cab and stare at the way his upper body tapers into a V-shape, how his broad shoulders and back muscles are defined and visible beneath the fabric of his shirt. I have a flash of me wearing nothing but that shirt, my hair a mess, and his scent all over me. Ryan turns around before I can cut my eyes away or rearrange my expression, and the smile that spreads across his face is so wide and self-satisfied I’m surprised canary feathers aren’t stuck in his teeth.

“Marge, I think we can both agree I’m worth more than a Happy Meal,” he says. He glances at my near-empty glass without comment, but no doubt there’s a pompous remark waiting on the tip of his tongue. “This way.” He practically skips backward between the two rows of tanks on either side, swinging the wine bottle in his hand. “This room is where the magic starts to happen. After the grapes are picked, they’re brought here to be sorted and destemmed. The fruit is placed whole into these tanks to cold soak for several days before fermentation.”

Ryan speaks with such passion and authority I can’t help but wonder how a trouble-seeking teenager with the nickname Cricket transformed into someone who owns and operates a boutique winery.

“So we’ve already reached the part of the tour where you spout off facts like a brochure,” I say.

He stops beside a large egg-shaped thing I’ve never seen before and slaps the side, the resulting noise loud and harsh and with a slight echo. “We’ve recently switched to using concrete tanks to age our private and special-reserve wines, specifically our Tempranillo and that Cabernet you’re pretending not to enjoy. We believe the concrete provides a truer taste of the vineyard without oak flavoring hiding flaws in the fruit. It’s brought the final product to a whole new level.”

I sniff my wine, breathing in the aroma of plum and cranberry, then take a sip, paying closer attention to the flavor profile. Now that Ryan mentions it, I taste none of the vanilla or toffee notes commonly found in wines exposed to oak barrels, but rather a concentration of dark ripe fruits framed by silky tannins that give way to a lingering cherry finish.

“Very unique,” I say, but it’s also smooth and pronounced and impeccably crafted. The intense climate, difficult soils, varying landscapes, and presence of pests and vine diseases should make grape-growing conditions harsh and unpredictable in Texas. And yet Ryan has managed to create a range of wines that prove anything is possible. How does he do it?

“The Cab is more than unique.” He steals the glass out of my hand, the calluses on his palm brushing my knuckles, and a tingling sensation vibrates through my body. Drinking some of the wine, Ryan moves closer to me, his gaze roaming over my face. He slides a hand around my waist, his palm coming to rest on the small of my back. “She’s like an enticing redhead playing hard to get. At first she’s standoffish, but then slowly you catch a glimpse of what’s underneath. Before you know it, you’re in deep, a slave to her allure.”

Had he thrown a live grenade at me, it wouldn’t have felt more dangerous than his words just then. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer, and my common sense is crumbling in a way I’ve never felt with anyone. Lust I’m familiar with. But this . . . this is something different.

But that kind of temptation can only lead to trouble. I reclaim my wine glass and put enough distance between us to lessen the uncontrollable tug I feel toward him. “Or perhaps you’re confusing playing hard to get with uninterested.” I try to keep my voice strong and even, but I’ve learned that Ryan is unnervingly perceptive, so I’m sure he hears the warble in it, hears how absolutely terrified he makes me. He has this way of spinning me off course, pushing me out of my element, and even worse, I’m beginning to enjoy it.

He barely reacts, save for the muscles tightening in his jaw, as if he sees right through me.

I clear my throat and gesture to the egg-shaped tank. “How do you handle pump over in this thing?” I ask, referring to the technique where a portion of the juice is pumped out from the bottom of the tank and sprayed over the mass of grape skins, stems, and seeds floating at the top.

Ryan continues to stare at me with an all-too-invasive look. Finally he says, “The shape allows the wine to circulate naturally during fermentation, reducing our need for punch down.” He pauses a moment. “Not only are you a contradiction, but you’re quite the enigma. How do you know so much about winemaking?”

I shrug. “I’ve toured countless wineries and vineyards all over the world—Napa, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Rioja.”

“Then you won’t mind a little competition in the form of wine trivia,” he says. “Let’s make this more interesting. I’ll ask you a question. If you get it wrong, the tour ends. But if you get it right, we move onward.”

Calculating, bluff-calling wart
. If I refuse to participate, it means I’m not up for the challenge—and I
never
back down from a challenge—but if I agree and answer the questions correctly, he’s proven a part of me wants to be here with him. Except Ryan doesn’t realize that engaging in his little game also brings me closer to my goal.

“What’s it going to be?” he asks.

“I’m in, but only if you answer some personal ones of my own.”

“It doesn’t take much to figure out a simple country boy like me. I’ll grant you three. Make ’em count.”

“Ditto for you,” I say, back on track, though it’s unclear which one of us has the upper hand.

“Then let’s discover how smart you really are,” Ryan says, walking backward again. “What’s the name of the process of siphoning wine off the dead yeast into a clean container?”

“There’s easy and then there’s insulting,” I say, following him. “The answer is ‘racking,’ and it’s something that should be repeated several times during the various winemaking phases in order to soften tannins, clarify the wine, and enhance its aromatic characteristics.”

“So you are up for the challenge.” Ryan opens another arched door, exposing a steep stone staircase, and signals for me to go ahead. “Tour continues below. I’ll hold this,” he says, grabbing the wine glass from my hand again. “It’d be a shame for you to trip and fall face-first.”

“I assumed you’d relish the opportunity to bask in the view,” I say, descending the steps, careful of my foot placement so I don’t reinjure my ankle or twist the other one. “And it’s
my
turn when we reach the bottom.”

“I’m shaking in anticipation,” he says, trailing after me.

The stairwell leads to a cave-like cellar with barrels lining the walls. It’s not hard to spot the ones that have been aging the longest—sections of the outsides are stained a burgundy color where the red wine has seeped into the oak. Rustic iron chandeliers run along the ceiling, creating an inviting and romantic atmosphere. The air is dank and still and smells slightly of minerals and Herbes de Provence, something I’ve always found refreshing.

Ryan corks the bottle of Cabernet and sets it, along with my glass, on a hand-carved wooden bar perfect for wine tasting. “This is our barrel room—”

“Thank you for stating the obvious.”

“—where we age everything but our reserve wines in French oak for two years with an additional year in the bottle before being released to the public.”

He retrieves two fresh glasses and a bottle of wine from a rack fastened to the stone wall. The label has
Wild Abandon
printed in script around an icon of bright red lips, similar in tone and style to the label on the bottle of No Regrets I drank at The Tangled Vine. Pouring some for each of us, Ryan passes me a glass and says, “For when you want to live on the edge. It’s a Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre blend.”

The enthralling look in his eyes momentarily knocks me off-kilter and makes me want to do something stupid like swim naked in a public fountain. I imagine he’s caused quite a few women to throw caution to the wind and lose themselves in his brand of reckless love.

“I favor the straight and narrow,” I say.

“Sure you do. Which is why you’re here with me right now,” he says. “Hit me with your worst, then.”

Leaning against the bar, I take a sip and study him. I shuffle through a list of questions in my head but settle on the all-encompassing one I was contemplating before. “How did the boy I remember from that night become the owner of an award-winning winery?”

“That’s the best you can do? I thought you’d go for the jugular.” His tone is lighthearted, almost flirtatious, but I catch a hint of something cautious and guarded underneath, and I know I’ve touched on a sensitive subject and this is his attempt at deflection.

“I thought I’d let you warm up first. But take your time if you need it,” I say, curious as to how much information he’ll share.

He swirls his glass with a flick of his wrist, the red liquid climbing up the sides. Finally he rakes a hand through his hair and sighs. “When I was twelve my dad ran out on my mom and me. He was never around much to begin with, and when he was there he used his fists more than anything else, but I still didn’t handle his departure well.” He hesitates, his relaxed demeanor slipping for a moment, so quick I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been staring closely at him. “I was a handful for my mom and constantly in trouble, so she arranged for me to help Fred Baxter, an older man who lived on this hill surrounded by thirty acres of land perfect for grape growing. His wife had died years prior and he’d let things become overgrown and run-down. My mom thought offering me as manual labor to fix the house and get the property in order would set me straight. And it did.”

At first I think that’s all Ryan’s going to say, but he strides over to one of the barrels, checks the seal on a stopper covered in burlap, and continues. “I discovered I enjoyed working the land and felt connected to it in a strange way I’ve never been able to articulate, but never once did I consider someday owning a winery. That concept was so far out of my realm of possibility, but Mr. Baxter encouraged me to apply to UC Davis’s Viticulture and Enology program anyway. When he passed away a few years after I graduated, he willed his entire estate to me on the condition I used the acres for a vineyard. I was living in Provence at the time but moved back to Wilhelmsburg after his attorney contacted me with the news. I planted the first grapes that spring, almost a decade ago, and I owe it all to an old man who gave me a chance.”

His words blow open a hole inside me. Apart from being a troublemaker as a kid, nothing about him is what I expected—educated, cultured, a successful businessman. More questions swirl in my mind, but all I manage to blurt out is, “Do you speak French?”

Ryan imitates the sound of a buzzer. “It’s my turn now.”

I gesture for him to get on with it while I drink more wine. He sips some of his own, taking his sweet time in a way that’s both sexy and infuriating.

“Okay, smarty,” he says after a while. “Since you’re so well traveled and knowledgeable, why are most European wines named after the region and not the varietal like in the United States?”

I roll my eyes. “The belief over there is that the unique landscape and climate where the grapes are grown is a better reflection of how the wine will taste than the varietals themselves. I swear you’re convinced I’m a hack.”

“Did you ever consider I’m purposely being easy on you?” he says, the heart-stopping grin returning on his face. “But I can go harder if you’d prefer.”

I’m sure the double entendre was accidental. Still my breath quickens. I feel Ryan’s gaze on me, but I refuse to acknowledge it or show how much he rattles me.

Leaving my glass of wine on the bar—I’ve had enough Wild Abandon for one night—I pull my shoulders back and say, “Can we move this along?”

“You can end the tour anytime,” he says. “Simply answer a question wrong.”

“And lose? Not an option.”

“Then let’s go,” he says.

I follow Ryan upstairs, into the production area, and out into a courtyard. The color is draining from the sky. Soon the stars will be a glittering sea above me. I hear laughter and the buzz of conversation coming from the veranda that’s hidden from view.

“That’s the bottling line,” he says, waving to a smaller limestone building across from the barn. “We’re one of four wineries in Wilhelmsburg whose wines are exclusively estate grown and bottled, though with the way we’re expanding, we may have to resort to purchasing fruit from the High Plains or other parts of Hill Country. Land is scarce these days.”

We walk to the vineyard, the leafy canopy cloaked in soft, diffused light. Ryan finishes his wine and places the glass at the start of a row of vines, which are bare except for a few straggling grapes.