The Perfect Match (14 page)

CHAPTER NINE

H
ONOR
MANAGED
TO
sneak back into the house without running into Dad or Mrs. J.
Why
neither was around was a question best left unexplored, but still, at least Honor wouldn’t be caught in her walk of shame.

It had been
years
since she spent the night in a man’s bed. The entire night, that was. With Brogan, she’d yearned to stay...but he was usually in town only for a day or so, often flying out early the next morning. And despite her advanced age, she did live with her father, who would need to be informed just why his baby girl wouldn’t be coming home that night.

But back to the issue at hand. She’d just proposed to Tom Barlow, whom she’d met exactly three times. Her second proposal in two months. They’d be meeting again this afternoon to talk it over.

Holy orgasm.

See what good sex could do? Check that.
Great
sex. Sex on the floor! And things were pretty fabulous down there! She had a little rug burn on one knee and one shoulder, but the rest of her had been all for it.

Tom hadn’t seemed to mind, either.

No, indeed. The memory of his amazing mouth, and the way his face could change from so...intense to kind of goofy and sweet made her knees wobble as she climbed the stairs. The walk of shame, please. It was the walk of pride today.

“Hey there, Spikey-doodles,” she said to her dog, who was curled on her pillow, snoring. “Want to go skating? Hmm?”

She took a shower, and it was funny. Before this morning, showers had been a way to get clean, and all of a sudden, she was lathering and daydreaming and thinking thoughts that rivaled the billows of steam.

Honor Holland: the type of woman who picks up British hotties in bars. Who went back to Hottie Tom Barlow’s place and shagged him within an inch of death.

Who was maybe going to marry him.

A wave of icy panic slapped through the steamy water. Oh, God. What was she thinking?

She was meeting him later on, after the family wine tasting at four. A brisk skate at the pond would be just the thing. She got dressed, put Spike in a pink fleece doggy sweater, kissed the dog’s little face four times, then tucked her into her jacket. In the mudroom, she grabbed her skates and headed out to Willow Pond, where the ice would still be thick enough.

Honor had skated all her life. She’d even done a little competing before Mom died. eCommitment had asked her to list her hobbies, and Honor was relieved to see that she still had one, at least, not counting
watching documentaries on bizarre medical conditions
.

She didn’t skate too often—a few times a winter with Abby, and on Christmas Day, which was a family tradition. The Finger Lakes were too deep to freeze in the winter, but Blue Heron had a much shallower pond, a beautiful little secret, down near Tom’s Woods, ringed in hemlocks and Douglas fir trees. The wind had scoured the snow from the ice, and if there was a more beautiful spot on earth, Honor didn’t know what it was.

Honor sat down on her usual rock, strapped on her skates, checked that Spike was secure into her coat and pushed off. The wind whisked through her short hair and brought tears to her eyes as she glided around the pond. A cardinal flashed across the snow; Spike gave a little bark and wriggled in delight. Push and glide, push and glide. She flipped around and skated backward now, protecting her little dog from the wind.

Tom Barlow.

Reasons for:

Good in bed. (Shallow but
so
true.)

Noble reason for staying.

Likes kids.

Obviously able to commit.

Seems nice. (Okay, that was pretty weak. She could only imagine telling her father that one.)

Reasons against:

Basically a total stranger.

Doing this is illegal.

Isn’t in love with me.

“Then again,” Honor said aloud, her breath coming harder now, “that’s not uncommon. No one’s
ever
been in love with me before.”

Spike barked.

“Except you,” she corrected.

There was no reason to think Tom was any worse of a choice than the men on eCommitment. And then there were Goggy and Pops. Theirs had been an arranged marriage. Okay, bad example.

If I land this jump,
Honor thought,
it’s a sign I should go for it.

She did the easiest jump she knew, just a little leap. Fell on her ass.

“If I land this second jump,” she told Spike, “it’s a sign I should go for it.”

She fell on that one, too.

* * *

H
ONOR
SPENT
THE
rest of Saturday in her office, researching marital fraud and immigration and giving herself an ulcer. Good God. To soothe herself, she forced herself away from YouTube and checked some orders from her distributors, ran a quick inventory, designed a new label and made sure the Black and White Ball link was live. Jessica was great, but it came as almost a relief that Honor still had things to do. Then, exactly at four, she left her office, Spike under her arm, and went into the tasting room.

This was, understandably, her favorite part of the wine business. The family gathered several times a year at least to pour the newest vintage, discuss its flavors and selling points. If it was a new variety, they’d pick a name—Half Moon Chardonnay, for example, because the harvest had gone on into the night one October and the moon had been so clear.

The rest of the family was already there. Pru, with Carl, who was making a rare appearance, and Ned. Faith and Levi, holding hands. Jack and Dad, both of them in faded work shirts and Blue Heron baseball caps. Mrs. Johnson was setting out wineglasses. Goggy and Pops sat at opposite ends of the tasting bar where, even so, they managed to annoy each other. Abby was curled into a chair, reading. “Hi, honey,” Honor said, giving her niece’s head a kiss.

Then Goggy spotted her and pounced, surprisingly lithe for a woman in her eighties. “Whatever happened with you-know-who?” she asked, dragging Honor a few yards away. “Who needed the you-know-what?”

“Um, let’s talk later,” Honor whispered.

“He’s nice, isn’t he? And handsome?”

And great in bed, Goggy.
“Very nice,” Honor admitted.

“See? I told you.” Her grandmother gave her a triumphant smile, fluffed her hair and walked back to her seat.

Honor put thoughts of Tom aside. She’d deal with him soon enough, and besides, she had work to do.

When she’d graduated from Wharton, her first order of business was to overhaul the tasting room, and it was her pride and joy. A long, curved bar made by a Mennonite craftsman from wood harvested here on Holland land. A blue slate floor below, arching beams above, a stone fireplace in the corner and, best of all, the windows, which looked out over the vineyard and woods, all the way down to the Crooked Lake.

It never failed to thrill her.

As the boss of everything, she now turned to the rest of the family. “Everyone ready to taste some excellent wine?”

She poured the first, a pinot gris, and held the glass to her nose. Green apple was her first thought, then some vanilla and clove. Very nice.

“Anyone getting apple?” Dad asked.

“I am,” Goggy said. “Green apple. Tart.”

“I’m getting red apple. A new red apple. McIntosh,” Pops said.

“It’s definitely green apple,” Goggy said with a glare.

“I get red,” Pops said blithely. “An unripe red apple.”

“Which is a green apple,” Goggy growled.

“Isn’t it time for one of them to go to a nice farm?” Ned whispered.

“I heard that, young man,” Pops said. “Respect your elders.”

“I wish I could,” he said.

“A little limestone, maybe?” Faith said, and Honor nodded encouragingly. Faith hadn’t been around too much in the past few years. It was nice to have her back.

“I’m getting nesberry,” Mrs. Johnson said.

“Oh, yes, nesberry,” Dad agreed, smiling at Mrs. J., who didn’t seem able to meet his eyes.

“What’s a nesberry?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know. But I bet it’s wonderful,” Dad murmured.

“Anyone else picking up some hay?” Pru asked.

“Definitely,” Ned said. “Wet hay.”

“I’m getting overtones of fog and unicorn tears,” Abby said from the couch, “with just a hint of baby’s laughter.”

Honor smiled at her niece and typed up the other comments. The nose of the wine, the taste, the finish. The texture, the overtones, the legs. Wine was like a living thing, striking everyone a little bit differently, changing with air and age, dependent on the life that happened before.

This was the culmination of the family’s work. From the care of the soil and vines to the harvest to the wine-making itself, every one of them had a hand in it, big or small. The whole family, taking care of family business. Sort of like the Mob, but a little bit nicer. No murders, though you could never rule it out with Goggy and Pops, who were still fixated on the green-versus-unripe apple debate.

How strange, to picture Tom here, too. She might be married. Soon.

The thought of it made her knees zing with nervousness.

An hour later, they’d tried all four of the new varietals. In a few weeks, Honor would do another tasting with the staff and sales reps and get their input, too.

“While I’ve got you all here,” Dad said as Goggy and Mrs. J. wrestled glasses from each other in the battle for who worked harder, “I have, um, an announcement. Of sorts. Something to tell you kids.” He swallowed. Blushed. Stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Mom? Mrs. J.? Would you mind?”

“Fine,” Goggy said. “I’ll wash up later.”

“
I’ll
wash up later,” Mrs. Johnson growled.

“Mrs. John—uh, Hyacinth? Would you come over?” Dad asked.

Honor’s breath caught. She looked at Mrs. Johnson, who studiously avoided her gaze.

Well, well, well. Her throat was suddenly tight. She glanced at Faith, whose mouth was slightly open, and at Jack, who was eating some cheese with Pops.

“What’s the matter?” Goggy asked suspiciously. “Is someone dying?”

“No, no,” Dad said, wiping his forehead with a napkin, “you all remember how I started dating again last fall.”

“That woman. Lorena Creech. And those clothes! I saw her at the market last week, and she was wearing nothing but a—”

“Hush, woman, your son is trying to talk,” Pops interrupted, then paused. “Nothing but a what?”

“I’m not telling you now, old man,” Goggy said. “Not when you just told me to be quiet.”

“Go on, Dad,” Jack said. “If you must.”

“It’s kind of funny—no, not funny, really. Uh, why don’t you tell it, Mrs.—um, Hyacinth.”

“You have a first name?” Abby asked Mrs. Johnson.

“Shush, child.” Mrs. Johnson crossed her arms. “Faith, this is your fault, of course. You and Honor, on a mission to marry off your poor father.”

“I was also on the mission!” Pru said. “But I never get credit for that kind of thing. Is it because I wear men’s clothes?”

“Fine. All three of you girls are responsible, then.”

“Responsible for what?” Abby asked.

“Holy shit,” Jack muttered.

“Don’t curse, Jackie, my darling,” Mrs. Johnson said. “But yes. After several weeks of your father irritating me and getting in my way, I relented.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pops. “Are you quitting, Mrs. Johnson?”

Dad didn’t answer, but his eyes were bright with tears, and he was smiling. He looked at her and gave a small nod.

“No, Pops,” Honor said, still looking at her father, and feeling her own eyes well. “I think what they’re trying to say is, Dad and Mrs. J. are getting married.”

She couldn’t help thinking that Mom would be awfully happy.

* * *

T
OM
’
S
CAR
,
AN
unassuming gray Toyota, pulled into the parking lot in front of Blue Heron’s tank room. The man himself got out, looking somber. Honor swallowed. What had seemed easy to say in his kitchen this morning was now a little trickier. This was their fourth meeting, for crying out loud. And that was counting the parking lot where he’d retrieved her keys.

“Hallo,” he said. That accent was really unfair.

“Hi. Nice to see you again,” she answered, clearing her throat.

“You, as well.” He looked around. “So this is it, then? The family farm?”

“Right, yes,” she said. “Um, want a tour?”

He looked at her oddly. They were here, after all, to discuss marriage, not wine. “Absolutely,” he said. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“Okay,” she said. “We grow seven different kinds of grape here. Down there is the cabernet franc and pinot noir, to the west is the gewürztraminer and merlot. On the eastern side, we’ve got chardonnay and pinot gris. And up on the hill is the Riesling, which this area is known for. We have some of the best Rieslings in the world, in case you didn’t know.”

“Yes, I’ve read the brochures,” he said.

“It’s the soil. It’s magic,” she said. “I mean, not literally magic, but the weather, combined with the lakes and the hills...anyway, we harvest in October or so. There’s the grape harvester there. Those fingers agitate the vines, and the ripe grapes fall on the conveyer belt.”

“Fascinating,” Tom said.

“It is,” Honor said sharply.

“No, I meant it. I love machines,” he said. “Mechanical engineer, remember?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Go on, then,” he said.

She led him around the barn to the juicer, explaining how the grapes were loaded and gently compressed so as not to crush the seeds and make the wine bitter, showed him how the juice ran through the tubes to the fermenting tanks.

“About ninety percent of our wine is aged in here, the tank room,” she said, leading him into the barn that held the giant steel containers where the grape juice fermented. “Mostly what you need is time, but we add things like yeast, egg whites, sugar, that kind of thing.”

“It’s very scientific, isn’t it?” he said, assessing one of the tanks.

“Yes. Jack likes to say that wine-making is ninety percent science, ten percent luck.”