A Memory Away. Melinda Curtis

Christmas this year.

      Christine didn’t like the news. She frowned and shook her head several times before she said anything. And when she did speak, her tone had the serious quality of a winemaker twice her age. “You can’t know that. You’d either have to see it in their leaves come spring or have tested the vines.”

      “True.” But he knew the signs, had seen them on his last job, where the winery owners hadn’t wanted to hear the news, either. “Look at this.” He crouched next to the rotted remains of a withering grape cluster. “There are others like it all along this row.” He moved to a row farther up the hill, carefully making his case. “Now look at this cluster.”

      “Almost twice the size,” she murmured. Then she shook her head again. “Leaf roll has never been documented in Harmony Valley.”

      “I was exactly where you are. Drainage, incline of the hill, even the fact that these vines haven’t been harvested or trimmed back in years.” Duffy tugged on a bare branch. It snapped free, another indication of the poor health of the vines, weakened by years of drought. “I had Ryan pull the data. The last row was planted ten years ago after a fire destroyed part of the vineyard. I couldn’t find any confirmation of it being certified virus-free stock.” He tossed the vine to the ground. “I’d rather err on the side of caution, wouldn’t you?”

      After a moment, Christine nodded. “We should test for red blotch disease, too.”

      “Agreed.” She’d taken the news better than he’d expected.

      They hiked up the hill, the biting wind at their backs.

      “I walked the vineyard last fall when we decided to expand.” Christine paused on a rise to take in the rest of the area, sounding resigned, as if she were to blame. “But I can’t remember going that deep into the rows.”

      “It’s okay. Maybe I’m wrong.” Duffy prayed it was so.

      “If they are diseased,” she said softly, more to herself than to him, “we’ll have to take them out right away. Both leaf roll and red blotch dilute the taste of the grape.” Christine opened the truck door and inspected the bottom of her boots one at a time. “Check for bugs on the bottom of your shoes. Mealy bugs—”

      “Spread the disease,” Duffy finished for her, already examining the crevices in his boot lugs. He added in a neutral tone, “You hired me because I know things like this.”

      “I’m sorry. It’s a shock.” Her apology was as arrow-straight as the worry furrowing her brow.

      “With your approval, we’ll have Ryan take samples and send them to the lab.”

      A beat-up green truck backfired as it trundled down the dirt road behind them.

      “Rutgar,” Christine said. “I...uh...told you about him, right?”

      Sounded like she hadn’t told him enough. “Used to own this property. Likes to know what’s going on.”

      “Everyone in town is a bit of a gossip,” she said apologetically. “It’s not something I divulge during a job interview. You’re in the grace period of being new to town.” Christine hesitated, and then her smile turned as apologetic as her tone. “Or you were. Now that Rutgar’s showed up... Well, let’s just say folks’ curiosity can sometimes be trying. Be patient with them. They mean well. And they grow on you.” She quickly transformed into a confident, friendly winemaker greeting the previous owner. “Rutgar! What a surprise.”

      A bear-sized man stood beside a rusted truck fender. His gray-blond hair hung inches from his chin and draped thickly across his shoulders like a long, matted mane. “What are you two doing out here?” His accent was European. All he needed was chain mail and a sword to carry off the Viking vibe. “That’s the second time I’ve seen this one up here today.”

      This one being Duffy. “We’re discussing the condition of the vines.” Duffy didn’t feel comfortable sharing his suspicions. Instead, he introduced himself. Duffy wasn’t a small man, but Rutgar’s hand swallowed his.

      “I want to be informed about what goes on. This is my land—”

      “Was.” Christine stepped up to hug Rutgar. “Was your land. You sold it to me, remember?”

      “I sold it to your fiancé.” The older man made a noise that sounded like a territorial growl. “I live on top of the hill. Everything that goes on here is my business.”

      “Of course, it is,” Christine soothed. “And just so you’re aware, there’ll be workers up here sometime in the next few weeks.”

      Rutgar’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. “Workers won’t go any farther than this driveway.”

      “The view from the top is spectacular.” Following Christine’s lead, Duffy kept his voice kiss-butt polite. “You can see the entire valley. Why limit access on a public road?”

      “Because the top of Parish Hill is my home.” Rutgar’s features twisted into something no one would call a smile. It involved drawn-back lips and bared teeth. “I’ve seen you up there wasting the nice lady’s time.”

      “Surveying the land.” Duffy’s patience held. Barely. “It’s easier to keep all the properties straight with a view from above.”

      “Wasting time,” Rutgar scoffed. “Winemaking takes months and years, and a lot of effort.”

      As did placating former landowners. “Since you’re so interested in what’s going on, can I count on you to help cane?” Given the vineyard hadn’t been cut back in what looked like nearly a decade, Duffy was betting the answer was no.

      “You can count on him to watch,” Christine ribbed.

      Rutgar shook a finger the size of a sausage at her. “I like you.”

      “You’ll like him, too.” Christine gave Rutgar’s shoulder a gentle nudge that didn’t move the large man an inch. “Now back out. We’ve got other vineyards to inspect.”

      * * *

      “HOW DID IT go yesterday?” Vera yelled over the sound of the mixer’s grinding motor.

      It was 4:00 a.m. and the owner of Vera’s Bakery in Santa Rosa was preparing the batter for red velvet cupcakes. They sold hundreds of them in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. The large industrial kitchen was already filled with welcoming, sugary smells from cinnamon rolls and various breads and cookies of all kinds. At the next worktable, several bakers were chattering in Spanish. Jessica’s maternal grandparents had emigrated from Mexico, but Jess didn’t speak more than a handful of words in their native tongue.

      Normally, Jess couldn’t wait to begin baking. Contributing to a busy kitchen always made her feel as if she belonged. Not today. Today she felt as if she’d never belong. Not with her coworkers, not with Greg’s family, not with anyone.

      “Did you find your baby daddy?” Vera’s white hairnet covered her unnaturally red hair like snow on a high desert mountain.

      “He’s dead.” Jess was saddened by Greg’s death. Sad, yes, but since her memories of him were like dandelion fluffs on the wind, it was a detached sadness. If they’d been in love, wouldn’t she feel broken?

      For what must have been the thousandth time since she’d woken up in the hospital after the accident, Jess wondered if her baby was a creation of love. But now the wonder-train was on a new track.

      What if Duffy’s words were true? What if Greg had used her?

      What if? What if? What if? She was at square one again. Too many questions. Too few answers.

      “Your baby daddy’s a deadbeat?” Vera shouted, sending her dangling silver cupcake earrings swinging over the tattoo of a rose on her neck.

      “No. He’s dead.”

      “What?” Vera promptly switched off