One Perfect Year. Melinda Curtis

Christine called from the farmhouse porch several hundred feet away.

      Shelby walked through rows of bushy grapevines dotted with the occasional browning leaf. The white two-story farmhouse had been renovated into an elegant tasting room on the first floor with open office space above. To the right, the winery’s main building had been constructed over the original barn’s footprint, and housed wine processing equipment along with some expensive wine barrels. It was a very small operation set in the middle of a beautiful vineyard. If done right, the wine would be exquisite. After Christine worked her winemaking magic, it was Shelby’s job to make sure the wine aged to perfection.

      The sky softened to twilight gray as cars shut off and headlights dimmed. The nip of evening breathed over the vineyard. Soon the temperature would drop and the only light would come from portable metal booms as they harvested the Chardonnay grapes that would make up the first vintage of Harmony Valley Vineyards wine.

      Christine gestured for Shelby to join her on the porch, next to Ryan, and Slade, who was being teased for not wearing a tie—an inside joke, for sure. All three owners—Slade, Flynn and Will—were hometown boys, a few years ahead of Shelby in school and relative strangers until recently. They’d made their fortunes by designing and selling a popular farming app.

      On the other side of Slade, Flynn had his arms linked around his nephew, Truman. He nodded to Shelby. “Are you ready for this?”

      “I should be asking you that. I’ve done this before.” Shelby bent to pet Truman’s dog. The black fur on her head was velvety soft and immediately settled the last of Shelby’s pensiveness.

      Will stood at the opposite end of the porch. His arm was draped over his fiancée’s shoulders. Emma touched his cheek with paint-stained fingers. Come spring, the up-and-coming artist was going to paint a mural on one side of the barn that housed the winery.

      “Here they come. Our volunteers.” By the pride in Christine’s voice, one might have thought she was talking about her own children, the ones Agnes was waiting to dote on.

      The winery had been unable to entice a professional harvesting team to work on such a small job in this isolated, northeastern border town of Sonoma County. A bit of networking had resulted in former residents being recruited to help. Twenty acres of Chardonnay grapes. Less than an eighth square mile to cover. Together they could be done by dawn. In another few weeks, if the weather remained mild, the final acres with Cabernet Sauvignon grapes would be ready to harvest, and the request for volunteers would go out again.

      “This is going to be perfect.” Christine rubbed her hands together. “We’ll divide them into teams and show them how to cut grape clusters. And if someone can’t cut—”

      “Or cuts off their finger...” Ryan crossed his gangly arms over his chest as he inspected their volunteer crew.

      Shelby silently agreed with Ryan. There were so many ways this could derail. Inexperience led to accidents. Cockiness led to catastrophe. Thank goodness, the aging population was only here to greet their younger relatives and provide emotional support. She couldn’t imagine Old Man Takata shuffling down a row cutting grape clusters all night in the cold.

      Christine gave Ryan the stink eye. “If they aren’t skilled at cutting, they can transport grapes to the de-stemmer and then the crusher. Everyone works. Everyone should feel needed. That’s the most important take away from this experience tonight. They’re getting paid with a T-shirt, a bottle from our first vintage, a thank-you on the web site and our graciousness.”

      “Compensation enough to come back for the Cab harvest,” Ryan deadpanned, stroking the long, sparse whiskers on his face. His dark hair curled in disobedient waves that nearly brushed his shoulders. It was a mark of pride that male winemakers didn’t shave or cut their hair from the beginning of harvest season until the last grape was picked and crushed. Female winemakers were more civilized.

      “It’ll be enough.” Christine narrowed her eyes at her young assistant. “Say you believe me.”

      “Of course. Optimism is my middle name.” Ryan waited until Christine turned away to whisper to Shelby. “Twenty bucks says we lose half of them by break time.”

      “Was it just a few months ago that I hired a sweet, shy assistant?” Christine shook a finger at Ryan. “Whatever happened to him?”

      “He blossomed under your tutelage.” Ryan grinned.

      “More likely in my grandmother’s kitchen eating her homemade strudel. She’s spoiled you.” Christine turned away again, and rubbed her hands together as she took in the group on the porch. “Let’s welcome our workers.” She led them down the steps and into the growing crowd.

      The young volunteers embraced their elders, called out greetings to their other hometown friends, hugged each other and shook hands, looking as if they were coming to a family reunion instead of a race to pick grapes before they over-ripened.

      Shelby mingled with friends from her past—Emily Johnson, Carl Quedoba, Tanya Romero, Umberto Escabar. She met the recently hired town sheriff for the first time, as well as a woman who was thinking about opening a bed-and-breakfast in her grandmother’s ancient Victorian.

      A lone vehicle turned down the driveway, its headlights high between the palms. A truck. A white truck. A white truck with a dented rear fender.

      It can’t be. Shelby held her breath.

      The driver parked and got out, flashing a dazzling smile beneath a faded red Harmony Valley Hedgehogs ball cap.

      A brisk wind rustled the grapevines, chilling her.

      It was Dead Gage.

      * * *

      AWARENESS OF SHELBY kicked through Gage’s system like an electrical current wearing combat boots.

      If Gage had been a lab rat hooked up to sensors, every time he saw Shelby scientists would record an intense release of dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine. He wasn’t a lab experiment, but the trifecta of his body’s chemicals heightened his perception at the sight of her. They focused his attention on the things he found physically attractive about Shelby—her slender curves, her warm smile, her big blue eyes—and the things he admired about Shelby—her intelligence, her gentle humor, her nurturing tendencies— It was all imprinted in his memory.

      Luckily, no one kept track of his internal responses except Gage. And to this day, since he’d been careful, no one knew how Shelby affected him.

      He was a doctor, a scientist. He could catalog his physiological response to her, rationalize his feelings and control his behavior. And if that control was threatened, a joke to break the tension was always the answer.

      And so, upon seeing Shelby, he didn’t smile like an idiot when he admired her in body-hugging jeans. He didn’t let his gaze linger more than a second on her sweet face. And he didn’t reenact his fantasy of staring into Shelby’s sky-blue eyes as he reeled her slowly into his arms, brushed aside her short, soft blond curls, and kissed her.

      Not when their small town friends flanked her.

      Not when, presumably, her new boss stood nearby.

      Not when he hadn’t talked to her since Nick’s funeral.

      Gage took off his old high school baseball cap and wiped his brow. The hat was useless anyway, as it did little to hide his seminervous expression from Shelby.

      Two years ago, he’d overslept and missed meeting Nick for a day of kayaking on the swollen Merced River rapids. That was the day his life changed forever.

      If Gage had woken up on time, he might have talked Nick out of getting on the raging water that day. He might still spend Saturday mornings snowboarding black diamond slopes in winter. He might still spend Saturday mornings in summer free-climbing cliffs in Yosemite. And Nick might still be alive.

      Born a month apart, and raised a block from each other, Nick and Gage had been more like brothers than friends. Gage would do almost anything