Prudence, dressed much like he was in a flannel shirt and jeans, approached. “Hey, Useless!” she said, smacking his shoulder. “How’s it hanging? Guess what? I’m officially in menopause. The results came back today.”
“I’m thrilled for you.”
“Oh, bite me. It’s horrible, Jack. I want to climb Carl one minute, then slowly choke the life out of him the next. Speaking of Carl, do you happen to have any spurs?”
“No, Pru. Believe it or not, no.”
“Damn. I back-ordered some, but they’re still not here.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a table of women. One of them was studiously holding a beer to the side of her face.
She didn’t even want to be spotted, in other words.
“Catch you in a little while, Pru,” he said, walking over to the ladies—Shelayne Schanta, Allison Whitaker, Grace Knapton and Jeanette O’Rourke.
And Emmaline.
“Hello, ladies. Mind if I sit down?”
“Jack!” four of the five of them cried, moving their chairs to make room for him. “How are you, you look so handsome, want a drink, sit next to me, how was the wedding, have you eaten?”
One of them didn’t say anything.
“Hi, Em,” he said.
“Jack.”
“You want to go out sometime? Grab dinner? Catch a movie?”
She gave him a dark look.
The rest of the women fell silent. “I’m game if she’s not, Jack,” Shelayne said.
“So am I,” Allison said. “Just in case you’re looking for an older woman with two not-terrible children.”
“I’ll go out with you, Jack,” said Hannah O’Rourke, coming up with a tray full of peachy-pink drinks.
“Me, too,” said Colleen’s mother. “Though I am dating Ronnie Petrosinsky on and off.”
“The Chicken King?” Grace asked, naming Ronnie’s franchise. “I just love their Mm-Mm Maple Glazed.”
“How about it, Emmaline?” Jack asked.
“I’m very busy,” she said. “But thanks just the same.”
“That’s too bad.” He looked steadily at his prey, who was staring determinedly at the jukebox over Allison’s shoulder. “Because I had a great time in California. Especially that last night.”
Her eyes jerked back to his. “Good! I’m glad. Good for you. That’s great. I have to run. Sarge needs walking. Nice seeing you, Jack. Bye, girls.”
“You seriously don’t want to go out with him?” Mrs. O’Rourke said.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said, following her.
“Together again!” Colleen called. “So cute. Coulda called it. Did call it, in fact.”
“Stop harassing the customers, Colleen,” Connor called from the kitchen.
Emmaline was already outside.
“Em. Hang on,” he called, catching up to her. “Why won’t you go out with me?”
“Is your ego bruised?” she asked.
“A little.”
She smothered a smile. “You’re really nice, Jack, and you’re not exactly the Elephant Man, but I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I just want to have dinner.”
She took a breath and held it, clearly on the fence. “Just dinner, Emmaline,” he said. “Please.”
Her eyes went a little soft and wide.
Score.
But then she looked over his shoulder, and her cop face reappeared.
“Have dinner with your wife. Here she is. Take care.” With that, she turned and walked away, her feet crunching on the snow.
“Well, hey, stranger!” Hadley said. “How are you, Jack?”
And so, not wanting to be a jerk, he held the door for Hadley, took off her coat when she turned her back and gave her his hand as she struggled to sit on a stool.
Then, rather than getting webbed into a conversation with his too-beautiful ex-wife, he opted for the company of his cat and walked across the street to where his truck was parked.
There was a note on the windshield, on bright pink paper.
“You better watch yourself,” it read. Laser-printed, not handwritten.
He glanced back at O’Rourke’s. Was this a warning from Hadley, something to do with his interest in Emmaline? She seemed to be talking to someone.
Might be from Mr. or Mrs. Deiner. But they’d been camped out at the hospital around the clock.
You better watch yourself.
The pink paper watered down the threat of the words.
Might not be a threat after all. Or it might have been meant for someone else; half the people in this town drove gray pickup trucks. It was just a note, anyway. Not a big deal.
He could feel the water slicing into his scalp as he went under. His chest burned from the lack of air.
By the time the flashback was over, Jack’s flannel shirt was damp with cold sweat. He started up his truck and headed for home, his throat raw from the cold, cold air.
TWO DAYS LATER, Jack, his father and Pops were at work. It should’ve been easy, but for some reason, everything Jack did seemed wrong today. He bumped against a barrel, spilling his coffee. Missed what Dad had just said. Stepped on Pops’s foot.
“You okay, son?” Dad asked.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Not enough coffee, that’s all.” Except he’d had three cups.
The three Holland men had always been close. First of all, it was them against what seemed like dozens of women.... Mom, back in the day, the three girls coming and going with their girlfriends, then Mrs. Johnson. When talk turned to periods or squabbles over who used whose hair goop, the three men would slip off to talk about baseball or vines.
When Jack was in the navy, Dad called twice a week, checking in, the gentle constant in Jack’s life. Both Pops and Dad assured him he had no obligation to return to Blue Heron, and Dad only wanted him there if it was what Jack wanted. It was. The family, the farm, the wine... It was everything Jack had ever wanted. He was the eighth generation of Hollands on this land.
But since the accident, he couldn’t seem to get back in the groove.
Today, they were racking a small vat of cabernet out in one of the big barns. Racking was the process of siphoning the wine off the sediment into a clean vat in preparation for bottling. As soon as Jack pulled the bung, though, Pops looked up. “Something’s off,” he said. The old guy had a nose like a bloodhound. “It’s over-oxidized.”
Jack grabbed a glass and filled it halfway with the wine.
It was too brown, and Pops was right. It didn’t smell right.
“Did you add the Campden tablets last time?” Dad asked.
“I thought I did,” Jack said. The tablets kept microbes from forming in the wine. They’d just racked this barrel for the first time three weeks ago.
“Well, don’t worry, son,” Dad said as Pops pried the head off the barrel to dump it. “Happens to everyone.”
“I’m really sorry,” Jack said.
“Smells like your grandmother’s perfume,” Pops said, winking at Jack. “Speaking of the old bag, I should get back.”
“That’s my mother you’re talking about,” Dad said mildly.
“And the love of my life. Just don’t tell her I said that.” Pops smiled and ambled off to his battered old truck.
“Let’s get rid of this,” Jack said.
“It can wait till tomorrow,” Dad said. “So how are things, son?”
“Good. Fine.” Dad waited. “A little tense,” he admitted.
“I ran into Hadley the other day.”
“Yeah. She’s like a dog with a bone.”
“Any chance of you two getting back together?”
“No.”
Dad tapped another barrel and started siphoning that one. “This is better,” he said, filling a glass. “Smell that. It’s beautiful.”
Jack obliged. This batch was fine, no oxidization, a nice jammy aroma. He took a sip and felt his shoulders drop a notch.
He’d never screwed up a batch of wine before. Wine making was all about science and luck, but mostly about science, and he prided himself on the quality of wine that came out of Blue Heron. He’d grown up watching his father and grandfather make wine, and he had two hefty degrees that said he should know better than to forget something as basic as sulfites.
“Anyway, I was just wondering about Hadley,” Dad said, not quite meeting his eyes. “She was very, ah, forthcoming with me. Said she’d made a terrible mistake with you, but she’d grown up and learned her lesson and hoped that we’d be supportive if you decided to reconcile.”
“There’s no reconciliation,” Jack said.
“You sure? Because if you were over it, we could be, too.”
“Mrs. Johnson will never be over it,” Jack said, forcing a grin.
Dad smiled. “No, maybe not her. But the rest of us would follow your lead, Jack. If that’s what you wanted.”
“It’s not.” He put his glass down. “And I sure am sorry about this barrel.”
His father gave him a long look. “Jack, maybe you need some time off.”
“I just took some, Dad.”
“If you need more, just say the word. You’ve been through a tough time.” He gave Jack a slightly awkward hug. “I love you. We all do.” He pulled back and cleared his throat. “You want to come for dinner? Mrs. Johnson would sure love that.”
“Dad, you two are coming up on your first anniversary. Aren’t you allowed to call her Hyacinth yet?” Jack asked.
“Sometimes,” Dad admitted with a sheepish grin.
“I’ll take a rain check on dinner. You go home. I’ll finish this up.” He took the siphon from his father. “And thanks, Dad.”
His father squeezed his shoulder, then left to go home to his bride.
Odd to feel jealous of your own father for having a wife to go home to. As for doing something fun... There wasn’t a lot of fun to be had in the middle of winter here in Manningsport.
“Hallo, Jack.” His British brother-in-law came into the barn. “Just saw your grandfather. He said I’d find you here.”
“Hey, Tom. What’s up?”
“I got an email today from Dr. Didier, the high school principal. You know her?”
“Only a little,” Jack said. “I’ve seen her at the gym a few times.”
“Right. A bit terrifying, isn’t she?” Tom grinned. “At any rate, they’ve got a group of at-risk kids. The usual lot—hoodlums and the like—and she’s looking for a chemistry tutor. I help out with math from time to time.”
“Did Honor tell you to ask me?”
“Spot-on, mate. She said it might be good for you.”
Honor. Always trying to run the world (and succeeding much of the time, he’d admit). But the thought of being around teenagers other than his niece and maybe Charlie, Tom’s stepson, gave him pause.
They’d all know Josh Deiner.
“Levi’s deputy runs the program. Emmaline Neal. You two are friends, aren’t you?”
Jack looked up. “Yes. We are.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t ask you herself.”
Jack wasn’t. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Brilliant. Thanks, mate!” Tom clapped him on the shoulder and went off, whistling.
EMMALINE PEERED AT the faux hostage taker. “What did she do that made you mad?” she asked.
“She took the last Twinkie. Those were for my apocalypse shelter. Now what will I have for dessert?”
“Atta girl, Shirley,” said Jamie, the badass instructor. “Sounds crazy, class, but I swear, you can’t make this shit up.”
