Hallie Welch tipped down one corner of the comics section and peered across Grapevine Way, her stomach sinking when yet another group of locals bypassed Corked, her favorite, sleepy little wineshop, in favor of UNCORKED—the new, flashy monstrosity next door that advertised hot sauce and wine pairings in the window. The exterior of UNCORKED was painted a metallic gold that caught the sun and blinded passersby, giving them no choice but to stumble inside or risk vision loss. From Hallie’s position on the bench, she could see through the front window to their state-of-the-art wine fountains and wall of stinky cheeses, the cash register lighting up like a pinball machine.
Meanwhile, the peeling white wrought-iron tables in the front courtyard of Corked sat empty and forgotten. Hallie could still see her grandmother at the far-right table, a modest glass of Cabernet sitting in front of her. Everyone would stop to say hello to Rebecca as they passed. They would ask her what flowers were in season and which bulbs were best to bury in the soil a particular month. And even though she was always reading a bestseller, she would carefully lay her silk-tasseled bookmark in the crease and give them her undivided attention.
The newspaper in Hallie’s hands sunk lower, crumpling slowly at the vivid memory and eventually landing in her lap.
On the front patio of UNCORKED was a literal dance floor and a disco ball hanging from the eaves. It spun all day long, casting light refractions all over the sidewalk and turning people into apparent zombies who preferred wine out of a vending machine. At night, that ten-by-ten square patch of wood was packed to the gills with tipsy tourists, their purses full of overly pungent Rochefort, no one sparing a thought for Corked next door. Or outraged at the mockery of their very name by the overzealous newcomers.
When the shop opened a month ago, Hallie almost felt sorry for the young couple from downstate. Poor dears, sinking their hard-earned money into a gimmick. It would never attract the loyal Napa locals who honored tradition and routine. She’d been wrong.
UNCORKED was thriving. Meanwhile, Lorna, the sweet elderly owner of Corked, didn’t even emerge at sunset
anymore to light the candles on her outside tables.
Hallie looked down at the shatterproof wineglass in her purse. She’d been bringing it into Corked for tastings every day this week in an attempt to support the failing institution, but she needed a better game plan. Continuous day drinking had started off fun, but the days were beginning to blur together, and she’d found her car keys in the microwave this morning. Supporting Corked with only the help of a couple friends wasn’t going to keep her grandmother’s favorite table from vanishing off the sidewalk. And it needed to stay there. Far too many pieces of her grandmother seemed to float away into the wind lately, but not that table. Not the place Hallie had gone with Rebecca every single Sunday evening since high school and learned the art of gardening. It had to stay.
So, all right. Time to play offense.
Very carefully, Hallie folded up the funnies and tucked them beneath her arm. She scanned the sidewalk for any friends or clients, then walked briskly across the street toward UNCORKED. They’d added two potted ficuses on either side of their door, beautifully pruned into the shape of an ice cream cone, but there would be no brownie points awarded to the UNCORKED crew for proper plant maintenance. Not even for lush, well-loved greenery. And if Hallie Welch, proprietor of Becca’s Blooms and St. Helena’s premier gardener, didn’t warm up to someone for diligent care of a plant, that’s when they’d really pissed her off.
Besides, the plants weren’t her current focus.
She paused outside of UNCORKED and eyed the disco ball, shifting in her rubber slip-ons.
Here comes trouble, said her grandmother’s voice, drifting in somewhere from the great beyond. How many times had Rebecca taken a look at Hallie and said those words? Hundreds? Thousands? Now, in the reflective window of UNCORKED, she could see how her grandmother might make that prediction based on her facial activity.
Two round spots of color on her cheeks.
A firm set to her chin.
Expression . . . diabolical?
Let’s go with “driven.”
Mrs. Cross, owner of the coffee shop across the street, walked out of UNCORKED with a bottle of some celebrity’s wine in hand and a paper bib around her neck that read Sip Sip Hooray on the front. She skidded to a stop and bowed her head guiltily upon spotting Hallie. “I don’t know what happened,” started Mrs. Cross, quickly tearing off the bib. “I let them add me to their text alerts just to be polite and this morning . . . I woke up to a message about wineglass rims dipped in chocolate and my feet just sort of brought me here for the three o’clock session.”
“How was the wine?” Hallie asked, feeling winded. Another one bites the dust. “Robust, with a betrayal aftertaste, I’m guessing.”
Mrs. Cross winced—and had the nerve to lick some chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, hon.” She slunk past Hallie and into the crosswalk, clutching her bottle of duplicity. “Have to run. I’m working the evening shift . . .”
Hallie swallowed and turned back to the disco ball, the glaring light forcing her to squint.
After a too-short second of debate, she retrieved a piece of bark that had been used to pot the nearest ficus—and reached up, jamming it into the top motor of the disco ball, halting the eyesore’s next revolution. Then she bolted.
Okay, maybe “bolted” was an exaggeration. She jogged.
And she quickly realized she was not dressed for fleeing the scene of her first act of vandalism.
Rubber shoes were for plodding around in soil and grass, not for potentially being chased by the 5-0. Her colorful woven cross-body purse slapped against her hip with every step, her array of mismatched necklaces bouncing up and down in solidarity with her boobs. She had a teal scrunchie in her pocket, which she’d planned to use later to fashion a blond knot on top of her head while working. Should she stop and put her hair up now to make running easier? Curls were flying into her face, fast and furious, her gardening shoes making an embarrassing squawk with every step. Crime clearly didn’t pay.
When a familiar face stepped into her path on the sidewalk, Hallie almost collapsed with relief. “Without asking me any follow-up questions, can I hide in your kitchen?”
“Fuck sake, what have you done now?” asked her friend Lavinia, donut artist and British transplant. She was just about to light a cigarette, a sight that wasn’t all that common on Grapevine Way in St. Helena, but lowered the lighter to her thigh when she saw Hallie rushing toward her in a flurry of necklaces, curls, and frayed jean shorts. “Behind the standing mixer. Be quick about it.”
“Thank you,” Hallie squeaked, catapulting herself into the air-conditioned donut shop, Fudge Judy, speed walking past a group of gaping customers, and pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. As advised, Hallie took a spot behind the standing mixer and embraced the opportunity to finally pull her curls up into a bun. “Hello, Jerome,” she called to Lavinia’s husband. “Those bear claws look beautiful.”
Jerome tipped his head down to observe Hallie over the rim of his glasses and offered a slightly judgmental hum under his breath before going back to glazing donuts. “Whatever this is, don’t drag my wife into it this time,” he drawled.
Well used to Jerome’s gruff, no-nonsense demeanor, Hallie saluted the former detective from Los Angeles. “No dragging. Message received.”
Lavinia blasted into the kitchen, the smell of Parliaments trailing after her. “Care to explain yourself, missus?”
Oh, nothing, I just sabotaged a certain disco ball outside of a certain wineshop.” Hallie slumped sideways against the wall. “We had another defector. Mrs. Cross.”
Lavinia looked disgusted, and Hallie loved her for it. “The one who owns the coffee shop? These hoes ain’t loyal.” She mimicked Hallie’s posture, only she leaned against her husband’s back, instead. “Well, I know where I won’t be buying my afternoon coffee.”
“The one you pour half into the garbage and replace with whiskey?” Jerome inserted, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.
“I knew you would understand,” Hallie said, reaching a hand toward Lavinia.
“Oy. ’Course I do.” The other woman grimaced. “But even I can’t do any more daily wine tastings at Corked. Yesterday I gave away three dozen free donuts and told the postman I love him thanks to a Beaujolais buzz.”
“Yes.” Hallie replayed the whine of the disco ball grinding to a halt and her subsequent getaway jog. “I’m starting to think the daytime alcohol consumption might be affecting my behavior in a negative way.”
Jerome coughed—his version of a laugh. “What’s the excuse for your behavior before you started attending daily wine tastings?” he wanted to know. He’d turned from the glazing station and leaned back against the metal table, his deep-brown arms crossed over his barrel chest. “When I was on the force, we would have called this an escalation.”
“No,” Hallie whispered in horror, gripping the strap of her bag.
“Leave her be, Jerome,” Lavinia scolded, swatting her husband on the arm. “You know what our Hallie has been through lately. And it is distressing to watch everyone migrate over to UNCORKED like a big lot of lemmings. Too much change, all at once, innit, babe?”
Lavinia’s sympathy caused a pang in Hallie’s chest. God, she loved her friends. Even Jerome and his brutal honesty. But their kindness also made Hallie feel like the sole upside-down crayon in a box of Crayolas. She was a twenty-nine-year-old woman hiding behind a standing mixer after committing disco ball sabotage and interrupting the workday of two normally functioning people. Her phone buzzed incessantly in her purse, her three thirty appointment, no doubt, wanting an explanation for her tardiness.
It took her a full minute to fish the buzzing device out of her packed purse. “Hello?”
“Hallie! This is Veronica over on Hollis Lane. Are you still planning on landscaping my walkway this afternoon? It’s past four o’clock now and I have early dinner plans.”
Four o’clock? How long had she been brooding across the street from UNCORKED, pretending to read the same Nancy and Sluggo comic strip over and over? “That’s fine. Go ahead and take off. I’ll be over to get started soon.”
“But I won’t be home to let you in,” explained Veronica.
Hallie opened her mouth and closed it. “Your garden is outside, right?”
“Yes, but . . . well, I should be here to greet you, at least. The neighbors should witness me acknowledging your arrival, so they don’t think you’re trespassing. And—oh fine, maybe I wouldn’t mind supervising a little. I’m very particular.”
There it was. Hallie’s personal kiss of death.
A client wanting to control the flower narrative.
Her grandmother had been patient with that sort of thing, listening carefully to a customer’s demands and gently guiding them over to her camp. Hallie didn’t own a pair of kid gloves. She could produce beautiful gardens bursting with color and life—and she did. All over St. Helena. Keeping the name Becca’s Blooms alive in the spirit of the grandmother who had raised her from age fourteen. But she didn’t have a method to her madness. It was all gut feelings and mood planting.
Chaotic, like the rest of her life.
That’s what worked for her. The madness kept her busy and distracted. When she sat down and tried to get organized, that’s when the future seemed too overwhelming.
“Hallie?” chirped Veronica into her ear. “Are you coming?”
“Veronica, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, swallowing, hoping her grandmother couldn’t hear her from heaven. “With it being late June and all, I’m afraid my schedule is bursting at the seams a little. But I have a colleague in town who I know could do a fabulous job on your garden—and he’s much better at interpreting a specific vision than I am. I’m sure you’ve heard of Owen Stark, seen his name around town. I’m going to call him as soon as I hang up and have him give you a ring.”
Hallie ended the call a moment later. “Well, my evening is free now. Maybe I’ll go knock over a convenience store.”
“Do steal me a pack of smokes while you’re at it, babe,” Lavinia requested without missing a beat. “And some antacids for our Jerome.”
“Anything for my accomplices.”
Jerome snorted. “I’d turn you in to the police in a heartbeat,” he said, turning back to his bear claws, dusting them with powdered sugar.
He doesn’t mean that, Lavinia mouthed at Hallie.
Hallie gave her friend a wry look. Truthfully, she didn’t blame Jerome for being annoyed with her. This wasn’t the first time she’d hidden behind the standing mixer. Come to think of it . . . had it even been a full month since the last time? On opening day at UNCORKED, she might have pilfered a few of the flyers being circulated around town. And by a few, she meant she’d canceled all of her appointments and snuck around, taking them out of store windows. On the final leg of her quest, she’d been caught by an overdressed manager in a tweed suit and little round glasses. He’d chased her half a block.
She should stop worrying so much about things she couldn’t change. If she’d learned anything growing up with a vagabond for a mother, it’s that change was inevitable. Things and people and even traditions were often there one minute and replaced the next. But her grandmother wasn’t going to be one of them. Rebecca was the ship’s rudder of her life. In which direction would Hallie go without her?
Hallie forced a smile onto her face. “All right, I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for harboring me.” Because she knew herself too well, she crossed her fingers behind her back. “I promise it’s the last time.”
Lavinia doubled over laughing. “My God, Hallie. I can see your crossed fingers in the stainless steel fridge.”
“Oh.” Face heating, she sidestepped toward the rear exit. “I’ll just see myself out—”
“Wait! I forgot. I have news,” Lavinia said abruptly, speed walking in Hallie’s direction. She slung their arms together and pulled her into the small parking lot that ran behind the donut shop, as well as the rest of the stores on Grapevine Way. As soon as the screen door of Fudge Judy slapped shut behind them, Lavinia lit another cigarette and hit Hallie with the kind of eye contact that screamed this is big news. Exactly the kind of distraction Hallie needed to stall her self-reflective mood. “Remember that tasting you dragged me to a few months back at Vos Vineyard?”
Hallie’s breath hitched at the name Vos. “Yes.”
“And remember you got sloshed and told me you’ve been in love with Julian Vos, the son, since you were a freshman in high school?”
“Shhhh.” Hallie’s face had to be the color of beet juice now. “Keep your voice down. Everyone knows who they are in this town, Lavinia!”
“Would you stop? It’s just you and me here.” Squinting one eye, she took a long pull of her cigarette and blew the smoke sideways. “He’s back in town. Heard it straight from his mum.”
The parking lot seemed to shrink in around Hallie, the ground rising up like a wave of asphalt. “What? I . . . Julian?” The amount of reverence she packed into the whisper of his name would have been embarrassing if she hadn’t hidden behind this woman’s standing mixer twice in one month. “Are you sure? He lives near Stanford.”
“Yes, yes, he’s a brilliant professor. A scholar with a case of the tall, dark, and broodies. Nearly your first snog. I remember everything—and yes, I’m sure. According to his mum, the hot prodigal son is living in the guesthouse at the vineyard for the next several months to write a historical fiction novel.”
A zap of electricity went through Hallie, straight down to her feet.
An image of Julian Vos was always, always on standby, and it shot to the forefront of her mind now, vivid and glorious. His black hair whipping right and left in the wind,
his family vineyard like an endless maze on all sides of him, the sky burning with bright purples and oranges, his mouth descending toward hers and stopping right at the last second. He’d been so close she could taste the alcohol on his breath. So close she could have counted the black flecks in his bourbon-brown eyes if only the sun hadn’t set.
She could also feel the way he’d snagged her wrist and dragged her back to the party, muttering about her being a freshman. The greatest tragedy of her life, right up until she’d lost her grandmother, was not landing that kiss from Julian Vos. For the last fifteen years, she’d been spinning alternate endings in her mind, occasionally even going so far as watching his history lectures on YouTube—and responding to his rhetorical questions out loud, like some kind of psychotic, one-sided conversationalist. Though she would take that humiliating practice to the grave.
Not to mention the wedding scrapbook she’d made for them in ninth grade.
“Well?” prompted Lavinia.
Hallie shook herself. “Well what?”
Lavinia waved her smoking hand around. “You might bump into the old crush around St. Helena soon enough. Isn’t that exciting?”
“Yes,” Hallie said slowly, begging the wheels in her head to stop spinning. “It is.”
“Do you know if he’s single?”
“I think so,” Hallie murmured. “He doesn’t update his Facebook very often. When he does, it’s usually with a news article about space exploration or an archaeological discovery—”
“You are literally leaching my vagina of moisture.”
“But his status is still single,” Hallie laughed. “Last time I checked.”
“And when was that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A year, perhaps?”
More like a month, but no one was counting.
“Wouldn’t it be something to get a second chance at that kiss?” Lavinia poked her in the ribs. “Though it’ll be far from your first at this stage of your life, hey?”
“Oh yeah, it’ll be at least my . . .”
Her friend squinted an eye, prodding the air with a finger. “Eleventh? Fifteenth?”
“Fifteenth. You got it.” Hallie coughed. “Minus thirteen.”
Lavinia stared at her for an extended moment, letting out a low whistle. “Well, Jesus. No wonder you have so much unspent energy.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Okay, forget what I said about bumping into him, you two-kiss pony. Happenstance isn’t going to work. We must arrange some kind of sly meeting.” She thought for a second, then landed on something. “Ooh! Maybe check the Web and see if Vos Vineyard is having another event soon. He’s bound to be there.”
Yes. Yes, I could do that.” Hallie continued to nod. “Or I could just check in with Mrs. Vos and see if her guesthouse needs some new landscaping. My waxed begonias would add a nice pop of red to any front yard. And who could turn down lantanas? They stay green all year.”
“. . . Hallie.”
“And of course, there’s that late-June discount I’m offering.”
“You can never do anything the easy way, can you?” Lavinia sighed.
“I’m much better at speaking to men when I’m busy doing something with my hands.”
Her friend raised an eyebrow. “You heard yourself, right?”
“Yes, pervert, I heard,” she muttered, already lifting the phone to her ear, excitement beginning to skip around in her belly when the line started to ring. “Rebecca always said to look for signs. I just canceled that biweekly job with Veronica on Hollis Lane for a reason. So I’d be open for this one. Potentially. I might have Napa running in my blood, but wine tastings aren’t my element. This is better. I’ll have my flowers as a buffer.”
“I suppose that’s fair enough. You’re just having a little look at him.”
“Yes! A tiny baby of a look. For nostalgia’s sake.”
Lavinia was beginning to nod along with her. “Fuck me, I’m actually getting a little excited about this, Hal. It’s not every day a girl gets a second shot at kissing her lifelong crush.”
Exactly. That’s why she wasn’t going to overthink this. Act first, reflect later. Her credo worked out at least half the time. A lot of things had far worse odds. Like . . . the lottery. Or cracking open a double-yolked egg. No matter what happened, though, she’d be laying her eyes on Julian Vos again. In the flesh. And soon.
Obviously, this course of action could backfire. Righteously.
What if he didn’t even remember her or that night in the vineyard?
After all, fifteen years had passed and her feelings for Julian in high school were woefully one-sided. Before the night of the almost-kiss, he’d been blissfully unaware of her existence. And immediately afterward, she’d been pulled from school by her mother for an extended road trip to Tacoma. He’d graduated soon after, and she’d never seen him again in real life.
A blank look from the man who starred in her fantasies could be a crushing disappointment. But her impulsivity had gotten worse since the loss of Rebecca in January, and it was too tempting to throw herself into one of her unknowns now. To let the chips fall where they may without reasoning through her actions first. A little niggle beneath her collar warned her to stop and slow down, take some time to think, but she ignored it, her spine snapping straight when Corinne
Vos’s crisp, almost amused-sounding voice curled in her ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Vos, hello. It’s Hallie Welch from Becca’s Blooms. I do the landscaping around your pool and refresh your porch every season.”
The slightest pause. “Yes. Hello, Miss Welch. What can I do for you?”
Hallie held the phone away so she could gulp down a breath for courage, then settled the screen once more against the side of her face. “Actually, I was hoping I could do something for you. My waxed begonias are just stunning this year, and I thought some of them might look beautiful around your property . . .”
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