“Growing blending grapes gives you more options when you produce wine,” I explained. “In America a wine can still be called a particular varietal—like Cabernet Sauvignon—as long as it contains at least seventy-five percent of that grape. We’re more liberal than the Europeans. They require eighty-five percent of the primary grape.”
He nodded like he might have known this, so I continued. “Because we can blend up to twenty-five percent of one or more grapes and still have the varietal, we can experiment until we get a better wine. Something that’s more complex and interesting. Basically, the whole can be better than the sum of its parts.”
I started the car again. “Let’s go over to the established fields so you can see how far along each varietal is. The whites are the first to develop, which is why we harvest them first—but I’m sure you know this.”
“Yes.” He closed the notepad and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
We motored between blocks of vines as I pointed out the various grapes and gave him a quick history. A light wind blew steadily, rustling the leaves and the garnet-colored bailing ties we used to secure the vines to the wires. The late-morning sunlight filtered through the mostly open canopy, gilding the grapes and transforming the young leaves so they seemed almost transparent.
“You must enjoy coming here,” he said unexpectedly. “It’s very peaceful.”
“It’s a good place to come think,” I said. “If only you didn’t have to spend so much time worrying about the grapes. When they’re in bloom, though, and it’s just the flowers, it’s heaven. It smells sweet, like wild honeysuckle.” I glanced at my watch. “We should get over to the new fields.”
With the danger signs gone and the tarps removed, it was now merely innocuous-looking red Virginia clay soil. I stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“I’d suggest we go for a walk, but you’re not wearing the best shoes.”
He laughed. “I saw you staring at them when we were back in your laboratory. Left my trainers at home. I packed in rather a rush.” He glanced around. “So why did you choose this place?”
“Because it’s high enough that there won’t be any frost pockets like the ones that wiped out our fruit the other day,” I said. “If you look over there you can see how we cleared out all the trees and vegetation below to maximize cold air drainage.” I pointed in the distance.
He nodded, shielding his eyes. “It looks like they face east, judging by the sun.”
“As much as possible all vines should face east, north, or northeast,” I said. “It’s too hot on southern and western exposures. Eastern slopes get the sun first thing in the morning, so dew and rain dry sooner. You get fewer diseases that way.”
“Your vines ought to do well here, then. I’m sure you’ll have a good harvest.”
“Not for another three years. You do know that’s how long it takes between planting and the first harvest?” I asked.
“Look, I did read
I grinned and started the engine. “Have you seen enough?”
When we got back to the parking lot, I pulled up next to his rental car.
“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he said, “to thank you for your time and trouble.”
“I thought this was going to be all business.” I retrieved my cane from the backseat. “And it was no trouble.”
“I lied,” he said, and pulled me close, kissing my cheek. “I’ll give you a ring about that dinner,” he murmured in my ear. “I always repay my debts.”
My face was still burning as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“Back from the grand tour? Looks like it went just fine. You two certainly hit it off.”
I hadn’t heard Quinn come up behind me, but managed to say coolly, “The British are very polite. He was just thanking me for showing him around.”
“Honey, that was beyond polite. And he was checking out a lot more than the vineyard.”
So he’d seen the kiss.
“You have a one-track mind,” I told him. “Look, I’m meeting Kit for lunch in Leesburg at twelve-thirty. It’s only eleven. Why don’t I stop by Seely’s and pick up some flowers for Hector? I’ll tell him they’re from both of us. I should have enough time to get to the hospital before lunch.”
“Tell him I’ll be by later. And tell him the flowers are from you. He’ll know damn well I wouldn’t do something like that. Men don’t send other men flowers.”
“He could have died. You could make an exception, you know? Where are you going now?” We were back on our customary footing, talking about work.
“South vineyard. I want to see how the cleanup of the freeze damage is coming along. You’ll be back after lunch, right?” He nudged me. “Hey! Are you listening or are you still playing tour guide?”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not. I asked if you were coming back after lunch. We’ve got that reception tonight. Or did you forget that, too?”
“I didn’t forget anything, and it’s not a reception. It’s a private cocktail party. Hors d’oeuvres here, dinner at the Inn.”
“Do we know who’s coming?”
“Nope. Just that Austin Kendall is paying for it,” I said. “And I’ll be back after lunch, so why don’t we finally settle on the Chardonnay once and for all? That way we can get it in bottles tomorrow, if we work fast enough.”
“Or Friday morning.”
“Mick just told me Georgia’s funeral is Friday morning.”
“I can bottle wine without you, you know. I’ve done it before, believe it or not.”
“Very funny.”
“Bonita will help,” he said. “It’ll be awesome.”
Seely’s Garden Center was a sprawling, beautifully landscaped nursery located at the intersection of Sam Fred Road and the Snickersville Turnpike, not far from where Goose Creek continued its meandering route north toward the Potomac River. The nursery had been founded by Noah’s grandfather and it looked as if a fourth generation—Noah’s youngest daughter, Jennifer—was ready to carry on the family business when Noah finally retired for good.
Here in Loudoun and Fauquier Counties we take our gardens seriously, not just because we’re an agricultural region, but also because of the great natural beauty of the land. The annual Virginia historic garden week tour had taken place at the end of April. The spring farm tour was last week. Both events were great for local tourism and they also gave Seely’s an inevitable bump in sales due to the serious garden-lust that resulted from seeing someone else’s award-winning roses or heirloom tomatoes. Today the place was crowded as I drove in.
Above the door to the main building was a plaque with a quote from Thomas Jefferson written in calligraphy: “No occupation is so delightful to me as the culture of the earth, and no culture comparable to that of the garden.” The building itself was an enormous airy structure that looked like a cross between a log cabin and a barn. On the right was the greenhouse. On the left a warehouse-like store sold garden supplies, lawn care products, small tools, and other gardening essentials. The florist was tucked into a corner of a year-round Christmas shop located just off the main store. I bought a bunch of spring flowers from a pretty teenager wearing a gray polo shirt with “Seely’s Garden Center” and the outline of a tree embroidered in green on the pocket.
“Is either Jennifer or Noah around?” I asked as I paid her.
“Noah’s in his office behind customer service,” she said. “And I think Jen is watering plants outside somewhere. Try the bedding plants under the awning.”
“Thanks.”
The door to Noah’s cluttered office was ajar. He looked up from his paperwork as I knocked, pushing his reading glasses up so they sat on his bald head. For someone whose livelihood came from the outdoors, I often wondered why he chose a room with no windows as the place where he took care of business. The furnishings were spartan and utilitarian except for his thriving African violet collection, which flourished under special lights on a tiered shelf in the corner. Stuck in the pot of the smallest flower, a ceramic sign read “Grow, dammit!”
“Lucie,” he said. “Come in, my dear. What can I do for you? What’s the occasion for the flowers?”
Noah and my mother had worked closely together when she restored the gardens around our house and later
