“Welcome to San Francisco,” Quinn said.
The coffee was hot and strong, and the whiskey and cream went down like silk. He grinned, watching my face.
“Pretty good, huh?”
“Stop me after this one or you’ll have to carry me out.”
“I’ve done that before.”
“You helped me. You didn’t carry me.”
He slurped his coffee. “That’s not how I remember it.”
We should not have traveled this road. It was one of the nights we’d gone to bed together. He looked like he realized belatedly, too. I stared into my mug while he studied the bartender making another round of drinks.
He picked up the two menus on the table and handed one to me. “How about something to eat? They make great eggs Benedict.”
I set down my menu. “I can’t do this, Quinn.”
“Do what?”
“You know what. Act like we’re on a blind date that isn’t working out when the soup’s arrived and it’s a five- course meal.”
He laughed, looking rueful.
“I know.” He took one of my hands in his. “I left you with a lot on your plate when I took off and I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay—”
“Let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“I still have some stuff I’ve got to work out here,” he said. “In California.”
“Does that mean you’re not—?”
He put a finger to his lips. “Listen, okay? I promised I wouldn’t let you down for harvest and I won’t.”
I pulled my hand away and gripped my coffee mug. Harvest. That was all we’d ever talked about. Nothing else, just this year’s harvest.
“What about after that?”
“Lucie, don’t.”
“You don’t know or you won’t say?”
“Probably I don’t know, so I can’t say.”
“I want you to come back.” My voice cracked and for once I didn’t mind that he knew I was pleading. “For good.”
“I know,” he said. “I care too much about you to screw this up. I’ve never been any good at relationships, you know that. A failed marriage … a bunch of women after that … no one who lasted.”
“Then take your time.” I locked my eyes on his. “Just don’t shut me out, please?”
If I looked away, broke the spell, then maybe he’d say no. I’d clenched my teeth together so hard my jaw hurt. He nodded slowly and I relaxed.
“I won’t,” he said. “But let’s take this one day at a time.”
If I pushed, I’d lose him. “Okay. I can do that.”
He touched his glass against mine. “I know you can.”
We drank our Irish coffee without speaking, but at least the silence was no longer tense or even melancholy.
“So,” I said, “are you going to show me San Francisco, California guy? How long before I start wearing flowers in my hair?”
He grinned and glanced at his watch. “Any minute now. They just show up. Usually right here.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “And may I say that it is your uncommon good luck that I happen to be a fabulous tour guide? I know rings around those hop-on hop-off bus people.”
“So humble,” I said. “I’ve missed that about you.”
“Wait until I take you to Napa, sweetheart. I’ll show you places that’ll make you think you’re in the Garden of Eden.”
I’d nearly forgotten the real reason I was here. Charles’s little mission cloaked in a wine-buying trip for Mick. Now I’d involved Quinn as well—asking him to face the daughter of the man he once worked for without telling him what was at stake.
“I can’t wait,” I said. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
He gave me a shrewd look. “What?” he said. “I’m not dissing Virginia, you know, so don’t give me that cross-eyed stare you do so well about Virginia being first in wine because of Jamestown and Thomas Jefferson and California being late to the game.”
“There’s something I have to tell you,” I said.
He sucked in his breath and watched me warily.
“No.” I held up my hand. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“Is this what was so ‘complicated’ yesterday?”
I nodded. “It wasn’t Mick’s idea to buy wine from Brooke Hennessey. Charles Thiessman set it up. You remember Charles, don’t you?”
“Does he really exist? I thought he was like Mosby’s ghost, only appearing on moonless nights to haunt other vineyard owners. He’s too good to mingle with the rest of the Virginia winemaking riffraff.”
I smiled. “Oh, he’s real all right. He and Pépé have known each other for decades. It’s thanks to Charles that Pépé is giving that talk at the Bohemian Grove.”
“What does this have to do with Brooke?”
“Well, nothing. No, actually, it does have to do with her. It’s all sort of related.”
“That’s good, because I think I’m lost already.”
“Sorry, but there’s more.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Charles is interested in Brooke’s vineyard,” I said. “It’s not called Rose Hill for nothing. He says there are some exotic specimens of roses grown there, gardens in addition to the vineyard. He pitched the idea of Mick buying a couple thousand gallons of Brooke’s Cab. Told Mick about the roses and all that, and made it sound like the wine was the next best thing to a first-growth Bordeaux. Mick went for it.”
“Yeah, well, Mick doesn’t give a damn about
“ ‘A rose nut.’ ” I rolled my eyes. “You say ‘tomato,’ I say ‘rosarian.’ ”
“Whatever.”
“Charles wants to know if the previous owner cultivated black roses. Not real black roses, because they don’t exist, but there are some roses that are such a deep, dark red that they’re referred to as black roses.”
“Why does he want to know this?”
“He thinks the guy who owned Rose Hill before Brooke is someone he knew a long time ago.” I finished the last of my coffee and set the mug on the table. “There’s something else. Paul Noble hanged himself the other day.”
“God, how awful.” Quinn shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m having a hard time keeping up with the players in this story. Is he involved in this, too?”
I nodded.
“That’s sad about Noble, but he was a bastard to vintners.” He paused and said, “God rest his soul. How’d you hear about that?”
“Firsthand,” I said. “I drove over to his house in Waterford to talk to him and found him in his studio. He’d been drinking. A bottle of our Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Jesus, Lucie. What the hell’s going on?” Quinn set his empty Irish coffee mug on the table and lined it up with mine. “This story gets weirder and weirder.”
He stared at me as though he were considering something.
“Look, we can either have breakfast here or we can clear out and I’ll take you to Scoma’s,” he said finally. “You’re speaking so softly I can hardly hear what you’re saying with everyone talking around us.”
