strokes.
The breath hissed between her teeth as the antiseptic burned.
Lucy waited quietly, wondering why a stranger would go to this amount of trouble for her. As his head bent over her hand, she stared at the thick locks of his hair, a shade of brown so rich and dark that it appeared almost black.
“You’re not in bad shape, considering,” she heard him murmur.
“Are you talking about my hand or my breakup?”
“Breakup. Most women would be crying right now.”
“I’m still in shock. The next stage is crying and sending angry text messages to everyone I know. After that is the stage when I’ll want to rehash the relationship until all my friends start avoiding me.” Lucy knew she was chattering, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “In the final stage, I’ll get a short haircut that doesn’t flatter me, and buy a lot of expensive shoes I’ll never wear.”
“It’s a lot simpler for guys,” Sam said. “We just drink a lot of beer, go a few days without shaving, and buy an appliance.”
“You mean … like a toaster?”
“No, something that makes noise. Like a leaf-blower or chain saw. It’s very healing.”
That drew a brief, reluctant smile from her.
She needed to go home and think about the fact that her life was entirely different from how it had been when she woke up that morning. How could she go back to the home that she and Kevin had created together? She couldn’t sit at the kitchen table with the wobbly leg that both of them had tried to fix countless times, and listen to the ticking of the vintage black-cat clock with the pendulum tail that Kevin had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. Their flatware was a jumble of mismatched knives, forks, and spoons from antiques stores. Flatware with wonderful names. They had delighted in finding new treasures—a King Edward fork, a Waltz of Spring spoon. Now every object in that house had just become evidence of another failed relationship. How was she going to face that damning accumulation?
Sam applied an adhesive bandage to her hand. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about stitches,” he said. “The bleeding’s almost stopped.” He held her hand just a fraction of a second longer than necessary before letting go. “What’s your name?”
Lucy shook her head, the shadow of a smile still lingering. “Not unless you tell me your phobia.”
He looked down at her. The rain was falling faster now, a fabric of droplets glittering on his skin, weighting his hair until the thick locks darkened and separated. “Peanut butter,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, bemused. “Do you have an allergy?”
Sam shook his head. “It’s the feeling of having it stick to the roof of my mouth.”
She gave him a skeptical glance. “Is that a real phobia?”
“Absolutely.” He tilted his head, studying her with those striking eyes. Waiting for her name, she realized.
“Lucy,” she said.
“Lucy.” A new softness edged his voice as he asked, “You want to go somewhere and talk? Maybe have coffee?”
Lucy was amazed by the strength of the temptation to say yes. But she knew that if she went anywhere with this big, good-looking stranger, she was going to end up weeping and complaining about her pathetic love life. In response to his kindness, she was going to spare him that. “Thanks, but I really have to go,” she said, feeling desperate and defeated.
“Can I drive you home? I could put your bike in the back of the truck.”
Her throat closed. She shook her head and turned away.
“I live at the end of Rainshadow Road,” Sam said from behind her. “At the vineyard on False Bay. Come for a visit, and I’ll open a bottle of wine. We’ll talk about anything you want.” He paused. “Any time.”
Lucy cast a bleak smile over her shoulder. “Thank you. But I can’t take you up on that.” She went to her bike, raised the kickstand, and swung her leg over.
“Why not?”
“The guy who just broke up with me … he was exactly like you, in the beginning. Charming, and nice. They’re all like you in the beginning. But I always end up like this. And I can’t do it anymore.”
She rode away through the rain, the tires digging ruts into the softening ground. And even though she knew he was watching, she didn’t let herself look back.
Three
As Sam drove along Westside Road toward False Bay, the English bulldog nudged against the closed window.
“Forget it,” Sam told him. “I don’t want rain to get in the truck. And you’re so damn top-heavy, you’d fall out.”
Settling back into his seat, Renfield gave him a baleful glance.
“If your nose wasn’t half buried back in your head, you might be able to help me track her down. What exactly are you good for?” Keeping one hand on the wheel, Sam reached over and scratched the dog’s head gently.
He thought of the woman he’d just met, the forlorn gravity of her expression, that beautiful dark hair. Staring into those ocean-green eyes had been like sinking into moonlight. He wasn’t sure what to make of her, he only knew that he wanted to see her again.
The rain was heavier now, obliging him to increase the speed of the windshield wipers. So far it had been a wet spring, which meant he would have to keep an eye out for powdery mildew damage in the vineyard. Fortunately they had consistent breezes coming off the bay. Sam had planted his rows parallel to the prevailing winds, to allow the movement of air to run through the aisles and dry the vines more efficiently.
Growing grapes was a science, an art, and for people like Sam, very nearly a religion. He had started as a teen, reading every book about viticulture he could get his hands on, working at garden nurseries and apprenticing at vineyards on San Juan Island and Lopez.
After majoring in viticulture at WSU, Sam had become a cellar rat at a California winery, working as a winemaker’s assistant. Eventually he’d sunk most of what he had into buying fifteen acres at False Bay on San Juan Island. He had planted five acres with Syrah, Riesling, and even some temperamental Pinot Noir.
Until Rainshadow Vineyard could ramp up to mature crop levels, Sam needed an income. Someday he would be able to build a production facility to process the grapes from his own vineyard. He was enough of a realist, however, to understand that most dreams required compromises along the way.
He had found sources for bulk wine, took it to a custom crush operation for bottling, and had developed five reds and two whites to sell to retailers and restaurants. And he’d given most of them nautical names, such as “Three Sheets,” “Down the Hatch,” and “Keelhaul.” It was a modest but steady living, with good potential. “I’m going to make a small fortune with this vineyard,” he had told his older brother, Mark, who had said, “Too bad you borrowed a big fortune to start it.”
Sam pulled up to the huge Victorian farmhouse that had come with the property. A feeling of dilapidated grandeur hung over the place, enticing you to imagine the glory it had once been. A shipwright had built the house more than a hundred years earlier, framing it with an abundance of porches, balconies, and bay windows.
Over the decades, however, a succession of owners and tenants had wrecked the
