I bit into the muffin, unable to hold off any longer. “Nobody, I guess. I just have this weird feeling that…I don’t know. Maybe I’ve had too much coffee or something.”
“Maybe.” Tyler smiled. “Anyway, I was wondering if you have plans for tonight.”
“Uh…only with you. Why are you asking? We always spend Friday nights together.” We had spent almost every weekend together for over a year without either of us asking the other for a date. It was kind of assumed. At least I thought it was. So why was he asking all of a sudden?
“It’s just that, uh…I want tonight to be special. A clear your calendar, no peeking at your laptop kind of night. Can you do that?”
“Of course. What time?” I felt pressured by the enormity of finishing my edits and then dealing with whatever catastrophe awaited me at my family’s cozy bed and breakfast inn. And then I had promised to help my neighbor get ready for the wine show…
“Is eight okay? I’ve got a case I need to wrap up.”
“It’s perfect.” It wasn’t nearly enough time but I’d figure it out somehow. “What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise,” Tyler said. “I hope you’ll like it.”
Tyler’s surprise was all I could think about for the rest of the afternoon. Good thing I hadn’t killed him with a broom.
I managed to finish my article and called it a day at 4 p.m.
I stepped out onto Main Street. There wasn’t a soul in sight. A few cars were parked along the two blocks that counted as downtown Westwick Corners.
I tucked the latest edition of the Westwick Corners Weekly newspaper under my arm as I cinched my collar against the cool breeze. It was unseasonably cold for October and the wind swirled leaves around my feet as I walked to my car. Tyler was right: Westwick Corners was a safe town. On the other hand, I’d have felt better if there were more people around.
My feature article about this weekend’s Westwick Corners Wine Festival flashed through my mind. The annual festival was one of my bigger issues because the wineries always bought extra advertising dollars in advance of the festival, which I desperately needed.
I had purchased the small community newspaper several years ago from the retiring owner, basically buying myself a job so I could stay in my hometown. As the sole employee, I handled everything from reporting, photography, advertising, and circulation. It barely paid enough to live on, but it was one of the few ways to earn a living in this quaint town, which was slowly being revitalized after decades of neglect.
I also thought about Tyler’s surprise. A boyfriend surprising a girlfriend limited the possibilities. What could it be? A proposal? It had always seemed weird to me that the man got to decide where and when that happened. At the same time, I was excited because I had known for a while now that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
I finally reached my forlorn-looking Honda CRV parked a few doors down the street. I fished for my keys in my pocket and unlocked the door. Although I wanted to drive straight home and snuggle in front of the large hearth at my family’s Westwick Corners Inn, it would have to wait. I had previously committed to helping a neighbor in need.
Antonio Lombard was a second-generation winemaker who had fallen on hard times. His problems became obvious when I interviewed him for my community newspaper. I was writing one of the several articles I ran every year in the lead-up to the wine festival that attracted many vintners from around the state, including a half-dozen local winemakers. The articles featured local wineries, their latest wines, and winemakers who produced them.
As I interviewed each contestant to learn more about their wines, the conversation often devolved into gossip about the competition, most of which I printed. The locals devoured the stories and often chose favorites based more on salacious details—of which there were plenty—instead of the wines themselves.
Competitors vied for a number of awards and the stakes were high. Winning meant more than bragging rights. It guaranteed more sales from the public through increased publicity and name recognition. Top wines also attracted the attention of regional and national wine buyers who could dramatically increase sales volumes and profitability. In short, it could make or break business success.
All that seemed to have finally broken Antonio Lombard, who, with his brother Jose, operated Lombard Wines down the road from me and my family of part-time witches and innkeepers. We operated a fledgling winery too, nurtured by Mom thanks to a couple of years of guidance and oversight from Antonio. My lending a hand was more than neighborly concern; we truly owed him a lot.
You’d think that because I’m a witch I could simply cast a spell to dissolve Antonio’s troubles, but there are strict rules about interfering into other peoples’ lives. I am a rule-follower. I don’t lie, cheat, or use witchcraft frivolously. Okay, I’ll admit that I do cheat on diets, but when it comes to witchcraft, I always follow the Witches International Community Craft Association’s rules to the letter. Breaking WICCA rules could cost me my witch license. I would never risk losing something that had been so hard to earn.
As I got in the driver’s seat and buckled up, I wondered if it was already too late to help Antonio. Everything had been in such chaos yesterday when I had arrived to interview him. Antonio was barely coherent, even though I’d interviewed him so many times, he could have done it in his sleep. The winery was in complete disarray, with empty boxes and crates covering every surface. Even worse, he hadn’t yet bottled his wine for tomorrow’s wine festival! It was pretty obvious that my neighbor was in deep trouble.
Despite all that, I managed to write my feature on Lombard Wines by lifting a few phrases and photos
