Her grandfather told her never to trust a Barzonni

Nothing gives Liz Crenshaw more delight than walking the hills of her family’s winery and tending her precious vines. And nothing frustrates her more than Gabe Barzonni, the handsome, successful and utterly aggravating son of Indian Lake’s most prominent farmers. All her instincts scream “avoid,” especially when she finds out he’s going into the wine business himself. But Liz can’t seem to shake him. One minute, he’s nosing around her property, the next he’s arranging to escort her to her best friend’s wedding. Well, too bad. Whatever he has designs on—her or her land—Gabe is out of luck. Now, to get him out of her mind...

The man was trespassing

He had his back to her as he held a wide-mouth glass tube of dirt...her dirt...up to the sun. Liz moved in closer and leveled her shotgun at him.

“Put it down and turn around.”

The man raised his arms and turned to face her.

Liz gasped. “Gabe Barzonni?”

Gabe chuckled. “Hi, Liz.”

She glared at him. “Spill. Why are you stealing my soil?”

“I wasn’t stealing. Exactly.” He started to smile, but catching Liz’s suspicious scowl, he obviously thought better of it. “I followed some tourists out to the vineyard. Your chef de cave told us we were free to walk around.”

“Sure you are. Among the Cabernet grapes. Not over here.”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “Liz, can you please put the shotgun away? It makes me nervous.”

“Good,” she said. “I want you to be nervous. Maybe you’ll start telling me the truth.”

Dear Reader,

I hope by the time you’ve picked up A Fine Year for Love you are as enthralled with the characters in Indian Lake as I am. I realize that as the author I am supposed to love my people, but with each new romance I am finding some very strong-willed, dedicated and loyal folks who are fascinating enough to keep me up at night telling me their story.

You may remember that I introduced Liz Crenshaw in Love Shadows and explained that she and her grandfather owned a vineyard north of Indian Lake. In my fairy-tale life, I have romanticized a world in which I was a vintner. I adore vineyards. I love the precise rows of thriving vines that undulate up and down hills and soak up the sun. If I ever did own a vineyard, I would be so obsessed and possessive, I’d probably be ostracized by all my friends for being obnoxious about my life’s calling. Therefore, I nailed those flaws to my heroine’s heels.

When love does finally come to Liz’s doorstep, she holds Gabe Barzonni at gunpoint. Little does Liz realize she is right to be suspicious of Gabe, whose secret desire is to become a vintner and leave his father’s lucrative farm. From their first encounter, when Gabe is trying to steal a sample of Liz’s soil, sparks fly left and right. Through revelations of decades-old family secrets to the heartbreaking awareness of Sam Crenshaw’s dementia, to a life-and-death crisis, Liz and Gabe must finally come to terms with what truly makes life precious to them.

I would love to hear from you and your thoughts about our friends in Indian Lake. You can find me on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and Pinterest. My website is catherinelanigan.com or you can email me at cathlanigan1@gmail.com.

Then join me in a few short months for more heartwarming romance in the fourth book in the Shores of Indian Lake series.

Catherine Lanigan

A Fine Year for Love

Catherine Lanigan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHERINE LANIGAN knew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister to entertain them. After years of encouragement from family and high school teachers, Catherine was shocked and brokenhearted when her freshman college creative-writing professor told her that she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and that she would “never earn a dime as a writer.” He promised her that he would be her crutches and get her through his demanding class with a B grade so as not to destroy her high grade point average too much, if Catherine would promise never to write again. Catherine assumed he was the voice of authority and gave in to the bargain.

For fourteen years she did not write until she was encouraged by a television journalist to give her dream a shot. She wrote a 600-page historical romantic spy-thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent who then garnered bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published novels, nonfiction books and anthologies ago.

MILLS & BOON

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This book is dedicated to my son, Ryan Pieszchala. I love you deeply.

I’ve said it before and I will keep saying it. I am so very blessed with extraordinary editorial expertise. Each time I begin to stray, Claire, you bring me back and I can’t thank you enough. Any accolades I receive—they belong to us.

And to all the editors and staff at Mills & Boon Heartwarming. You are truly a most unique group of creative and visionary people. I am honored to work with you all. Most especially I want to thank Victoria Curran for bringing me into this very supportive and caring new family at Heartwarming. And as always, deep gratitude and affection to Dianne Moggy. A very big hug to you all.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

DRAPED LIKE GLITTERING prisms of rubies from a princess’s neck, pinot noir, French burgundy and cabernet grape clusters danced in the summer breeze at the Crenshaw Vineyard. In precise rows, the vines ran down the hills and stopped just shy of the valley. Lolling lazily in the warmth of the sun, the grapes were ripening and stretching to perfection.

Liz Crenshaw wore cutoff blue jeans and a white shirt she’d tied around her narrow waist. She drove her ATV, its attached utility trailer filled with compost, among the rows of vines. Long ago, her grandfather had banned tractors or trucks from the fields because their hard rubber tires compacted the earth and kept the rainwater from seeping properly into the roots. Liz made the compost herself. It was organic, like everything grown on Crenshaw land. They didn’t use fungicides or pesticides on the grapes, fruit trees or berry bushes.

Liz liked the idea that she and her grandfather were vestiges of a simpler time and way of life. For so long, it had been just the two of them against the world. Sam often joked they were not just related, but joined at the hip and the brain, like Siamese twins. Sam’s pet name for Liz had been petite chérie ever since she had been a little girl.

Liz had no problem with that.

She had been born on this land, in the same farmhouse in which her father had been born. Liz had always felt she was a child of the earth. Her grandfather, though seventy-seven years old, was her hero.

Liz rode the ATV to the top of the hill and looked down on the rows of vines. They ran from north to south—the morning sun would strike one side of the grapes, high noon would bathe the tops in light and the afternoon warmth would finish the task on the clusters’ horizon-facing side.

Liz inspected each vine with a sharp eye. Her vines were her life, and though sometimes her friends voiced concern that she was extremely single-minded, Liz didn’t care.

She lived a life of bliss with her grapes, her loving grandfather and their ever-expanding business.

As she crossed a line of cherry trees that helped to shelter her prized pinot noir grapes from the sometimes brutal western wind off Indian Lake, she noted the plants this year were balanced with the right amount of green leaves. The strong vines and clusters were not too fat, nor too withered from the summer heat. Years ago, Sam had made the mistake of thinking the very rich soil in the valley would produce perfect grapes. He’d learned, sometimes the hard way, that many other factors affected the productivity of the vines. Often the buds froze early in the spring, and if they lived through that, the abundant summer rains that swooped off Lake Michigan could gorge the grapes, the wine from which would be uninteresting and unmarketable. Allowing the grapes to remain on the vines even two weeks past the normal growing season meant both a superior grape and, eventually, high-quality wine similar to that which Liz had tasted in France.

Liz wanted her wines to be the epitome of excellence, to have a taste so rare in America that other vintners would recognize how special her little plot of earth truly was. Knowing she shared that dream with every vintner on the planet did not diminish her enthusiasm—it only heightened her ambitions.

Liz took out her cell phone and snapped some pictures of the vines to show her grandfather, who didn’t walk the hills or even ride them any longer. Despite his age, Sam was healthy and just as obstinate as he’d always been, but he was slowing down. Now that construction on his tasting room was complete, he preferred to work there.

The tasting room had elevated the Crenshaw Vineyard into the upper echelon of vineyards in Michigan and northern Indiana. Many of the surrounding vineyards outsourced the retail side of their business, selling bottles and cases to tasting rooms in Saugatuck, Douglas, Buchanan, St. Joseph and other coastal resort towns. The problem, Liz knew, was each vintner could never be sure what the “sommelier” behind the counter was trying to sell that day. The person pouring the wine was just as likely to be a college student who would be happy at any summer job. Liz wanted each of her employees to be at least as much of a wine snob as she was.

Liz was the first to admit she was the ultimate control freak. It was a real handicap in life, but she had long ago accepted this fact about herself. She toiled workaholic hours because she believed she knew best how each and every task should be completed. In her mind, only she could do the accounting properly. Only she knew when her pinot noir and burgundy wines had reached their peak age. Only she knew which French chardonnay grapes from which terroir should be used for their champagne. Most important for Liz, only she knew how to talk to the vines and encourage them into abundance.

Last year, when Liz hired her best friend, Sarah Jensen, and Sarah’s boss, Charmaine Chalmers, to design the tasting room and sales office and oversee the construction, she’d nearly driven them both to nervous breakdowns over her many last-minute changes. It was a miracle the building was ever finished. To make up for her idiosyncrasies, Liz had given both women two cases of her best wines.

Liz stopped her ATV close to the top of the rise when she noticed several yellowing leaves. She pulled on a pair of lime-green gardening gloves and whisked a spade out of the back of her trailer. She spread her compost around the base of the vines and tilled it in with a hoe.

She took a long slug from her water bottle and glanced at the sky. The sun had moved its apex, and Liz knew she had missed lunch with her grandfather at the farmhouse—again. He hadn’t called to remind her or to scold her. Grandpa understood her.

Liz stuck her gloves in a satchel next to the gun boot on the side of the ATV. When she was out in the fields, she toted a loaded shotgun to scare away the coyotes, deer and wild hogs that destroyed the vines. Through the winter she’d frightened off most of the harmful animals, and this spring she’d only seen one coyote. Still, she had to be prepared.

Shielding her eyes against the sun, Liz surveyed her glorious domain. From the rise, she could see across their twenty acres of planted vines and one hundred acres of unplanted, rugged terrain. Looking back to the south, Liz kept her eyes peeled for marauding animals and any sections of vine that might need fertilizer.

“What the...” Liz gasped as her gaze landed on the next rise, where her prized French chardonnay grapes were growing. “I don’t believe this.”

She hopped onto her ATV and switched on the ignition.

When she was still fifty or so yards from the top of the next rise, she cut the motor and let the vehicle roll silently across the valley. The ATV came to a stop and Liz dismounted it. She grabbed her shotgun from the boot and moved forward stealthily.

The movement Liz had seen from a distance was not, as she’d initially assumed, that of a deer or coyote. It was that of a man. He was too tall to be Aurelio, their hired hand.

There was the odd chance that it was Giovanni Fiorinni, an agronomist who split his time between Crenshaw Vineyards and several other wineries up in Michigan—but Giovanni had visited five or six days before. She didn’t expect him back for weeks. Perhaps the man was a weekend tourist who had wandered over here by accident.

Liz quickly dismissed that idea. This area was fenced, gated and locked.

She had brought the chardonnay vines from France herself. It was in this precious section of the vineyard that she had placed her dreams of producing champagne—real champagne. The first in the Midwest.

No, there would be no cause for anyone other than her and her grandfather to be on this part of the property.

This man was trespassing.

He was well over six feet tall. His nearly black hair had been precision cut and styled, which told her he probably didn’t employ a local barber at six bucks a pop. He wore clean and fitted jeans, expensive-looking black leather cowboy boots and a blue-and-white-striped Oxford shirt.

Was this guy a farmer?

The man dropped into a crouch. It was clear he hadn’t heard her approach. Liz couldn’t tell what he was doing, but he seemed intent on his work as he scooped up a handful of earth. Still moving forward, Liz noticed he was wearing plastic gloves. Next to his foot was a box filled with some sort of equipment.

This man had a purpose.

He had his back to her as he held a wide-mouthed glass tube of dirt—her dirt—up to the sun.

Liz lifted her gun, aimed it at him and stood her distance in case he made any quick moves.

“Put it down and turn around,” she ordered harshly.

The man raised his arms and slowly turned to face her.

Liz gasped. “Gabe Barzonni! What are you doing here? You’re trespassing.”

Gabe guiltily looked at the soil in the test tube, then flashed Liz a charming smile.

She frowned and continued to glare at him down the barrel of her shotgun.

Gabe chuckled. “Hi, Liz.”

She remained silent as she slowly lowered her gun. “Spill. What are you doing?”

“Actually, I came here to check out your tasting room. Very nice. I like the maple wood floors, by the way. Then your sommelier there—”

“Louisa,” Liz interjected.

“She’s very helpful. Said she’s from the Champagne region...” Gabe smiled winningly.

“I know where she’s from,” Liz growled. “And you’re beating around the bush. Why are you stealing my soil?”

“I wasn’t stealing, exactly.” He started to smile again, but catching Liz’s suspicious glare, he obviously thought better of it. “I was very impressed with the wines I tasted. Very impressed. I followed some other tourists out to the vineyard. Louisa told us we were free to walk around.”

“Sure you are. Among the cabernet grapes. Not over here.”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “Liz, can you please put the shotgun away? It makes me nervous.”

“Good,” she said, though she put the butt end on the ground and held the gun, by the barrel, at her side. “I like you being nervous. Maybe you’ll start telling me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Fine. Then dump the dirt.”

Gabe lowered his hands slowly and looked at the tube as if it held gold dust. “I wanted to test it is all. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“Yeah? Since when?”

“Liz, you know me. We went to high school together.”

She shook her head. “Hardly. I’m four years younger than you. I was a kid when your name was being plastered across the sports section of the newspaper for a touchdown or something.”

He glared at her. “A lot of touchdowns. We went to state.”

“You and I were never part of the same crowd. Okay?” She pointed at the vial. “Dump the dirt.”

“Fine,” Gabe replied. He reluctantly deposited the dirt on the ground.

“Now leave,” she ordered.

“Don’t be like that, Liz. Maybe we could go back to the tasting room and you could tell me more about these chardonnay grapes...”

“You don’t hear so well, Gabe. I want you to leave.”

Gabe threw his hands up in the air. “I’m leaving,” he said angrily. He shoved his test tube into the metal box he’d brought with him.

“I’m thrilled,” Liz said.

She watched as Gabe hoisted himself over the whitewashed wooden fence as if he’d been training for a gymnastics team. He walked past the tasting room and over to the gravel parking lot, got into a black Porsche convertible and drove away.

Liz knew the Barzonni family, though not all that well. She was most familiar with Gabe’s brother Nate, a cardiac surgeon, because he was engaged to one of her closest friends, Maddie Strong. Gabriel Barzonni was the eldest of the four Barzonni boys. As far as Liz could remember, none of the Barzonnis had ever come to visit her or her grandfather.

She couldn’t even remember the Barzonnis coming to her parents’ funeral. But then, she’d only been six years old, and she hadn’t really known the family at all. As far as Liz was concerned, she didn’t have a history with Gabe.

His trespassing was more than a little bit suspicious.

Clearly he wanted something. But what? The Barzonnis were hugely successful and owned a great deal of farmland. What could Gabe possibly want that Liz had?

The more she thought about him, the more her stomach churned and her nerves fired with alarm. She felt as if she’d just come upon an intruder during a home invasion. Yet this was a person she knew. Sort of.

She bent down and grabbed the handful of soil that had fallen out of Gabe’s test tube. His actions made no sense at all. He didn’t come from a family of thieves, and if he wanted to run some kind of local soil experiment, why hadn’t he just asked her permission to take samples? She would have been happy to help him out.

On the face of it, Liz had no real evidence against Gabe. She’d always had a highly suspicious nature, and her girlfriends often accused her of being paranoid. Maybe she’d developed the trait after the car accident that had killed her parents. Years of worrying about her aging grandfather and pushing herself to secure the future of the vineyard certainly hadn’t made her a more trusting person.

Liz pursed her lips. Intuition told her Gabe was up to something.

She rubbed her arms, trying to push down the hairs that had pricked up as they always did when danger loomed nearby.

“Something tells me I should keep you in my sights, Gabriel.”

CHAPTER TWO

LIZ RODE THE ATV to the utility barn and put the vehicle away. She pulled her Remington Spartan 310 out of the boot and walked over to the worktable her father had coarsely constructed over twenty years ago. She ejected the shell from the chamber and placed it on the table.

She picked up the shotgun and peered down the over/under barrels, remembering what Gabe had looked like at the end of her sight. Despite her trepidation about his motives for trespassing, Liz had to laugh to herself. He’d been caught red-handed doing whatever it was he had been doing, and he’d tried to get out of it with his charm.

Liz pushed the trigger blade forward to select the top barrel of the gun, rather than the default bottom barrel. Then she checked the tang behind the top lever to make certain the safety was on, even though she believed the gun was empty. Both her father and grandfather had taught her to be very careful when cleaning and using weapons. She had to admit her mind hadn’t been set on safety when she’d threatened Gabe. She’d been reacting to her basest instinct: to protect herself and her land. Her suspicions were baseless, but every cell in her body told her Gabe Barzonni was a threat to everything she held sacred.

Remembering the moment she’d leveled her shotgun at him, she wondered if he’d actually felt he was in danger. Now that she thought back on the audacity it had taken for him to walk onto her property like a tourist and break into a clearly gated area to steal soil samples, she wondered if she’d be better off if she’d filled his backside with buckshot.

She oiled the gun and polished the walnut stock, then put the gun back in the boot, ready for her next encounter. The question was whether she would be facing beast or man.

Liz left the utility barn and walked across an open area next to the gravel parking lot. She noticed all the tourist cars were gone. If that were the case, then Louisa, her chef de cave, probably would not be in the tasting room, but would steal a few moments in the fermenting barn. Liz unlocked the door to the large natural wood building with green trim. The fermenting barn was where Liz stored barrique barrels and oak botti for the chardonnay and the cabernet sauvignon they made.

Two years ago, Liz had made a trip to the Château de la Marquetterie, which was located south of Épernay, France. She toured several of the smaller vineyards and inspected not just the vines, but the process of champagne-making, in the process finding her next obsession. Champagne. She knew still wine−making would never be enough for her challenge-driven psyche. Of all the difficult, time-consuming and nearly impossible ideas she’d ever had, an Indiana sparkling wine made from a hybrid of French chardonnay and pinot noir grapes was probably the most ambitious.

To execute the technically challenging process the way she had seen it done in France, Liz knew she’d need a chef de cave who believed in innovation as much as she did. She’d chosen twenty-four-year-old Louisa Bouchard. Louisa was smart and feisty, and was the seventh child and only daughter of a small champagne vintner in Éparnay who apparently was deaf, blind and dumb when it came to his headstrong daughter. When they met, Louisa had told Liz her father would only listen to her six older brothers. He always ignored her.

When Liz came to visit the Bouchard vineyards, Louisa was angry, frustrated and ready to break out.

Liz saw an opportunity and took it. She told Louisa she couldn’t promise her anything except free rein to create the first sparkling wines in Indiana. It was a world away from France, but Louisa was ready.

Louisa had been with Liz for over a year now, living in the apartment attached to the tasting room and obviously thriving in her life at Crenshaw Vineyards. Knowing Louisa had no friends in America, Liz made certain to include her in as many activities with her own friends as she could.

Still, Louisa appeared happiest when making wine and strolling among the grapes.

Liz believed their hearts were so much alike, they could have been sisters.

Liz entered the barn and walked among the stainless steel tanks, which would be filled to capacity during the grape harvest.

“Louisa! Are you here?” Liz shouted.

“Oui,” Louisa yelled from a distance, the hard heels of her leather boots thumping on the cement.

Louisa was of medium height, but her slight frame and taut muscles made her look like a couture model. She walked toward Liz with a practiced woman’s gait, the soft cotton fabric of her spring dress billowing around the tops of her boots and creating an ethereal effect.

“How was the tasting room this afternoon?” Liz asked. “Busy?”

“Very. I only came over here to find you,” Louisa said. “Where were you?”

“On the hill. You could have called if you needed me.”

“I did. Your phone...it’s not working.”

“Sure it is,” Liz replied, pulling it out of her pocket. “Oops. It was off.”

Louisa frowned. “I was going to tell you about the man. He wants you.”

“What man?”

“I don’t know his name,” Louisa replied, shaking her head. “He’s too beautiful. I don’t trust him.”

“Gabriel.”

“You know him?” Louisa asked, surprise illuminating her face.

“A little bit.” She shook her head. “His brother is going to marry Maddie Strong.”

“That was Nate’s brother?” Louisa asked. “Why does he want you?”

Liz bristled involuntarily in response to Louisa’s words. “If only I knew,” she said with exasperation. She didn’t realize she’d clenched her fists. Gabe didn’t want her personally. But he absolutely wanted something. She just had to figure out what she had in common with the thing it was he wanted.

“Ah. He stirs your blood. Makes you angry,” Louisa observed, peering with critical eyes at her boss.

“I just don’t trust him,” Liz replied uneasily.

Tires crunched on the gravel outside. “More tourists.” Liz smiled broadly, glad to have the conversation diverted from Gabriel Barzonni. “This is shaping up to be a good day for us.”

“Oui,” Louisa said as they walked out of the barn and into the bright sunlight.

Three cars had driven up nearly at the same time. One was an SUV with an Illinois license plate and two couples inside. The couples had just entered the tasting room. A sports car with a handsome pair in their mid-sixties pulled up beside a black Porsche convertible.

Liz stared disbelievingly at the shiny black car that looked as if it had just been detailed and polished.

Starched and pressed. Just like the owner.

“Gabe—” Liz breathed out his name with an undercurrent of frustration.

“Looks like he’s back,” Louisa said with a taunting grin, already walking away from Liz toward the tasting room. “I’m off to see to those guests. À tout à l’heure!”

“See you later,” Liz said, gazing past Louisa at the cluster of tourists. Gabe wasn’t among them.

Immediately suspecting him of going back to her vines, she spun around, her eyes tracking from one end of the vineyard to the other. He hadn’t had enough time to go very far.

She hurried around the corner of the tasting room and glanced up at the big white farmhouse with its wraparound porch. Climbing the three front steps to the beveled glass Victorian door was Gabe, a bouquet of flowers in his right hand.

“I’m not up there,” Liz shouted.

Gabe turned around as Liz marched forward.

“Hi,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “You’re not armed this time, are you? Concealed .38? Maybe a poison dart in your clog?”

“Very funny,” she growled, gesturing at the flowers. “Those for my compost pile?”

“Uh, sure. You can do whatever you want with them.”

“Hmm.” She eyed the flowers and the cellophane sleeve around them. It still had the price tag on it. “Get those at the grocery store, did you?”

“Actually, yes. That’s where the closest florist was,” he said weakly. He thrust the flowers at her. “Please accept my apology.”

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth, Gabe. I won’t bite.”

“Ha! You’re just saying that because you aren’t toting—at the moment.”

“No, Gabe. I do want the truth,” she replied earnestly, taking the bouquet.

“I did tell you the truth. I needed some soil samples from your vineyard. I heard you were going to try to make real champagne out here. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think we had the soil for that.”

“How did you hear that?” she asked, trailing off as she realized the answer. “From Nate?”

“Yeah. Don’t be mad at Maddie—she just let it slip. Nate swore me to secrecy. I haven’t told a soul.” He crossed his heart.

Liz shifted her weight and put her hand on her hip. “But that information intrigued you so much you snuck out here on a Saturday when you knew no one would be in the vineyard. And then you tried to take my dirt. Why?”

“I’m insatiably curious. I’ve studied pedology and agricultural soil science since college. I’m fascinated when a new pioneer hits the scene. Like you.”

“A pioneer? Some would call me a fool.” She snorted derisively.

“Not me. I think you may be the real genius.”

Liz drew in a breath and paused. She stared at him for a long moment. Louisa was right. He was really handsome, and it was her bet those good looks had gotten him out of many tight spots. She frowned. “You’re laying it on pretty thick, Gabe. I’m not buying it. There’s more here than your curiosity over what could have been idle gossip.”

“Not if you confirm what I heard. Are you making champagne out of vines you brought back from France?”

She knew she shouldn’t confirm even one iota of a fact for him. But if she didn’t, she might not ever learn the real reason for his trespassing.

“Yes. I am.”

“No kidding?” A smile broke across his face and he slapped his thigh as he looked across at the rows of chardonnay vines. His smile dropped off his face in an instant. “How good is it?”

“I don’t know yet. Last fall’s harvest was adequate. My chef de cave, Louisa, has riddled some bottles. They have to age another ten months or so before we try the first bottle.”

Gabe seemed impressed, and Liz knew she’d gained his respect. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s good business,” she replied. “I’ve never been satisfied with the status quo. I want more. Much more.”

“I get that.” He nodded. “I really get that, actually.” He glanced to the south, his gaze going past her land into the distance. He was silent for a long moment.

Whatever he was thinking obviously didn’t please him. What was wrong with having ambition or challenging oneself? Liz wondered. She didn’t care what he thought of her plans for her future. She had the right equipment, vines and people to ensure her success. She only had the unpredictable vagaries of the wind, rain and sun to contend with, just like any other farmer. Gabe ought to know that much.

He looked back at her. “You’ll need a lot of luck, Liz. I wish you that,” he said.

She chortled. “Luck? You don’t think I’ll make it. You don’t know me very well, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’d like to change that.”

She felt surprise mingled with distrust. She leveled him with a glare hot enough to wither healthy vegetation. “Yeah, right.”

“Well, I do owe you an apology. I want to make up for trying to steal your dirt.”

“You know, Gabe, I would have given you a sample. Farmer to farmer.”

This time, he was the one to be cynical. “No, you wouldn’t, Liz,” he retorted sharply. “You would have asked me a thousand questions, just like you’re doing now, because you don’t know me. You know of me. I’m Angelo Barzonni’s oldest son. These days I run his business more than he does, truth be told. That’s all people know. They don’t want to know anything else.”

Liz could almost taste his bitterness, though he spoke with the calm and detached observation of a journalist, as if he were only recording his life and not living it. Her empathy nearly went out to him, but then he flashed his charming smile. He had practiced this masquerade. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was reeling her in...but why?

“I’m going to ask you again, Gabe. Why are you really here?”

“I thought it was obvious. I want to pick your brain.”

She stuck her left hand into the back pocket of her cutoffs and slapped the bouquet of flowers against her thigh as if she could beat down her rising anger. “And the only reason you would want to do that is because you’re going into the wine business.”

Silence.

Gabe kept his eyes on Liz.

“You must think I’m a fool, or that I’d fall for your good looks—”

“You think I’m good-looking?” he interjected.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Look, I came here to taste that great chardonnay of yours. I wandered off to check out the grapes after a bunch of tourists left. I had a soil-gathering kit in my trunk and I went and got it. The gate was open.”

“It’s always locked,” she countered with a glare.

“It was open, okay? I told you. I’m naturally curious. Just as I was collecting the soil, you came up.”

“Caught you red-handed.”

He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Can’t you let it go? I’m sorry.”

She ground her jaw and glanced away, wondering why he unnerved her this much. “You better leave. We have nothing more to say.”

“Liz, come on.”

She shot him a stinging look. He shut up. “You want me to get my gun?”

“No!” He put up his hands. “I’m going. Okay?”

He started past her and as he reached her side, he stopped and leaned in close to her ear. “We have a lot in common, Liz. I can see it. Why can’t you?”

He walked away, got in his car and drove off.

Liz walked up the porch steps and stopped at the front door, noticing her grandfather was standing just inside. The door was opened just wide enough he could have easily heard their conversation.

“Hi, Grandpa,” she said with a wave of the bouquet.

Sam Crenshaw was as tall as Gabe, about six-foot-four, with a thatch of white hair that had thinned over the years and which no pair of scissors could ever tame. Liz always said she inherited her wild curls from Sam. He stood straight-backed and square-shouldered, as he always did when he sensed confrontation. Liz smiled to herself, validated that her grandfather also sensed the presence of a foreign substance. Gabe was like a sliver, Liz thought. Inconsequential at first, but the longer you took to deal with it, the more harm it could cause.

“So that’s Gabriel, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied, glancing back as Gabe’s convertible left a dusty rooster tail in his wake.

“Good-looking kid. Resembles his mother.”

“I guess,” she said, moving inside.

“He give you those flowers?”

“Yep. I’ll throw them in the compost heap. It’s all they’re good for.”

Sam nodded resolutely. “Very wise. I’ve never met a Barzonni who wasn’t up to no good.”

Liz was surprised by Sam’s pointed comment. She’d never heard him mention anything in particular about the Barzonni family in the past, but judging from the way his jaw was set as if he’d just tasted something acrid, her curiosity was piqued.

Sam’s eyes had narrowed to piercing blue slits. Liz knew he used these discerning eyes when he needed to ponder a situation. She also knew he didn’t want to talk about Gabe, at least for the moment. Later, she might be able to coax an explanation out of him.

“I’ve got work to do.” Sam plucked his straw hat off the hall tree stand and stepped outside, leaving Liz alone.

Liz looked sadly at the summer bouquet.

It was the first time a man had given her flowers.

CHAPTER THREE

GABE SAT ACROSS the kitchen table from Sophie Mattuchi and her parents, Mario and Bianca. Mario was of medium height and fit build, much like Gabe’s own father, Angelo. His black hair was veined with streaks of white, as if the man had been hit by lightning. His face was deeply lined and very tan from years of toiling in the sun.

However, Gabe quickly learned Mario had never been a farmer, as his appearance would suggest, but a car mechanic. Apparently, he was just as fascinated with Gabe’s Porsche as he was with the purpose of Gabe’s visit.

Bianca busied herself around the kitchen, bringing tall glasses of iced tea with lemon and homegrown mint to the table.

Sophie’s ninety-year-old grandmother, Bella, sat silently in a rocking chair in the corner near an enormous brick hearth. Despite the heat, she wore a colorful shawl around her thin shoulders while she watched Gabe with guarded crystal-blue eyes.

“Mario, as you and I have discussed, I haven’t told anyone about your condition,” Gabe said with compassion.

“Thank you,” Mario said, choking back emotion. “And thank you for taking me up on my offer.”

“Mario, you’re helping me make my own dream come true. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I’m happy I could make this work for both of us.”

“I just never thought I would be in this position,” Mario said, looking from Bianca to Sophie.

Sophie smiled at her father. “You’re going to get well, Papa. And you’ll have many more years on the farm. By that time, Gabe will be making all kinds of wonderful wines. Right, Gabe?”

“Sure will,” Gabe replied, catching her upbeat tone. “So, Mario, I’ve had all the soil samples analyzed down at Purdue.” Gabe opened his briefcase and took out a plot map of the Mattuchis’ small farm and vineyard and placed it on the table. “This section here is the best.” He pointed at a spot on the map and glanced over at Bella. “You should all take a look. This is very exciting.” Sophie smiled at her grandmother and urged her to join them, but Bella shook her head violently and refused to move. Gabe noticed the very tight purse to the old woman’s lips and thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t been negotiating with Bella.

Mario and Bianca leaned in. Mario pointed to the easternmost ridge on the map, where the land lay fallow. “This is what you wanted?”

“Yes.” Gabe smiled widely. “This section here, next to the Crenshaw place. I have reason to believe I can grow pinot noir grapes up there. These slopes are perfect.”

“We’ve never had anything grow there.” Sophie had pity in her eyes. “Are you sure you should do this, Gabe?”

“Sophie, I’m sure you’re the best darned cardiology nurse at the hospital, but I know about grapes and soil, and I’m telling you this section is worth the entire vineyard. I’m willing to buy the whole vineyard since Mario isn’t all that interested in expanding his operation.”

“Expanding?” Mario laughed. “Certainly not now, of course, but why would I want to compete with Sam Crenshaw? He’s got the best land around these parts, and plenty of it. That granddaughter of his has made all kinds of improvements and talked him into hiring experts from France, for goodness’ sake!” Mario gestured wildly.

Bianca handed an iced tea to her husband without saying a word. Mario took a long slug. The icy liquid appeared to have dampened his excitement.

Gabe nodded. “I have to agree. Winemaking these days isn’t a hobby. It’s big business. Very big business.”

Bianca shrugged. “We were never serious about it. We made the wine for ourselves. Sophie would give some bottles to her girlfriends as gifts. That’s all.”

“Mama. We made good wine. Gabe thinks he can make it better,” Sophie said.

“What I believe,” Gabe continued, “is that this line of apple trees is your problem. They block the sun too much—they won’t allow the grapes to ripen properly. Pinot noir grapes need morning, midday and afternoon sun. If I take these trees out...”

“You’re going to cut them down?” Sophie asked in horror. “I climbed them when I was a child! I love those trees.”

Gabe shook his head and reached over to pat her hand. “No, I’ll move them to the southern end, where we’ll plant the pinot gris. The apple flavor will enhance that of the grapes. I’ll also plant some pear trees there. I won’t get rid of anything on the property. My intention is to make everything better.”

Sophie glanced down at her hand, which was covered by Gabe’s larger one. She smiled.

Gabe caught her smile and took back his hand. He edged the map closer to Mario, but didn’t miss Bianca throwing Sophie a quelling look.

Gabe was sure Bianca didn’t want her daughter to blow the deal. Sophie had a reputation for going after guys and then tossing them in a heap after a few days.

Gossips around Indian Lake said the same kind of thing about Gabe because he’d never dated anyone seriously. He simply didn’t have the time. Gabe had never told a woman he loved her. He’d never asked anyone to be his girlfriend or fiancée. He’d steered very clear of relationships that smacked of anything permanent.

Gabe liked to go to dance, but he preferred to leave alone.

He had his sights set on his future, and to attain the kind of international success he wanted for himself as a vintner, Gabe had to stay focused on his goal.

As he turned back to the map, Gabe felt his heartbeat accelerate. This vineyard, and the possibility of seeing his own name on a wine label, filled him with euphoria. There wasn’t a feeling on earth like it.

“In addition to restructuring the rows of vines and bringing in new varieties, I want us to do some high-density planting.”

“How high?” Sophie asked, her eyes widening.

“Twenty-two hundred vines per acre.”

Mario whistled.

Sophie bit her lower lip. “This is no hobby.”

“Let me show you how serious I am,” he said, pulling a manila folder out of his briefcase. He opened it, revealing engineering drawings, machinery blueprints and a second land survey. “This is the equipment we’ll need by next year’s harvest in order to maximize our winemaking. I’ll keep the oak casks you have to age the wine, but we’ll need these stainless steel tanks in order to ferment it. We’ll build the barrel cellar along with the first fermentation barn. Since you’ve used your small barn for fermentation before, we’ll connect the plumbing from there to the new barn. There will be a radiant cooling system in the cellar roof. With this design you see here—” Gabe slid a set of photos across the table “—we’ll be one of the most modern wineries around. But we’ll keep the rustic charm, too. You’ll note the barn’s wood frame still has traditional hand-joinery. It’s done just as it was in the 1880s—probably when your first barn was built. Am I right?”

“Yes. It was built in 1882,” Mario replied. “I love that old barn.”

“We should capitalize on its charm.”

“What about a tasting room like Liz has?” Mario asked.

“Too soon,” Gabe said. “We’re a long way from that. I may pool our wines with the tasting rooms up in Saugatuck. Right now, I’ll be investing in fermentation barns, underground cellars and staff.”

“Staff?” Sophie and Mario said in unison.

“Absolutely. I’ll need help. I still have my father’s business to help run. Rafe has his mind on racehorses, and Mica would rather be designing some new piece of machinery than running the farm. That leaves the bulk of the Barzonni business squarely on my and my dad’s shoulders.”

“Angelo is a good businessman,” Mario said quietly as he studied the drawings and plans.

Gabe nodded. “He is. But he’s slowing down a bit these days.” He gave Mario a pointed and inquisitive look, but the older man quickly glanced away.

“Sophie told me Malbec wine is very popular with her friends,” Mario said. “It’s a big seller. Will you make Malbec?”

“I do want to give it a try. After all, vintners in the southwest of France and Argentina shouldn’t have a monopoly on that market.” Gabe gestured to the eastern side of the vineyard on the plot map. “These blackberries will enhance the wine. We’ll also add some black pepper flavor to give it an open texture.”

“Lovely,” Bianca said, folding her hands in her lap.

Gabe could read body language well enough to know that Bianca, for one, was itching to get a hold of his cashier’s check. He could only imagine the medical bills that had been piling up. Mario was on the mend after his surgery and was starting chemotherapy in a week. He would get well. They all had to believe that. Still, his treatments had put a strain on the family’s finances. Gabe was surprised by the sense of pride he took in being able to help them.

“Mario, this set of drawings is for you and your family. I want you to continue to look them over. I know we’ve talked about what I hope to create out here, but I need to be sure you’re happy with this deal. Do you still want to sell to me?”

Mario didn’t hesitate. He stood immediately and thrust out his hand. “Yes, we do, Gabriel. I’m very pleased you are going to make my little vineyard into a modern operation.”

As they shook hands, Gabe smiled so widely his cheeks hurt. This was more than a very exciting day in his life. And it felt very, very fine.

Gabe signed the papers, then handed them to Mario. “Congratulations to us.”

While Mario countersigned them, Gabe took out the cashier’s check and handed it to Bianca.

She smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you.”

As soon as the paperwork was done, Gabe would own roughly twelve acres of vineyard, most of which contained the same soil that was on Liz Crenshaw’s land.

This tiny parcel wasn’t even a speck of lint on the hundreds of acres, both planted and fallow, that Liz and Sam Crenshaw owned, but it was a start.

Since his freshman year at UC Davis, when he’d taken his first classes in viticulture and enology, he’d known that the tomatoes, soybeans and corn his family grew would never hold the allure for him that grape-growing and winemaking would. He had not only excelled in his classes, but also seemed to know as much or more than his professors. He remembered everything he read about wine as if the information had been burned into his brain. He was obsessed with California—the weather, the soil, the rock, the grapes, the other fruit and the estates. Gabe was drunk on the knowledge that flowed into him. Like the casks of wine he someday intended to make, Gabe knew he had to bide his time. His dream had to be held in reserve. Aged and not rushed. He’d returned to Indian Lake that summer, forever changed.

Still, Gabe had always felt the strong sense of duty to his parents that often befalls firstborn children. When Nate ran off to join the navy after high school, not telling any of his family where he’d gone, Angelo had exploded with rage. Gabe had assuaged his father’s anger by promising to be his right-hand man on the farm after he graduated from Purdue. Gabe had been putting his dreams and passions on hold for nearly a decade now. This opportunity to buy this small patch of land from the Mattuchi family had been the key to unlocking his hidden desires.

Once the papers were signed, his life was never going to be the same. It was time for him to break free from his father’s grasp, and this purchase was his first step.

He needed to learn as much as he could as fast as he could, because all his moves would be swift from this point forward. He intended never to look back.

Gabe’s ultimate dream was that one day his vineyard’s name, Château Gabriel, would grace a wine so rare and unique that it would be sold, revered, saved and even auctioned off around the world. He would be recognized among the world’s great sommeliers and collectors. He would have left his mark.

When the time was right and his plans called for it, he intended to travel to Argentina, South Africa and France to buy exceptional varieties of grapes with which to create masterpieces.

“Thank you, my friend,” Mario said as he handed the papers back to Gabe. He kept a copy for himself. “This makes me very happy.”

“I’m glad I could help. And thank you, Sophie, for suggesting I buy your father’s land.”

Bianca and Mario led Gabe to the door.

Sophie squeezed between them. “I’ll walk you to your car, Gabe,” she said sweetly.

Too sweetly, he thought. “Thanks.” He turned to Bella. “Good day to you, Mrs. Mattuchi,” he said with a polite nod.

Bella only grunted at him, then folded her arms over her chest and stared at the wall.

“Don’t mind her,” Sophie whispered. “It’s past her nap time.”

Gabe nodded. “I’ll be seeing you, Mario. I’ll give you a call on Monday before Mica and I come out to get started on the construction. He wants to look the place over.”

“Certainly,” Mario replied with a wide grin. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her close. “This is a wonderful day for us.”

“I’m glad,” Gabe said and ambled down the flower-bordered front walk toward his car.

Shielding his eyes, Gabe glanced over at Bella’s sunflower acre. “That’s really spectacular,” he said.

“Grandma sells to three florists in town, and a wholesaler from Chicago drives in every other day during her harvest.”

Gabe’s jaw dropped. “My kind of entrepreneur.”

“She can be a lot of fun,” Sophie assured him with a dazzling smile. “We can all be fun,” she said, leaning closer.

Gabe unlocked the car. “I’ll remember that,” he said.

She put her hands on the top of his door as he slid into the seat. “I’ll be seeing a lot of you this summer and fall, I guess.”

Gabe caught Sophie’s flirtatious undertone. Romance was the last thing on his mind. “Sophie, we should have an understanding. I’m looking forward to seeing you more this summer, but I’m doing a business deal with your father. We should keep things professional.”

The seductive smile slid off her face. She gave him a sharp nod. “Got it. Can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll see you around.”

“See you around,” he replied.

Gabe drove down the gravel drive to the country road that would lead to the highway. As he passed the Crenshaws’ fenced-in vineyard, he began to slow down.

It wasn’t possible, he supposed—not according to any meteorologist or climatologist he’d heard, anyway—but Gabe could swear the sun shone more brightly on the Crenshaws’ grapes than it did on the Mattuchis’.

Just looking at the land brought back the vision of Liz standing tall and tan and beautiful, the summer wind blowing her long, honey curls around her shoulders as she pointed a shotgun at him.

Staring over at Liz’s thriving vines, he realized she truly was a child of the earth. And she seemed to want nothing more than to wipe him off that particular planet. Now they were going to be neighbors. He wondered if she would ever come around to being neighborly toward him. And if she did...

Would she be willing to sell her fallow land to me?

Gabe rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. The Mattuchi acreage was no more than a starter garden in the grand scheme Gabe had painted for himself. He needed something exceptional, and Liz Crenshaw had just that. She was experimenting with several different wines, including an ice wine. But how far did her imagination and drive take her?

If he could combine Liz’s harvest with imported Argentinian grapes, he would be able to create perfection.

This had been Gabe’s plan all along. But until his recent exploration to the Crenshaw tasting room and onto the land itself, he’d had no idea how valuable the Crenshaw plot truly was.

Sitting on a protected pocket of land where the earth, sun, wind and humidity combined to create a vintner’s paradise, Liz Crenshaw reigned over one of the most priceless slices of winegrowing land in the United States, outside of California.

Gabe nearly squirmed in his seat thinking about it.

He could just come right out and ask Liz if she would be willing to sell, but after their initial encounter, his best guess was she’d kick him off the land, shoot him, or both. No, he had to be careful with Liz. He had to take his time. He had to use some charm and plenty of wit. She was perceptive, bright and suspicious. A bad combination, if he was trying to swing a land deal.

He needed to win her trust first. He would make her a very fair offer—even more than fair. Both of them would come out on top.

If he were dealing with any other businessperson, the way he did at the farm and the corporate canneries, Gabe would have felt his usual confidence. But oddly, the thought of negotiating with Liz filled his gut with butterflies.

It was going to take a lot of convincing to win her over.

CHAPTER FOUR

LIZ LAY IN BED staring at Gabe’s bouquet. She’d put them in her mother’s favorite crystal vase. They would find their way to the compost heap soon enough, so she might as well enjoy them first. It wasn’t the flowers’ fault they were from Gabe.

She stared at the single salmon-pink rose in the middle of the arrangement. It might have been her first time receiving flowers from a man, but it was undoubtedly Gabe’s hundredth time giving them to a woman. He must have been pretty sure of himself to come back to her vineyard so quickly, which meant he hadn’t had to think very long to devise a plan to placate her. Showing up with a bouquet and an apology had obviously worked for him in the past.

Liz prided herself on not making snap judgments, on allowing people to prove themselves to her. She’d done it since high school with her employees. She had one of the best working crews around Lake Michigan, and she’d won their loyalty by dealing with them fairly.

With Gabe, she didn’t have much to go on. Of course, she’d heard about him nearly all her life. But that was either gossip or hearsay. What people said about Gabe was that he’d had dozens of girlfriends, though no one was ever mentioned by name. He was dating the “new blonde,” the “new redhead” or a woman vaguely identified by her profession.

Gabe’s supposed popularity with women didn’t surprise Liz. Most of her girlfriends thought he was the best-looking guy in Indian Lake, though none of them had ever dated him. None had even gone to a movie with him. Gabe had graduated from high school before any of her crowd had had a chance with him.

Gabe was nearly an icon by the time Liz had become a freshman. He had been Mr. Everything in high school. He was All-State quarterback and went to regionals for the five-hundred-yard dash. He was on the debate team and acted in several school plays. Some said he was better on stage than he was on the gridiron. She was sure Gabe had made it nearly impossible for his three younger brothers to keep up. Gabe had achieved every goal he set. He’d always won.

Back then, even her grandfather had said Gabe was a “golden boy.”

It stood to reason a person who had always been a winner would expect that kind of life to continue. Such an outlook would tend to make a person arrogant and bigheaded.

Pigheaded was more like it.

The more Liz thought about Gabriel Barzonni, the more intense the fire within her became. Apparently, his charms had always worked on women. Apparently, he’d lumped her into that group of easy-to-manipulate females, and apparently, he hadn’t tried to get to know her in the least. He didn’t have the slightest idea what it would take to impress her, and he obviously wasn’t interested in finding out. To a man like Gabe, she was just an object, a problem to be either solved or forgotten.

“Well!” she exclaimed aloud. “We’ll just see about that!”

She bounded out of her bed, tossing her grandmother’s counterpane quilt aside, and walked barefoot across the honey-colored hardwood floor to the window.

It wasn’t dawn yet.

Liz hadn’t slept, which made her angrier with herself. It wasn’t like her to dwell on inconsequential matters.

She combed her long hair with her fingers and then massaged her scalp. Something wasn’t right. In fact, it was all wrong. There was no good reason for Gabe to be on her land. And he hadn’t come clean about his real reason for trespassing. Then he’d sent her the flowers. But why?

She was beginning to hate that word.

There was only one smart thing for Liz to do.

I have to pretend he doesn’t exist. I never saw him on my land. He never brought me flowers.

* * *

LIZ WORE A fire-engine red bathing suit with white spaghetti straps and white river shoes as she helped her friends carry their sculling boat from the boathouse at Captain Redbeard’s Marina out onto Indian Lake.

The early dawn rays slid across the glass-like surface of the water, making it look like silver mercury. The sky was dotted with only a few clouds, now tinged in pink and lavender, a spectacle Liz knew would only last moments.

Placing the boat in the water, Liz went back for the oars and distributed them to Sarah, Maddie and Isabelle, and kept one for herself.

“Before we start,” Maddie said with an impish smile, “I have something to ask Liz and Isabelle.”

“Sure,” Liz said, pulling on a pair of rowing gloves she’d bought at the marina’s new gift shop. Sarah thought wearing gloves was cheating, but Liz didn’t care. Her hands were a wreck from thinning the grape vines the past week. She needed to give them a chance to heal, not torture them further.

“Would you both be my bridesmaids?”

“Are you kidding?” Isabelle whooped and nearly knocked Maddie down with a hug. “I’d love to!”

Liz beamed from ear to ear. “I’m honored, Maddie. Wow.” Then she looked at Sarah, who was smiling at them all. “What about Sarah? She’s not going to be a bridesmaid?”

Maddie playfully shoved Liz’s shoulder. “You goofball. She’s my matron of honor.”

Liz shook her head. “Of course! What was I thinking?”

“I’ve asked Olivia to be a bridesmaid, as well,” Maddie said.

“So,” Liz said, “you’ve set a date?”

Maddie waved her hands in the air. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t tell you, did I? It’s December twenty-eighth. It has to be after Christmas because I’ll be catering for weeks and I won’t get a wink of sleep. And Nate says the end of the year is booked solid with surgeries for him. It’ll be an evening wedding. I thought that would be pretty. All the snow and Christmas lights. The reception will be at the Lodge. Then Nate and I will fly to Paris to spend New Year’s Eve under the Eiffel Tower.”

Liz nearly melted at the idea of New Year’s Eve in Paris. “Perfect, Maddie. Just perfect. You’ll love Paris.”

“I can’t wait. Then we’ll fly to southern Italy and spend two weeks there. It’s like a dream,” Maddie said.

“You deserve it,” Liz said. “You’ve worked so hard for so many years. You deserve a great guy and a wonderful trip...”

“Oh, yeah? You’ve worked just as hard as Maddie,” Sarah quipped.

“Yes,” Liz replied. “But I’ve already been to France.”

“That’s right!” Maddie said. “She’s been to France, so she’s a step ahead of all of us. Right, Liz?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I would say going there with someone special should be wonderful.”

They eased the boat off the shore, then climbed in and took their seats. Oars in place, in minutes they were synchronized and sluicing through the reflective water.

Sarah called out the strokes, as she always did. Liz concentrated on her muscles, the fit of the oar in her hands and the feel of the wind on her face.

Back straining, thighs tight in order to stay properly seated, the four friends worked as a team and became one.

As they rounded the north end of the lake, Maddie pointed to a heavily treed space. “See that, guys?”

“That’s the old Hanson lot, isn’t it?” Liz said, shielding her eyes. “I heard Mr. Hanson died back in May or June, wasn’t it?”

“Right,” Maddie said. “Nate and I bought the lot. We’re going to start building next month.”

Liz grabbed Maddie by the shoulders and shook her slightly. “You’re really doing this. Jumping in with both feet. First, all the wedding plans. Then a trip to Europe for a honeymoon and now building a house together.”

Isabelle laughed heartily. “They should be divorced by Valentine’s Day.”

“What?” Maddie screeched. “Don’t say that!”

“Oh, don’t listen to Isabelle,” Sarah said. “I say go for it. Charmaine and I can work out some blueprints for the interior.”

Maddie smiled wistfully. “I want it to look like a summer cottage—dark wood floors, rag rugs and lots of French doors overlooking the lake.”

“Sounds perfect,” Liz said as they rowed back toward the marina.

“So, do I get any vote on who will be my groomsman?” Isabelle asked from the back of the boat.

“You’ll be with Mica. Scott Abbot will escort Olivia.”

Suddenly, Liz felt her entire back break out in icy chills. She should have realized Nate would want his three brothers to be his groomsmen.

“Rafe is going to be the best man,” Maddie continued. “He’ll be escorting Sarah.”

“That leaves Gabe to be my escort,” Liz said, feeling her mouth go dry.

“Yeah,” Maddie replied gleefully. “You two will look great together. You’re both tall, and he’s just so handsome.”

“What Barzonni isn’t handsome?” Sarah laughed. The boat came ashore and they got out.

As they took out their oars and lifted the boat onto their shoulders, the full impact of Liz’s commitment to Maddie hit her. She would have to sit with Gabe at the rehearsal dinner for the pictures. At the wedding, he would walk her down the aisle and back out again. They would be seated next to each other at the reception. That was something she couldn’t wangle her way out of. But it was just one dinner. One night. She could deal with it. It wasn’t going to be so bad.

“Yeah,” Maddie was saying. “Both Liz and Isabelle will have the awful burden of being around those handsome boys for my engagement party at the Barzonnis’ house and the couples’ shower at Mrs. Beabots’s. Then there’s a cocktail party being thrown by the hospital doctors, which is going to be a really big deal. Tuxedos and gowns and the whole thing. I’ll love that. I figure that through the rest of the summer and fall, we’ll all be doing something special together on the weekends. Doesn’t that sound great?”

Liz was silent as they stored the boat and oars and locked the boathouse, a smile plastered on her face.

She’d just promised herself she would pretend Gabe Barzonni didn’t exist. Now she was going to be thrown together with him for months. Then an idea hit her. She rushed up to Maddie’s car just as Maddie was getting in.

“Hey, I just had a quick question,” Liz said. “Was it you or Nate who decided on which groomsman would be with Isabelle and me?”

“Nate,” Maddie assured her. “Funny you should ask, though.”

“Why?” Liz cringed. That word again.

“Last night Nate told me he and Gabe had been having a beer at the Lodge and decided it would be cute to pair up Isabelle and Mica, even though Scott Abbot would be the obvious choice for her. She’s always giving Scott a hard time. Maybe if she made Scott a bit jealous, he would make a real commitment to her instead of beating around the bush all the time. Isn’t that the cutest idea? Do you think it would work?”

Ire rekindled its flame in Liz’s belly and exploded inside her. She felt an acid burn all the way up to her throat and she could hardly get out her words. “Gabe.”

“He’s been such a help to Nate with the plans,” Maddie said.

“A help.”

“Nate’s so busy with surgeries, so Gabe’s just been great. Organizing the engagement party with their mom. He even got the Tom and Jason Big Band to play until midnight,” Maddie said effusively.

“An orchestra.” Liz swallowed. There would be dancing. Arms entwined. Her head nuzzled in the crook of his neck. Liz felt the heat inside her boil over. She hadn’t trusted Gabe when she’d found him skulking around her vines. Now he was deliberately manipulating her social life.

“Isn’t it great?” Maddie asked.

“Sure. Yeah,” Liz said, trying to cover her shock and frustration. “I was just curious.”

“You know, I didn’t ask you, but have you ever met Gabe?”

“Uh. Only in passing.”

“Well, I’d better get to the café. Chloe can only do so much without me. Call me later.”

Liz watched her friend drive away, then went over to her pickup. She stared out the windshield at the lake.

Her grandfather believed all Barzonni men were up to no good.

Guess Grandpa’s right.

CHAPTER FIVE

FOR THE NEXT several days, Liz was busy with a hundred tasks. Because she was the general manager, the winemaker, the sales manager and the office manager all rolled into one, her list of duties was like a black hole. She never got it all done. On summer days, she worked dawn to dusk at the vineyard, and though she relished every moment of the work, it was still exhausting.

On Thursday morning, a series of semitrucks barreled up the country road that ran between the western edge of her property and the Mattuchi farm. Semis weren’t unusual on that road, which led to the highway, but a constant stream of eighteen-wheelers was out of the ordinary. Trucks carrying large loads of lumber, pipes and building materials could only mean one thing. Someone up the country road was building a new house or barn.

Liz didn’t have time to be curious or to gossip with neighbors. She had her eyes on the clouds gathering over Lake Michigan. She took out her cell phone and opened her weather radar app. Unfortunately, radar or not, the fickle westerly winds had a mind of their own once they reached the lake. The rain could easily pass her over and fall just north of her vineyard, showering her northern competition and jilting her vines. Again.

They were in desperate need of a good soaking. It had been nearly three weeks without rain, and this kind of summer heat would only do one thing—produce inferior grapes.

Liz lifted a cluster of Seyval blanc grapes she’d personally cluster-thinned three and a half weeks after fruit set. Though this grape produced the fresh and dry white wine they sold midseason in the tasting room, Louisa had suggested they experiment with it to produce a sparkling wine cuvée. Liz loved the idea—making something new out of a longtime standard grape in the vineyard.

As Liz slung her long leg over the seat of her ATV, she heard yet another truck downshift as it began its trek up the country road hill.

Natural curiosity urged Liz to ride over to the edge of her property to inspect the scene.

The semi was hauling a long flatbed trailer that held what looked like a mountain of lumber and three pallets of cement bags. She noticed there were piles of steel framing and insulated metal sheeting.

“Not a house,” she said to herself. The materials on this truck were used for warehouse and commercial buildings. Because their area was primarily farmland, she assumed one of her neighbors up the road was upgrading his or her silos. She’d heard from her grandfather last summer that Gerald Finstermaker, who owned a large apple orchard, had opened up a fifty-acre area, though no one knew exactly what he intended to plant there. The joke in town was that Gerald, paranoid and intensely secretive, was the only person who could keep his crop a secret until after the harvest. Five years ago, Gerald had experimented with roses and raised them under enormous grow tents, not so much to increase the productivity and excellence of the roses as to keep prying eyes out. After that fiasco, few in Indian Lake paid much attention to what Gerald Finstermaker did or didn’t do on his farm.

Liz was turning away from the fence to head back to the tasting room when she saw a second truck, also hauling a long trailer stacked with building materials. She laughed to herself and wished Gerald all the luck in the world with his new venture, whatever it was. She tossed the driver a friendly wave and then froze.

Following the last truck up the country road was a very familiar black Porsche. The top was down, and she could clearly see Gabe inside. He did not seem happy.

No doubt he was angry because the trucks were moving slowly up the grade and she’d already learned that Gabe liked to drive a bit on the fast side. But Gabe didn’t honk or try to pass them. He must not be in a hurry after all, she thought.

As Liz drove her ATV back down the slope, the first drops of rain stung her bare arms. Then the dark storm clouds moved over her property and opened up with a vengeance... The next second, the drops were huge, pelting her with enough force she found it difficult to see.

She bumped her way across the vineyard and smiled to herself. If she was caught in the rain, so was Gabe. And that meant both he and the interior of his expensive car had been deluged. She couldn’t help laughing a little. Served him right. Even if she hadn’t had a chance to pay him back for trespassing and stealing from her, Mother Nature had taken restitution into her own hands.

By the time she got to the utility barn, Liz was completely soaked. Her white shirt looked like a second skin and her shoes squished as she walked across the gravel to the tasting room, where she always kept a fresh shirt and a long black apron to wear when serving the tourists.

Liz noticed with satisfaction the parking lot was full of cars. The tourists would be trapped inside to avoid the downpour. That could only mean one thing. Increased sales.

Opening the door, Liz found the place packed. Sam was engrossed in one of his sales pitches with a man dressed in a golf shirt and khakis. Louisa was at the bar, pouring a flight of white wines for a strikingly beautiful, auburn-haired woman who wore a business suit and designer shoes.

The woman was not a local, but she was buying a lot of wine, if the smile on Louisa’s face and twinkle in her eye were any indication.

“I’ll be right there,” Liz told her chef de cave. Louisa nodded and continued talking to the customer.

Liz rushed into her office, shut the door and pulled out a clean white blouse from the closet. She towel-dried her hair and rolled it into a twist. She didn’t have a smidge of makeup left after the rain pelting, but she didn’t care. As she tied her apron on, she noticed the morning’s mail. As usual, Louisa had left it on the old leather desk blotter.

Sitting on top of the stack was the familiar green paper envelope from the County Treasurer’s office containing the yearly property tax bill. Always diligent about the vineyard’s accounting, Liz reached for the envelope and opened it.

What met her eyes was a shock.

“Twenty-three thousand four hundred dollars...past due?” Liz read the numbers again. Twice.

This was impossible! They were not a year in arrears.

“I paid this bill,” she groaned, sinking into the desk chair. She could remember purchasing the cashier’s check from the bank to pay the taxes. “There has to be some mistake.”

Liz called the Indian Lake County treasurer’s office and spoke to one of the clerks. The woman assured Liz that although the Crenshaw taxes had always been paid promptly each year, there had been no payment in the past twelve months. Liz thanked the woman and hung up.

She dropped her face to her hands, feeling as if the world had just crashed down upon her. There was no mistake. Liz now owed not only her taxes, but a penalty, as well. According to the bill, she had ninety days to pay in full.

How could I have forgotten to pay this? Liz berated herself. I’m always so careful...

She drew in a quick breath and clamped her hand over her mouth. “Sam.”

Last year, the taxes had been due when Liz was in France. She had left the cashier’s check with Sam for him to take to the treasurer’s office. Amid the flurry of her decisions about Louisa, the champagne vines and the newly built tasting room, she hadn’t given the taxes a second thought. And because she’d always paid the taxes with a cashier’s check, she had no record of the check being cashed.

This was about the same time she’d begun to notice the first signs of Sam’s forgetfulness, she realized with a lurch in her stomach. His slips were always minor, and she’d thought they were more of a nuisance than a real danger. But this...

Losing over twenty thousand dollars could ruin them.

Liz had already taken out two new mortgages to pay for the tasting room and all the improvements to the fermenting barn and the cellars. She doubted any bank in town would advance her any more money on her harvest. Liz had yet to prove herself and her wines’ abilities to bring in big sales. Though they were doing well—even better than she’d hoped with the tourist trade—she still hadn’t secured a large retailer. That was her plan for next year. Not this summer.

She had to find the check.

Panic overtook Liz as she scrambled through her desk drawers. Her search was in vain. She went to a small wall safe that Sam had installed behind a family portrait. In the safe, she found the deeds to the vineyard, copies of the mortgages, Sam’s will, her father’s will...but no cashier’s check.

Where would he have put it? she asked herself as she scanned the room. Through the office window, she saw the rain was dissipating. Then she spotted her truck.

She left the office through the side door and rushed across the parking lot to her pickup. She took everything out of the glove box and examined the papers. No check. She crammed everything back inside, then looked under both visors and checked under and between the seats.

She raced up to the farmhouse and went to the living room. She hoped she could find the check before she had to bring the incident to Sam’s attention. Then she would simply pay the taxes and Sam would be spared any concern or embarrassment. She rifled through the drawer in the end table next to Sam’s recliner. Suddenly she stopped. There was only one place he would have put the check for safekeeping.

His rolltop desk.

At the far end of the living room was a hundred-year-old burled walnut desk with a glassed-in upper library case that soared to the ceiling.

Liz pulled out every drawer and checked the contents. She went through old papers, newspaper clippings from her father’s high school years, her parents’ wedding announcement and their eulogies. She found old receipts and outdated warranties for appliances they’d long ago donated or thrown away. There were stacks of Christmas cards and sweet birthday cards her grandmother had given to Sam. But no check.

She took over half an hour to examine everything in the desk. Liz grew more concerned as she rifled through each drawer and cubbyhole with no results. At this point, Sam’s humiliation was only one of her concerns. Liz now realized that unless Sam could remember where he’d put that check, they would be facing a grave situation.

Someone else could have found the check and cashed it. If it had been destroyed, the money would be unrecoverable.

Liz wanted to scream, cry and curse. She had to believe she would find the missing money. She had to stay positive, even if it felt as if the world had just gone black.

* * *

LIZ’S MIND WAS REELING with the consequences of losing the check as she walked back to the tasting room, where Louisa and Sam were expecting and needing her assistance with the tourists who were continuing to drive up to the vineyard. Liz opened the door and nearly ran into Maddie.

“Liz!” Maddie exclaimed. Her broad smile instantly fell away. “What’s wrong?”

Liz tried to erase the worry and concern from her expression. “Huh?”

“You look terrible. Are you sick?”

“Sick? No. I just got caught in the rain is all. What are you doing here?”

“Ordering wine for the engagement party on Saturday.”

Saturday? That soon? Liz felt her stomach roil. On top of the new situation with the taxes, she’d have to see Gabe.

Maddie peered closely at Liz, disappointment filling her face. “You forgot.”

Liz grinned sheepishly. “You told me next Saturday.”

“This is next Saturday, you goof,” Maddie said, giving her friend a hug and mushing Liz’s still-wet hair. “You got caught in the rain, but I bet you’re glad for this downpour.”

“Love it.” Liz glanced at Maddie’s extensive list. She’d ordered two cases of chardonnay, two pinot grigio and two cabernet sauvignon. Hmm. Four white to two red. The preference for white was a trend Liz was noticing more and more. It further confirmed her decision to bring French chardonnay grapes to her vineyard. If this kind of market buying kept up, her Vignoles, Seyvals and Vidal blanc grapes would help her produce more white demi-sec and dry barrel fermented, and excellent ice wines. Liz smiled broadly. “Yes, the rain...” The vision of Gabe in his convertible shot across her mind. Something wasn’t right. “So, tell me about the engagement party. It’s still being held at Gabe...I mean, Nate’s parents’ house, right?”

“Yes, and Gina is like a field marshal with a battle plan. Honestly, Liz, I didn’t have to do much at all. She wanted Italian imported wines, and there’s nothing wrong with that—”

“I love them,” Liz interrupted.

“Yes, but I insisted on buying the wines because I wanted them to be yours. I love your wines and so does Nate—we wanted to show off your expertise. By the way, Nate has a lot of friends from Chicago who are going to spend the entire weekend in Indian Lake. We’re going to show them around on Sunday, but I was hoping we could bring them out here then. They’ll buy tons from you. You should see the orders they’ve been sending me for cupcakes.”

“You’re mailing them now?”

“Sure. I overnight them. It’s amazing. My bottom line is getting very happy,” Maddie gushed.

Liz knew her smile was a bit forced, but it was all she could manage. Maddie was one of her best friends, but she couldn’t possibly come right out and say her future brother-in-law was a thief. “Thanks for networking and marketing for me.”

“You already do the same for me,” Maddie said, lifting one of her Cupcake and Cappuccino Café brochures off the counter. “My Chicago franchise opened well. My investor told me nearly a dozen people have walked in with this brochure in their hands. The only place they could get them was out here at your winery.”

“True,” Liz said, admiring the brochure she’d made for Maddie, which was similar to one she’d designed for the vineyard. Liz had laid it out herself, using photos she’d taken of the vineyard, tasting rooms, fermenting barn and, of course, photogenic Louisa and even Grandpa Sam. She was proud of the natural talent she had when it came to selling. She liked success, and even tiny victories added up to big ones over time. But with her love of success came her fear of failure.

She rubbed the back of her neck. She hoped she’d feel better after she had a chance to talk to Sam about the cashier’s check. But still, she felt unsettled—as if some other secret was hanging in the air. Oddly, each time these feelings clutched at her, Gabe’s face flashed in her mind’s eye.

“You know what’s crazy, Maddie? I thought I saw Gabe earlier today.”

“Here?” Maddie asked, glancing around the tasting room. Her smile melted and was replaced with a serious expression.

“No. On the country road that runs along my western property line.” Liz scrutinized her friend’s green eyes. Maddie was hiding something. “What is it, Maddie?”

Maddie turned her gaze to a group of tourists. The women, young and tan, were laughing together. Louisa had just gone to their table, and they’d ordered another bottle of wine and more cheese and crackers. Liz waited for Maddie to look back at her. “You’re one of my very best friends...”

“Oh, this is going to be bad,” Liz said. “Gabe is up to something. I can feel it in my bones.”

“He just bought the Mattuchi vineyard.”

Shock hit her like the thunder rolling outside. “What? That’s impossible. First of all, the Mattuchis don’t have a vineyard. They have a farm. They grow a few grapes every year and make grape jelly and some horrible wine that my grandfather says even Boone’s Farm wouldn’t buy.”

“I know.”

“So what is he thinking?”

“He told Nate it’s good business,” Maddie explained.

“The Mattuchis have owned that land forever. I can’t believe Gabe would deprive them of their livelihood. This is just monstrous!” Liz exclaimed. “You know, if anything happened to me and my grandfather was left here all alone and some man-eating shark like Gabriel Barzonni came to steal his land away from him, I swear I would haunt these hills until the end of eternity to make sure the creep suffered the fires of—”

Maddie grabbed Liz’s arm and squeezed it. “Liz, honey, don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away? I mean, Gabe just bought part of their farm. We don’t know that he swindled them or hurt them.”

Liz was practically hyperventilating. She could see Gabe’s handsome, wicked eyes gloating at her.

“I’m just not believing this. The Barzonnis own enough land in this area to create a new state! They don’t need more land. And poor Mr. Mattuchi. I’ve known him since I was born. He and his wife are hardworking people, but he’s not a farmer. Never was. He’s repaired my equipment here for years. Best mechanic I’ve ever seen. Grandpa really likes him. Oh, I just can’t believe this!”

Maddie eyed her friend suspiciously and released her hand. “You know, Liz, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this. What’s really going on?”

“I’ll tell you. I caught Gabe Barzonni two weeks ago,” Liz replied breathlessly. She felt flushed, and her heart was tripping inside her chest at a mile a minute.

“Doing what?” Maddie asked.

“He was stealing from me,” Liz answered self-righteously.

“Stealing what?”

“Dirt.”

Maddie stared at Liz for a moment, then broke into laughter. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” Liz lifted her chin.

“Okay. Why is that important to you?”

Liz slapped her forehead. “Now I get it. It was never about a vial of dirt. It was about the components and the structure of the soil. Gabe was already thinking of buying the Mattuchi farm. Once he got his hands on my soil samples, he knew he could possibly have a gold mine over there.”

“Oh boy.” Maddie’s eyes narrowed. “If he planted grape vines in similar soil—”

“And with the Barzonni millions to back him up, he could put me out of business.”

“Dirty rotten scum.”

“The rottenest,” Liz agreed.

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