The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(27)

“Go tell him I want to talk to him.”

Isabel drew in a long breath. “How long’s it been, Manny?” she asked in a voice tinged with sadness.

“Just go get him.”

Manolo paced the floor of the apartment while he waited, picturing Dad out on the sidewalk with his hands thrust into his coat pockets against the damp New Jersey night, rocking on his heels and talking while Donnie finished one last cigarette.

A minute dragged by like an hour before Izzy spoke again.

“He won’t take the phone.”

“Ask him again.”

She sighed. “He won’t—”

“Is he still there?” Manolo interrupted. Without waiting for her to answer, he said, “Put him on.”

“No.”

“What’d he say?”

She hesitated again. “Manny, why do you do this to me? Torture yourself and put me in the middle of it like this?”

Why? Because he was cast adrift by his own hand and he was lonely. He missed having family in his life. He may be a grown man, but deep down inside there was still a boy who missed his father. His anchor. But a guy didn’t confess things like that to his sister.

“Tell me.”

“I told him Manny was on the phone.”

“And then?”

“And then Donnie said, ‘Manny, your son?’”

“Yeah? Then what?”

“Don’t make me tell you, Manny,” she choked thickly.

“Tell me, dammit!”

“He said, ‘I don’t got no son.’”

Manolo imagined Dad’s angry mouth spitting out those words.

“Manny?” asked Izzy with sisterly concern.

His stomach roiled, his nostrils stung with tears. He uttered some inane closing, then tossed his phone onto the counter, this latest barb piling onto the heap he carried inside him.

He opened the fridge and started pulling out salad fixings by rote. Lettuce. Garlic. Lemons.

Then began the comforting, mindless ritual of chopping, pressing, and whisking. He dipped a fingertip into the vinaigrette, tasting and refining until its acidity was perfectly balanced.

When the salad was dressed, he warmed up his father’s steak Florentine, which he’d prepared that afternoon in Junie’s kitchen. Then he set a place for one, carefully aligning the cheap flatware that came with the furnished apartment. He flipped a bottle of wine high into the air, end over end, caught it one-handed behind his back with a flourish, swaddled it in white linen and presented it, label facing outward, to his empty chair.

“Here you are, sir. Excellent choice. A supple, harmonious pinot from Brendan Hart Vineyards.”

He altered his voice, pretending to be his own customer. “Just so, my good man.”

Expertly, Manolo withdrew the cork, the soft pop echoing through the quiet apartment. The kitchenette was dimly lit, but he could have poured the standard five-ounce serving in the dark. Finally he scooted in his chair, arranged his napkin in his lap and toasted to the tiny room. “Buon appetito.”

He tried to focus on the classic Mediterranean blend of bell peppers and onions, parsley and basil. But every bite conjured smiling faces and boisterous voices of meals past, before he had put his selfish desires before family and struck out to see if the world held something more exciting for a brash, reckless young man than Hoboken, New Jersey. Missed birthdays, anniversaries, and other key rites of passage too numerous to count numbed his palate, and loneliness gnawed at his gut. After only a few forkfuls, Manolo shoved his plate away. His head fell into his hands.





Chapter Fifteen


Driving down the lane after work on Thursday, Junie’s headlights picked out more two-by-fours added onto the porch frame. The linguini with anchovy and walnuts she found in the fridge gave her the perfect excuse to call up Manolo before she considered the wisdom of it.

She nibbled a nail, counting the rings until he picked up.

“Santos.”

Every time she heard him say that in his deep voice, she melted a little bit more.

“I have a problem,” she teased, surprising herself with her unaccustomed brashness. “I don’t do anchovies.”

“You won’t even notice them. They’re just there to add a layer of depth.”

“Promise?”

His silence lasted a beat too long. Junie’s foolish smile faded. When would she learn? Men like Daryl and Manolo didn’t do promises.

“What if I told you I used artisan ranched, milk-fed, organic anchovies?”

“Oh, well, in that case . . .” She laughed, relief coursing through her body.

“I noticed you started adding on to the porch.”

“Finally got all the boards cut to size.”

“Have I told you how much I appreciate your help? Especially after you put in a full day at Sam’s?”

“It’s been nothing but ‘stand by to stand by,’ waiting for the consortium approvals to trickle in before we can start digging the foundation. I’d rather saw lumber out in your dad’s barn any day than sweet-talk zoning officers. I like to keep my hands busy.”

Junie felt again the illicit thrill she’d felt on the day they’d met with her hand sheltered in his, beneath the bar where no one saw.