The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(43)

The tasting room job was done, and so was his tenure at Brendan Hart Vineyards. In two months, he’d be in Belize. Junie would be nothing but a memory.

That was as it should be. There was no place in a footloose man’s heart for a grounded woman like Juniper Hart.

He would cherish this summer’s detour in wine country. But soon it would be time to gather speed again, ramp onto the fast lane and all that went with that. If the past was any indication, he’d be back on the prowl, or at least open to whatever fruit fell into his lap.

Manolo had always loved the thrill of moving on.

So why did he suddenly feel indifferent?

His ardor for Heidi had evaporated. He bought a round of drinks, sat down next to her in a quiet corner of the bar, and told her gently but firmly that they were over and he wished her all the best.

The person in line behind him cleared her throat.

How long had he been standing there like a statue?

“Sorry,” he said, and started unloading his basket onto the belt.

“Got big plans for tonight?” The attractive cashier, who didn’t happen to be wearing a ring, gave him a saucy smile.

“Nope,” he said, helping to bag his supplies. “Going to a pool party tomorrow. Tonight I’m staying home by myself.”

“Good luck with that,” she said with a hint of disappointment in her voice. “Tomorrow looks like rain.”

*

July fifth dawned cloudy but thankfully dry.

After checking out the plumbers’ progress on the consortium, Manolo returned to his apartment to slice lettuce, tomatoes, and onions and pat ground chuck into burgers. When everything was organized, he sat down on his rented couch and looked at his hands, mulling over an idea he’d been thinking about ever since he heard that Junie needed a wine distributor. It was a notion that had started as a glimmer and grown until, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He glanced again at his watch. Back in Hoboken, the restaurant would be slowing down. This was as good a time as ever to catch his father when he wasn’t too busy. Swallowing his trepidation, he punched in the number.

Izzy answered.

“How’s it going?” He strained to hear the familiar clatter and chatter in the background. It all came back to him with a rush, each time he called home. The smiles on the faces of guests as they enjoyed their pastas, the tall pizza stands crowding the center of the tables. His mother, a permanent fixture at the entrance, greeting every customer, then later ensuring that everyone left happy. But lately, when he called, the visual memories were becoming less clear. Manolo was unsure whether forgetting was a blessing or a curse.

Izzy sighed. “Not bad.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I said not bad. Not good, but not bad, either.”

Manolo didn’t miss the subtle distinction in Izzy’s standard reply. Without fail, she always said that things were fine.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong. Tell me what it is.”

“Business is a little off, that’s all.”

A wave of foreboding restored his memory. In a flash, he was there, in the restaurant that was more the family home than the brownstone they slept in. Its murals and wood paneling had gone out of style in the eighties, but that hadn’t stopped the steady stream of faithful who flocked to Santos’s for his dad’s famous sauce and steak and risotto.

“What’s ‘a little off’? Ten percent from last year?”

Izzy didn’t answer.

“Fifteen percent?”

“Twenty-five.”

Manolo rose from the couch and stared blindly out the window. This was all his fault. If he’d stayed, like a good son, he would have seen trouble coming. He would have known what to do. Revitalized it. Changed the decor, changed the menu . . . something. Anything.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Please, Manny. Not again.”

Frustration and guilt seeped into his voice. “I need to talk to him. Maybe I can help.”

“You want to help?” asked Izzy angrily. Izzy, the calm one. “Why don’t you come back here and do it then, instead of calling me?”

Manolo caught himself. “Never mind.”

He thought he’d found common ground with his dad—trying to hook Junie up with Santos and Son’s liquor distributor. He’d been planning to ask his dad to put in a good word for Junie. If it’d worked out like he’d planned, Dad would have been flattered. After all, Manolo had gotten his big ego from someone.

“Sorry I yelled,” Izzy said.

“Forget about it. Give my love to Mom.”

He hung up and stood there, processing what had just happened. It had never occurred to him—that Santos’s wouldn’t always be there to fall back on if he got tired of pushing back against the earth’s spin.

Manolo thought he had carved out the perfect life, free of responsibility to anyone or anything. For sixteen years it had suited him fine.

Then he’d met Junie Hart. And for the first time in his adult life, he was plagued with uncertainty.

The Belize contract was still on his laptop. Why hadn’t he printed it out and signed it? The prospect of yet another new job in a new location used to energize him. But this time it almost seemed like a chore.