The Crush (Oregon Wine Country #1)(8)

“I’ll just have green tea. Decaf,” said Mom.

Junie skimmed the menu for something her mother would approve of.

The bell above the door jangled, and two couples, the women in expensive linen and the men in cargo shorts, a camera with a telescopic lens swinging around one of their necks, entered the café.

“Do you need a few minutes?” To the untrained eye, Poppy appeared unaffected. But Junie knew she had alerted like a bloodhound on a kilo of heroin. In a town like Clarkston, catering to tourists was how restaurants survived.

Junie bit her lip. Those sticky buns sounded awfully good.... “Okay.” Junie slapped her menu down on the Formica. “I’m in. A bun and coffee.”

Poppy swept away their menus. “Coming right up.”

“I’ll be good tomorrow,” Junie muttered.

“I’m not judging you. But it is worth remembering that excess sugar consumption causes diabetes.”

Thank you, Doctor Mom.

Now that they’d ordered, Junie waited for her to come out with whatever it was she’d brought her here to talk about.

“Poppy’s doing well,” Mom remarked with mild surprise. “Did you hear about her new career path?”

“Yeah. I’m really happy for her.”

Poppy had left Clarkston right out of school to stock wine in a dusty little shop on a Portland side street. When the manager quit three years later, the owner had tagged Poppy to replace him, even though she was still a month shy of being able to take her first legal drink. From there, she’d started hostessing. Recently she’d begun studying for her sommelier certificate.

“She’s had luck on her side. Somehow she managed to find a great niche. Who knew female sommeliers would be the next big thing?”

“Or it could’ve been her strong work ethic and her natural way with people. Plus, she has a great memory. Have you noticed? She never writes down an order.”

Mom folded her arms on the table. “If Poppy can make it in Portland, anyone can.”

“Meaning?”

“Now, don’t you get all defensive on me. You know as well as I do that nobody ever had any great expectations of Miss Poppy Springer. She’s got good genes, I grant you that,” she said, in an obvious reference to Poppy’s classic good looks. “But she has the cranial bandwidth of an amoeba. And without a degree . . .”

“Newsflash, Mom. College isn’t for everyone.”

A graciously smiling Poppy approached the table. Mom sat back to make room for her to set down her steaming tea. When she left, Mom went on. “I’m not here to argue about Poppy or extoll the virtues of college. Junie, you’re my only daughter. I love you very much. And it’s about time you got a real job.”

“Mom.” Junie closed her eyes, struggling to remain calm. “We’re not doing this again. I already have a real job. Do you still think enology is some passing fancy?”

At their table nearby, the tourists turned and stared.

“Keep it down,” said Mom. “And you’ve got circles under your eyes. You look exhausted. Have you lost weight?”

“Haven’t checked lately.” She hadn’t weighed herself in months. The workweek flashed through Junie’s mind like clips from a movie. Monday, the concerned look on the face of the volunteer from the co-op after examining her financials. Tuesday and Wednesday, trudging miles through rows of vines to tweak the pruning, racing to tie cordons to the top wires to keep the flower buds off the ground in case of a late frost. Her jeans did feel looser, come to think of it. Trust Mom to notice.

“And your freckles are coming out already, and it’s only April. Aren’t you wearing sunscreen? Juniper, darling, I know how much you loved your father—we all did—but don’t you think that vineyard has cost this family enough? It’s been five long years. When I think of all the money sunk into this venture . . . and then losing Storm so he didn’t have to see the disappointment in his father’s face every time he looked at him—”

“Storm didn’t have to move to Colorado.”

“You saw what farming did to your father in the end.” Mom knew how to angle the knife for maximum damage. “If he hadn’t kept chasing that pipe dream, he would still be alive today.”

Junie frowned. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation again, after all the times I’ve tried to explain it to you. Weren’t you even listening?”

Mom appraised her with a cool eye. She wasn’t used to being told no. When she walked down the halls of the hospital the nurses snapped to, and in the ER she had absolute control over her staff. “You’re a bright girl, Junie, a hardworking girl,” she said in the detached tone used for stubborn patients. “I have connections. I could find you something Monday if you’d only let me. Stefon’s partner is the people champion over at—”

“Who’s Stefon?” Junie asked, exasperated. “And what’s a ‘people champion?’”

“Stefon. One of my surgical techs. People champion . . . what did they used to call them? Human resource managers? Whatever. Maybe you could even find something in the wine field that doesn’t put your health at risk.”

“Mom.” Junie framed her words with her hands, homing in on her as if she were the parent and her mother, the child. “For the hundredth time. It’s not Dad’s dream anymore. It’s mine. I’m the third generation of Harts to raise grapes. And it’s only a matter of time before I start to break even.” She took a meager salary, and she’d been doing all she could to keep up with her credit line and meet expenses. “All I need is a distributor. Sam says the market for Willamette pinot is growing so fast it can’t keep up with the supply. It’s just that I’m still new, I have a small yield, and my advertising budget’s close to zilch.”