The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(46)

“Responsible for what?” Abby asked.

“Holy shit,” Jack muttered.

“Don’t curse, Jackie, my darling,” Mrs. Johnson said. “But yes. After several weeks of your father irritating me and getting in my way, I relented.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pops. “Are you quitting, Mrs. Johnson?”

Dad didn’t answer, but his eyes were bright with tears, and he was smiling. He looked at her and gave a small nod.

“No, Pops,” Honor said, still looking at her father, and feeling her own eyes well. “I think what they’re trying to say is, Dad and Mrs. J. are getting married.”

She couldn’t help thinking that Mom would be awfully happy.

* * *

TOM’S CAR, AN unassuming gray Toyota, pulled into the parking lot in front of Blue Heron’s tank room. The man himself got out, looking somber. Honor swallowed. What had seemed easy to say in his kitchen this morning was now a little trickier. This was their fourth meeting, for crying out loud. And that was counting the parking lot where he’d retrieved her keys.

“Hallo,” he said. That accent was really unfair.

“Hi. Nice to see you again,” she answered, clearing her throat.

“You, as well.” He looked around. “So this is it, then? The family farm?”

“Right, yes,” she said. “Um, want a tour?”

He looked at her oddly. They were here, after all, to discuss marriage, not wine. “Absolutely,” he said. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“Okay,” she said. “We grow seven different kinds of grape here. Down there is the cabernet franc and pinot noir, to the west is the gewürztraminer and merlot. On the eastern side, we’ve got chardonnay and pinot gris. And up on the hill is the Riesling, which this area is known for. We have some of the best Rieslings in the world, in case you didn’t know.”

“Yes, I’ve read the brochures,” he said.

“It’s the soil. It’s magic,” she said. “I mean, not literally magic, but the weather, combined with the lakes and the hills...anyway, we harvest in October or so. There’s the grape harvester there. Those fingers agitate the vines, and the ripe grapes fall on the conveyer belt.”

“Fascinating,” Tom said.

“It is,” Honor said sharply.

“No, I meant it. I love machines,” he said. “Mechanical engineer, remember?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Go on, then,” he said.

She led him around the barn to the juicer, explaining how the grapes were loaded and gently compressed so as not to crush the seeds and make the wine bitter, showed him how the juice ran through the tubes to the fermenting tanks.

“About ninety percent of our wine is aged in here, the tank room,” she said, leading him into the barn that held the giant steel containers where the grape juice fermented. “Mostly what you need is time, but we add things like yeast, egg whites, sugar, that kind of thing.”

“It’s very scientific, isn’t it?” he said, assessing one of the tanks.

“Yes. Jack likes to say that wine-making is ninety percent science, ten percent luck.”

“And who’s Jack?” he asked.

“Oh. Um, my brother. He’s three years older than I am. He and my father are the winemakers, and my grandfather, too. My sister Pru runs the farming end, and I handle the business stuff.”

“I see.” He looked around the tank room. “Do you use wooden barrels anymore?”

“We do, though we use the tanks more,” Honor said. “Come on, here’s the bottling room.”

“Oh, more machines,” Tom said, flashing that crooked smile. “Lovely.”

She started to explain how the bottling machine and labeler worked, but it was clear Tom had already figured it out. He knelt down to look at something under the conveyer belt. Nice to have someone who was genuinely interested in the process. Most people on the tours were itchy to hit the tasting room.

“And then we have the cask room down these stairs. That’s where the barrels are. Watch your step. It’s kind of old-school, but it’s pretty, and the tourists like it.”

“I can see why.”

The cask room was a vast, dark room, formerly a root cellar, a stone storage area for potatoes and onions and the like. Now it held several dozen wooden barrels, a long, battered oak table surrounded by leather-upholstered chairs, some low lighting and voilà. People felt like they were in the Old Country.

“We use different kinds of wood for each wine. Hungarian oak gives off a nice spicy flavor, French is very mellow, American is fresh and clean.”

“Interesting.” He rapped one barrel. “Feel a bit like I’m in an Edgar Allan Poe story.”

“It’s very private here. I figured we can talk without being overheard.” Her heart was rabbiting already.

“Absolutely.” He sat down and folded his hands. “I don’t suppose we can drink any of this?”

“Oh, sure.” She poured him a glass of the cabernet franc they kept down here for just that purpose, then watched as he gulped it down.

He was nervous, too.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ve done some research.”