Moonlight and Roses

“It’s like this at night back home, too,” he commented as he drew closer.

“Like what?”

He motioned with the bottle of wine to encompass the dark countryside beyond the lighted parking lot. “Isolated and quiet. It’s easy to forget the rest of the world exists beyond the vineyard once the visitors go home for the day and the sun sets.”

“My dad used to claim I did that even when it was light outside.”

“A bit of a homebody?” Zack asked as he joined her on the passenger side of the car.

“I date.” She sounded slightly defensive.

“I don’t believe I said otherwise, Jaye.” He opened her door. The basic courtesy that was so common on the dates she claimed to go on had her brows lifting. Still, she said nothing as she folded those long legs of hers inside his Mercedes. He wasn’t sure how, but she managed to look graceful even wearing oversize cotton, abused denim and a pair of muddy boots. He took a moment to thank providence for the rubber floor mats he’d installed just the week before.

“It’s just that I work a lot of hours,” she was saying.

“Same here.”

“It’s hard to get out.”

“At times.” Mira, of course, had enjoyed spending time with him at Holland. He frowned.

“Not everyone understands the kind of commitment a vineyard requires.”

“No. Not everyone does,” he agreed. “Of course, there’s a fine line between commitment and obsession.” He moved to close the door, but she put a hand out to stop him.

“Which are you, Zack? Committed or obsessed?”

“I’m…driven,” he replied, deciding there was a difference. This time she let him close the door, but the conversation wasn’t over.

When he settled in behind the wheel, she said, “So, you straddle the line between the two.”

Straddle? “I…no.”

“Come on. Isn’t that what driven is? Half obsession, half commitment?”

He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to put him on the defensive, but he felt the need to explain himself. “I want to make a superior product. I want to prove—” He broke off abruptly. He wanted to prove to his father, to Phillip, come to that, to Mira, that his ideas had merit, that he had worth.

“What do you want to prove?”

“Nothing.”

“You know what I want? I want another Judgment in Paris this time with Michigan wines, specifically Medallion wines, taking top honors,” she said, referring to the 1976 blind tasting of California wines by French judges in which they won in every category against French wines.

“You aim high.”

“Anything wrong with that?” she asked.

“Not a thing.”

Zack started the engine. They arrived at her home barely a minute later. Thanks to moonlight and clever landscape lighting, he was able to admire the architecture inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright, with its wealth of rectangular windows and geometric motifs.

“I’ve got to tell you, this is a great house.” Zack switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys.

“Dad liked it.”

“But not you?” he asked.

“It’s…big.”

Something about the way she said it made him think the word was synonymous for lonely.

“It has seven bedrooms,” she was saying. “My housekeeper is livid. My house only had three.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I owned a house on the water, a three-bedroom bungalow with an incredible view of the bay. I sold it and moved in here after…after I inherited the place. I don’t really need all of this space.” She blew out a breath. “But it’s mine now.”

“I like the way it takes advantage of its setting.” The lower level and a three-car garage protruded from the side of a gently sloped hill. Rocky, terraced flowerbeds lit with small hanging lanterns angled sharply up to a wide, L-shaped porch that was braced with intermittently spaced square columns. “I bet these gardens are something in the summer.”

“My dad’s doing. He had a real green thumb, whether it was with grapes or herbs or black-eyed Susans.”

That made twice she’d mentioned Frank. This time, Zack heard the sorrow in her voice. He envied the closeness they’d obviously enjoyed, even if he didn’t envy her grief. Before he could think of something suitable to say, though, she was opening her door and getting out of the car.

He followed her up the steps to the porch.

“This is a Craftsman, right?” He’d always been a fan of that style of architecture with its solid look and angular lines.

“Yes. My dad had it built the year we moved here from the Detroit area.”

“It’s a very masculine design,” he said.

“I manage to like it, anyway,” she remarked dryly.

“It suits you.”

“Oh?”

“No offense,” he said quickly. “It’s just that you’re not, well, you’re not a…”

“A what?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “A frilly sort. And neither is the house.”

“You only say that because you haven’t been inside yet.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ll see.”