Page 10 of Love You Truly

It’s the minerals and stones left over from more than a million years of volcanic activity. Not something that can be reproduced with a machine.

Our property has only a small winery on acres and acres of land. We’re pretty much the opposite of most vineyards around here, where there’s always a scramble for more places to grow grapes. Winemakers are always jockeying to find a few more parcels of land so they can expand their businesses.

Land like ours.

But the system my parents have used all these years is barely keeping this place afloat. Our family business has generated losses for the past few years because the money we spend to keep up the land isn’t covered by what we sell in wine. Nowhere close.

There are ways to change that. My business school education has helped me put muscle behind some of my ideas. I either need to sell some land, which I see as a last resort, or start growing a lot of grapes. We have one of the most sought-after appellations in the region, so we can sell grapes at top prices.

It will take some time to get vines grafted and producing fruit, and in the meantime, I need to curry favor with a lot of people around town and make deals that keep us afloat. I’ve been dancing that jig in my sleep for so long that I’m just about out of energy.

I shake my head, again thinking about Felix and his nerve.

As I pull back into the driveway of Autumn Lake, I let out a long exhale. Even though the place causes me stress, I’m still at peace when I arrive here. It’s home.

Rufus comes bounding over and puts his paws on the window ledge. “Down, buddy. I need to open the door.” It’s a ritual between me and my giant newfoundland who still acts like a puppy at age two—he greets my car before loping away and circling the Jeep.

“Hey, was it a madhouse out there?” My friend Mary walks over with her arms crossed. It’s then that I notice her red pickup truck parked around the side of my house.

She calls it Cherry and sometimes affixes a bow to the grill. Currently, the bow sits on the dashboard. The truck clicks and whirs as it cools down, so I know she hasn’t been here long.

“It’s a party,” I say as Rufus trots over and licks Mary’s hand. “Usual afternoon traffic on the highway, but I was just looking to drive. Wasn’t going anywhere specific.”

Swinging the Jeep door open with my foot, I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Before I have one foot on the ground, Mary starts giving me jazz hands. “It’s pub night.”

I blink at her and force a smile. “Right. Yay.”

“You forgot.”

“Because you switched days on me.” Normally, we go out on Monday nights because most places are empty.

Her shoulders slump, and she tries to pout, but she’s too excited to pull it off. “No matter. We’re still going.”

I nod. No point in trying to dissuade her, even though going out is the last thing I feel like doing. I just want to slink upstairs and spend an hour soaking in my tub. Maybe that’ll get the Felix smell off me.

I look down at my wide-legged jeans and oversized, pale yellow tee. They’re fine for the pub. I spend most of my time dressed to the nines because I’m trying to develop relationships with anyone and everyone who could be a potential business contact. People—yes, by people I mean men—seem to like it when I show up looking like a hot date. I used to hate using my looks to get what I want, but after enough years of being judged for them, I leaned in. The same way some men use their bank account and their swagger.

Once I turn Autumn Lake into a thriving business, I plan to give twenty percent of our profits back to the community of workers who can’t afford to live in the area. They’re the reason our town is thriving, so they deserve it. If I can accomplish that more efficiently by wearing makeup and flirting a little bit, so be it. No one needs to know who I am underneath the facade.

The only person I’ve let in a tiny bit is Mary, and that’s only because she’s a newcomer in town who doesn’t judge. The gossip mill gave her an earful about me, informing her I’m desperate for a husband and willing to offer false promises about selling family-owned land as a way to seduce the men around here. To her credit, she decided to get to know me before believing everything she heard.

Mary arrived a year ago from England, where she spent her entire life in one small town. Her brother plays soccer for the San Francisco Strikers and lured her across the pond after their dad passed away. He expected her to live near him in the city, but she decided she liked small-town life better.

She found an au pair job with a family that lives next door to our property. Her hours vary, so she spends a lot of her free time at Autumn Lake, helping me with the food garden I’m trying to establish. It’s off the back of my house, which separates it from the rest of the land my parents basically ignore when they’re not chasing a sheep through a meadow.

Mary has proven to be a far better gardener than me, and I’ve learned a lot from her instinctive sense of plants and what they ‘want.’ If I’m going to grow grapes, I need to understand their needs and desires, according to Mary. For some reason, coming from her, it sounds less loony than when my parents wax poetic about some bean they harvested in England.

For years, Mary worked in a pub and did a lot of their cooking. She claims she misses it and pops over here regularly to cook meals for our small team of workers. And she refuses to let me pay her.

That makes her the best of all worlds—labor I can afford and a friend I never knew I needed.

She checks the back of the Jeep and sees a giant bag of dog food I’ve been avoiding lifting for days. She’s half a foot shorter than me, but she hefts the bag like it’s full of cotton, and I wipe the sheen of sweat from my forehead. “Long day?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I fake a smile and twirl a lock of my hair. I’m so accustomed to these habits that they come without effort.

Mary crosses her arms again and nails me with a stare, shaking her head. “That’s a bloody lie if I’ve ever heard one. You can tell me all about it at the pub. First pint—or four—is on me.”

There’s no use trying to fool her. She’ll see right through me if I try to pretend I’m not frazzled. It’s the beauty and the curse of Mary Cheltenham. I can’t lie to her.

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