Page 10 of Rainshadow Road

Growing grapes was a science, an art, and for people like Sam, very nearly a religion. He had started as a teen, reading every book about viticulture he could get his hands on, working at garden nurseries and apprenticing at vineyards on San Juan Island and Lopez.

After majoring in viticulture at WSU, Sam had become a cellar rat at a California winery, working as a winemaker’s assistant. Eventually he’d sunk most of what he had into buying fifteen acres at False Bay on San Juan Island. He had planted five acres with Syrah, Riesling, and even some temperamental Pinot Noir.

Until Rainshadow Vineyard could ramp up to mature crop levels, Sam needed an income. Someday he would be able to build a production facility to process the grapes from his own vineyard. He was enough of a realist, however, to understand that most dreams required compromises along the way.

He had found sources for bulk wine, took it to a custom crush operation for bottling, and had developed five reds and two whites to sell to retailers and restaurants. And he’d given most of them nautical names, such as “Three Sheets,” “Down the Hatch,” and “Keelhaul.” It was a modest but steady living, with good potential. “I’m going to make a small fortune with this vineyard,” he had told his older brother, Mark, who had said, “Too bad you borrowed a big fortune to start it.”

Sam pulled up to the huge Victorian farmhouse that had come with the property. A feeling of dilapidated grandeur hung over the place, enticing you to imagine the glory it had once been. A shipwright had built the house more than a hundred years earlier, framing it with an abundance of porches, balconies, and bay windows.

Over the decades, however, a succession of owners and tenants had wrecked the place. Inner walls had been knocked out to make some rooms larger, while other spaces had been divided with flimsy chipboard partitions. Plumbing and electricity had been badly installed and seldom maintained, and as the house had settled, some of the flooring had acquired a slant. Stained glass had been replaced by aluminum-framed windows, and fishscale shingles and corbels had been covered with vinyl siding.

Even in its ruined condition, the house possessed a winsome charm. Unknown stories lingered in abandoned corners and rickety staircases. Memories had seeped into its walls.

With the help of his brothers, Mark and Alex, Sam had made structural repairs, gutted and remodeled a few of the main rooms, and leveled some of the flooring. There was still a long way to go before the restoration was finished. But this place was special. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that it needed him somehow.

To Sam’s surprise, Alex seemed to have a similar fondness for the house. “Beautiful old girl,” Alex had said the first time Sam had walked him through the place. As a residential developer, he was familiar with every possible complication of building and remodeling. “She’ll need a hell of a lot of work. But she’s worth it.”

“How much money will it take to get the place in decent shape?” Sam had asked. “I just want it shored up enough that it won’t collapse on me while I sleep.”

The question had brought a glint of amusement to Alex’s eyes. “If you flush hundred-dollar bills down the toilet continuously for a week, that amount would just about cover it.”

Undeterred, Sam had bought the property and started work on it. And Alex had brought his construction crews to help with the more difficult projects, such as replacing the header beams on the front porch and repairing damaged joists.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Alex had replied when Sam had expressed his gratitude. “I’m doing it for Holly.”

A year earlier, on a rainy April night in Seattle, their only sister, Victoria, had died in a car wreck, leaving behind a six-year-old daughter. Since Victoria had never given anyone a clue about who the father was, Holly was an orphan. Her closest relations were her three uncles: Mark, Sam, and Alex.

Mark, the oldest, had been appointed as Holly’s guardian, and he had asked Sam to help him raise her.

“I don’t see how that could work,” Sam had told Mark. “I don’t know the first damn thing about being a family.”

“You think I do? We had the same parents, remember?”

“We have no business trying to raise a kid, Mark. Do you know how many ways there are to ruin someone’s life? Especially a little girl’s.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Now Mark had begun to look worried.

“What about parent-teacher conferences? Taking her to the men’s room? How do we do stuff like that?”

“I’ll figure that out. Just let us live here.”

“What about my sex life?”

Mark had given him an exasperated glance. “Is that really your priority, Sam?”

“I’m shallow. Sue me.”

But eventually, of course, Sam had agreed to the arrangement. He owed it to Mark, who was dealing with a tough situation he’d never expected nor asked for. And even more, he owed it to Victoria. He’d never been close to her, never been there for her, so the least he could do was help her orphaned daughter.

What Sam hadn’t counted on was that Holly would have stolen his heart with such ease. It had something to do with the artwork and pasta necklaces she brought home from school. And the glimpses of Victoria that he saw in her, the crinkle-nosed grin, her absorbed gaze as she made a box out of Popsicle sticks and glue, or read a book about talking animals. Having a kid in your life changed you before you were even aware of it. It changed your habits and opinions. It changed the things you worried about and hoped for.

And it made you do dumbass things like adopt an ugly bulldog with eczema and hip problems when no one else wanted him.

“Here you go, buddy,” Sam said, lifting Renfield from the truck and placing him carefully on the ground. The dog lumbered after him as he walked to the front porch.

Alex huddled in a battered wicker chair, drinking a beer.

“Al,” Sam said casually. He kept a close eye on Renfield, who was lumbering up a specially built ramp. Bulldogs and stairs were never a good combination. “What are you doing here?”

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