Page 22 of Intoxicating Pursuit

In The Vines

W e stopped at the cabins to get washed up, with plans to meet on his porch afterward. I got head-to-toe clean and called my mom and Meghan while my hair dried. I messaged Tina, too. Her texts had been brief and subdued the last few weeks, and I didn't want to lose touch.

I slipped back on the navy-blue sundress and comfy sandals I’d started the day in and decided to skip the makeup routine.

My cheeks were still flushed and my skin glowing from exercise, which is when I felt happiest and most confident anyway.

As long as I was going with a natural look, I left my hair down, the coppery waves falling past my shoulders.

Gabe was already plucking a guitar on his porch when I ambled back outside.

“Oooh. . . free concert. I’m so excited!”

He looked up and grinned—and unfortunately, set the guitar on its stand. “No way, Jose. You promised you’d come look at this property with me. You get your free concert after I get my free design advice.”

I pouted comically but fell in beside him. We made our way across the grounds, and for the first time, I wasn’t too distracted to notice the view downhill.

Fields of grapes and fruit trees fell away in the distance, ceding space to open pastures, then to the treetops of the forest. Far below, the creek sparkled in a thin line, bordering the valley town of Creekside, which seemed miniature against a backdrop of mountaintops.

Clouds drifted overhead, casting a moving mosaic of shadows over the forested green ridge of the nearest foothills.

Behind them, layers of mountainous peaks faded into the horizon, before disappearing beneath a sky as bright as a robin’s egg.

“Wow.” I had nothing more eloquent to say. How could I have missed this view earlier? “Just wow.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” He smiled, stopped, and admired it, too. “Every day, it looks a little different, you know. The light changes; the skies vary, and the colors shift from week to week. I like to stop by several times a year, just to take it in. It’s one of my favorite views in the world.”

“I bet.” I marveled at it for another minute. “How did you ever find this place?”

“Oh, I didn’t, really. The land belonged to my grandparents on the Dekker side. We grew up on the West Coast, but my mom was a teacher and missed her family. So, she’d bring my brother and me here for a month or two on summer break each year. It was more or less our summer camp.”

“This must have been an endless paradise for a little kid. All that land to explore.”

“Pretty much. Some of the best days of my childhood were spent floating on a tube in that creek or playing King of the Orchard with my brother.”

“King of the Orchard?”

He grinned. “You know. . . climb up the apple trees, then try to knock each other down.” He pointed to the scar above his eye. “Loser falls first.”

“ Oh my God . How do boys ever survive to adulthood?”

“Barely, Sammy. Just barely.” He chuckled.

“Anyway, when my grandparents got too old to manage the land, they were gonna sell it for development. So, I bought it instead. Took a while to figure out what to do with it, but I decided a business on-site would make sure it got maintained. I converted the house into a restaurant and built the cabins. Replaced some of the failing sections of orchard with grape vines. We make all the cider and wine. Buy food from local farmers to support the restaurant. It’s been a fun project. ”

“I love a fun project.”

“I get that impression.” He laughed and nodded in the direction of the restaurant. “Speaking of which, let’s keep moving. I really do want your opinion on the place.”

We resumed our walk down the dirt road with that stunning backdrop at our side. Eventually, we arrived at the split-rail gate and found a single SUV still in the parking lot, its hatchback ajar.

The screen door of La Fermata squeaked open, and a tall, scrawny man in a chef’s apron emerged. He glanced our way as he trudged to the lot hefting an ungainly box. “Cabin unlocked, Gabe? Got supper for ya’.”

“Should be, Wyatt. Need a hand?” Gabe trotted toward him, trying to catch up, and I followed.

“Nawp, I’m good.” The man loaded his SUV with the bulky cargo.

Gabe tried to peek in the box. “What’s tonight’s treat?”

“Italian mostly. Summer veggies are comin in. Tryin to highlight em.” Wyatt closed the hatch and peeled the apron from his scant frame. He finally turned our way, dragging the crumpled smock across his sweaty forehead. “Who’s yer friend?”

“Oh, my bad, Wyatt. This is Sammy. She’s helping with the redesign.”

“Good to meet ya’.” He gave my hand a quick shake and turned abruptly, heading to the driver’s-side door. “Listen, Gabe, I gotta run, but tell me if you like the dishes. Could be specials next week.”

“Will do.”

Wyatt climbed in his car, opened the split rail gate, and drove off toward the cabins, kicking up thick puffs of dust in his wake.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Isn’t the old saying never trust a skinny chef?”

“Pff. That man’s a sorcerer in the kitchen.”

“I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

“Yes you will.”

***

G abe guided me through his grandparents’ old home, now a restaurant that blended modern, rustic, and homey vibes.

We sampled everything like Goldilocks: nibbling at appetizers, perching on the barstools, lounging at the outdoor tables.

I busily snapped pictures and took measurements while he described the current customer experience and what he really wanted it to be.

He hoped for a setting where people could feel connected to the mountains and each other.

A place where folks could rest while enjoying delicious food and wine.

Of course, the restaurant also had to be enticing enough to coax tourists and locals to make the drive from town.

La Fermata was thoughtfully laid out, but nothing was ever optimized.

We could surely find ways to better align the design and his vision.

After logging impressions and recording a few voice memos on my phone, I promised to provide ideas once I could think it through.

I tucked my phone back in my pocket as we walked out the old farmhouse's front door. “I know you don’t have the work product yet, but taking measurements and doing the consultation is probably enough for a free concert, right? I bet you’re just dying to play ‘ Shivering Bridge.’”

“Is that your favorite?”

“One of them.”

The breeze blew a wisp of hair across my eyes, and Gabe peeled it away gently. The casual gesture sent sparks across my skin. How were his hands always so warm? And charged?

“Well, I happen to like playing ‘Shivering Bridge,’ so you’re in luck. Guitar’s at the cabin though. Why don’t we walk back.”

We crossed the empty parking lot alone, with only the cicadas and a hot July breeze keeping us company. The bustle of activity at Gabe’s property had finally died down. Even his ever-present security was out of sight.

“Where’s Oscar?” I asked.

“Wherever he wants to be. Once the visitors are gone, he’s off duty.”

“ I’m a visitor.”

He flashed me a playful grin. “ You don’t count.”

We strolled down the long dirt road toward the cabins, passing through a grove of apple trees before entering the vineyard.

The view never waned in its beauty. Rows and rows of climbing plants, heavy with fruit, surrounded us on the brightly lit hillside. “You know, I’ve never actually seen grapes up close on the vine like this. And I lived in California for a while. Pretty silly.”

He stopped, looked at me, surprised, then reached for my hand. “Well, let’s not waste another moment. Come, my lady.” He led me through a break between the fields, up the gentle slope of the land.

We climbed through soft grass into what was clearly a working portion of the farm. A pop-up canopy stood between the fields, shading a cooler and a few camping chairs. In the distance, tractors and attachments rested beneath an open pole barn.

"Are the field crews here today?”

“They were earlier, but Oscar gave them the afternoon off. Really, the whole operation is supposed to be shut down when I visit. Bit of a miscommunication today.”

We turned down one of the rows, where vines stretched above our heads, creating a sense of shelter. Thin tendrils reached for the sky, nearly translucent in the sunlight, and bundles of plump fruit hung in a kaleidoscope of shades from chartreuse to pink to violet.

I took a cluster of grapes in my fingers. “What variety are these?”

“Cabernet. They’re ripening right now. That’s why the colors are so mixed up. But they’ll turn a deep bluish purple by harvest time.” He pointed to the next field. “The grapes up ahead are chardonnay. They ripen gold with hints of bronze. They’re always changing—and always pretty.”

We reached the end of the row, where a gap between the fields allowed a clear view down the hill and across the valley to the mountains.

I leaned forward against the slanted wooden post anchoring the end of the trellis, letting my hands brush against the soft leaves and tendrils of the vines.

How could you not stop and admire such a spectacular landscape?

When I turned after a moment, I found Gabe studying me intently.

He held his hands up at eye level, his fingers forming an imaginary viewfinder.

He squinted one eye closed and tilted his head to look through it.

“Now that is a very pretty picture.” He dropped his hands and shook his head gently. “Marco’s a lucky guy.”

What a strange thing for him to say. Why would he look at me like that then comment about Marco? “Wait. What makes Marco lucky?”

“Well, probably lots of things, but to have you as a wife is what I meant. I hope he appreciates it.”

My world stilled.

He thought I was married to Marco? What on earth had I said to make him think that?