AS DAYS WENT by and temperatures climbed, Whitney needed something other than office clothes and cruise wear. She took a much-needed break from the paper avalanche in the dining room and went shopping.
Helen gave her a list of supplies needed from the box store up in Geneva, then gave Whitney a stern command to go into Rendezvous Falls on the way home to check the shops there. Whitney protested that she wasn’t looking to buy vacation souvenirs, but Helen didn’t let up until she promised.
It was just as well, since she was starving by the time she got back to town. The back of her SUV was packed with bags containing practical shorts, jeans, T-shirts, work shoes, and various house and yard supplies. She turned off Route 14 at the corner with the big black-and-orange Victorian, and drove into the town center.
Flags fluttered from every old-timey lamppost on Main Street, probably left over from the Americana festival, which had taken place over Independence Day weekend. Whitney remembered going to see the fireworks as a child. Helen said there was a festival of some kind in Rendezvous Falls every month these days. The Americana festival was still their largest, with parades, fireworks and a giant antique show.
She parked in front of a small restaurant named simply The Spot. The bright colors in town were even wilder than she remembered as a child. Most of the buildings were clapboard, with Victorian gingerbread trim and sharp peaks. Even the brick ones had colorful painted doors and window frames. Pink, green, blue, yellow, red—it was like walking through an explosion of paint samples at a home store. The town’s over-the-top homage to all things bright and fanciful made Whitney smile. No wonder the place had become such a popular tourist destination. It was a kaleidoscope marriage of history museum and Disney World, and...it worked.
The Spot had neon orange benches outside the cornflower blue building, with white lace cafe curtains inside the window. Gold leaf outlined the white lettering on the windows. An older couple came out the door, and the delicious smell of something grilling propelled Whitney inside. She sat at the counter that ran down the right side, rather than sit at one of the booths alone.
“Be right with you, hon!” A large woman with salt-and-pepper hair was at the far end of the counter, wiping the surface with a towel and chatting with an older man eating the biggest piece of cherry pie Whitney had ever seen.
“I got it, Mama!” A woman closer to Whitney’s age, maybe younger, with a figure that had enough curves to stop traffic, came out of the kitchen and nodded in Whitney’s direction. “Coffee? Iced tea? Soda?”
“Iced tea sounds perfect. No sugar.”
The woman slapped a glass down in front of Whitney, along with a menu encased in heavy plastic. Her name tag identified her as Evie. There was a bright pink streak in her thick dark hair which was pulled back in a messy knot under a hairnet. A tattooed flock of small birds wound its way up her left arm from her wrist to disappear under the rolled-up sleeve of her shirt. Another unidentifiable tat peeked out from under her collar. She pointed to the blackboard above the cash register. “Those are today’s specials, but we’re out of the salmon melt. We can make one with tuna, though, and honestly, it’s just as good. If you’re vegan, we have a soy burger melt with fake cheese, and if you like your protein on the hoof, we’ve got beef patty melts with cheddar and onion. I don’t know what’s up with our cook, but everything’s melting in this place today. What can I getcha?”
“A beef melt sounds great.”
Evie nodded in approval. “A meat eater like me. These days it feels like we’re the minority, right?” She turned and tucked the order slip in an old-fashioned metal carousel in the opening in the wall, spinning it toward the kitchen and rapping her knuckles on the metal counter. She turned back to Whitney. “I swear, eighty percent of the tourists these days don’t eat any real food. It’s a pain in the—”
“Evelyn!” The older woman stood nearby, arms folded, glaring at Evie. “We don’t discuss personal opinions with customers.”
“Sorry, Mama.” The waitress looked down in chagrin, turning so only Whitney saw her wicked wink. Whitney fought to keep a straight face so “Mama” wouldn’t know she was being disrespected.
Evie’s mother, whose name tag read “Evelyn”...wait... Evie caught the look and grimaced.
“Yup. That’s my mom, Evelyn, and I’m her daughter, also Evelyn. But she’s the only one who calls me that.”
Her mom frowned. “I call you Evelyn because that’s your name, mija. And my name, and your abuela’s name, and her mother’s name. You’re the first one to ever be embarrassed by it.”
“I’m not embarrassed by it. I just prefer my more modern version.” Evie folded her own arms to mirror her mother’s pose. “And now who’s sharing personal opinions in front of customers?”
Evelyn harrumphed and stomped away. Whitney should have come into town sooner—she’d been missing all this entertainment!
Evie grabbed Whitney’s order from the cook and set the plate in front of her. “Sorry for the family squabble. It’s been one of those days, but Mama’s right. We shouldn’t bother tourists and I talk too much. Enjoy your lunch.”
She started to turn away, but Whitney reached out to stop her. She liked the smart-mouthed, quick-witted waitress. And she hadn’t enjoyed a good girl talk in ages.
“I’m not a tourist.” She rushed on when Evie gave Whitney’s expensive linen suit an arched look. “I know, I know—I’m overdressed. I’m working on that. My name’s Whitney, and I’m visiting my aunt, Helen Russ—”
“Helen Russo?” Evie rested her arms on the counter and smiled.
Whitney nodded as she picked up her sandwich, which smelled too good to ignore, and took a bite.
“How is Helen?” Evie asked. “We’ve missed her since Tony died. They used to sit in that booth right there for breakfast a couple times a week.”
Whitney glanced over at the booth. Something caught in her throat, and she blinked a few times. Luke had said Helen “clocked out” after Tony’s death. If she was going to help the winery get back on its feet, she should help Helen do the same.
“What else did Helen used to do?”
Evie considered for a minute while Whitney ate.
“When I think of Helen, I always think of Tony and Helen together. Those two were practically joined at the hip, you know? Always holding hands and stuff like that, which is super cute in older couples. I even saw them kissing on the sidewalk—you gotta love senior citizen PDA! Helen used to come in with her gal friends, too. Haven’t seen her with them lately, though. They have a book club or something. Iris Taggart at the inn started it, and let’s see...” Evie tapped the counter with bright green fingernails. “Victoria Pendergast is in it, of course. And everyone’s favorite grandma, Cecile... Oh, and Lena Fox. She’s an artist, and she makes these amazing tribal masks. And that Rick guy who teaches at the college.”
Whitney stifled a laugh at the matter-of-fact way Evie described everyone. She seemed pretty well connected in this little town.
“I met Vickie Pendergast over the weekend. What’s her story?”
Evie straightened with a laugh. “You saw her on a weekend, huh? Let me guess—her hair was perfect, her makeup was flawless and she was wearing Gucci sunglasses. Her accent was somewhere between eastern Connecticut and London. Did she happen to mention any of her three or four husbands?”
Whitney laughed. “No mention of husbands, but you get an A on all the rest. She was trying to hook me up with her neighbor, Mark Hudson.”
Evie went still. “Mark? Mark’s back in Rendezvous Falls?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Wiping the counter with sudden vigor, Evie shrugged, all laughter gone from her voice. “I thought I did. A long time ago. But I was wrong.” There was a beat of silence before Evie gave her a sardonic smile. “Anyone else you want to know about?”
Luke Rutledge’s name was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back. She’d asked for enough local gossip for one conversation.
“My aunt’s been alone a lot. If I wanted to get her back out and active in town again, where would you suggest I start?”
Evie turned to look at a colorful July calendar on the wall near the front window. It had a close-up photo of a bright pink-and-white Victorian turret, with scalloped shingles.
“Well, you missed Americana Days, but the summer ArtFest is coming up. I don’t know if Helen was ever big into art, but she’s friends with Lena Fox, and Lena runs the thing, so she’d probably like to go.”
“Oh, yes. That must be the one Mark was talking about.”
“Mark was talking about art?” Evie’s eyes were wide, and her grip tightened on the blue dishcloth in her hand until droplets of water hit the counter.
“Yeah, he quit accounting and paints landscapes or something.”
Evie stared off toward the windows, but Whitney was pretty sure she wasn’t seeing anything but memories. A soft smile played on Evie’s lips, and she made a small sound of pleasure.
“His grandmother must be having a cow. Good for Mark.”
Whitney pulled her wallet from her bag. “I have to get back to the winery. But if you think of anything else Helen might enjoy, or that I might enjoy for that matter, let me know, okay? Here’s my card...” She pulled out one of her old business cards and scratched a big X across the KTM Accounting information. “I don’t suppose you’d know where a gal can go for some night life around here?”
Evie chuckled. “In the summer, everything’s geared to the tourists. There’s a decent place on the waterfront by the marina. And, of course, there’s the Purple Shamrock. That’s the townie bar. The music is hit-or-miss these days, but you won’t have some married asshat from Indiana laying bad pickup lines on you.”
Whitney laughed. “I know what you mean. I always avoided the tourist bars in Chicago. But I’d feel like a fraud going to a townie bar. Especially alone. Want to join me?”
Evie nodded. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at eight. It’s up on the highway.”
LUKE WINCED WHEN the “band” started warming up. He wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first gig the four pimple-faced teens ever had. If Patrick McKinnon were still alive, he’d never have signed these guys, especially during the summer when there was no hope of drawing college students in. Luke lugged another case of beer out and finished stocking the ice-filled cooler behind the bar at the Purple Shamrock Pub. The name was supposed to be a nod to the grape growers in the area. Luke’s two or three nights bartending every week helped cover his rent with Helen and added a little to the rainy-day fund Tony had set up years ago. And the tips put spare change in his pockets.
The guitar player turned to face the amplifier while he tuned up, causing an ear-splitting screech of feedback. Luke motioned with his hand for the kid to turn around. If only all problems were that easy to solve.
Sam Vrabel from the wine trail commission had called today. The commission was working on their website for the fall, and Sam was skeptical the winery could meet their stated goals.
“I drove up there on Wednesday,” Sam said, “hoping to see you or Helen, but the place looked deserted. There was a huge pile of stone in the middle of the driveway, and the tasting room needs paint, at the very least.” The older man’s disapproval came through loud and clear. “Tony Russo never would have let people see the place looking like that.”
Sam wasn’t wrong there, but what the hell was Luke supposed to do? He started stacking glasses on the shelves behind the bar. He was one man, working two real jobs and half a dozen under-the-table ones to make ends meet. He’d explained to Sam, as calmly as possible, that the crushed stone was just delivered on Tuesday, and would be used to repair and expand the parking lot. He had the paint for the carriage house, and was waiting until he had the time to use it. The winery would be open six days a week by the time the festival arrived in September, and it would once again proudly join the ranks of Seneca Lake’s finest wineries. He did his best to sound convincing, and Vrabel, with a few grumbles, had agreed to put Falls Legend on the organization’s fall calendar for the wine trail.
He served a few drinks to the customers starting to file in for tonight’s so-called “music.” This was a younger crowd than Patrick McKinnon went after when he was alive. His daughter, Bridget, was working the kitchen tonight, filling in for yet another cook who’d quit under her hypercritical watch. Bridget hadn’t figured out yet that this wasn’t the fancy restaurant she’d left behind in Boston. This was strictly a wings-and-fries crowd.
The Purple Shamrock wasn’t his concern, though. Falls Legend Winery was his life’s work, and he was going to have to figure out a way to get that stone spread and the buildings repaired, the landscaping fixed, and the wine made. All while he balanced this job and his other odd jobs.
Lena Fox had Luke working on her outdoor studio, leveling paving stones so she could have classes in the fresh air. He had to finish adding the last layer of binding sand this weekend. Couldn’t do it tomorrow—Saturday was the winery’s only open day. Maybe he could spread some of the driveway stone between greeting customers. He pulled another glass of dark beer from the tap. That wouldn’t work. He couldn’t be all sweaty and dirty while trying to sell wine. If only there was someone else to pick up the slack once in a while.
Golden eyes and mahogany hair spun through his mind. Yeah, he needed the help, but what help could Whitney possibly be when she didn’t know anything about the business? He sure as hell didn’t have time to teach her.
The bar was filling up. Todd was checking IDs at the door the best he could, but Luke started doing his own checking when orders were placed. The last thing they needed was to get slapped for serving to minors. He checked the driver’s license of a young blond before handing over a flight of party shots, then headed down to the far end of the bar to take orders.
He came to an abrupt halt halfway there. Whitney Foster was sitting at the bar, head bobbing to the band’s halfway decent cover of a Bruno Mars song. Evie Rosario turned, her glass held high.
“Can I get a refill? Oh, hey, Luke! How are you?”
Ignoring the crazy train of emotions going across Whitney’s face, he nodded at yet another of his sister Jessie’s high school classmates. He should get her home for a reunion.
“Hey, Evie. Whatcha drinkin’?”
“Corona Light. And my friend here wants a...a gin and tonic, right, Whitney? Luke, this is Whit—oh, wait.” Evie’s eyes went wide. “I don’t need to introduce you two—you’re working together at Helen’s place, right?”
Luke’s “Not exactly” was said simultaneously with Whitney’s “Yes.”
Evie laughed. “O-kay. I’m gonna leave that one alone. Luke, you be a good boy and fetch us our drinks. And a plate of curly fries to munch on, too. I’m starving. Whitney wanted to know how to have a good time in Rendezvous Falls.”
As she said it, the band ripped into a shaky cover of a Linkin Park hit. The driving drum beat and the chops on the lead guitarist were the only thing keeping the youthful crowd hooked. The dance floor filled with girls in crop tops and short skirts, hands high in the air, while the country boys stood along the far wall and watched, too cool to admit they had no clue how to dance to this stuff.
Whitney wanted to know how to have a good time...
None of his business. But the words rattled around in his head until Evie slapped the bar with her hand.
“Yo! Luke! Hungry, thirsty women here!”
“Yeah, okay. Be right back.”
The two women talked nonstop while they drank. Evie was way ahead of Whitney, who was pacing herself. Smart girl. He headed back to the kitchen, dodging Bridget’s outrage—and the spatula she threw—when he grabbed a plate piled high with curly fries intended for someone else.
Evie looked up in surprise when he set it in front of Whitney. “That was fast.”
He met Whitney’s gaze. “I didn’t want you drinking on an empty stomach.”
Her cheeks flushed deep red, and her jaw had a dangerous set to it.
“How considerate, Luke. Thank you.”
The fire in her eyes made it clear she was mentally putting a very different word in front of “you.”
He chuckled. “You’re welcome, Miss Foster. Are you planning on helping yourself... I mean, helping out in the tasting room again this weekend?”
Evie let out a dramatic groan, missing the look of death Whitney was giving him. “I am so jealous! I get leftover donuts and french fries at the end of my shift at the diner, which is the last thing I need.” She patted her hips. “But you guys? You get leftover wine at the end of the day!”
Whitney rushed to speak before he did, probably anticipating where he was going. She came in hot, clearly a scorched-earth kind of fighter. He smiled to himself. He didn’t expect anything less.
“If I were going to do any ‘helping out’ tomorrow, it would be in the parking lot, where a mountain of stone was delivered days ago.”
He hoped to get the siding repaired on the carriage house next week so he could paint. After he finished Lena’s patio. “I can’t spread stone when there are customers there.”
“We don’t have customers on weekdays. As if the place doesn’t look ragged enough—”
“Ragged?” She’d pushed the wrong damn button. He leaned across the bar, but she didn’t flinch. “What about that so-called garden that’s overgrown up at the house? Or the dead hanging baskets on the porch? You’ve been here for weeks and haven’t lifted a finger to do anything about that, have you?”
Her eyes went wide. “I don’t know anything about gardening!”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t know anything about parking lots, either, but it doesn’t stop you from having opinions, does it?”
She started to point a finger at him when a new voice, gentle but firm, broke into the conversation.
“Luke, can I trouble you for a spot o’ Guinness, lad?”
“Father Joe...” Luke closed his eyes in self-censure, remembering the priest didn’t like being “outed” in public if he wasn’t wearing his collar. Tonight he was wearing a rugby shirt and jeans. “Of course, Joe. Gimme a minute—”
“Ah, Luke, I’ve worked up a powerful thirst.” Joe’s brogue made the word sound like “turst.” The father gave a pointed look at the way Luke was still leaning toward Whitney. “You wouldn’t want me going wid’out, would you?”
Luke straightened. Message received. “Of course not, Joe. Let me get that draft right now.” He turned to the two women. “Excuse me, ladies. Duty calls.”
Joe’s arrival had effectively ended the conversation. Catholic or not, the man didn’t abide strife in his parish. But Whitney didn’t know that. Still raring to go, she folded her arms on her chest.
“Funny how you pay attention to your duties at this job, but not—”
“Evening, ladies,” Father Joe interrupted, his voice smooth and his accent heavier than ever. “Evie, love, it’s good t’see you. Tell your mum we missed her at Mass last week. And I don’t t’ink I’ve had the pleasure.” He turned to Whitney. “I’m Father Joseph Brennan, but please call me Joe tonight.” He leaned in and spoke in a stage whisper. “People act funny if they know they’re hanging out with a priest.”
Whitney’s eyes went soft. Father Joe’s Irish charm had won again. She took his hand. “I’m Whitney Foster, Fath... I mean, Joe. I’m—”
“Ah, yes,” Joe said. “You’re Helen’s niece from Chicago, the accountant here to help her out this summer. It’s grand t’meet you.”
Luke shook his head as he waited for the dark stout to settle in the glass before he finished the pour. He was no longer surprised by how much information Joe knew. It wasn’t just the confessional that fed him news—the man had a knack for getting people to talk to him. Or the Good Man Upstairs was sharing it with him in dreams. Whitney, of course, assumed Luke had talked. He could see it in the way her eyes sliced his direction before she nodded at Joe.
“Yes, that’s right, Joe. Things are a bit of a mess there and I plan on finding out why.”
Luke grunted, then slid a perfect pint of Guinness to Joe. He had a dozen good comebacks for her, but he wasn’t going there with the good priest in earshot. He didn’t need the lecture the next time he went to mow the lawn at the rectory.
Whitney studied him with a frown, as if waiting for the response she’d poked him for. Evie finally distracted her, pointing at a some twenty-year-olds grinding together on the dance floor. Everyone’s phones were up, recording the pub porn to gather internet clicks. Joe didn’t even look. Whatever everyone else felt they had to capture on video would hold no interest for him. He watched Luke pouring drinks for a few minutes before speaking up.
“Helen came to Mass on Sunday. Did you have anything to do with that?”
Luke shook his head. “I was as surprised as you were. But she’s been doing better lately, so maybe she figured it’s time. Maybe she forgave you for—”
Joe chuckled. “For not being Father Lorenzo?”
Luke poured another flight of shots. They were a hot seller tonight. After he made change, he turned back to Joe. The man was in his fifties, but looked ten years younger. Short and lean, he was often spotted on his high-tech racing bike, peddling up and down the hills around town. Sandy hair fell across Joe’s forehead, and his blue eyes were always bright with laughter and wisdom. He was basically impossible not to like.
“I never understood why Helen blamed you for that.”
Joe shrugged. “I was the new young buck who showed up after her husband died. The priest they knew and loved for years was retired and gone. She resented me for being one more change in her life. I told you she’d come around.” The priest winked. “I think I won that bet, boy-o.”
When Helen was at her lowest, Luke told Joe he didn’t think she’d ever go back to church. Hell, she told him she wouldn’t. But Joe had been unconcerned when they’d made their friendly wager. Luke didn’t need another task on his to-do list, but a bet was a bet. And you didn’t renege on a priest. As usual, Joe read his mind.
“Those hedges have been overgrown for years, Luke. Another few months won’t hurt.”
“Thanks, Joe, but pruning in the fall is a bad idea. I’ll get it done. No problem.” Yeah, sure. No problem. Maybe he could use floodlights and trim hedges at night.
A burst of female laughter brought his eyes back to Evie and Whitney. They were watching the dance floor antics, and Evie was pointing to someone and shaking her head. Luke followed her finger. Doug Canfield. Yeah, he was definitely a no-go. Doug had two DUIs and a misdemeanor assault conviction for punching a bouncer at a bar in Watkins Glen. The guy was a hot mess on a downward spiral.
Todd was already heading toward Doug. Luke would join in if needed, but there was bad blood between the Canfields and the Rutledges. He didn’t want to stir that up if he could avoid it. After a brief, angry exchange, Doug and his buddies headed out the front door. Evie was directing Whitney’s attention elsewhere—in the direction of Owen Isaacs. Damn it. There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with Owen. He was a good, hardworking dairy farmer. Luke started to smile. Owen was boring as hell. Whitney would eat him alive.
His smile faded. She could do the same to him if he wasn’t careful. Instead of feeling concerned about it, he felt oddly...energized. He was more than ready for whatever Whitney Foster was going to throw at him. At least he hoped he was.