One

I’D taken my suitcase out of the closet three days ago, and the only other thing I’d managed to do was trip over it.

“You going to pack that thing anytime soon?” Connor took a sip of coffee. “You leave in two days.”

“Tell me again we can handle the extra foot traffic.”

“We’ll be fine. We might need to add some staff, but we’ll manage. It’s more a question of what direction you want to take the winery.”

I didn’t respond. Connor had been running the winery with my aunt for years before I’d inherited, and we both knew I wouldn’t make a decision without him.

I walked to the desk, reaching once again for the invitation, the ivory linen paper with raised script clearly designed to impress. A group that specialized in train tours was recruiting investors for a new line in Monterey County. I’d been invited because my contribution would be a narrow strip of land running alongside my vineyards. I invest the land, and the train practically stops at the door of the winery’s tasting room.

“It just seems like such a big commitment, and there’s no going back once we’ve agreed,” I said.

Connor shrugged. “That’s why you accepted the invitation. Just head up to Napa and see what they have in mind.”

Joyeux Winery is small by most winery standards and is near the town of Cypress Cove, just south of Monterey. I liked the pace of running a small winery and didn’t need to be the next household name in wine. On the other hand, I didn’t like how frequently I had to use red ink at the end of the month. I toyed with the invitation.

“Have you talked to Antonia?” Connor asked. “Isn’t her contribution going to be a similar strip off the back of her land?”

I nodded. Antonia’s my neighbor and a distant relative. She also owns the largest, most successful winery along the central coast. Our relationship has never been easy, especially since as a teen I’d frequently thrown parties in her vineyards. She has a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, and you always know what she’s thinking. She has worn long black dresses, her silver hair piled high, for as long as I can remember, and admits to being seventy but must be denying at least a decade. I can’t decide if she looked old thirty years ago, or she looks terrific now.

“Antonia is all for anything that helps the wineries in this area grow. She can’t wait to go, especially since it comes with an opportunity to snoop on the wineries in Napa Valley.”

“I’m sure she’ll take full advantage of that,” Connor said.

Only 3 percent of California wines come from Napa Valley, but its influence on the wine industry is undeniable. Equally undeniable is the beauty of the area. I was looking forward to seeing it again.

No, the trip itself wasn’t the issue; it was what to do about Connor. The invitation included a weekend at a spa hotel just outside of St. Katrina. It was romantic, luxurious and the perfect place to spend time with the man in my life.

My problem was that I didn’t have a man in my life. Sure, Connor was the man of my dreams, but only in my dreams. He was the best winery manager in the region, and since my return to the winery, I’d managed to contain my growing feelings for him. Joyeux Winery wouldn’t be the same without him, and I wasn’t sure about mixing business with pleasure, even though I was confident the encounter would be pleasurable, indeed. Like most winery managers, Connor was equal parts chemist, businessman, scientist and farmer. He was smart in a soft flannel shirt. Throw in tall, good-looking and funny, and you see my dilemma.

I took a breath. “The thing is, I think you should be there. If we agree to invest, this will impact you more than me. Hayley can handle everything here while we’re gone.” Hayley is my niece and assistant manager at the winery.

Connor nodded. “Okay. No problem. They offered two rooms at the hotel if you wanted to bring someone. I’ll call them and let them know I’m coming.”

He stood and stretched, the flannel shirt riding up to show the trim physique that working outside all day in the fields had given him. Connor had a house in town, but most mornings he joined me in my kitchen to review the day’s schedule. He walked over to the counter to pour himself more coffee, the smell of soap and the outdoors lingering as he walked past.

I reached for the cream, adjusted the elastic waistband of my workout pants—otherwise known as pajamas—and tried not to look disappointed. I was ambivalent over my feelings about Connor and didn’t want to risk our relationship, but staying with me clearly hadn’t even crossed his mind. I adjusted the waist of my pants again. It was only an extra ten pounds, but suddenly it felt like a lot more. I pushed the cream away.

“Sounds good, but don’t worry about calling the hotel. I’ll take care of it.”

Connor poured a last cup of coffee and raised it in a departing gesture. He moved with unconscious ease through the French doors, down the back steps and into the rows of Chardonnay grapes that grew right up to the back of my deck. As I poured myself another cup, the phone rang. I sighed when I saw the caller ID.

“Hi, Antonia.”

“I’m bringing Chantal.”

I put the cup down and took a seat. “Good morning to you too.”

“Yes, well, good morning. I’m bringing Chantal.”

“Yes, I heard.” Unfortunately. Antonia’s youngest daughter, Chantal, had always been a source of irritation, sometimes reaching the level of infuriation, like when she stole my first boyfriend in high school. She was perfectly gorgeous, with luxuriant dark hair and the vibrant green eyes the Martinellis were known for. She lived at Martinelli Vineyards with Antonia and had recently taken over the marketing efforts of Martinelli Winery. She was surprisingly good at it too.

“Well, I wanted you to know. I realize it hasn’t always been easy between you two, but I think it’s a good idea that she sees what we’re talking about.”

“Sure. I understand. Connor’s going too.”

There was a pause. “Well, that could get a little sticky.”

“Sticky? Sticky, Antonia? Anytime Chantal gets around Connor there’s only one thing that gets sticky, and it’s her.” She was like flypaper for any man who flew into her atmosphere. As far as I knew, Connor was the one guy in Cypress Cove who had, so far, resisted Chantal’s advances. Not that it stopped her from trying.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You want to give her the benefit of the doubt, something I don’t have to do, not being her mother.”

“I will ensure she behaves and the atmosphere remains businesslike. If not, I will make it right.”

“That’s something I can’t wait to see.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Penelope.”

She only calls me that when she’s perturbed.

“Okay, Antonia. I’m relying on you.”

“You can’t blame Chantal for holding out hope. If you were to remove Connor from the town’s list of single men, it would make things easier.”

Chantal didn’t necessarily care if the man in question was single or not, but I let that pass.

“You forget; I need to work with Connor. The work and the winery need to come first.”

There was a pause. “I thought that way most of my life too, and it cost me good relationships over the years. I’m still playing catch-up with my children, and Chantal’s the only one who talks to me. He’s a fine man, Penny. You’d be a fool to let him get away.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Besides, you aren’t getting any younger.”

“Thanks again.”

“You just spent so many years away, traveling and taking pictures.” She made it sound like an expensive hobby.

“That’s what photojournalists do. We travel and take pictures.”

“So now you’re in your thirties—late thirties, I might add—and alone.”

“I’m not alone. I’m single. Bye, Antonia.” I tried not to slam down the phone. Photojournalism had kept me on the road nine months out of the year, but I hadn’t regretted it then and wouldn’t now.

I was, however, glad to have the freedom to choose the subjects I wanted, and now preferred the landscape shots I sold in the galleries that lined Cypress Cove’s main street. I was fortunate enough to be living a life that suited me. I reached once again for the wine-train brochure.

Running from St. Katrina to Aqua Caliente, towns a short distance from Napa, the train was owned and operated by the same group that wanted to expand into Monterey County. The tracks were originally laid in the 1800s, when wealthy San Franciscans travelled north by ferry and luxury train to enjoy weekends in the country. After the completion of the Golden Gate Bridge, trains were no longer the fashionable way to make the trip. The train cars were sold off and the tracks slowly fell into disrepair until the 1970s, when the northern sections were restored and Pullman railcars began making the trip once again.

I didn’t know much about trains, but even I could see their beauty. Honduran mahogany paneling, etched and stained glass partitions, Tiffany lighting fixtures and brass accents throughout. The train had one car for dining, and another car had an antique bar running its length, with a corner fireplace. Even in the photos the richness of the rose velvet fabrics and lead-crystal stemware came through. The slick and glossy brochure covered anything you would ever want to know about the train. It seemed that the only thing not covered was what to do in the unlikely event one of your fellow train travelers turned out to be a killer. That one I had to find out on my own.