DID HE LOVE ME?
Jessica Aguirre didn’t know if he loved her. She didn’t know if he knew her.
She stood on a gravel drive in the midst of a vineyard in Harmony Valley. Heart pounding. Head pounding.
Did he love me?
The man in the photograph would tell her.
Jess clutched a newspaper photo, and stared at the group of men and women in front of a two-story farmhouse with a vintage weather vane. There was a man in the back row on the left. He was the one.
She recognized him right away. Recognized dark hair with a curl at his temple. Recognized a straight, no-nonsense nose. Recognized caramel-colored eyes. Those eyes. If only she could remember...
What if it wasn’t him? What if this was a dead end? What if...?
Jess drew a steadying breath against the panic rising in her chest and lifted her gaze to the well-looked-after farmhouse. The day the picture had been taken there’d been big fluffy clouds in the sky above the cupola. Today the sky was clear and blue. The late January air was crazy cold, stinging Jessica’s toes in her sneakers.
The slender woman who’d greeted Jess on this Monday morning hurried down the front porch steps. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Come inside the tasting room.” Christine was the winemaker for the newly opened Harmony Valley Vineyards, which was headquartered in the farmhouse, the subject of the newspaper article, and where he worked. Christine’s carefree smile told Jess the woman had never lost a moment, a day or weeks from her past. “We have all the amenities inside—hot tea, a bathroom and a place to sit down.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” Jessica resisted glancing at the clipping again. Would her unannounced appearance be welcome? Or create mayhem?
“It’s no trouble. You’re no trouble.” Christine had the kind of smile that invited you to relax, to open up, to be part of the family. “Come inside. It’s cold out here.”
It was cold. Jessica’s jacket wouldn’t zip up anymore. And family...
In no time, Jessica was sitting at a table cradling a cup of hot tea. The tasting room was elegant in a simple way that fit the farmhouse. Dark wood, intimate tables for two, out-of-Jessica’s-price-range granite slabs on bar tops. But the room was oddly empty.
“Where’s the wine?”
Christine followed the direction of Jessica’s curious gaze to the bare shelves behind the bar. “Barrel aging. I’ll be blending some for limited release soon. But most of our harvest will age another year.”
“Aging wine is all about patiently waiting, isn’t it? Even when you don’t know how it will turn out.” Jessica had become good at biding her time. “Making wine is like waiting for bread dough to rise.” Or babies to be born.
“Exactly.” With a contented sigh, Christine’s gaze lingered on the room as if seeing it filled with bottles of her making.
Outside, the wind whistled past, drawing Jessica to the window in time to see a muddy gray truck pull into the gravel drive.
“There he is.” Christine gave Jessica’s shoulder a sisterly squeeze, and then headed toward the door. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”
Did he love me?
A man got out of the truck. Dark hair. Straight nose. Familiar eyes.
It’s him.
She leaned forward, peering through the paned glass, her heart sailing toward him, over ever-hopeful waves of roses and rainbows.
Jess didn’t usually let herself dream. But now...today...him...
And yet...
He wore a burgundy vest jacket that clashed with a red long-sleeve T-shirt. Worn blue jeans. A black baseball cap.
Instead, she saw him in a fine wool suit. Black, always black. A navy shirt of the softest cotton. A silk tie in a geometric pattern. Shiny Italian loafers...
He took the stairs two at a time, work boots ringing on wood.
Jessica’s heart sank as certainly as if someone had drilled holes in the boat carrying her hopeful emotions. Clouds blocked the sun. The rainbow disappeared. Unwilling to sink, Jess clung to joy. To the idea of him.
He entered without a flourish or an energetic greeting. He entered without the smile that teased the corners of her memory. He entered and took stock of the room, the situation, her.
Their eyes met. His were the same color, same shape, so heart-achingly familiar.
It was the cool assessment in them that threw her off. Not a smile, not a brow quirk, not an eye crinkle.
He came forward. “I’m Michael Dufraine, but everyone calls me Duffy.”
His name didn’t ring true.
Had he lied to her?
She couldn’t speak, could barely remember her name.
The wind shook the panes. The house creaked and groaned.
He smiled. A polite smile, a distant smile, an I-don’t-know-you smile.
Disappointment overwhelmed her. Jess resisted the urge to dissolve into a pity puddle on the floor.
“And you are...?” He extended his hand.
On autopilot, she reached for him. Their palms touched.
Jessica’s vision blurred and she gripped his hand tighter as clips of memory assailed her—his deep laughter, him offering her a bite of chocolate cheesecake, his citrusy cologne as he leaned in to kiss her.
It is him.
Relieved. She was so relieved. Jessica blinked at the man—Duffy—who she vaguely recalled and, at the same time, did not.
She’d practiced what to say on the hour-long drive up here from Santa Rosa. Ran through several scenarios. None of them had included him not recognizing her.
She should