“You’re not?”
“No. I’m a grape farmer.”
She squinted at him and said, “It all looks to be in real good shape.”
He shrugged. “I like to work on things.”
“Machines and stuff? Like that tractor I’ve seen you tinkering with?”
“I enjoy making things work. The tractor gives me problems.”
“I know someone who could fix it.” She nodded slowly. Her body worked efficiently, which he couldn’t help but admire. “What are you growing all these grapes for, if not for making wine?”
“I sell them. To wineries.”
“Is there a lot of money in that?”
“Enough,” he lied.
“But there’s more in winemaking?”
“Yes,” he conceded. “Not just making the wine, but selling to…a group of people. Wine clubs, they call it.”
“How’s that work?”
“People sign up to receive a few bottles at a time, regular shipments throughout the year.”
“So, what? You’d send it out to them? Or they’d come pick it up?”
“Either. It’s a very American thing. We don’t do this in France.”
“Did you make wine in France?”
“No,” he said with finality. “I’m a farmer.”
But, of course, she pressed on. “What if you did make wine? What if you did one of those clubs? That would be a big deal, right?”
“My wine is no good.”
“Wait. Youdomake wine?”
He shrugged casually, a sudden tightness in his belly. Why had he let that escape?
“Not really.”
“But you know how.” She paused, eyes too intense on him. “Youhavemade wine.”
“I’ve…experimented. Not to sell. Just for fun.”
She didn’t immediately answer, leaving him scraped raw in the silence. He hated the doubt she’d stirred up, resented her for stirring it. Everything had been fine until she’d shown up and picked at his scab. In fact, there’d been barely a scar before she’d come here. She’d gone and destroyed his calm.
“This thing used to happen at the market with our customers,” she said. “Especially with the cinnamon buns, ’cause people were crazy for those things, but I’ve seen it happen with anything. You’d get down to two or three of something, and suddenly, customers would just about tear each other up to get it. Some days, I swear we could have charged five times the price for one of those last buns.”
He didn’t think he liked where she was going with this, but he kept silent.
“Seen tons of folks heading to the other wineries in the area. All kinds of people down from the city, limousines and big buses, too. You could do that, couldn’t you? Make your wine and—”
“I’m not a winemaker, Abby.” He stopped and turned, abruptly enough to startle her. “Come. We need to finish.”
