"We replant. It takes a few years before they produce again." He looked at me. "It's not ideal, but it's not a disaster either."
Juliet stood and shaded her eyes, looking down the row. "How many would you lose?"
Ramon glanced at me, as impressed by her keen interest as I was.
"Six, maybe eight," he replied.
She nodded slowly, taking that in. "What a shame," she said. "After all this time."
Ramon sighed. He gazed down the row for a moment, lost in his thoughts.
"I'll get the crew started this week," he said eventually. "Get it done before the weather turns."
"Good." I straightened up. "Let me know when you want to start digging them out. I want to help."
Ramon nodded. We walked the rest of the section so he could point out what needed attention, Juliet falling into step beside Ramon. At one point, he stopped to show her how the healthy vines should look, pulling back a few leaves so she could see the wood. She leaned in close and listened intently as he waxed lyrical about the quality of the soil and the effects of the weather on our yield.
By the time we turned back toward the house, the sun had dropped behind the western ridge, and the air had cooled. Juliet walked ahead of us, humming to herself, a classical tune I recognized only as something by Mozart.
Ramon came level with me.
"She's good people," he said quietly.
"I know."
I watched as she climbed the hill toward the villa. It had been four years since I'd bought Mist Hollow, and I'd never wanted to share it with anyone. Maybe that was starting to change.
Chapter Eleven
Juliet
As she was most days, Eileen was sitting at the kitchen island when I came downstairs. She had a cup of tea beside her and a notebook in front of her. When I walked in, she glanced up from whatever she was writing.
"You're up early, pet."
"Couldn't sleep."
Nate and I had both slept in our own rooms last night, and I'd lain awake for hours wondering if that meant what had happened between us had been a one-off. I hoped it wasn’t, but I had no idea what Nate was thinking, and it wasn't a subject I was eager to broach.
I went to the coffee pot. It was still running. I waited for it to finish and poured a cup.
"He's already out," she said.
"I guessed that." I sat down across from her. "What are you writing?"
"Menus. I do it every month so I know what supplies I'll need."
"May I?"
She nodded and turned the notebook toward me. I pulled it closer and read through the list of dishes she intended to make. Every dish reflected the kind of unpretentious, down-to-earth cooking Eileen excelled at.
I thought about the vegetable garden, the herbs she grew, the vineyard stretching down the hillside, the dining room with its long table, and the evening light coming through the west-facing windows.
"This kitchen is wasted on just the three of us," I said.
Eileen furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we could do something with it, host dinners. We could have a small number of paying guests. We could showcase the estate wines, pair them with dishes that use the produce from the gardens." I nodded toward the window. "People would come for that view alone."
