"Friday," he agreed sternly, letting me know he expected to see a proper plan by then.
He grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge and headed back outside.
Eileen picked up the notebook and looked at what we'd written. "He'll say yes," she said. "This is a great idea."
I smiled. Then I looked down at the pages covered in my handwriting, the margins full of Eileen's additions, the crossed-out dishes and the ones we'd kept, and a weight settled in my chest.
"I don't even know how long I'll be here," I said.
Eileen set the notebook down.
"I mean, I don't even know if he…" Unsure what to say without revealing more than I intended, I let my sentence trail off.
"I've known that boy all his life," Eileen said. "He has never given a woman access to the places he considers sacred. Believe me, you being here, at his vineyard, that means something."
Her words offered me just enough reassurance that a future here might be possible. After a moment, I picked up the pen.
"Okay," I said. "Let's get to work."
Chapter Twelve
Nate
Long before I reached the kitchen, I smelled a rich, warming aroma. Though it was familiar, sparking a memory of home, I couldn't place what it was. I stood on the stairs for a moment, trying to work it out before I headed to the kitchen.
Juliet was at the stove when I walked in, her hair pulled up, her back to me. Eileen was at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, watching her work.
"What is that?" I asked.
"Lancashire hotpot." Juliet turned. "It's the first time I've tried the recipe. I hope I've done it right."
I moved closer to look at the pot she'd just taken out of the oven. The sliced potatoes layered on top of the bubbling stew were golden and crisped at the edges.
"Where did you find a recipe?" I asked.
"I called Michel," Juliet said, trying to tease a jealous response from me. Now I knew he was in his sixties, there was no longer a threat to respond to. When I gave her nothing, she huffed out a breath. "I found it online. Lancashire hotpot seemed like something you might have grown up with."
Pleased she'd searched for a dish that might evoke childhood memories, I pulled out a chair at the table and sat across from Eileen. She slid the wine bottle toward me.
"My grandmother made it occasionally," I said. "In lieu of a Sunday roast when times were hard."
Juliet glanced over her shoulder. "Your grandmother was a good cook?"
"The best."
Eileen snorted.
"Well, apart from Auntie Eileen, of course."
"Damn right," my aunt said gruffly as I poured myself a glass of wine.
Juliet laughed. She prodded the potatoes with a knife, then returned the casserole dish to the oven. "Needs a few more minutes."
She walked to the table, poured herself a glass of the claret, a French wine, rather than one we produced on the vineyard, and stepped back to lean against the island.
"The meat order is coming tomorrow," Eileen said. "I bought lamb, pork, and chicken to fill the freezer, and there was a good deal on brisket, so I got a few pounds of that too."
My aunt had access to unlimited funds for the running of the household, but she still loved a bargain. Though I gave her a generous personal allowance, she rarely spent much of it, preferring to save for a rainy day. Perhaps she thought, as my father had done, that I would lose everything because of one reckless decision. But I wasn't him, and my financial future was secure.
