LITMIR.BIZ

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searching for the scrap of paper she’d seen among the ancient business cards, crumpled receipts and leaky pens. “You should have started on the cabin yesterday.” Or the day before. Odious as it would be, setting Uncle Bob’s home to rights should be her job alone. But with Danovan reporting for work in the morning, she’d have to vacate the manager’s quarters, and the only other bed on the property was in the cabin. She was out of time and needed help.

      “Ah, here it is.” Squinting at the smeared numbers, she dialed.

      “Hola,” a lilting feminine voice said.

      “Hello. Is this Rosalina?”

      “Sí, señora. Can I help you?”

      “You own the service that cleans The Tippling Widow, right?”

      “Yes.”

      Indigo blew out a breath. “We need to talk.”

      “We did not do a good job?”

      “Oh, no. You’ve done a great job. That’s why I’m calling. I need help cleaning the cabin on the premises. You know, the one at the top of the hill?”

      “Sí. Señor Bob’s.”

      At the tenderness in the woman’s voice, a bubble of sadness rose into Indigo’s throat. “Yes, that one.” Her voice squeezed around the blockage, coming out skinny.

      “But the manager, he no let us in there.”

      “He doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Indigo Blue, the owner. I’ll be living in the cabin, but...” She searched for words that wouldn’t scare the woman off. “It needs a good going over before I move in. Could you send someone today?”

      Papers rustled. “No one free today. We can come next week. That’s our normal schedule.”

      “No one? Are you sure? Could you check again? I really could use some help.”

      “I am so sorry, missus. No one today.”

      Her heart shriveled to a small ball. She should have known it would come to this. It was her job to do, really. “You mean you don’t come every week?”

      “The manager, he tells us no.”

      She couldn’t afford it, but they were making and selling a food product; a clean facility was a must. And her time would be better spent learning than cleaning. She forced the words past the banker side of her brain. “Can I get on a once-a-week schedule, including the cabin?”

      When they’d worked out the timing, Indigo thanked her and hung up.

      One more call to go. “Cross your toes, Barney.”

      The carefree mutt looked up from his blanket and yawned.

      “Okay, a good-luck yawn. I can live with that.” But just in case, she threw a prayer to any god listening before dialing the next number.

      “Yes?”

      “Is this Sandra Vanderbilt?”

      “This is Sondra.” She drew out the name, as if chastising the mispronunciation.

      “Yes, sorry, Sondra.” She didn’t stretch it. “I’m Indigo Blue, the owner of The Tippling Widow. I’m calling to—”

      “I wondered when someone would call. Do not ask. I will not work with that vinous degenerate.”

      Note to self—search Google for vinous. “If you mean the former manager, that’s no problem. He’s gone. I understand from the records that you are the serving staff manager.”

      “I was.” Delicate sniff. “I enjoyed working for Robert, but since his death the place has gone downhill to the point where I was embarrassed to admit I worked there.”

      Robert? Uncle Bob was salt of the earth. He was no more a Robert than Indigo was a Bambi. “Well, I intend to change that. I have already hired a new manager, and I was hoping you would agree—”

      “Whom?”

      “What?”

      “Whom did you hire as manager?”

      Indigo had heard that I’m-dealing-with-an-idiot tone before, but never from an employee. She might live in the country now, but the taint of Hollywood uppity was still fresh in her nostrils. And it burned. Dammit, she’d come here looking for some respect. Why rehire a snotty employee? Indignation filled her chest, squaring her shoulders. She took a breath to tell Sooondra to pound sand.

      Then a shotgun blast of reality hit her inflated chest, and all the indignation bled out. You need this woman. A complete staff turnover was more than The Widow could survive right now. After all, Indigo didn’t know enough about wine to interview, much less hire, competent serving staff, and Danovan wouldn’t have the time to interview or train them. “Danovan DiCarlo is the new manager.”

      “Oh, reeeally?”

      She would have given quite a bit to know what caused Sondra’s surprise, but damned if she’d ask this woman for gossip. Loosening her jaw muscles, she bit her tongue.

      Sondra sniffed. “I suppose I could consider that, though I am contemplating several other opportunities.”

      “I plan to honor Bob’s dream to make The Tippling Widow wines the pride of the region. Surely, given your years of loyal service, you’d want to be a part of that?”

      “I would. For a ten percent increase in salary.”

      You can’t afford it. Besides, she’s bluffing. Indigo’s gut told her she was right. She put a hand to that notoriously unreliable part of her anatomy. But what if she’s not? You sure don’t have the knowledge to do the job. Not yet, anyway.

      Sondra broke into her thoughts. “I’m waiting to hear about another position. Why don’t I just call you back next week?”

      One big mistake at this point could be the weight that sank The Widow. Figures streamed through Indigo’s mind. “I’ll give you five percent more, but only if you can convince the rest of the serving staff to return.”

      Another haughty sniff. “They will follow wherever I lead.”

      Without choke collars? “Good. Contact them and all of you report for work at...” Blood pounded to her cheeks. “What time do you usually start?”

      “Nine-thirty. The doors open promptly at ten.”

      “I’ll see you then, Sand—Sondra.”

      “You will.” Click.

      Indigo stared at the dead phone, then dropped it onto the desk. Bob had made running the winery seem effortless, yet she’d not encountered one easy task since she’d set foot on the property. Well, hopefully that would change tomorrow when the new manager showed up. She imagined Danovan DiCarlo galloping up the drive on a white steed, skidding to a stop at the porch steps.

      She snorted. Like I’m some damsel in distress. She glanced out at the empty porch. The cobwebs swayed in the breeze, and trash fluttered in the weeds. The tasks she was capable of doing could fill several pages of lists, but the ones she was incapable of could fill a book the size of Webster’s dictionary. Okay, so I am in distress. But it’s not going to be a chronic condition.

      She’d only need all of them—Danovan, Sondra and her crew—until she got her feet under her and some experience. Then, if any of them weren’t working out, she’d fire them and start over.

      The vow soothed her chapped ego. “Hey, Barn. Wake up.”

      The dog opened droopy eyes.

      “How’d you like a hamburger? We have to shovel out the cabin yet, but we need a break.”

      Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the gravel parking lot of the barn-red,

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