LITMIR.BIZ

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to the sea.

      “What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.

      But the moment of doubt didn’t stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown. Her Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.

      At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she’d return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.

      Or maybe she’d use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.

      She’d loved Harry’s Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow’s Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry’s projects. They’d sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob’s cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.

      Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he’d been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.

      It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry’s marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she’d refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.

      It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry’s rants, because it didn’t matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he’d lose everything. Bob’s respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry’s courtship.

      Uncle Bob’s death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he’d left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who worried about her future.

      She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob’s death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.

      Now she was going to see if it could be more.

      She watched the surf racing to keep pace with her car, realizing her future was in an odd sort of balance. Her first lifetime in northern California as a free-spirited earth child had been the polar opposite of her lifetime in the other end of the state. Like Goldilocks, she could only hope that this one, in the middle, would be just right.

      With Santa Barbara in the rearview mirror, champagne bubbles of excitement rose in her chest. As the car blew out of the Gaviota Tunnel, the sun and land exploded in a blaze that burned onto her retinas. The hills flowed away in golden waves and the road wound between them, lazy as a snake in the sun. Old red barns nestled at the bottom of the valleys, and cattle wandered along paths that their forebears had etched into the hillsides.

      Peace blew in on the wind, brushing her face, settling on her skin. She smiled.

      Almost there.

      A little while later she was rolling into Widow’s Grove—and it was like visiting an old friend.

       There’s a new antiques shop where the hardware used to be. Oh, Harry, look, there’s Hollister Drug where we got those great strawberry shakes. Remember that waitress with the crystal in her tooth and the ’50s waitress uniform and hot pink hair?

      She turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, the precision straight rows of winter-barren grapevines undulating over the hills that she and Barney passed. The basset’s long ears flapped out the open window as he sniffed the air. Indigo tried it, too, pulling in the scent of dirt and growing things. “You remember this, don’t you?”

      “Woof.”

      “Well, this time we’re here to stay.” She drank in every hill, every landmark and every mailbox on what was, as of today, her road home.

      They turned in at the sun-faded sign that read, “Tippling Widow Winery. Home of distinctive wines since 1978.”

      “We’ll have to get that sign repainted,” she said. “It doesn’t make a very good impression from the road.” Dead leaves blew across the asphalt as they drove up the wide drive, unpruned denuded vines keeping pace on either side. “I wonder how the harvest was this year.”

      The drive opened to a small, deserted parking lot that ended at the tasting room. The steel-roofed wooden building, painted in buff and redwood, was shaded by a wraparound porch. Square wooden tables and chairs rested in its shade. She pulled up and parked.

      The place was so empty it seemed abandoned. Weeds grew among the rosebushes at the base of the porch, complete with wind-blown trash accents. What was the manager thinking? This would look awful to potential customers.

      Where were the customers? The place should be bustling with tourists this time of year. Warning bells jangled in her head.

      When Barney whined, she got out, gathered him in her arms and lifted him down. He wandered off the sidewalk, sniffed, then watered some weeds. As she closed the car door, the fecund scent of fermentation—a sure sign that the crop was being processed—calmed her unease a bit.

      Until she walked closer and spied the cobwebs gracing the tables and chairs of the porch. And they were not fake Halloween leftovers.

      She pulled the handle of the glass door—it was locked. She cupped her hands and looked in, though she couldn’t see much of the shadowed interior.

      What the hell is going on? “Barnabas, come.”

      He stopped sniffing and, collar jingling, trotted after her around the building, along the nine-foot-tall solid wood fence, to the working side of the winery. She pulled the metal door at the back of the pole-barn building. At least it was unlocked, and the lights were on. Barney followed her in, and she let the door close. No genteel trappings here—just concrete floors, stainless steel wine fermentation tanks, skylights and industrial lighting overhead.

      “Hello?” Her voice echoed off the high steel ceiling. “Anyone here?” She held out her hand, palm down. “Barney. Stay.”

      He sat, plump feet splayed.

      She walked farther in, peering around raised fermentation vats and stepping over hoses.

      In the last row, a pair of jeans-clad legs stuck out from under a vat, several wrenches spread on the floor beside them. “Hello?”

      The legs didn’t move. Had he hit his head? Had something collapsed? Alarm skittered up her spine and scurried along her nerves. Jogging over, she knelt beside the legs and bent to peer under the vat. An old man lay, eyes closed, a tonsure of curly gray hair wild around his head. No blood. She reached out and touched his leg. Then shook it. “Hey, you okay?”

      His lips parted, belching a snore.

      “What the hell?” She snatched a wrench from the floor and banged it against the metal tank.

      With a snort the man woke, jerked and smacked his head on the tank. “Jaysus!” He put a hand to his forehead and glared at her through one bloodshot eye. “Why’d you go and do tha’?”

      A miasma of stale wine breath unfurled. She recoiled and stood, then backed up a step.

      “Cantcha’ see I’m workin’ here?” The man rolled out from under the vat. “Who the hell’re you?”

      “Indigo Blue. The owner.” The remnants of adrenaline in her system congealed to a sticky wad of anger. “You’re not working. You’re shit-faced.”

      It took some precarious butt balancing and grunting, but the man eventually

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