A Memory Away

“It’s sad about Jessica, isn’t it?” Christine waved to the elderly barber, standing on scarecrow-like limbs in front of his shop.

“I suppose.” Duffy drove slowly around the town square with its ancient oak tree, and took the turn toward Parish Hill and its steep switchbacks.

“I was trying to imagine how I’d feel if I couldn’t recall a part of my life. It must be frustrating and terrifying not remembering who the baby’s father is.” How quickly Jess had pulled Christine into her camp. A strike against her.

Duffy navigated a tight turn. “Can we talk about work?” Always? He liked to keep his private life separate from his professional life.

“You’re one of the few people in town who doesn’t want me to stop talking about the winery.” There was no change in Christine’s voice. No indication that she felt snubbed by his request. “Promise me you’ll never change.”

“Never.” Of course, she might not like what he was about to tell her.

Duffy turned onto a dirt road that led to a small vineyard clinging to the hillside. According to their records, the Cabernet Sauvignon vines had originally been planted in the 1990s. Their trunks were thick and twisted. Duffy parked and led Christine down the vine-tangled hill. The vineyard had shriveled, unharvested grape clusters on the ground.

He stopped at the bottom row of leafless, wintery plants. “Look at this. See how these vines have produced fewer shoots and canes than the next row up?”

“Yes.” Christine’s gaze moved with a scientist’s deliberation. “What do you think? Soil composition? Water drainage?”

“It could be those things. But we also have to consider leaf roll virus.” A grapevine disease that delayed maturity and lowered grape yield. Saying it out loud was like telling a child there would be no Christmas this year.

Christine didn’t like the news. She frowned and shook her head several times before she said anything. And when she did speak, her tone had the serious quality of a winemaker twice her age. “You can’t know that. You’d either have to see it in their leaves come spring or have tested the vines.”

“True.” But he knew the signs, had seen them on his last job, where the winery owners hadn’t wanted to hear the news, either. “Look at this.” He crouched next to the rotted remains of a withering grape cluster. “There are others like it all along this row.” He moved to a row farther up the hill, carefully making his case. “Now look at this cluster.”

“Almost twice the size,” she murmured. Then she shook her head again. “Leaf roll has never been documented in Harmony Valley.”

“I was exactly where you are. Drainage, incline of the hill, even the fact that these vines haven’t been harvested or trimmed back in years.” Duffy tugged on a bare branch. It snapped free, another indication of the poor health of the vines, weakened by years of drought. “I had Ryan pull the data. The last row was planted ten years ago after a fire destroyed part of the vineyard. I couldn’t find any confirmation of it being certified virus-free stock.” He tossed the vine to the ground. “I’d rather err on the side of caution, wouldn’t you?”

After a moment, Christine nodded. “We should test for red blotch disease, too.”

“Agreed.” She’d taken the news better than he’d expected.

They hiked up the hill, the biting wind at their backs.

“I walked the vineyard last fall when we decided to expand.” Christine paused on a rise to take in the rest of the area, sounding resigned, as if she were to blame. “But I can’t remember going that deep into the rows.”

“It’s okay. Maybe I’m wrong.” Duffy prayed it was so.

“If they are diseased,” she said softly, more to herself than to him, “we’ll have to take them out right away. Both leaf roll and red blotch dilute the taste of the grape.” Christine opened the truck door and inspected the bottom of her boots one at a time. “Check for bugs on the bottom of your shoes. Mealy bugs—”

“Spread the disease,” Duffy finished for her, already examining the crevices in his boot lugs. He added in a neutral tone, “You hired me because I know things like this.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a shock.” Her apology was as arrow-straight as the worry furrowing her brow.

“With your approval, we’ll have Ryan take samples and send them to the lab.”

A beat-up green truck backfired as it trundled down the dirt road behind them.

“Rutgar,” Christine said. “I...uh...told you about him, right?”

Sounded like she hadn’t told him enough. “Used to own this property. Likes to know what’s going on.”

“Everyone in town is a bit of a gossip,” she said apologetically. “It’s not something I divulge during a job interview. You’re in the grace period of being new to town.” Christine hesitated, and then her smile turned as apologetic as her tone. “Or you were. Now that Rutgar’s showed up... Well, let’s just say folks’ curiosity can sometimes be trying. Be patient with them. They mean well. And they grow on you.” She quickly transformed into a confident, friendly winemaker greeting the previous owner. “Rutgar! What a surprise.”

A bear-sized man stood beside a rusted truck fender. His gray-blond hair hung inches from his chin and draped thickly across his shoulders like a long, matted mane. “What are you two doing out here?” His accent was European. All he needed was chain mail and a sword to carry off the Viking vibe. “That’s the second time I’ve seen this one up here today.”

This one being Duffy. “We’re discussing the condition of the vines.” Duffy didn’t feel comfortable sharing his suspicions. Instead, he introduced himself. Duffy wasn’t a small man, but Rutgar’s hand swallowed his.

“I want to be informed about what goes on. This is my land—”

“Was.” Christine stepped up to hug Rutgar. “Was your land. You sold it to me, remember?”

“I sold it to your fiancé.” The older man made a noise that sounded like a territorial growl. “I live on top of the hill. Everything that goes on here is my business.”

“Of course, it is,” Christine soothed. “And just so you’re aware, there’ll be workers up here sometime in the next few weeks.”

Rutgar’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. “Workers won’t go any farther than this driveway.”

“The view from the top is spectacular.” Following Christine’s lead, Duffy kept his voice kiss-butt polite. “You can see the entire valley. Why limit access on a public road?”

“Because the top of Parish Hill is my home.” Rutgar’s features twisted into something no one would call a smile. It involved drawn-back lips and bared teeth. “I’ve seen you up there wasting the nice lady’s time.”

“Surveying the land.” Duffy’s patience held. Barely. “It’s easier to keep all the properties straight with a view from above.”

“Wasting time,” Rutgar scoffed. “Winemaking takes months and years, and a lot of effort.”

As did placating former landowners. “Since you’re so interested in what’s going on, can I count on you to help cane?” Given the vineyard hadn’t been cut back in what looked like nearly a decade, Duffy was betting the answer was no.

“You can count on him to watch,” Christine ribbed.

Rutgar shook a finger the size of a sausage at her. “I like you.”

“You’ll like him, too.” Christine gave Rutgar’s shoulder a gentle nudge that didn’t move the large man an inch. “Now back out. We’ve got other vineyards to inspect.”

* * *

“HOW DID IT go yesterday?” Vera yelled over the sound of the mixer’s grinding motor.

It was 4:00 a.m. and the owner of Vera’s Bakery in Santa Rosa was preparing the batter for red velvet cupcakes. They sold hundreds of them in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. The large industrial kitchen was already filled with welcoming, sugary smells from cinnamon rolls and various breads and cookies of all kinds. At the next worktable, several bakers were chattering in Spanish. Jessica’s maternal grandparents had emigrated from Mexico, but Jess didn’t speak more than a handful of words in their native tongue.

Normally, Jess couldn’t wait to begin baking. Contributing to a busy kitchen always made her feel as if she belonged. Not today. Today she felt as if she’d never belong. Not with her coworkers, not with Greg’s family, not with anyone.

“Did you find your baby daddy?” Vera’s white hairnet covered her unnaturally red hair like snow on a high desert mountain.

“He’s dead.” Jess was saddened by Greg’s death. Sad, yes, but since her memories of him were like dandelion fluffs on the wind, it was a detached sadness. If they’d been in love, wouldn’t she feel broken?

For what must have been the thousandth time since she’d woken up in the hospital after the accident, Jess wondered if her baby was a creation of love. But now the wonder-train was on a new track.

What if Duffy’s words were true? What if Greg had used her?

What if? What if? What if? She was at square one again. Too many questions. Too few answers.

“Your baby daddy’s a deadbeat?” Vera shouted, sending her dangling silver cupcake earrings swinging over the tattoo of a rose on her neck.

“No. He’s dead.”

“What?” Vera promptly switched off the mixer and came around to Jessica’s side of the prep table. “Dead? So who was the guy in the photo?”

“His twin brother. Duffy.” His handsome and bitter twin brother.

Vera’s brows shot up accusingly. “You’re sure he didn’t just make up the twin angle? Some guys will do anything to avoid paying child support.”

Jess tied her apron on as she weighed what she’d been told. The man she’d hoped she might be in love with wasn’t Duffy. She was sure of that. “I believe him.”

“That’s a shame. If you can’t find a baby daddy, you’ll need a sugar daddy.” Vera shook a finger in Jessica’s face and asked her something in Spanish she didn’t understand. When Jess stared at her blankly, Vera said, “How can you raise a child alone? Without a man’s steady head and regular paycheck?”

“Women raise kids by themselves all the time.” Jess was more interested in providing Baby with family roots than a secure bank account—although that would be nice, not to mention having a father figure around.

“Yes, but women shouldn’t bring up babies alone. You’re a smart girl. All you need to complete the package is to learn your native tongue to catch a good man.” Her smile and nod indicated Jess was this close to attracting the right guy. “Smart girls always find sugar daddies.”

“I’d just like to find my memories,” Jess said.

Vera muttered in Spanish again and then stared at Jess as if she were a problem child. “I said memories won’t keep you warm at night, but maybe your baby’s uncle can.”

“I have an electric blanket,” Jess deadpanned. “And to be clear, even though I’m having dinner with Duffy this weekend in Harmony Valley, I am not planning on a brother swap so that I can have an insurance policy.”

“You should listen to me. I know what I’m talking about.” Vera laughed and turned on her loud mixer. “You be careful driving out there. Big storm coming in with flooding predicted. It’s bad enough you’ll be on leave soon. I need you every day until that baby is born.”

Given Harmony Valley was sixty miles northeast and at a different elevation, Jessica wasn’t worried about the weather. That was days away. Storms sped up or slowed down, and forecasters often predicted flooded roads during rainstorms and nothing ever happened. Jessica hadn’t seen any roads under significant water since she’d moved to Santa Rosa from Sacramento last summer.

No. Jessica was more concerned with Duffy. Was he going to show up for their dinner? And could his presence help reveal more of her lost memories?

Would she ever know if Greg had loved her?

CHAPTER THREE

“HOW CAN I tell you this, Eunice?”

Eunice Fletcher braced herself because Agnes Villanova—town councilwoman, president of Harmony Valley’s widows club, manager of the boutique the women in town ran and general town cog—was often the bearer of bad news.

“Who died?” Eunice clutched the yellow cotton pieces of a baby quilt she’d been cutting when Agnes stopped by her house. “Mildred? It was Mildred who died, wasn’t it?” Another town councilwoman.

“Mildred is fine. It’s—”

“It’s Rose.” The third councilwoman. It’d been years since a spot on the council had opened up. “I knew the poor dear was on her last legs mentally.”

“Rose is fine. Sharper than ever.” Agnes ran a hand through her pixie-cut gray hair, and pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself from saying more.

“Quit beating around the bush and tell me who died. I’m very busy here.” Stitching quilt pieces together at the window that faced the old Reedley place. The two-bedroom bungalow next door was being rented by one of those winery employees. A tall fellow named Duffy, who rose early, made eggs for breakfast with a sprinkle of cheese and liked cream in his coffee.

“It’s you, Eunice. I came to talk about you.”

The yellow blocks fell to Eunice’s lap. “I’m not dying.”

Agnes sighed. “It’s about you.”

Eunice stacked the blocks on top of each other, smoothing out the creases with her liver-spotted fingers. “You need to work on your delivery, Agnes. I thought someone had died again.” Mae Gardner had recently passed. Eunice hadn’t even realized Mae was sick. “What about me?”

“It’s your baby quilts.”

“Are they selling? I’m making them as fast as I can.” She’d make them faster if Duffy was home more often. Sewing gave her an excuse to sit by the window.

“Maybe you should slow down.” Agnes pulled the pink sunflower quilt Eunice had made from her tote and unfolded it. “We can’t sell a baby quilt with Frankenstein stitches.”

Eunice squinted at where Agnes pointed to the fabric. “Frankenstein stitches,” she harrumphed. “Have you seen the way my corners meet? They’re perfect. And my stitches are wonderful.” Her grandmother had taught her how to sew by hand, back before they made fancy machines.

“You can’t see your stitches, can you?”

Eunice didn’t want to admit she couldn’t. The comment about Frankenstein hurt.

A truck pulled into the driveway next door. Agnes turned, blocking Eunice’s view.

“Is that Duffy?” Eunice craned her neck. “His license plate has two eights at the end.”

Agnes gave Eunice a chastising look over her shoulder. “How can you see across the yard and not see the stitches on your quilt? Have you tried reading glasses?”

Eunice suppressed a gasp. “No one in my family has ever needed glasses.” The Fletcher women were beauties, every one.

“You can deny needing glasses all you want—”

“And I will.”

“But until your stitches improve, I need you to make something else for the shop.” Mae’s Pretty Things was a boutique that carried handmade gifts for the tourists, the ones everyone was sure would start showing up soon. Or as soon as there was wine to sell.

Eunice narrowed her eyes. “What other things?”

“That’s why I’m here. To see what other things you can make that aren’t sewn together.”

If that wasn’t the most infuriating statement. “I don’t make other things. I sew.” Over the years, she and Mae had stitched together everything from pot holders to placemats.

“Eunice, you taught kindergarten and youth Bible study. You have to be crafty to have worked with kids all those years.”

And she had been. “We colored. We finger-painted. We glued things.” Not fine art by any means, but it qualified as crafty.

Agnes frowned. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Eunice looked at the sunflower quilt block she’d meticulously pieced together. The corners were square. The angles perfect. She’d never worn glasses in her life. “You want something else? I can color you a picture with crayons. Or create turkey portraits made from painted handprints. Or glue Popsicle picture frames decorated with colored glitter.”

“You need glasses.” Agnes’s words were as short as she was.

“I’m not going to hide my eyes behind a pair of homely frames.” Her mother would spin in her grave at the thought.

“Don’t be vain, Eunice.”

Too late. “My cousin Kim had a great body. My sister Julia had beautiful red hair. Kim gained weight. Julia went gray. But I still have my peepers.” Eunice had violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor. And Eunice was still alive. “My eyes are my best feature. Everyone says so.” She’d made a good living modeling with those peepers. She wasn’t about to cover them up.

“And yet you can’t see.” There was sarcasm in her friend’s words. And impatience. And exasperation. “I’m not asking you to wear glasses all the time. Just when you’re sewing. I’d rather have one of your quilts to sell than an arts-and-crafts picture frame.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Agnes carefully folded the baby quilt and set it in Eunice’s lap. “I’ll make an appointment for you with my eye doctor in Cloverdale. In the meantime, you can borrow my reading glasses and see if that helps.” She dug in her tote and handed Eunice a pair of black rectangular frames.

Eunice accepted them with a two-finger hold, as if they were slimy creatures who might sting. “They’re—”

“Hideous. Yes, I know. But they work. Put them on and see for yourself.”

Reluctantly, Eunice did as Agnes asked, but not before looking up to see if Thelma across the street was sitting at her front window. Thankfully, she wasn’t. Glasses on, Eunice glanced down at the pink baby quilt. The stitches were monstrous. “Blast.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

DUFFY PREPARED HIS coffee by the small light over the stove. He hadn’t slept well. Thoughts of Greg’s baby and Jessica had him counting alarm-clock clicks.

He was thickheaded tired. But it was a workday. He’d rely on his morning ritual to get him going. Drag himself out of bed, check; grind fresh coffee beans, check; make a pot of coffee, check; and stand there waiting for it to brew. The standing and waiting was a waste of time, but he liked not doing anything. He liked the quiet. He liked—

Snap.

Duffy startled. The two-bedroom Craftsman house was ninety years old and prone to the creaks and groans of an older property in California. But this wasn’t a creak or a groan, and it had come from outside.

His entire body tensed as he strained to identify the sound over the hiss of the coffeemaker.

Thunk.

Duffy’s gaze cut to the kitchen window. There was movement. A blur of movement. And eyes. Bloodshot, beady eyes.

Later, Duffy couldn’t recall if he’d released a primal yell or an unintelligible curse, but the kitchen reverberated with sound.

A face pressed to the bottom of the glass. Pale, wrinkled, with grayish-purple-tinged hair in pink curlers. It was his neighbor Eunice. No doubt on her tiptoes considering the house sat on a raised foundation.

Duffy charged toward the front door, grabbing a sweatshirt he’d left on the living room couch.

It was still dark outside. The sky above Parish Hill was tinged orange. Streetlights flickered off as an older woman in a white flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers ran across his driveway.

“Eunice!”

She froze at the hedges marking the property boundary. Shoulders hunched, rollers trembling.

Duffy reminded himself that he was new to a town full of curious old folk. He reminded himself that Eunice was more than a bit of an odd duck. She’d brought him a brussels sprouts, chocolate and bacon casserole as a housewarming gift, and practically done inventory on his belongings. He reminded himself to be patient as he tried to modulate his tone, tried to ignore a voice in his head pointing out he slept in the buff in the hot summer months. “Can I help you with something, Eunice?”

“I was...” She turned around slowly. Her gaze dropped to the Hawaiian boxers his mother had given him last year and then flew back up to his face. “I was just looking for my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat.” There was a man in town who rescued cats. He’d been by a couple of times already to see if Duffy was interested in adopting one, and he’d been vocal in his disappointment that Eunice wasn’t a cat lover.

“I...uh...heard a cat.”

“Eunice.” Over the past few days, he’d been badgered about his past (met with dead silence), his love life (met with deadlier silence) and had his small sack of groceries inspected (met with near-dead patience). And now this.

His toes were frozen. The cold nipped at his restraint. It must be barely forty degrees. It wasn’t good for either one of them to be out here half-dressed. “I’m not an interesting man. I make coffee in the morning. I go to work. I come home at night and make dinner. You know all that.” He’d caught her looking out her window at him a few times.

She tried to laugh. It sounded as fake as he suspected it to be. “You think that I...” Ha-ha-ha. “It was the cat.” That was her story and she was sticking to it.

“Whatever.” He wasn’t winning this battle. “Be careful looking for whatever it is you’re looking for. If you fall in my yard while I’m in the shower...”

Her cheeks reddened, then she mumbled something he didn’t catch and hurried into her dark house.

He’d checked out several homes before deciding on this one. Duffy was only renting with the option to buy the place. It’d suck to move again so soon, but he didn’t relish living next door to Peeping Eunice.

* * *

LATER IN THE DAY, Duffy was managing a crew who were caning the vineyards across the road from the Mionetti sheep ranch. The Mionettis, an elderly couple born and raised in the valley, had sold the property they hadn’t been using to the winery. Now it seemed as if they were selling tickets to watch Duffy and the other workers.

Cars crowded the Mionettis’ long driveway. Several older residents clustered about. They squinted. They pointed. Eunice waved. Mr. Mionetti dragged out folding lawn chairs. Mrs. Mionetti brought out coffee and what looked like baked goods.

“Get used to it,” Ryan, the assistant winemaker, who was recently out of graduate school, came up to explain. He held a pair of long loppers which he used to clip thicker vines. “We’re entertainment.”

“All we’re doing is cutting the vines back and tying the remaining canes to the trellis system,” Duffy grumbled. There had to be close to twenty people loitering on the Mionettis’ lawn. It was another cold day. The sky was a crisp blue and the air bit at exposed skin. Surely at their ages, they shouldn’t be outdoors.

Ryan shrugged his gangly shoulders. “Nothing much goes on in this town, so anything that does happen is watch-worthy. I’m told I’ll understand it when I’m seventy. But for now, the combination of you and activity in the vineyards? It’s like the Superbowl.”

“More like Mardi Gras.” Duffy turned his back on the spectators and snipped off a vine with his battery-powered pruning sheers. There were eleven men in the vineyard—some cutting, some tying, some throwing cuttings into bins. Usually that meant lots of talking or music being played, but today the audience seemed to have thrown the workers off.

A vehicle backfired.

Rutgar pulled into the vineyard’s dirt driveway in his beat-up green truck, blocking Duffy’s car in. Rutgar lumbered out, a pair of binoculars in hand. He propped his elbows on the hood, and surveyed Duffy and his crew. He was close enough, he could have whispered a question as to how it was going and Duffy would have heard him.

The old man’s arrogance. The town’s fandom. Eunice’s peeping.

Duffy felt his anger rising. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He took a step toward Rutgar, only to be held back by Ryan.

“It’s not worth it,” the younger man said. “You want less attention, you hope someone more interesting comes to town. Or you make close friends with someone who lives here.”

From what Duffy had heard, until the winery began selling wine, the chance of anyone new coming to town was slim. “What do you mean, ‘make close friends’?”

“Pick someone in town. Tell them a few things about yourself. They’ll become the conduit for town gossip and you get left alone.”