Cameron hadn’t taken a Sunday off in a long time, but he had to admit, after only fifteen minutes into the drive from Philadelphia to Newtown, he was feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. Yes, there was a stack of contracts on his coffee table at home. Yes, he had about a dozen calls to return. And yes, Alex English needed the updated numbers on the Harrison-Lowry-Rousseau shipping joint venture tomorrow morning. But Cameron was on a mission of mercy for his little sister and, just for today, C & C Winslow be damned.
As he approached the vineyard, however, he felt a pang of trepidation. It was only ten thirty in the morning. What if Margaret was still asleep? Or worse, what if Margaret and Olson were still asleep together? Or worse still, what if Olson and Margaret were doing some midmorning fucking? His fists clenched around the steering wheel as he fought to banish that repulsive image from his mind and glanced over at the white bag on the passenger seat, hoping he wouldn’t look like some ridiculous, desperate suitor.
He’d stopped at Swiss Haus on the way out of Philadelphia to pick up some blueberry cheese strudel, pineapple cheese puffs, raspberry–pecan croissants, and a couple of sticky buns. He had no idea what Margaret liked to eat for breakfast, but as long as the meal didn’t include sitting across from a smirking Olson, he couldn’t wait to find out.
Margaret had told him that the adjacent vineyard was called Harrell Reserve, so as soon as Cameron passed the ornate vineyard sign advertising tastings every Sunday, he looked for the next driveway. A rundown mailbox beside a split-rail fence signaled his destination, and he turned right, onto a bumpy dirt road flanked by dense woods. After about a quarter mile of driving, a large, rundown, barnlike building came into view with a hand-painted sign over the door: “The Five Sisters Vineyard.”
He grinned.
After parking in front of the building, Cameron grabbed the pastries and got out of the car. He stretched his legs and breathed in deeply. It had rained last night, and the smells of earth and cut grass were pungent and satisfying. He knocked on the battered door and waited a moment, but no one answered, so he wandered around the building, gravel crunching under his shoes. And suddenly, there before him, rolling up and down hillsides for acres and acres, stretched neat rows of grapes as far as the eye could see. Cameron paused, frozen in place by the weathered side of the old winery building, a sense of peace washing over him that he hadn’t felt in many, many years.
What had Margaret said when she told him about The Five Sisters? A fully functional vineyard and winery. It’ll be heaven. She was right. It was.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Cameron turned to see two older men standing behind him with tanned faces, T-shirts, and mud-flecked jeans. One held the handles of a wheelbarrow, and the other had a shovel leaning against his shoulder.
“Uh, yes. I’m Cameron Winslow. I’m looking for Margaret Story.”
The bigger of the two men looked at Cameron suspiciously. “She know you?”
“She does.”
The man’s eyes slid to the pastry bag and then back to Cameron’s face. “She expecting you?”
“She’s not.”
The smaller man in front cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at Cameron for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Okay. She stays in the cottage.”
“The cottage?”
He gestured to the left with his chin. “Walk around the barrel shed. Up the path. You can’t miss it.”
He grinned. “Thank you.”
“I’m Shawn,” the larger man said. “And that there’s Owen. We’ll be around, Mr. Winslow,” he added gruffly, by way of warning. Then he and his friend continued on toward the rows of grapes.
Cameron walked around a newly rebuilt wooden building bearing a crisp green sign that read “Barrel Shed” over the door, and continued up a gravel path, past another rebuilt building that read “Ferment Shed.” He could see where Margaret had focused her renovation efforts: on the vineyard itself and the outbuildings required to make wines. Last would be the massive winery building and tasting room because it was, functionally, the least important of the structures for making wine. But the most important, he mused, for bringing in tourist income and branding her business. He hoped she wouldn’t become so immersed in the artistic winemaking end of things that she’d neglect the potential for tourist and event business. Did she have a good business manager? If not, he would be sure to recommend one. A female one.
Looking up from the brambled path, he saw the cottage the old vintner had mentioned, and realized he’d been right: there was no way he would have missed it.
Tucked into the woods, it was like the cottages he’d seen in the countryside of his mother’s native England. Small and charming, with a sharply pointed thatched roof, it had window boxes under the two lower windows and one upper. A small brick pathway, flanked by wildflowers of all colors, led to the doll-like front door, which was painted robin’s-egg blue. It was like something out of a dream or a fairy tale, and Cameron stood gaping with his pastries by his side for several minutes.
Here was Margaret’s heaven.