“Well, Vince,” she says. “You may not be FBI, but you’re definitely more interesting than all that tweed lets on.”
“My last name is Vincent,” I tell her.
“See?” she says. “A whole syllable I knew nothing about. You’re full of surprises.”
“I hate surprises,” I tell her.
Cherry Hill, like most local wineries, is on a peninsula that juts into the vast expanse of Lake Michigan’s northernmost curve. The vineyards sprawl across gently rolling hills on either side of the long gravel road that brings us to the winery itself, all sleek glass, balsa wood, and corrugated metal. The parking lot is jammed, the gardens that encircle it bursting with colorful blooms, all tinted pinkish by the setting sun.
Out beyond the flowers and hedges, whitewashed tables dot a grassy stretch, customers milling from the bocce court on one end to a duck pond at the other, delicately stemmed glasses in hand. Globe lights hang over the seating area, just waiting for the falling night to give them the cue to light up.
“This place is gorgeous,” I say, climbing out of Ashleigh’s beat-up hatchback. It’s cooled down and I’m regretting not grabbing a jacket.
She looks at me sidelong. “Haven’t you been here?”
I guess my blatant awe gave me away. “Peter wasn’t a wine guy.”
“Peter?” she says. “That’s your ex, right?”
I manage a “mm-hmm.”
Ashleigh swings her oversize bag onto her shoulder and tugs the hem of her miniskirt toward the tops of her suede knee-high boots as she starts toward the front doors. “What about your friends? None of them wine guys either?”
What I don’t say is, we had all the same friends.
What I don’t say is, technically, this means I had no friends. Even after all those Frank Herbert novels I read just so I’d have something to bond with Scott over.
“Guess not,” I say. “What about you? You’ve been here before, right?”
“Only twice,” she says. “Duke wasn’t a wine guy either.”
“And Duke is . . . ?” I pull the door open.
“A large horse,” she says. “What do you think, Daphne? He’s my ex-husband.”
“I suppose I could have guessed that,” I admit, and follow her inside.
A smell like burning cedar wafts toward us as we enter the dimly lit room. A sleek modern bar runs along the left wall, the wall behind it entirely smoked glass, massive wine casks stacked behind it and softly glowing in golden light. The other three walls are likewise glass, but these look out over the vineyards, a narrow wooden counter mounted along them so people can watch the sunset while they sip. High-tops are arranged in the middle of the room, and in the windowed wall opposite the bar, a huge slate fireplace reaches toward the vaulted ceiling, flames crackling and leaping within it.
Ashleigh grabs my arm. “Come on—looks like those people are leaving.” She steers me to the far corner of the bar, which takes some maneuvering, because, despite the temperate weather, the inside of this place is even busier than the lawn. She slides between two middle-aged men in golf shirts to claim one of the newly vacated stools, slamming her purse onto the other one and waving me over. She doesn’t move her bag until I’m practically sitting on it.
Underneath the hum of conversation, sexy music plays, a low, raspy voice that perfectly blends with the clatter of forks and delicate clink of glass.
There are two people working the bar, but then a door swings open to the room hidden by the wall of casks, and Miles ducks through, carrying a wooden tray lined with glasses.
It’s hypnotic, the intricate dance between him and the other bartenders, or sommeliers, or whatever they are. They communicate in quick phrases and subtle touches, moving aside so he can replenish their supply. One bartender swaps places with him, and, after a quick exchange, she nods and disappears through the same door Miles just emerged from.
Despite his somewhat threadbare and hole-ridden T-shirt and work pants, he looks completely at home here, the warm glow behind the bar casting him in more of an artisanal light than a burned-out one.
He leans across the counter to hear what a pretty redhead is saying, then laughs and grabs an open white wine from an ice bucket, twirling it a little as he pours her another glass.
“See?” Ashleigh says, leaning in to be heard. “Hot drug dealer.”
My gaze judders over to her, follows hers straight back to the far side of the bar. “Miles deals drugs?” I cry.
His gaze snaps sideways at the sound of his name. He lifts his chin in greeting, a smile pulling at one side of his mouth.
“Wait, you know him?” Ashleigh asks.
He drops the bottle back into the ice bucket and crosses toward us.
“Order the pinot,” I quickly tell Ashleigh.
“I’m really confused right now, Daphne. Have you been here or—”
Miles slides his forearms across the glossy wooden bar. “Well, well, well,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the room’s ambient noise. “If it isn’t my adoring girlfriend.”
7
“Girlfriend?” Ashleigh kicks me underneath the bar.
I yelp and scoot away from her. “It’s a joke. This is my roommate. Miles. Miles, Ashleigh.”
He sticks his hand out to shake hers. “Nice to meet you.”
