Biding Her Time. Wendy Warren
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watched her expression, especially, as she swirled the glass briefly and took her first sip.
Her brow furrowed just a bit, perhaps due to the fear she might not like his product. But then she relaxed and smiled. “Delicious. I’m not a connoisseur, but I’d order it in a restaurant. It has the most interesting combination of fruit and…I’m not sure…herbs?” She tasted again. “I’ll remember it.”
I’ll remember it.
Those three words were like music to Shane. He endeavored to appear relaxed and connected, despite the excitement coursing through him.
For years he’d bounced from job to job, trying to excavate some meaning out of each one. When he dug and came up empty-handed, he moved on, his hunt for purpose and passion nearly desperate. Throughout his twenties, he had responded to each dashed hope by distracting himself for a time—with women, with a broken-down boat he’d sailed from Perth to Maui, with a trek through Central America carrying nothing but a backpack and a map.
In his adolescence, he’d watched his parents and even his younger brother slot into exactly what made life worth living for them. He’d taken for granted that he would find his own reason for being, but that sense of rightness had eluded him.
There had been times when he’d wondered whether his search had been so much harder because he had craved meaning. He remembered feeling a restless hunger even when he was a kid—wanting every walk he took to leave a footprint.
He’d still been searching last year when Hilary’s accident brought him home to Australia. He hadn’t expected to find his groove running the winery that had belonged to her parents, but that’s what was happening.
Lochlain, the family’s stable, adjoined Cambria Estates Vineyard. As a boy, he’d spent almost as much time among the grapevines as he had at Lochlain. He’d worked at Cambria on school vacations when his father had granted permission not to work at the stable, but he’d never considered a career as a vintner.
He’d arrived in Hunter Valley last year, committed only to doing what he could for his cousin. He hadn’t cared that he was growing grapes. He’d have grown damned zinnias if it would have helped. But one morning, months after he’d arrived, he’d awoken thinking about grapes, smelling them, curious about every aspect of the winery. Not long after, he’d realized that—for the first time in his life—he wasn’t thinking about where to go next. Feet on the earth, hands on the vines, mind wrapped around the art and science of being a vintner, he’d found something with a history and a future. He could plant more than grapes; he could plant the seeds of his life, and they would grow into a legacy.
He planned to attend a series of wine shows in New York, Boston and Montreal, introducing his product to the international market. By the time he and Hilary returned to Australia, Cambria Estates would be the wine that people were talking about.
There was only one problem he could foresee: although he’d learned much about wine, he didn’t know a damned thing about wine shows.
By the time he’d filled each glass and resumed his seat at the table, his elevated mood had dropped a bit.
Beside him, Audrey was picking apart her salmon, lost in thoughts of her own and seeming to have forgotten her earlier desire to spar. Across the table, his cousin Melanie was happily engaged in a discourse with her father and anyone else who cared to join in. The topic, of course: horses and racing. Thomas listened avidly to his daughter while simultaneously scowling at his fish, as though he would trade his best dirt runner for a decent burger.
Shane wasn’t sure what he’d expected to achieve today; he knew only that he felt as if he were in a starting gate, about to race for his life and now facing an agonizingly long wait for the bell.
He stuck the tines of his fork into a piece of grilled asparagus, picked up his knife and told himself to be a good guest, that everything would happen in due time. He didn’t have long to wait.
“I don’t think your question about Shane’s occupation was ever properly answered, was it, Audrey?”
With a hint of good humor, Jenna pulled Audrey out of her reverie. The confounding redhead looked up and shook her head. “He’s not an undertaker?” she muttered.
Jenna arched a brow that made Audrey obediently apply herself to her meal as her employer continued. “This delicious wine we’re drinking is a sample of Shane’s work. He’s here to introduce his vineyard to the United States.”
Not exactly “his” vineyard—Cambria was owned by Hilary and her grandparents—but he supposed that was close enough under the circumstances. They had offered to make him a full partner.
“Shane will be attending several wine exhibits,” Jenna told the table at large. “What you don’t know is that he asked me to help him find an assistant to work in his booth. Wine exhibits require a minimum of two people per booth.” She pulsed with energy as she smiled at her audience. “I’ve been doing my research. One person to serve and one to answer questions and keep track of the guest book. A sole proprietor at the booth also detracts from the cache of the winery. I know it’s terribly superficial, but appearances really do count. It would have been difficult for Shane to interview and hire the perfect person all the way from Australia, which is why—” she raised her glass, the wine glowing from the lights of the crystal chandelier above their heads and the sunlight filtering through the curtained doors “—I’ve arranged everything. I think it’s best to have one assistant at all times, in New York, Boston and Montreal. The same assistant for the sake of continuity, and won’t it be pleasant to have a traveling companion? I love to travel with someone.”
Shane swallowed his asparagus. “You found a booth bunny?”
He was about to thank his aunt profusely when Melanie asked across the table—
“What’s a booth bunny?”
He smiled, a bit sheepishly. He’d heard the term several times since his first forays into the wine business and took for granted it was used in America. Though it was likely an affront to feminists everywhere, the people who greeted and handed out wine to potential customers at these affairs were typically young women with sparkling personalities, knockout figures and very short dresses. He opened his mouth to explain, but heard a snort and someone else’s voice answering in his stead.
“Booth bunnies are an attempt to sell a product by titillating the consumer instead of employing genuine marketing savvy or, heaven forbid, allowing the product to speak for itself.” Audrey sliced the tip off an asparagus spear. “I took a marketing class called ‘Sex Sells’ at the J.C. It happens in all kinds of industries, of course, but it does seem particularly obnoxious when the product’s value lies in a consumer’s ability to discern subtleties. Nothing subtle about a booth bunny. Short skirt, big hair and a brain the size of a cork.”
Emitting a snort of laughter, she popped the asparagus into her mouth and chewed. It took a moment before she realized she might have offended someone.
“Uhm, nothing personal against the girl you hired, Jenna. I just mean it’s a screwy way to approach business.” Another pause and she mumbled a sort-of apology to Shane. “Not that I mean you’re screwy.”
Of course not.
Shane harpooned a piece of salmon and stuck it in his mouth so he wouldn’t be able to point out that the stick up Audrey’s back was a helluva lot stiffer than the one she’d accused him of having.
He bristled without knowing precisely why her criticism bothered him so much. God knew he’d been under stress lately. He could use encouraging words, not potshots, while he worked his ass off building a business that would be the most important thing he had ever done in his life.
“Who’d you find, Mom?” Melanie asked, interested in the booth-bunny concept and either oblivious to the tension between her cousin and her friend or simply untroubled by it. “And how did you know where to look? What did you do, advertise?”
Shane noticed Jenna splitting her concerned