“Why don’t I see you more?” the owner of Kitchi Fall’s oldest bakery chastised me as I walked up to the counter.
“You know exactly why,” I told her.
“Hmm,” she said, disapproval in her tone. “Too busy running a vineyard for church, I guess.”
The only reason Devine Bakery wasn’t overrun at this time of the morning on a Sunday was because of church. I’d planned it perfectly. In a half hour, the line would be out the door.
“My mother got to you,” I guessed.
“She did mention something about it,” Dorothy admitted.
Our poor mother tried hard to save our souls, but I wasn’t sure such a thing was possible. Surely Marco was a lost cause. Neo and I, questionable. Only Min still dutifully sat next to my parents in mass every Sunday, not two blocks from where I stood now. It was a wonder they hadn’t given the entire vineyard to her.
“I’ll take some donuts and muffins, enough for ten people. And toss in a cupcake or two.”
“Just like your dad,” she said, grabbing a box. I couldn’t help but think she was rather off the mark with that one, but I held my tongue. Every Sunday after church, he would come here and get baked goods for the staff. Usually either I or one of my siblings tried to carry on the tradition. On the rare Sunday nobody made it into town, we usually paid for it with grumbles and constant refrains of “would love a cinnamon donut from Devine Bakery right about now.”
“So,” the plump, gray-haired woman said, trying to sound casual, “I hear you hired a girl from the city?”
Here we went.
Make no mistake, every retired teacher, like Dorothy, in Kitchi Falls and its outlying communities on the north end of the lake would know within days every word of what I was about to say. Not only did they gather for lunch every Thursday, but the quarterly wine tour—a busload of retired teachers, current teachers, and all of their non-educator friends—was happening again in two weeks. I knew because Grado Valley had to prepare for the invasion of nonstop wine-fueled gossiping.
Brooke and her friends had nothing on these ladies.
“We did,” I said, watching her fill the box, waiting for cinnamon donuts. Dorothy knew I wouldn’t leave here without them.
“I heard she’s a looker.”
Of course she did. Brookewasa looker. I’d been hiding in the office—aka actively avoiding her—since Wednesday. The fact that I’d changed my mind about the cottages on the spot when Neo told me she planned to rent from Owen, a more notorious ladies’ man than my brother Marco—had been enough to keep me away.
Last night, just before closing, I’d ventured into the tasting room for the first time that day and saw her in action. Brooke never saw me, or at least she’d pretended not to see me, as she moved from inside the room to the deck, carrying bottles like she’d been doing it all summer.
“No comment,” I said, earning a stern look from Dorothy.
“So when is Dominica leaving?” she asked, apparently taking the hint, for once, that a particular topic was off-limits.
“This week,” I said. “Couldn’t come at a worse time.”
“I did hear about Jena. Sorry you’ll be losing her.” Dorothy looked up to the customer who had just walked in. She leaned across the counter to whisper, “Don’t you think it’s a bit soon to be engaged?”
As if I’d fall into that trap. If I said yes, tomorrow’s newspaper headline would read, “Proprietor of Grado Valley Vineyards Loses Longtime Marketing Director to What He Calls a ‘Hasty Engagement.’” We were that hard up for news around here.
“I think if Jena’s happy, I’m happy.”
Finally, the cinnamon...but Dorothy was frowning as she added them to the box. She liked that answer even less than the one about Brooke. “Well, I hope you find someone soon to replace her. I hear Sunset Vineyards just bought the Baker property.”
Sunset Vineyards was Grado’s closest neighbor. Unlike us, they had a dock. A busy one that brought hordes of wine drinkers to its shore. Their “Sunset Wine Cruise” was one of the most successful marketing campaigns in years.
She had me. I could come in here fully intending not to gossip, but if this was true...well, suffice to say, it made my day a whole lot worse. Unlike most of the wineries in the area, who saw each other as a part of one big community, cross-promoting and working together to bring new visitors to the region, the owners of Sunset were transplants. Which might not be a problem if they weren’t also assholes. Two friends who knew less than Brooke about wine had bought the vineyard five years back out of bankruptcy. They were savvy businessmen, but neither played nice.
“The Baker property wasn’t for sale,” I said of the lakefront land south of Sunset. It had been in the same family for generations. Once used for farming, it hadn’t been utilized for years. The current owners lived in Michigan and seemed to have no interest in it, or even in selling it. Until now, apparently.
“I guess everything is for sale, sweetie, if the price is right. That’ll be twenty-two sixty-three.”
I handed her thirty dollars, with a growing pit in my stomach. If this was true—and Dorothy and her ladies rarely got gossip wrong—it was not good news.
“Thanks for the extra cinnamon,” I said, taking the box, “and the tip.”