Lanie walked into the first “barn,” which housed the reception area and offices for the winery. She was greeted by an empty reception counter, beyond which was a huge, open-beamed room containing a bar on the far side, comfy couches and low tables scattered through the main area, and walls of windows that showed off the gorgeous countryside.
It was warm and inviting and . . . empty. Well, except for the huge mountain of white and gray fur sleeping on a dog bed in a corner. It was either a Wookie or a massive English sheepdog, complete with scraggly fur hanging in its eyes. If it was a dog, it was the hugest one she’d ever seen, and she froze as the thing snorted, lifted its head, and opened a bleary eye.
At the sight of her, it leapt to its four paws and gave a happy “wuff!” At least she was hoping it was a happy wuff because it came running at her. Never having owned a dog in her life, she froze. “Uh, hi,” she said, and did her best to hold her ground. But the closer the thing got, the more she lost her nerve. She whirled to run.
And then she heard a crash.
She turned back in time to see that the dog’s forward momentum had been too much. Its hind end had come out from beneath it and it’d flipped onto its back, skidding to a stop in front of her.
She—because she was definitely a she, Lanie could now see—flopped around like a fish for a few seconds as she tried to right herself, to no success. With a loud woof, the dog gave up and stayed on her back, tail wagging like crazy, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.
“You’re vicious, I see,” Lanie said, and unable to resist, she squatted down to rub the dog’s belly.
The dog snorted her pleasure, licked her hand, and then lumbered up and back over to her bed.
Lanie looked around. Still alone. Eleven forty-five. She was fifteen minutes early, which was a statement on her entire life.
You’ll be the only human to ever be early for her own funeral, her mom liked to say, along with her favorite—you expect way too much out of people.
This from the woman who’d been a physicist and who’d regularly forgotten to pick up her own daughter after school.
Lanie eyed the sign on the reception desk and realized the problem. The winery was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, and today was Monday. “Hello?” she called out, feeling a little panicky. Had she somehow screwed up the dates? She’d interviewed for a two-month graphic artist job here twice, both times via Skype from her Santa Barbara apartment. Her new boss, Cora Capriotti, the winery office manager, wanted her to create new labels, menus, a website, everything, and she wanted her to do so on-site. Cora had explained that they prided themselves on being old-fashioned. It was part of their charm, she’d said.
Lanie didn’t mind the temporary relocation from Santa Barbara, two hours south of here. She’d actually quit her permanent graphic design job after her husband’s death. Needing a big change and a kick in her own ass to get over herself and all the self-pity, she’d been freelancing ever since. It’d been good for her. She’d accepted this job specifically because it was in Wildstone. Far enough away from Santa Barbara to give her a sense of a new start . . . and an excuse to go back to her roots. She’d grown up only fifteen minutes from here and she’d secretly hoped that maybe she and her mom might spend some time together in the same room. In any case, two months away from her life was exactly what the doctor had ordered.
Literally.
She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled for her new boss’s number, and called.
“We’re out back!” Cora answered. “Let yourself in and join us for lunch!”
“Oh, but I don’t want to interrupt—” Lanie blinked and stared at her phone.
Cora had disconnected.
With another deep breath that was long on nerves and short on actual air, she walked through the open great room and out the back French double doors. She stepped onto a patio beautifully decorated with strings of white lights and green foliage lining the picnic-style tables. But that wasn’t what had her frozen like a deer facing down the headlights of a speeding Mack Truck.
No, that honor went to the people crowded around two of the large tables, which had been pushed close together. Everyone turned to look at her in unison, all ages and sizes, and then started talking at once.
Lanie recognized that they were smiling and waving, which meant they were probably a friendly crowd, but parties weren’t her friends. Her favorite party trick was not going to parties.
A woman in her early fifties broke away. She had dark brunette hair liberally streaked with gray, striking dark brown eyes, and a kind smile. She was holding a glass of red wine in one hand and a delicious-looking hunk of bread in the other, and she waved both in Lanie’s direction.
“Lanie, right? I’m Cora, come on in.”
Lanie didn’t move. “I’ve caught you in the middle of something. A wedding or a party. I can come back—”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that.” Cora looked back at the wild pack of people still watching. “It’s just lunch. We do this every day.” She gestured at all of them. “Meet your fellow employees. I’m related to everyone one way or another, so they’ll behave. Or else.” She smiled, taking away the heat of the threat. “In any case, welcome. Come join us. Let me get you a plate—”
“Oh, that’s okay, I brought a sandwich.” Lanie patted her bag. “I can just go sit in my car until you’re finished—”
“No need for that, honey. I have lunch catered every day.”
“Every day?” She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until Cora laughed.
“It’s our social time,” Cora said.
At Lanie’s last job, people had raced out of the building at lunch to escape one another. “That’s . . . very generous of you.”
“Nothing generous about it,” Cora said with a laugh. “It keeps everyone on-site, ensures no one’s late getting back to the job, and I get to keep my nosy nose in everyone’s business.” She set aside her bread, freeing up a hand to grab Lanie’s, clearly recognizing a flight risk when she saw one. “Everyone,” she called out. “This is Lanie Jacobs, our new graphic artist.” She smiled reassuringly at Lanie and gestured to the group of people. “Lanie, this is everyone; from the winemaker to the front-desk receptionist, we’re all here. We’re a rather informal bunch.”
They all burst into applause, and Lanie wished for a big black hole to sink into and vanish. “Hi,” she managed, and gave a little wave. She must have pulled off the correct level of civility because they all went back to eating and drinking wine, talking among themselves.
“Are you really related to all of them?” she asked Cora, watching two little girls, possibly twins, given their matching toothless smiles, happily eating chocolate cupcakes, half of which were all over their faces.
Cora laughed. “Just about. I’ve got a big family. You?”
“No.”
“Single?”
“Yes.” Lanie’s current relationship status: sleeping diagonally across her bed.
Cora smiled. “Well, I’ll be happy to share my people—there’s certainly enough of us to go around. Hey,” she yelled, cupping a hand around her mouth. “Someone take the girls in to wash up, and no more cupcakes or they’ll be bouncing off the walls.”