I’m so excited for my next novel’s release and to introduce you to these new characters. Here’s a Chapter Preview of my upcoming stand alone novel, Sour Grapes, available next month!

Chapter One  

My in-car navigation system and the directions on my phone’s map application didn’t match. My phone told me to continue driving straight while my car’s navigation system said I needed to turn around. I’d never possessed a talent for navigating from Point A to Point B, and reliance on technology had only made my sense of direction worse. Alex used to say that I couldn’t find my way out of a paper bag. It was one of the things we’d routinely fight over after I’d managed to get us famously lost even with the use of a smart phone. 

I slowed down and peered beyond the lazy back and forth of my car’s wipers at the stretch of indistinguishable county highway before me. I touched my forehead against my steering wheel and sighed in defeat; I was lost. This, combined with the fact that it was a rare rainy day in Napa County, seemed to signal that maybe I was making the wrong decision. 

I pulled over at the next gas station along the empty rural roadway. At first glance, the business looked abandoned—the name on the sign was a person’s instead of a corporation, and the gas pumps had no option for credit card transactions—but the gas prices affixed to the analog sign reflected current rates. I heard the distinct sound of a bell as my car wheels rolled over a black hose stretched across the rain-soaked concrete.

I intended on going inside the small shop, but before I could even unfasten my seatbelt, a figure in a yellow rain jacket, its bright hood covering the person’s head, hustled outside and approached the driver’s side door. I rolled down the automatic window and kept my car running. 

The gas station attendant, an older man with a tan as deep as his well-earned wrinkles, leaned his head toward my open window. “Fill it up?” he questioned.

“Sorry, no,” I apologized. “It’s electric. I’m just looking for directions.”

The man leaned back and sucked on his teeth. “A winery,” he guessed.

I felt simultaneously ashamed of my electric vehicle and of my destination.

“Your high-tech car doesn’t have navigation?” he posed.

“It does. And I’ve got a phone,” I said. “But they can’t agree on where I’m supposed to go.”

The man grinned, slow and wide. “The robots are fighting. Or maybe they’re working together to drive you off a cliff.”

His teasing caused me to bristle. It pained me to ask for help in the first place without being the target of ridicule. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I said tightly. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

The man held up a finger. “Hold on, sweetie. Just a second.”

He turned on his heels and trotted back towards his store. He threw open the glass-pane door and disappeared inside. My car continued to idle while I stared out the still-open window. Errant raindrops splashed on the window sill and ricocheted in my direction. I wanted to close the window while I waited for the man’s return, but it seemed like an obnoxious move; he was the one in the rain, not me. 

The door of the gas station shop opened again and the man in the yellow rain jacket reappeared. He shuffled back to my car, still smiling despite the persistent rain.

“What you need is a time machine,” he announced. He sounded proud of himself.

“Time machine?”

He tapped a thick stack of multi-colored paper against the open window sill. “This, my dear, is called a map. Back in the Dark Ages, this is how people traveled.” 

I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. Despite my desire to drive away, maybe splashing the gas station attendant in the process, I needed this man’s help. 

He unfolded the accordion-style paper map to a close-up of Napa County and spread it across the window sill. “Where are you trying to go?” he asked.

I had to consult my navigation app. I hadn’t yet memorized the address. “Lark Estates. It’s supposed to be just off the Silverado Trail.”

The man peered at the details on his paper map. “Bachelorette party?”

“Pardon?”

“The vineyard,” he noted, “are you going to a bachelorette party or something? Seems to be all the rage these days.”

“Oh,” I said, catching on. “No. No bachelorette party. I, uh, I just bought the place.”

I internally winced. God. I sounded so pretentious with my electric car and my San Francisco parking decals, driving to the vineyard I had just bought.

The man looked up from the map. I watched his eyes travel from my face to the back of my vehicle, which was packed high with luggage and whatever household items I didn’t think I could survive without. “Fancy.”

I wanted to launch into the complicated history of how I—June St. Clare, a forty-year-old graphic designer from the Bay Area—had come into possession of a twenty acre micro-winery in Napa Valley. But it was a long story, and the man in the yellow jacket was still standing in the rain, which was progressively getting worse.

I smiled mildly instead. “How about those directions?”

The gas station hadn’t been very far from the property. A few more turns off of the county highway, and a handful of miles down narrow paved roads, led to the property that had only recently come into my possession. The purchase was so recent, the For Sale sign was still visible on CA-128. I put on my blinker even though there were no other vehicles on the road and turned onto the long driveway that served as the entrance to Lark Estates. 

I’d only been to the vineyard once. We’d been staying at a Napa bed and breakfast that had included a complimentary tour and tasting at the micro-winery. I’d never heard the term before that day, but it was exactly what you might expect; the property only produced about 10,000 cases of wine each year. The big producers in the area spilled more wine in a year than what this vineyard created. But that was exactly why Alex had wanted it.

I leaned forward in the driver’s seat to get a better view of my surroundings. A thick fog had settled across the road; without the morning sun, the cloud cover had gotten trapped in the valley. Gravel churned beneath my tires. I drove slowly, yet the treads still spit up small rocks that pinged off the bottom of my car. 

My eyes swept back and forth across the lean landscape as I continued down the long, vacant driveway. The grounds looked much different in April than in the idyllic late summer when Alex and I had made our first and only visit. I remembered tall, blooming, wild flowers and ample sunshine. But the sky was currently grey, and the native flowers hadn’t yet bloomed. The valley was immersed in a thick fog, and instead of lush, green vines crowded with tight bundles of grapes, the vineyard was barren of all life. 

A few hundred yards into the property was a large barn that doubled as a tasting room as well as the production site for the wine itself: de-stemming machines, a juice press, and giant steel fermentation tanks. Like many of the smaller wine producers in the area, access to the tasting room was by appointment only. The parking lot adjacent to the barn was empty. On a drizzly, overcast Tuesday in April, no one had apparently scheduled a visit to the winery.

I didn’t stop at the barn. I continued to slowly drive down the bumpy gravel road and beyond more acreage of hibernating grape vines. The dormant vines were neatly spaced from each other like rows of solemn soldiers awaiting their orders. I’d never been this deep on the property before. The public tour had brought us into the corrugated metal barn that served as the public-facing space and production room, and we’d also been taken into the subterranean cellar where hundreds, if not thousands, of French oak barrels sat, each at their own stage in the wine-aging process.

At the edge of the property sat a white farmhouse. The previous owners hadn’t lived on the vineyard, and the dilapidated structure was evidence of that fact. Alex had been excited about the prospect of us fixing up the farmhouse together. I didn’t know the first thing about home improvement apart from the HGTV shows I watched. I’d always lived in apartment complexes and condos. When something broke, I called the property manager. I didn’t even know how to operate a lawnmower.

Alex hadn’t let my lack of home-owning experience dampen her excitement about the property though: “Don’t worry about it, babe,” she’d told me. “I’ll take care of everything.”

I pulled to a stop and parked in front of the farmhouse, mildly aware that I’d have to arrange for an EV charger to be installed on the property, otherwise my electric car would be useless. I exited my vehicle and shut the driver’s side door behind me. I scanned the horizon for something—I didn’t know what—for some sign of life, maybe, for some indication that this was the right choice. But the landscape offered me nothing. No joy. No life. No sense that I’d inherited more than a strange forest of bald, miniature trees or perhaps rows and rows of old men, bent over their walking sticks. 

I opened the back hatch of my vehicle and began to unpack the back of my car. I expected a small moving truck to arrive later in the week with the rest of my belongings. If I’d been more organized, my things would have been waiting for me at the farmhouse. But Alex was the organized one, not me. If she had a spreadsheet for everything, I had post-it notes clinging precariously to various unstable surfaces.

I grabbed a small table lamp and a piece of luggage and carried them to the front door. My best friend Lily had offered to help with the move, but I’d stubbornly refused the kindness. I didn’t know what I’d been trying to prove, or to whom, by insisting this was something I needed to do on my own, but now I was regretting not having the extra set of hands or at least a friendly, familiar face amongst these unfamiliar surroundings. 

I cried out in surprise, but not pain, when my foot landed on the first step of three that led to the farmhouse’s front porch. Instead of a solid foundation, my foot went straight through what turned out to be a rotten board. I stared down incredulously at my right leg, half of which had disappeared into the step. I didn’t linger for long, however, as I immediately considered all of the creepy crawly things that might be living under the front stoop. I wretched my foot free, miraculously unhurt.  

I was more careful ascending the final two steps; the boards were more generous than the first and thankfully didn’t fail me. I looked down to the first step and the new foot-shaped crater. A mental To Do list began to take shape in my mind: Fix the front stairs. Install an EV charger. 

I sighed, struggling beneath the weight of my luggage and my new reality. “What the hell have you done, Alex?”

+ + +

After unloading the boxes and luggage in the back my car, I went to bed early. It was only a two-hour drive with traffic from San Francisco to Calistoga, but I was fatigued from more than the rainy drive. I didn’t bother to unpack any of the moving boxes or my luggage; there would be plenty of time for that later. I’d had the foresight to pack a small bag with toiletries, however, along with pajamas and clean sheets so I hadn’t needed to rummage through every box to find what I needed for bed.

I claimed the downstairs bedroom for myself. The upstairs had two additional bedroom-shaped rooms and a larger bathroom than the smaller three-piece bathroom on the ground floor, but I wasn’t ready to spread out and claim the entire house as mine. I’d never really lived someplace on my own. Alex and I had lived together nearly as soon as we’d started dating, close to twenty years ago. Before that I’d had roommates in college and before that I’d lived with my parents.

Being alone in my San Francisco condo I’d once shared with Alex hadn’t felt too out of the ordinary. Alex often traveled for work, especially over the past few years as she tried to make as much money as possible for our ‘early retirement.’ Plus, I’d been surrounded by my belongings, which fostered familiarity. But now, I was in a strange, empty home, on a property that I didn’t know, in a part of California that I’d rarely visited. It made me feel like an uprooted plant, ripped from the soil, with my raw and vulnerable roots left to dangle in the wind. The metaphor was appropriate, perhaps, considering my new location. I needed to find a soft place to land, somewhere to re-establish my life, a place where I could recover and eventually thrive.

I woke up the next morning feeling disoriented. I’d slept without dreaming with a little help from my new best friend melatonin. I hadn’t been able to fall asleep lately without the assist. I was looking forward to going into town for a strong cup of coffee and a preliminary grocery run, just to get the lay of the land, but a shower beckoned me before I could make that happen. 

The pipes in the walls of the downstairs bathroom made a disgruntled noise when I first turned on the shower. The old metal groaned and loudly clanged; after a worrisome lag, hot water shot out of the showerhead. The vacant farmhouse reminded me of a grumpy old man who’d been sitting in one position for too long and was now being asked to move. Everything creaked and groaned and complained when I pushed a button or twisted a knob. The hot water stayed hot for the duration of my shower, however, so I considered that a victory.

After showering, I inspected my naked figure in the foggy mirror above the bathroom sink. I’d lost weight in recent months; without Alex to cook for, I hadn’t found the energy or inspiration to prepare a real meal. Cereal, salad in a bag, and the occasional sandwich had served as dinner as of late. But I hadn’t resorted to frozen TV dinners—yet.  

I twisted in the bathroom mirror and continued my appraisal of the woman who stared back at me. The woman in my mirror’s reflection wasn’t quite a stranger, but she was different. Everything these days was different. 

Despite having recently celebrated my fortieth birthday, my skin was still youthful with minimal lines or wrinkles. My breasts were full and firm, although not quite as perky as they’d been in my twenties. My stomach was flat with some definition, although my hips had definitely become more full since my college years. 

God, I reflected with a wistful sign, college felt like a lifetime ago. I’d secured a graphic designer position at a marketing agency in San Francisco straight out of college. I’d gradually worked my way up to Creative Director of the agency after a dozen dedicated years filled with late nights and truncated vacations. At the time I’d told myself the sacrifices would all be worth it. But then I’d given all of that up for Alex’s master plan.

The farmhouse wasn’t in total disrepair, but it was definitely rough around the edges. The kitchen appliances and basement laundry might have been older than me. The aged windows throughout the house were definitely not energy efficient. I could already anticipate how they might shake and rattle during a thunderstorm or how much the winter chill or summer heat would sneak beyond their single pane of glass. 

I opened the cabinets in the kitchen, equal parts curious and horrified by what I might find. No one had lived in the rundown farmhouse in some time—human at least. I prayed I wouldn’t stumble across the decomposing remains of any former wild animal tenants.

I found an impressive collection of cleaning supplies stored beneath the kitchen sink. The sight of so many disinfectants and surface cleaners momentarily derailed my plans to drive into Calistoga for groceries. Everything would be better once I had a cup of coffee, but I knew myself too well; until the farmhouse had been scoured from top to bottom, I wouldn’t be able to unpack and get settled. The cobwebs, dust, and grimy buildup would have to be vanquished first. I resolved to unpack all of my boxes and to clean the whole house from top to bottom that day. I hadn’t been able to control much since leaving San Francisco; having a clean and organized living space would be the first step to regaining control of my life.

I was up to my elbows in Comet scouring powder in the kitchen’s enamel-coated cast iron sink when I heard a knock at the front door. It was cold that day—sunny but brisk—and I’d opened all of the windows that hadn’t been painted shut. I’d left the front door open with only the screen door between myself and the elements to air out the house and make sure I didn’t pass out from cleaning supply fumes.

I heard an upbeat, female voice call to me from the front porch: “Yoo hoo!” The screen door rattled against the doorframe with a second knock.

I stopped my obsessive cleaning to greet whomever was at the front door. As I walked closer, I spotted a woman peering through the door’s worn screen.

“Hi!” she called to me, her voice as chipper and bright. “Is your husband around?”

I pulled off my yellow rubber dish gloves and held them loosely in one hand. “Husband? I’m sorry—I think you have the wrong place.”

The woman consulted the screen of her phone and made a humming sound. “I’m looking for Alex Marchand. I was told he’d just bought the property.”   

“Oh. You mean Alexandre Marchand,” I spoke through the closed screen door. “Alex is a girl.”

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! I saw the name on the paperwork and I just assumed.”

I wiped my hands on the back of my jeans. “Don’t worry. It happens.”

The woman continued to look flustered by her faux pas despite my assurances.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. That she knew of Alex’s existence but not her pronouns was curious. 

“It’s more like what I can do for you.”

“Come again?”

“I’m Belinda Reynolds,” she introduced herself. “—the seller’s real estate agent. The Mitchells had a conflict, so they asked me to give you a little tour of the place and make some introductions with the staff.”

Belinda Reynolds was a short, and aggressively perky woman. Everything about her appearance seemed to ooze money and luxury, from the designer sunglasses perched on her nose to her tailored blazer and skirt. The sticker price on the oversized SUV idling in front of the farmhouse had probably cost more than twice my own car.

I touched a self-conscious hand to the loose bun fixed on top of my head. “I’m sorry. Who are the Mitchells?”

“The previous owners.” The woman gave me a curious look as if she was starting to doubt I actually belonged on the property.

“Oh. I-I didn’t know their names,” I struggled. “Alex took care of all of those details.”

The realtor—Belinda—peered through the closed screen door that separated us and looked beyond me. “Is Alex around? I’m sure she’d appreciate the tour, too.”

“She … she won’t be able to join us today. But I can fill her in on all the details afterwards.”

I opened the screen door, but only long enough for me to exit and shut the main door behind me. The woman digested my appearance as I stepped outside. I hadn’t consulted my reflection recently, but I imagined my disheveled appearance. I’d pulled my hair back in a haphazard top bun. A rolled blue bandana served as a headband to keep the flyaways out of my face. My clothes had become grimy like a dust rag. I wore an old, tattered sweatshirt pulled up to my elbows. Stains of various shapes and sizes covered the material. My jeans were similarly old and a boot-cut fit that was no longer fashionable.

Standing on the front porch, Belinda looked torn. Who was this messy woman squatting at Lark Estates? She was taking my word that I was supposed to be there. In a different scenario, she might have pressed me harder for why Alex couldn’t come along on the tour, but she’d already tripped over Alex’s gender and pronouns. I doubted she wanted another opportunity to offend me.

Belinda affixed a tight, but cheerful smile to her painted lips. “Okay,” she chirped. “Let me introduce you to your head winemaker first and then we’ll do some exploring.”

“Watch your step,” I announced in warning. “That last step is a little tricky.”

Belinda looked down at the steps that descended to the gravel driveway and at the obvious foot-shaped hole in one of the wooden planks. “I suppose you’re second-guessing waving that home inspection,” she chuckled.

“Yeah,” I returned with a nervous laugh. “But Alex really wanted this property, warts and all.”

It wasn’t a long or arduous walk between the farmhouse and the tasting barn, but Belinda insisted on driving us in her car. She claimed to be a full-service realtor, but she probably didn’t want to muddy her designer boots in the soft, uneven terrain. I flipped down the passenger seat visor to inspect my face and hair. I licked the pad of my thumb and wiped at a dark smudge just below my right eye. I didn’t know if it was old, traveling mascara or if the farmhouse was really that dirty. 

As we approached the large, metal barn, I began to second guess my outfit. First impressions were terribly important, so why was I about to meet the vineyard’s head winemaker in clothes I wouldn’t even go to the grocery store in? I considered asking Belinda to turn us around so I could freshen up, but before I could vocalize my misgivings, she’d parked her SUV and had shut off the engine. 

“You’re going to love Rolando,” Belinda gushed, exiting the vehicle. “He’s one of the Valley’s most respected winemakers. You and Alex really lucked out. This place practically runs itself.”

I climbed out of the SUV and stared up at the tasting barn. Hidden away in the farmhouse, I’d fallen into a false sense of comfort. Owning and managing an actual vineyard had existed in the abstract for such a long time, but now it was going to become a reality. 

Belinda opened an unmarked door on the side of the barn and gestured for me to go inside. I sucked in a deep breath as I walked through the barn door. The bottoms of my tennis shoes scuffed against poured concrete. 

“We’re not open to the public, miss,” a clear male voice called out. “You’ll have to make a reservation on our website for the tour.”

“Oh … I-I’m not a tourist,” I fumbled. The interior of the barn was dark, and my eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting. A single figure sat alone at a wooden picnic table only a few yards from the door.

The man was older, maybe in his late sixties. His face was deeply tanned with fine wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His denim shirt hung loosely on narrow shoulders that curved forward. He had a full head of hair, dark grey in color, with lighter streaks of silver near his temples. His hair was combed and parted to one side.

Belinda entered the barn just behind me. “Good afternoon, Rolando!” she greeted. 

“Belinda?” The man sounded confused by her presence. “Que pasa?” 

“I’m here to introduce you to …” She turned in my direction and blinked a few times. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

I realized I’d never told the woman my name. “June,” I said quickly. “June St. Clare.”

“June and her …” Belinda stopped again. She didn’t know who Alex was to me and obviously didn’t want to make another mistake.

I swallowed. “My partner, Alex. But not like business partner. Like, life partner.” God, I sounded so stupid.

Rolando stood from the picnic table, abandoning the remnants of a sandwich and an apple. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “Forgive me. The Mitchells told me they’d found a buyer, but I didn’t realize the sale had already gone through.” 

I held out my hands. “Please, don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” I insisted. “There will be plenty of time for introductions later.”

Rolando nodded his head. “If you want to drop by tomorrow morning, I can give you a tour.” He gestured to the barren, sleeping landscape beyond the barn’s windows. “There won’t be a lot to do outside for a few more weeks, but I can orient you to the production side of things.” 

“That would be great,” I enthused. “Thank you.”

I would have been satisfied to return to the farmhouse and come back later the next day, but Belinda was still committed to giving her version of the property tour. She corralled me back into her SUV and continued to drive away from the barn and the farmhouse. 

I stared out the passenger side window as we bumped along a gravel roadway deeper onto the property. The horizon seemed to stretch on forever with only a few gnarled oak trees to break up the monotony. 

“It’s not much to look at, huh?” I thought aloud.

“Nothing above ground, no,” Belinda agreed. “But beneath the soil, the vines are expanding their root systems. They’re storing carbohydrates in their trunk. Kind of like me after a big bowl of pasta,” she joked. Her laugh was sharp and loud. 

“So as you know,” she continued, “the property is twenty acres with seven of that planted with cabernet sauvignon. The property includes the barn, which we just saw, and the farmhouse. Unique to the area, you’ll also find natural hot springs scattered around the property. The Mitchells had planned on building a day spa until they ran into some health issues and had to sell, but you and your wife might consider following through with those plans.”

I licked my lips, taking it all in. “Maybe down the road. Right now I’d like to make the farmhouse a little more livable before considering new construction.”

“Of course.” Belinda bobbed her head as she drove. “If you change your mind, the Mitchells included the city-approved blueprints for the spa construction with the property’s other paperwork. No sense re-inventing the wheel.”

The land became more wild and the road less groomed the deeper we ventured onto the property. My throat constricted as the drive continued. Twenty acres hadn’t sounded like much land when Alex had first proposed the purchase, but as Belinda continued to drive toward the edge of the property, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. At least there was no grass to mow.

“How big is an acre?” I wondered aloud. 

Belinda hummed in thought. “Mmm … about the size of a football field.”

I was no sports fan, but I tried to picture twenty football fields attached together. Before my anxiety could completely take over, Belinda slowed her SUV, and the vehicle came to a rolling stop. She put the car in park, but kept the engine running. “Come look,” she encouraged. “You need to see your multi-million dollar view.”

I exited the vehicle and followed Belinda to the property’s edge. A metal stake in the ground signaled the property line. We stood at the top of a gently rolling hill, not quite large enough to call itself a mountain, but high enough that it offered an expansive view of the valley. A wide river wound back and forth in the distance. A thick bank of clouds had collected on the valley floor. 

“Not too shabby, right?” Belinda observed.

I hugged my arms around my torso and inhaled. The view was a far cry from the congested city vista we’d enjoyed at our condo. I considered myself a city girl, but I’d enjoyed vacations Alex and I had taken to more rural locations. This was no vacation though. 

“Not bad at all,” I murmured.

Not too far in the distance I spotted a formidable log home on a flat piece of land in a small clearing. 

“Who lives over there?” I pointed.

“That’s Rolando’s house,” Belinda revealed. “The Mitchells sold his family an acre about thirty years ago. It’s probably the only reason he hasn’t gone to another, bigger vineyard. I’m sure he gets other job offers all the time.”

I peered down the rolling hill at the wooden construction below. The home looked rustic, but more updated than the farmhouse. Half a dozen of the same hunched-over dormant vines I’d seen elsewhere on the property had been planted close to the house. “He has his own vines?” I questioned aloud.

“I guess so,” Belinda shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him about that. That’s as far as my intel goes.”

I turned to the real estate agent. “Thank you, Belinda,” I said in earnest. “I appreciate you stopping by. You’ve been very thorough.”

“Oh, I’m happy to help!” she gushed. “The commission on the property is more than enough to pay for my son’s college, so I feel pretty indebted to you gals.”

The reminder of just how much we’d sunk into the property and how much we’d mortgaged our future on this gamble shattered my temporary moment of euphoria. I cleared my throat: “Glad to have helped.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow and show Alex around?” she offered. 

I wrapped my arms tighter around my torso and continued to stare across the picturesque vista. 

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

I could feel Belinda’s eyes on me as if she expected more of an explanation.

I couldn’t explain why I wasn’t more forthcoming with the realtor about why Alex hadn’t been around for the tour. I’d had plenty of time to wrap my brain around our situation; I’d had months to adjust to what had happened. But it almost felt like Coming Out all over again—when people would ask me about Alex, I found myself getting tongue-tied and making excuses instead of just telling them the truth.

Alex wouldn’t need a tour of the property. Alex was dead.