the cherry-red Chevrolet Deluxe. He’d lowered the convertible top and dusted the car so that it shone in the sunshine. Last year, he’d restored the vintage 1950s car that had been stored in the stables-turned-garage for decades for Ivy, and he was proud of how the car had turned out. She loved driving it around Summer Beach.
“Your carriage awaits,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
She slid onto the refurbished red leather seat and stretched out her legs. Her flat silver sandals sparkled in the sunlight. She pulled out a pair of white cats-eye sunglasses and slid them on. “Let’s go.”
“Those are fun,” he said, chuckling.
“I’m thinking about painting them,” she said, looking at them in the rearview mirror. “How about a confetti splatter or polka dots and paisley?”
“I like your style, Ivy Bay. We’re going to have fun today.”
After leaving the inn, Bennett set an easterly course for the mountains that rose behind Summer Beach, cradling the village against desert winds.
En route, Ivy tried to wheedle the location out of him, but he wouldn’t budge from his determination to surprise her.
Finally, he turned onto a narrow lane that led to a rugged, higher elevation. A wooden sign inset into wrought iron gates that stood open read Chateau Boivin. Low white fences lined the perimeter, and groomed vineyards stretched out beyond them.
Old rose bushes rambled along the fence in a profusion of pink, yellow, and orange flowers. At the end of rows on various blocks they passed, hand-lettered signs that identified the vines. Tempranillo, Syrah, Ruby Cabernet, Barbera. Fresh spring vines sprouting from stubby, craggy trunks were meticulously wound over a lattice of horizontal supports, outstretched like arms to the sunshine.
Ivy’s eyes widened. “Oh, how lovely this is.”
“Surprise,” he said, pleased to see her delighted. He wound through the property and parked in front of a large home built of smooth stones and wood. Attached was a broad outdoor terrace.
A casually dressed couple about their age appeared on the steps and waved.
“These are my friends,” Bennett said. “Tristan and Emilie Boivin. We met several years ago at a fundraising gala to support the arts in Summer Beach schools. It was at Carol Reston’s home on the ridgetop—she’s always a generous contributor. She was serving their wine, and they were there to auction off cases. We’ve kept in touch ever since. I think you’ll like them.”
“Welcome,” Emilie said with a slight French accent. Her dark brown hair was swept from her face, revealing high cheekbones and a long, elegant neck. Intricate wire earrings graced either side of her delicate face. She wore a simple chambray dress belted at the waist. “We’re delighted to meet you.”
Bennett introduced them. “Tristan and Emilie supply wine to some of the restaurants in town.”
“We’re so happy to have you here today,” Emilie said as she pressed her cheeks to Ivy’s in a traditional French greeting. “Bennett has told us so much about you.”
Ivy clasped Bennett’s hand. “This is such a beautiful setting. And quite a surprise.”
“We have everything ready for your private wine tasting,” Tristan said. He wore soft jeans and a denim jacket, and his longish dark hair brushed the collar. “After that, we’ll make lunch. You might wish to stroll through the vineyards, too. Although it’s too early in the season to taste the berries, it’s still a tranquil walk.”
The two couples chatted while Tristan led them around the side of the house and through an open doorway flanked with old wine barrels. “Watch your head,” he said, descending a stone staircase.
“The wine cellar,” Bennett said, turning to Ivy. “After you.”
Ivy followed Tristan. Her eyes were wide, and she was taking in everything. Bennett wondered if she was cataloging details for her painting. The red-bricked ceiling arched over the room, and pastoral murals of rolling vineyards graced the walls. Racks of slightly dusty wine bottles surrounded them.
“This is our tasting room,” Tristan said. A selection of wine bottles and an assortment of glasses sat on a hand-hewn table in the center of the room.
“Few people find us here at the Chateau,” Emilie said as she entered the room. “It’s just us, except for our field workers, so we don’t have an open tasting room as larger vintners might.” She raised a shoulder and let it fall. “Occasionally someone wanders by and knocks on our door. And we’re always happy to share our wine.”
“Most of our business is wholesale or private clients,” Tristan said. “Still, we love to host parties and groups here.”
Emilie led