the tasting while Tristan poured wine, beginning with a honey-colored wine. Bennett took small sips, reveling in the exquisite flavor. Keeping in mind that he would have to drive back, he discretely took advantage of the spit bowls placed beside them.
“This is a Viognier, not as well known in California as Chardonnay, but we like it because it’s less acidic and more complex,” Emilie said. “This varietal is grown in France’s Rhône Valley and teetered on the edge of extinction in the 1980s. Its skin is thin, so it prefers our altitude and ages well in the French barrels we import. You’ll detect notes of rose, peach, and herbs, such as fennel.” She swirled a splash of wine in a glass and lifted it to her nose.
“This wine is quite remarkable,” Ivy said, tipping her glass to inhale the bouquet before tasting.
They sampled each wine, from the lightest to the most robust, talking and laughing, and breaking off pieces of a baguette to cleanse their palates between wines.
“Tristan and Emilie are too modest to mention how many awards they’ve won,” Bennett said. “They’ve served presidents and royalty around the world. They produce wine in small batches for the most discriminating of collectors.”
Tristan inclined his head, quietly accepting the compliment. “This is such a small, geographically constrained region that it doesn’t have a high profile like Napa and Sonoma to the north or Temecula to the east. We hide away on this secluded mountain perch that exposes our vines to the most arduous conditions.”
“The more environmental strain on the berries—or grapes—the smaller and more compact they are,” Emilie said, removing the glasses they’d used. She poured red wine into a larger glass and swirled it. “The flavor and personality are in the skin, which grows thicker at higher, cooler elevations. Thus, we gain a richer extraction during soaking and fermentation. For table grapes, it’s the opposite—juicy plump grapes are more desirable.”
After they’d finished the wine tasting, they returned to the terrace overlooking the vineyards, where a table for two was set for them.
“This is such a romantic view,” Emilie said. “We never tire of it.”
“Do you mind if I take photos?” Ivy asked. “I’d love to paint this.”
“Not at all,” Emilie replied. While she pointed out the best views for Ivy, the two women chatted about their shared interest in photography and painting.
A little later, Bennett and Ivy sat down, and Tristan brought out a bottle of the wine they had all enjoyed. Emilie served tomato bisque soup, along with a braised duck salad with pomegranate seeds and a walnut vinaigrette.
“We grow most of the produce we use here,” Tristan said. “The romaine and red leaf lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes—everything in the salad.” He gestured toward a group of condiments on a small plate. “This is the balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and rose petal jam that we make here.”
After Tristan left them alone, Bennett reached across the table, threading his fingers with Ivy’s. “Happy?”
“This is a perfect day,” she said, her eyes shimmering. “Thank you for planning this.”
He brought her fingers to his lips. “To many more days just like this—for the rest of our lives.”
“Of course,” Ivy said, blinking tears from her eyes. Looking slightly embarrassed, she dabbed her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m really having a wonderful time.” She squeezed his hand.
Bennett tilted his head. Maybe it was just the wine.
12
After enjoying the delicious meal that Tristan and Emilie prepared, Ivy strolled through the vineyards with Bennett. She’d needed this break from the inn and the gossip swirling around Summer Beach.
Here, breathing in the scent of sun-warmed earth and vines, she felt grounded. The wine made her relaxed. She’d been watching Bennett throughout their visit and was glad to see that he hadn’t imbibed too much since he had to drive back to Summer Beach this afternoon. That was one of the red flags she’d been watching for.
While this day had been enjoyable, Ivy still had something on her mind.
As she and Bennett strolled through a block of Syrah vines, she broached a concern. “I love Summer Beach, but I find it odd—no, astonishing—that people have the gall to wager on the odds of our wedding. Is that normal?”
Bennett drew a hand over his chin. “Not from what I can recall. I think that’s mostly Charlie’s doing, even though he tried to pass that off on Darla. They’re pointing the finger at each other, not that it matters. They’re both at fault. Charlie usually sticks