Second To None. Muriel Jensen

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      CHAPTER ONE

      MIKE DELANCEY WALKED into the quiet kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He relished the few minutes of solitude the early morning ritual afforded him before his brothers rose, and peace became a distant memory.

      Tate, older than Mike by three years, would be sharing ideas for promoting the winery even as he hurried down the stairs. And Shea, Mike’s younger brother, would wander down in a semi-comatose state, then come to life the moment he stepped into the kitchen. He would want to make eggs Provencal for breakfast and talk about the opening of the restaurant.

      But all Mike wanted was his cup of coffee and a moment to call his own. He loved his brothers, and everyone else who lived on the Delancey Winery compound, but he was still finding the balance in his own life and sometimes needed a brief escape. He poured a cup of steaming French roast and pushed his way out the back door.

      The sweet Willamette Valley air was cool and smelled of pine, June wildflowers and the commercial grasses and herbs that grew farther south. Mike stopped at the bottom of the porch steps to take a deep breath.

      Tate, who’d come to French River from Boston, was fascinated by the freshness of Oregon air. After twelve years in Dallas, Mike was captivated by the beautiful views in all directions: the rippled hills of the winery, the purple mountains in the distance, the green everywhere, even in the dead of winter.

      The compound, bequeathed to him and his brothers by their uncle Jack, was situated at the top of the winery’s terraced hill. When he and his brothers had first arrived here in January, there’d been an unobstructed view from here of the long rows of grapes, the road to French River and the farm across the road, which sat at the foot of still more hills with mountains in the background.

      Now a Victorian-style house Tate designed stood in the way, and was quite a sight in itself. In another month or so, it would open as the Delancey Bed-and-Breakfast, and Mike, who was responsible for public relations for the winery, would take on additional duty as manager of the B-and-B.

      Tate had sold his share in a Boston architectural firm to finance the renovation of the winery. That same boldness had been evident in the commercial buildings he’d designed over the years, so this foray into late-nineteenth-century ornament came as a surprise—to Tate more than anyone.

      They’d all endured a long winter of adjustment to their new surroundings, to the rain, to the strange new responsibilities of a vineyard and its motley collection of buildings. But Tate had had the most difficult time. He’d fallen in love.

      Colette СКАЧАТЬ