"She's driving me nuts," Emory moaned, gesturing to the waitress for another margarita.

My cousin was one of those Southern men who knew how to wring every ounce of pleasure out of his leisure time. Though deep inside I knew he and Elvia were right for each other, there were definitely some surface issues that needed work.

"Welcome to the real world, Emory," Gabe said, laughing. "It only gets worse."

I elbowed him. "Hey, Friday, we're trying to encourage, not discourage. Remember?"

While we continued to dispense sage and silly advice to Emory, Elvia's brother Miguel walked in. He spotted us and waved. Then he spoke briefly to the man at the take-out counter and came over to our table, adjusting the paraphernalia hooked to his heavy leather police belt.

"How's things going, Miguel?" Gabe asked.

"Fine, Chief. Sunday morning watch is a piece of cake. All the drunks are sleeping it off somewhere. Last night was crazy, though."

Gabe nodded. "I figured when that new bar next to the Chinese buffet started selling beer for seventy-five cents it would be trouble."

"Gum Alley is unwalkable today," Miguel said. "Hope the city gets someone down there to clean it up soon. Puke and piss, that's all those skippies know how to do."

"Skippies?" Emory said.

"College students," Gabe interpreted. "Specifically the drinkers."

"And to think they'll be running the treasury when we're collecting Social Security," Emory said. "Lord have mercy."

"Can we change the subject?" I asked, staring down at my enchilada, which was looking decidedly less appetizing.

"Sure," Miguel said. "Actually, I came over to give you a message, Benni."

"Me?" I said.

"Tell Dove no."

I gave him a confused look. "What?"

"Just what I said. Tell her no. Absolutely not. No way."

"What?"

"Just tell her."

The man at the take-out counter called out his name.

"Gotta go," he said. He nodded at Gabe and Emory. "Later, amigos amigos."

"Take it easy," Gabe said.

"Don't work too hard," Emory called after him.

"Ignore that comment," Gabe added.

I cut another piece of my enchilada. "Wonder what his message to Dove means."

"Who knows what our dear Dove has brewing in her box of tricks," Emory said.

"Talk about your mixed metaphors," I said.

"Keep quiet, sweetcakes. I'm suffering this morning. I don't need my English scrutinized."

"Whiny-baby. So are you going to the barrel tasting and artist's reception this afternoon?"

"Have to. I'm covering it for the paper. You two going?"

"Yes," I said.

"No," Gabe said.

I turned to him, surprised. "I thought you were going."

He took a sip of his Corona beer. "Didn't I tell you last night that Sam, Bliss, Lydia, and I were going to visit Lydia's mother in Buellton?"

"No," I said slowly. "You didn't."

"I'm sure I did. Or I must have told you this morning."

"And I'm sure I would have remembered," I said, feeling a slowly rising heat in my chest. "I didn't even know Lydia's mother lived close by."

"Lydia moved her there when she took the job in Santa Barbara. Sam wanted us to come with him and Bliss when they tell her about their engagement and the baby. I'm sure I asked you if you wanted to go."

"No, you're mistaken," I said, really starting to get mad now. "You never mentioned it to me."

Gabe's face set in that stubborn, contrary look that said he was certain he was right and I was wrong.

Emory's amused green eyes darted from my face to Gabe's.

"Well, do you want to go?" Gabe asked, his voice carrying an edge of impatience.

I inhaled deeply, my anger feeling like too much air in a helium balloon. "No, thank you," I said, as sweetly as I could manage. "I promised JJ I'd go to the barrel tasting."

"Fine." He turned to Emory. "Can you give her a ride there and home? I'm late already."

"Certainly," my cousin said serenely. "I'll take good care of your wife, Cousin Gabe."

Gabe wiped his mouth quickly with his linen napkin and slid out of the booth. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. "I'll see you tonight, sweetheart."

"Sure," I said.

After he left, Emory studied me silently until I finally blurted out, "Oh, for crying out loud, Emory. What can I do, hog-tie him and sit on his chest?"

He shook his head slowly. "I'm tellin' you, sweetcakes, that woman is plain after your man. You'd best be circling the wagons and filling up the muskets."

"Now you're mixing your historical references."

"So what are you going to do, pray tell?"

"First I'm going to the ladies' room, then I'm going to let you take me to the barrel tasting. The rest, as my famous kinswoman once said, I'll think about tomorrow."

"New lingerie. Many a man has been lured back home with a satin bustier and lacy garter belt."

I tossed my crumpled napkin across the table at him. "Turn blue."

As I was leaving the ladies' room, heading toward the lobby, a voice called my name. A voice I'd heard just a little too often lately.

"Why, Mrs. Ortiz . . . oh, excuse me, Harper Harper. What a fine surprise it is running into you on this bright and sunny Sunday afternoon." Detective Hudson, shooting me his stupid grin, threw his arm around a small, buxom brunette wearing a front-laced blouse similar in style to the bustier my cousin was entreating me to buy to save my marriage. She filled it out much more generously than I would have, and Detective Hudson's physical preference in women was painfully obvious. His date, not cracking a smile, scanned me up and down, then discarded what she saw with the flick of an artificial eyelash.

"Hello, Detective Hudson," I said.

"Hud," he said. "We're off the clock."

"And I have someone waiting." I moved past them only to find myself stopped short by his hand grabbing my upper arm.

"I'll need to see you in my office on Monday," he said. "There's some ideas I want to discuss with you about our case."

"Sorry, I work at my real job on Mondays," I said, jerking my arm back.

Emory's Cadillac Seville was waiting for me out front. In exchange for the ride, all the way to Eola Beach I was forced to listen to another lecture on keeping my husband from the clutches of his evil ex-wife.

"That's enough," I declared when we reached the parking lot of the San Patricio Resort and Country Club. "I've heard every argument in your pea-sized, testosterone-fueled brain and I'm still going to do what feels right to me, so why don't you just dry up."

He feigned a hurt expression. "I was only trying to help," he said as we walked across the wide lawn toward the three blue-and-white circus-style tents.

"I think you're trying to ignore your own problems in the love department by becoming obsessed with mine. If Gabe's behavior is bothering you that much, then you say something to him about it."

"I might do that very thing, oh, naive one. But you have to admit it made you mad that he's spending another family-oriented day with the ex-Mrs. Ortiz."

Ignoring him, I handed my ticket to the woman wearing an aqua and black T-shirt with the South Counties Vintners' Association logo-two wineglasses clicking in front of an oak tree-and received my wineglass and tasting guide. Emory flashed his press pass and shook his head when offered a glass.

"I'll use hers," he said.

We entered the first tent where the wineries, twenty-seven according to our literature, had their booths set up. It was similar to the event last night except the booths carried all types of wines-merlots, ports, pinot noirs, chardonnays, syrahs, cabernet sauvignon, and some I'd never heard of-nebbiolo, sigiovese, moscato allegro, gamay beaujolais. The names sounded as romantic as a gondola ride in Venice. The only thing different about these wines was that they were poured from bottles that were handlabeled since the vintages wouldn't actually be on sale for a year or two. The vintners were hoping wine lovers would take a chance on a young wine and order cases on speculation.

"I wonder if they have anything else to drink," I said, handing him my wineglass. Sure enough, in the middle of the tent were huge aluminum washtubs filled with ice and bottles of fruit juices, Snapple, and sparkling water. I headed toward the drinks, Emory dogging my steps.

"Admit it," he said. "You were were angry when he told you he was spending another day with Lydia." angry when he told you he was spending another day with Lydia."

I faced my cousin. "Okay, I'm angry. Are you happy now? But what can I do?" He opened his mouth, and I quickly held up my hand. "Wait, let me rephrase that, because you have way too many suggestions. I'm trying desperately to keep this situation from turning into one that will cause a serious problem between me and Gabe. Yes, I agree he's spending a lot of time with her. Maybe too much. But this thing with Sam and Bliss is complicated, and Sam is is their son. I can't change that. I just have to trust in his love for me, Emory. Please, don't make this harder for me than it already is." their son. I can't change that. I just have to trust in his love for me, Emory. Please, don't make this harder for me than it already is."

His handsome face softened with a look of genuine contrition. He pulled me to him in a warm, brotherly hug. "You're right. I'm just makin' things harder for both y'all. I'll keep my big mouth shut from now on. But if you need anything, you let me know. Promise, now?"

I kissed his cheek. "Emory Delano Littleton, you know you'd be the first person I'd run to."

"Good. Now I'd better get to work if I'm goin' to have an article to turn in tomorrow. Let's meet back here in two hours."

"Sounds good. I'm going over to the artists' tent and see exactly how a wine label is created."

I grabbed a bottle of sparkling water, twisted off the cap, and walked over to the second tent. Inside were a dozen different platforms where artists, using a variety of media, worked on paintings and drawings destined to be incorporated into wine labels. Some of the artists talked to their audience as they worked, explaining how they came up with the idea for each particular wine label.

I wandered through the exhibit of original art displayed with the finished wine labels framed next to them. Seven Sisters labels were simple but elegant, with some of the last year's vintage's labels showing more variety with bold, brightly colored renderings of the rose garden, the adobe tasting room, and rows of thick, lush grapevines. Though I'd only seen her work on quilts, JJ's slightly eccentric, free-form style was apparent on these labels.

In a corner of the tent, JJ was working on a watercolor painting of a horse I instantly recognized as Churn Dash. I mingled with the crowd, watching her add subtle reddish shading to his brown coat. He was shown at a gallop, and in the background she'd painted in faint peaches and browns the pattern of a Churn Dash quilt. A photograph of the quilt made by her great-grandmother was taped to her stained easel. In her painting she'd captured the championship bearing of Churn Dash with the arch of his elegant neck straining toward an imaginary finish line and the subtle, powerful surge of muscles in his strong, solid hindquarters. She glanced up when someone asked her a question, caught my eye, and nodded at me. I waved and melted back into the crowd. I wanted to talk to her again about the grave rubbing, but this wouldn't be the best time or place to do so.

In the last tent the silent auction items were displayed, and the line for the gourmet buffet donated by local restaurants was at least a half-hour wait. The food didn't interest me since I'd just eaten, so I headed for the auction items. There were dozens of things to be auctioned-cases of wines, bed-and-breakfast packages, limousine wine tours, and wine dinners for six hosted by celebrity chefs. Seven Sisters had sponsored a contest and silent auction for wine bottles decorated by local artists. The entries were spectacular with each artist vying for the most creatively original bottle. The auction bids were way out of my price range, but the money went for a good cause-the Rose Jewel Brown Children's Wing at General Hospital. The artist won a free case of Seven Sisters' most exclusive hand-crafted noble wines, wines that were like a stakes horse, the best of the best. An announcement from the stage informed everyone of the wine bottle design winner. On the stage behind the row of twenty or so decorated bottles sat Cappy Brown, her sister Etta, and dressed in white and sitting in a wheelchair, their mother, Rose Brown. Her face was lightly spotted with age, but her silver hair and soft makeup were perfect. She looked twenty years younger than her ninety-six. The advantages of wealth and good genetics, I supposed. She smiled at the audience with long, pale ivory teeth, giving a palm-out royal wave.

After a long speech of gushing gratitude by the president of the vintner's association to the Brown family for helping to sponsor the event and a retrospective of all the accomplishments and charities instituted by the Brown family and most of all, Rose Brown, Cappy addressed the audience.

"On behalf of my mother and the rest of my family, I thank you for your kind words. Her health being quite fragile, she is unable to speak, but she wanted me to relay to all of you how privileged she's felt to be a part of this county for so many years, how grateful she is for your generosity, and to encourage you to dig deep in your pockets today and support the Rose Jewel Brown Children's Wing. As Mother has always said, without the children we have no future. Thank you."

After the applause, the winner of the bottle contest was brought up to receive his plaque. An artist who'd painted a 16th-century-style Madonna and child scene in exquisite detail won over bottles painted like rocket ships, Marilyn Monroe, Chumash Indian petroglyphs, peacocks, and the Mission Santa Celine. Starting to get bored, I decided to go back to the wine-tasting tent to see if I could find Emory and convince him to leave early. The lines were five and six deep at each booth as people twirled their glasses, sipped, and pursed their lips, searching for that perfect wine. I looked over the crowd and didn't see my cousin's blond head anywhere. To kill time more than anything else, I sidled close to people and eavesdropped on their comments about wine, which amused me to no end with their pretentiousness. I wished I had a tape recorder so I could replay some of them for Gabe later tonight.

"Stylistically," said a man wearing a baby blue golf shirt and white tennis shorts as he twirled a glass of straw-colored wine, "this would appeal more to the American palate than to the European, don't you think?"

The woman with him, wearing flat gold sandals and a bright pink spaghetti-strap dress nodded and added, "Its aroma is full and pretty, but not quite as multidimensional as I normally prefer."

He took another sip and said, "Yes, it has a ripe flavor. A bit earthy and tart, which is refreshing, but the finish is a little rough."

"There are so many wines like that," she agreed. "More up front than on the finish."

"Many men, too," a deep, familiar voice whispered in my ear. A gentle, bearlike hand slipped under my hair and gripped the back of my neck.

I squealed and swung around.

"Isaac!" I said, giving him a fierce hug. His massive arms lifted me up and swung me around.

"Isn't that Isaac Lyons, the photographer?" the lady in the pink dress exclaimed to her companion. They gazed up at his six-feet-four-inch frame topped with hair as white as a snow owl's, their mouths slack with awe. A diamond earring in his ear caught an overhead light and twinkled. As did his dark raisin eyes when he winked at me.

Isaac set me down and smiled at the woman, his arm still around my shoulders. "Isaac Lyons?" he boomed. "Why, I heard he's bought the farm, that randy old goat. Rumor has it he was caught with another man's wife and took three shots to the belly, but he went down kicking. Hemingway would have been proud." His face grew serious. "Then again, that could have been Gregory Peck. They're often mistaken for each other." Before the woman could speak, he grabbed my hand and pulled me through the murmuring crowd.

"What are you doing here?" I asked as he led me out of the tent.

He pointed to a picnic bench out near the lagoon that flowed into Eola Bay. "Let's talk away from the madding crowd."

We sat down underneath the cool shade of an ash tree. He leaned back on his elbows and I straddled the bench, just looking at him, unable to believe he was really here. Isaac had come into my life and, more important, into Dove's last November, a little less than a year ago when we'd all become involved in a murder that took place on the ranch. Having no family of his own, he'd adopted ours, and we'd welcomed him with open hearts and arms. Well, I eventually did after a rather rough beginning. As famous as Ansel Adams, Isaac Lyons had traveled all over the world, been married five times, taken photographs of kings, popes, cowboys, ranch women, carnival workers, cotton farmers, bar maids and truck drivers. Not to mention five different presidents of the United States. But he was still as down-to-earth as homemade gravy and he was besotted with Dove, which revealed his excellent taste. After our rocky start, I gave this mountain-sized man my whole heart and treated him like the grandfather I'd never had. Dove and I completely agreed on how special he was and also agreed that it was a good thing he was forty years older than me, or we'd be cat fighting over his affections. He and I had kept up a regular correspondence via E-mail.

He was dressed casually, as always, in faded Levi's, a khaki cowboy shirt with embroidered red arrows on the yokes, and beaded leather moccasins. His long white hair was braided in a thick rope, the end tied with a piece of rawhide. It just touched the top of his hand-tooled belt.

"Do I pass inspection?" he asked, chuckling.

"Your hair's longer than mine," I said, flicking his braid. "My braid just barely clears my shoulders."

"So your grandma has pointed out. I told her I'm trying to catch up with her."