The Cheating Vines

By M A Prins

It has been said.

A winemaker can make good wine from good fruit.

A lover can turn a good wife bad.

A winemaker can turn good fruit into bad wine.

Carla's husband Nick is a good man. But the pop of their marriage had long since lost its fizz between the sheets of suburban humdrum. One phone call, and the realization she needed her kids more than they needed her changed everything.

Forever.

Leaving behind his cushy life in the city for the stunning beauty of wine country, Matt sniffs, sips, swirls and spits all in the hope of one day unleashing the gifted winemaker he dreams to become.

When confronted with the choice of his marriage or a coveted job at Sleepy Cloud Winery the decision was as easy as drinking a glass of good Syrah.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456624125

Book preview

The Cheating Vines

Love and betrayal at Sleepy Cloud Winery

By

M.A. Prins

CONFIDENTIAL © Magdalena VandenBerg

Digital Edition

All Copyright to Magdalena A VandenBerg

All Rights Reserved

Disclaimer/Rights:

Most of my work is fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Written under pseudonym by Magdalena Vandenberg

80 Rochfort Road

Havelock North 4130

New Zealand

[phone]

[e-mail]

www.maprins.com

The Cheating Vines is a revised adaption of Love in the Vines written by and under the name of Magdalena VandenBerg.

Thank you Mum xxx

Thank you Split Shire Free Stock Photos for the beautiful cover photo. Made with love in Italy.

It has been said.

A winemaker can make good wine from good fruit.

A lover can turn a good wife bad.

A winemaker can turn good fruit into bad wine.

Carla’s husband Nick is a good man. But the pop of their marriage had long since lost its fizz between the sheets of suburban humdrum. One phone call, and the realization she needed her kids more than they needed her changed everything.

Forever.

Leaving behind his cushy life in the city for the stunning beauty of wine country, Matt sniffs, sips, swirls and spits all in the hope of one day unleashing the gifted winemaker he dreams to become.

When confronted with the choice of his marriage or a coveted job at Sleepy Cloud Winery the decision was as easy as drinking a glass of good Syrah.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CARLA

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

NICK

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

MATT

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

FRANCE

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Carla

Chapter 1

From day one I knew he was dangerous. The fire of lust burned deep in his ocean- green eyes. Resistance was futile knowing his glistening body would soon melt into mine. Running my fingers through his dark, tousled curls I closed my eyes against the cloaked shadow of deceit.

This wasn’t my husband.

Surrendering into the softness of his kiss stirred a blistering longing for the man I barely knew. ‘Take me now,’ I murmured in a rush of fervent desire long since extinguished by faded wedded bliss.

I’d all but lost the joy of intimacy with Nick, my husband of fifteen years. Once blooming with promise, our love had wilted between the sheets of disinterest covering our marriage bed.

On this stolen afternoon, Matt had, in one masterful stroke, scorched his name across my heart.

Bathed in love’s smouldering glow, Matt teased. ‘Maybe we have time, what? It can’t be!’ In a glance I watched as his mood changed from amorous to mild panic. ‘Oh no, I don’t believe it.’ His voice tensed with concern.

‘What? What is it?’ I stammered in confusion.

‘Carla, it’s gone six! Don’t you have to be home by five?’

His question startled me into action.

‘Oh no, damn it!’ I cursed while gathering my clothes lying in guilty abandon on his bedroom floor. With no time to shower I dressed in record time. Snatching a quick glance in the mirror, a harried reflection stared back at me.

With the scent of infidelity lingering on my skin I snapped back to the certainty I would be late. Ramming my size nine feet into blue, scuffed sneakers all I could think about was the lie I’d spin to my husband.

With no time to plan our next rendezvous I kissed Matt goodbye and drove the country roads home. I was careful not to let haste get the better of me, the last thing I needed was the unwanted evidence of a speeding ticket. By the time I walked through the front door, my agitation had morphed into a dress rehearsal of weaving my version of the truth into a believable story.

‘Hi! I’m home. Sorry I’m late,’ I gabbled to Nick who was busy at the kitchen bench washing vegetables. ‘Can you believe it? While out shopping I bumped into an old school friend of mine, Alexa. Next thing I know, we’re in a café talking up a storm! I completely forgot about the time.’

‘Oh! When did you last see Alexa?’ Nick asked while peeling carrots.

‘Years ago! We figured we were about ten years old. I still can’t believe she recognized me,’ I fudged.

‘Would I know her from school? Her name doesn’t ring a bell. How about asking her over for dinner?’ Nick suggested.

‘Unfortunately she flies back to Sydney first thing in the morning.’ By now, I hoped my story garnered enough disinterest.

It hadn’t.

‘So why don’t I remember Alexa from school?’ Nick queried.

‘I think she left before you moved into the area. Her Dad got a job transfer to Melbourne. She’s been living in Australia ever since. Anyway, I know I should have called, but Alexa, well, she likes to chat!’ Skilfully I had shifted the blame to my fictional long lost friend.

‘I wasn’t too worried. I thought your phone battery must have died. Besides, it’s not the first time it’s happened. It wouldn’t hurt to remember to send me a quick message,’ Nick said sounding only a tad miffed.

‘I know.’ I sighed.

Nick finally kicked my tardiness to the curb by talking about the kids, and the rosemary-infused lamb slow roasting in the oven.

Despite knowing everything was mine to lose, I crossed over the rickety bridge of lies in the hope of finding true love with Matt.

My husband? I’d never truly loved him.

Sometimes fate isn’t written in the poems of our dreams, or in the musings of the stars.

Sometimes fate is splattered on the wall of broken promises.

Chapter 2

‘Are you sure you won’t come?’ Nick asked shrugging his jacket over his shoulders.

‘After such a delicious dinner I can’t move. I’m going to be lazy and stay put and read. Enjoy yourself. You’re not driving are you?’

‘No, I’m walking. See you later.’ Nick called out before leaving to join his mates for a few quiet drinks at the local pub.

With the children asleep, peace and quiet snuggled around me. Mine to treasure, the silence soon skimmed ripples of disquiet across the pages of my book. Reading did nothing to lighten the burden of my secret. I craved Matt.

Covering the truth with lies exhausted me, as did the weight of guilt. But our marriage couldn’t survive the hint of an affair. For Nick, infidelity struck a raw nerve. He loathed its duplicity, and above everything else, he’d hate being made a fool of again.

I should know.

Years ago on a cold winter night Nick and I made a vow of another kind. With our wedding date set and the dress of my organza dreams hidden from the groom, we huddled around a roaring fire and vowed not to let the ghosts of lovers past haunt the promise of our future together.

My confession of a relationship choked in the hype of believing he loved me too, burned on the dancing flames. His name escaped me. Brant or Brandon? Nick visibly blanched at the memory assault of Celia.

He thought they were exclusive. A couple, no longer swimming in the shallow waters of the dating pool. The sight of a man hurriedly dressing his middle aged spread shattered everything. According to Celia, it was nothing! A fling! That afternoon with the husband of the economics professor was only their second time. Heartbroken and duped, Nick vowed never to be anyone’s sloppy seconds. Chasing the excitement of an affair did nothing but leave him breathless from the absurdity.

Our marriage couldn’t bear the haunting of Celia.

Three sharp beeps rescued my dread. Grabbing my phone from the coffee table I hoped it wasn’t a message from my mother-in-law. Only this morning I’d phoned Violet feigning the lightness of a happy wife confirming lunch. I don’t even know why I bothered to call. Tradition commanded our presence around her beautifully-set table groaning under the weight of Sunday fare.

The simplicity of Matt’s name complicated everything.

His message cast a spell of wicked intent.

I couldn’t.

In the darkest corner of my mind trouble heeded a warning. The might of that one short word could fell a family tree.

The phone, the keeper of secrets, lay forgotten on the couch next to my abandoned book. Charged with nervousness I paced together sentences of the story I would tell. After treading a pathway into the beige carpet I’d fooled myself into believing Nick wouldn’t question my reason for skipping work next Wednesday.

A dental appointment always garners a sympathetic rather you than me nod.

I needed a glass of wine to fuel the brave.

Flowing a river of loveliness, I was onto my second glass when Nick arrived home earlier than expected. Tipsy from one beer too many, I couldn’t escape the want in his eyes.

‘Darling, let’s go to bed.’

‘Let me finish this.’

‘The wine can wait.’

His kiss, hungry and desperate, wanted more.

‘You taste delicious,’ he murmured.

‘And you smell of a brewery!’ I said harshly.

‘Okay! No need to be so snarky! I get the hint,’ he said sulking off to the bathroom.

Delay stalled the inevitable. As Nick strolled back into the lounge there was no mistaking my rebuke hadn’t dimmed the glint in his eye.

He kissed me all the way to bed.

That night my husband’s hands, normally so tender and knowing, rasped sandpaper strokes on my skin.

Chapter 3

An innocent request made first thing Monday morning flawed the normalcy of another day. Using domestic trivia, and a visit to the dentist as an excuse I asked my boss for the day off next Wednesday. Her tinted brows didn’t arch a questioning inch as she signed the required leave form.

Up until eight o’clock on that Wednesday morning I looked every bit the flustered mother having just dropped her kids off at the school gate. Turning right at the lights instead of making the usual left-hand turn for work was all it took to skew routine. For the next two hours I drove in the silence of guilt-tinged hope the school wouldn’t call with a sick child needing their mother, and impatience. I couldn’t wait for Matt to feast on the delicacy of scarlet lingerie hiding beneath my work clothes.

A jewel in the crown of the middle of nowhere, the grandeur of Summerset Mountain seemingly close, yet distanced by miles, took my breath away. Following Matt’s instructions, I slowed down before turning into a driveway lined with fir trees and bordered by a wall built from fat, gray river-stones. For the next mile I drove until the grand, stately chimneys’ of the Château came into view.

The extravagance of Château Summerset brilliantly framed the backdrop of nature’s playground. After a day of skiing or hiking everyone wanted to stay at the famed mountain resort. But only those with pockets stitched with money slept between the ironed sheets of luxury. Some never bothered to step foot outside the resort. Burnt out corporate souls retreated to balm their boardroom lament with serenity and a good glass of red.

For over a century the Château had built its reputation on a reverence for the spectacular, views, mountain ranges, food, wine, and service oozed charisma and effortless charm. Only those working behind the scenes knew—nothing was random about meticulous detail.

The Château’s coveted wine list was no exception.

Once a year, a small team led by Ms. Bernadette St Thomas invited a select number of wineries to showcase wines worthy of inclusion on the list. As head of concierge, and a master of wine, Bernadette dedicated her life to customer service and wine. Under her watchful eye and refined palate, her team sniffed, swirled, and tasted wines all in the name of a good days work. Using a twenty-point system based on the five checkpoints of appearance, aroma, texture, taste, and quality, only wines scoring between eighteen to twenty were deemed eligible. Although Bernadette’s decision was final, even she didn’t have the power to mess with legacy. Grand Cru in title and sentiment, if these giants of wine toppled from the list, a revolt by people and profit was assured.

Matt downplayed his excitement at learning Ms. Thomas had placed a tentative order for two hundred cases of the award winning Sleepy Cloud Syrah. However, before any wines could be dispatched, Château policy dictated the signing of a sales fulfilment contract. Normally the marketing manager scrawled her approval on the dotted line, but she delegated the task to Matt. A scheduling conflict saw her flying out to attend a wine show in Hong Kong instead.

Bites of fresh, country air nipped through the thin weave of my cardigan as I rushed from the car to the foyer. Inside, the Château’s cosy warmth wrapped around my shiver like a towel after a cool swim. Behind the reception desk, a gentleman suited in discretion and a polite smile asked no questions as he retrieved the envelope housing the room key Matt had left for me.

Staring blankly at the numbers lighting one, two, and three,