Sweet Forgiveness by Lori Nelson Spielman

of their daily specials.
    The town is nearly a picture book. A white Bentley turns left in front of me. When did Harbour Cove become so posh? Can my mother afford to live here?
    My hands grip the steering wheel and a sick feeling comes over me. What if she’s no longer here? What if the address on White pages.com is out of date? After all this time, what if I can’t find her?
    It dawns on me. In the span of three weeks, I’ve gone from not thinking of my mother at all, to dreading the thought of making contact, to a desperate longing to find and forgive her. But desperate or not, I need to wait until morning. I cannot risk running into Bob.

Chapter 10

    I drive through Harbour Cove feeling antsy and anxious, and head north on Peninsula Drive. I pass a dozen signs for vineyards, and smile when I see MERLOT DE LA MITAINE . Cute. Merlot of the Mitten—Michigan’s nickname. At least this vineyard doesn’t take itself seriously. What the hell? It’s 3:20 and a glass of wine and a clean ladies’ room sound heavenly. I follow a patch of arrows up a steep dirt drive and wind my way back to a gigantic old barn and a parking area.
    I stretch when I get out of the car and gasp when I take in the view. Perched atop a hillside on this pencil-thin peninsula, twisted grapevines covered in snow intertwine wooden fences and trellises. Barren cherry trees—still months from bearing fruit—form perfectly straight rows, like children lined up for recess. In the distance, I spy the waters of Lake Michigan.
    My stomach growls, forcing me to turn away from the dazzling vista. I cross the empty parking lot, wondering if this place is even open. The only thing I’ve eaten today was a tiny bag of pretzels on the airplane. I quicken my pace, yearning for a glass of wine and a sandwich.
    The wooden door creaks when I open it. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. Huge oak rafters suspended from the vast ceiling suggest that this place was an authentic barn at one time. Shelves of wine line the perimeter, and scattered tables display gourmet crackers and cheese spreaders, fancy corkscrews and wine aerators. Behind a cabinet I see an old-fashioned cash register, but nobody is in sight. Whoever owns this place must not care if they’re robbed.
    â€œHello?” I call, and step through an archway into the next room. A huge fieldstone fireplace is ablaze, giving warmth to the big, deserted space. Round tables fill the wood-planked floor, but it’s a U-shaped bar, made of old wooden wine kegs, that grabs my attention. Obviously, I’ve landed in the wine-tasting room. Great, now if I could just get some vino I’d be all set.
    â€œHey!” A man steps out from behind a wall, wiping his hands on an apron covered with pink stains.
    â€œHi,” I say. “Are you open for lunch?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    He’s a tall, fortysomething with a mop of unruly dark hair and a smile that makes me feel like he’s actually happy to see me. I’m guessing he’s the winemaker.
    â€œHave a seat.” He gestures to the empty room. “I think we can squeeze you in somewhere.” He smiles, and I can’t help but laugh. The poor guy has no business, but at least he has a sense of humor about it.
    â€œGood thing I arrived before the rush,” I say. I bypass the round tables and chairs and opt for a leather barstool.
    He hands me a menu. “We’re still keeping off-season hours. From the first of the year until May, we’re only open weekends and by appointment.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—” I push back my stool, but he places a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œNo worries. I’ve been in the back experimenting with some soups. I was hoping for a guinea pig. You game?”
    â€œUh, if you’re sure, then absolutely,” I say. “Mind if I use the powder room first?”
    He points to the back