“You don’t have to work with me. Apparently I’m a nightmare. Micromanaging, control freak, see-you-next-Tuesday. According to the conversation I overheard in the restroom, I’ve checked all the boxes.”

“Oh, Natalie. That doesn’t sound like you at all. For what it’s worth, I’m guessing the trouble is with your coworkers, not with you. Someone who said what they said is objectively awful. I’m sorry you heard that, and I want you to know it’s not true.”

“Thanks,” Natalie said. “You’re probably right, but it was hard to hear. To tell you the truth, I’m kind of glad they moved me to a department where my only coworker is a flat-screen monitor.” She sighed. “My coworkers can’t stand me.”

“Well, we love you here at Angel Creek Winery, so roll up your sleeves and help out.” Tess tossed her a rubber apron.

“Putting me to work?”

“This time of year, everybody works.”

“I’m toxic, remember?” She gamely tied on the apron.

“Say goodbye to your manicure,” Tess warned. “The next one is on me.”

Natalie always had a flawless manicure. It was something she considered necessary to look professional at work. For all the good that did her. She dove into the destemming with both hands, turning her fingers the deep rich color of old-vine zinfandel.

They worked side by side for a while. The repetitive task and the chatter of Tess’s family helped a little. “What if they’re right?” Natalie mused aloud. “My work peeps, I mean. What if they’re right and I’m toxic, and no one can stand me?”

Tess didn’t say anything right away, but Natalie felt her hard, studying gaze. “What?” she asked finally.

“You need a drink.” Tess caught Dominic’s eye. “We’re taking a break,” she said, gesturing Natalie over to a stationary tub with a hose.

“Slacker,” said her husband with a grin.

Tess stuck out her tongue at him and turned away. “I’m a toxic boss, too, sometimes. They just don’t dare say anything.”

After they washed up, Tess poured a glass of zinfandel from a cask labeled Old Vine—Creek Slope. For herself, she opened a frosty bottle of Topo Chico, and they sat down on the terrace adjacent to the house. Shaded by a pergola, the stone-paved area was littered with kids’ toys and offered a commanding view of the vineyard. Beyond that lay the neighboring apple orchard, where Tess’s sister lived and ran a wine-country cooking school.

“Listen,” said Tess. “I used to be like you. I used to be you. I was a life-support system for a job, mad at the world without really knowing why.”

“What?” Natalie frowned, then looked around at the house—which literally had a white picket fence—and the kids and dogs. “No way.”

“Way. Do you know, I once ended up in the ER with a panic attack?”