The Gift, page 10
“Welcome to Malibu wine country. Good to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Agosti.” Tad reaches his hand out to shake both of ours.
Gulp. Way to hit a rough spot from minute one, Tad.
“You too, Tad.” Christian emphasizes the D in his name. “Toni’s surname is Agosti, but I’m Christian Kendall,” he’s quick to correct.
“Thanks for meeting us.” I jump in to move the moment along. “As I said on the phone, I want to get an idea of land cost, how everything works to buy acreage, and whatever else you can tell us.” I turn in a circle to take in the scenery. The arid land mixed with specs of green-leafed trees is different than I expected. I don’t know what I expected, though. Maybe already developed land with rows of vines, like I’m used to in Italy, not starting from scratch.
“I’m glad you called the best brokers for vineyards you could find, and I just happened to be on desk duty that day.” Tad smiles at both of us, and we remain silent. “What you’re looking at is a common area for farms in Southern California. There are some wineries as well as some vineyards.”
I cut in, “Why do some wineries exist without vineyards? Isn’t that impossible?”
“Good question. Some choose to grow their product in other areas that may be more suitable to the wine they want to sell, but they incorporate the business in this location to have their tasting rooms. The climate of our area isn’t meant for all grapes to thrive.”
“Interesting you didn’t know that info, Toni.” Christian pretends to cough and mumbles, “Over your head.”
I freeze for a millisecond then laugh it off so Tad thinks he’s kidding. Hopefully my coverup isn’t transparent.
Christian grins, seeming pleased that he got a rise out of me, but Tad appears unaffected, barely noticing us over the passing pickup truck blasting country music.
You know what? Screw hiding in plain sight. I’ll take ownership of not yet knowing everything about the wine business, leaning into Christian’s notion of my ignorance. Why hide the truth—about being at the beginning of my learning, NOT about being ignorant, because I’m not, thank you very much. “Yeah, there are so many aspects of having a winery that I haven’t thought about yet, I’m sure.”
“Oh yes, there are, Toni. I can assure you.” Tad’s volume drops. “But I can help you with getting it off the ground. We all have to start somewhere.”
“Thanks for the validation.” I avoid looking at Christian. “I appreciate anything you can tell us. But for today, I think seeing a few options for land would suffice. It’s all such a big decision.” Now, I accidentally look at Christian, thinking he’ll be all over that statement, taking it in his grip and never letting it go, but he’s staring off in the distance. I dodged his sarcasm? I should play the lottery today.
Tad continues, “This lot you see here is five acres and has hillside slopes, giving you a perfect angle for air to hit your grapes after irrigation on those cool nights we love. The terroir can’t be beat in this area of our state.”
“What’s the terroir?” Christian asks.
I jump in to answer, “That’s the way the soil, climate, and terrain affect the taste of wine.”
Tad nods in agreement.
Christian gives a, “Hmph,” and an eyebrow raise. “That’s interesting.”
Interesting that I know something, or interesting like this bug finally bit him too?
Wait, as soon as I think bug, I think of how a bug changed everything for Pietro. No bugs here, please. Let’s say, a kitten licked him. No, that’s weird.
Tad walks onto the dirt, distracting my train of thought going nowhere and apparently not caring about what looks like expensive loafers. I came prepared in my trusty red sneakers, so I follow without hesitation. Even in work shoes, I couldn’t resist.
He bends down to sift soil through his hands. “This is gold right here, peeps.”
Minus one point for Tad. Nobody wants to hear the word peeps anymore—at least, that’s what the kids tell me.
“The wineries in the ‘Bu…”
Christian and I chuckle, so Tad stops talking.
“Sorry, I’ve never heard Malibu’s nickname.” I hope I didn’t offend him.
Christian’s doesn’t apologize but continues to smile.
Tad continues, “You may be a native soon, so I’ll teach you all the lingo. As I was saying, the wineries in the ‘Bu”—he stops and looks at us with a grin—“grow many varietals with ease. You can grow robust cabs to delicate sauvignon blanc.”
“Growing cabernet grapes would be my priority.”
“How do you know that, Toni?” Christian asks.
“I’ve learned how the Mediterranean climate of Southern California is like the area of Italy my family lives in, so I know Pietro grew cabernet. And pinot noir, but that isn’t usually grown down here. It’s more in Napa and Sonoma.”
Tad drops the soil, brushes the remnants off of his hands, and stands up. “You have done some research, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, a little.” Maybe more than I thought. My posture grows straighter.
“And your family had a winery? Pietro?” Tad asks.
“Yes,” I say. Good catch, Tad. You earn back the lost point. Continuing, I add, “Until they tried the business here then couldn’t make it work.”
“Just like so many in the past. A quote by wine historian Thomas Pinney states, ‘The most striking fact about the history of winemaking in Los Angeles…is the completeness with which it has been forgotten.’”
A dull ache strikes my chest. “Tell me about it. What a shame.”
“You can say that again,” Tad agrees.
“How much does land like this cost?” Christian forces us back to the present.
“This lot is going for four mil,” Tad replies.
Christian clears his throat.
I can barely make a sound.
“Four million dollars?” Christian crosses his arms and spreads his legs in a stiff stance. “How can anyone afford that?”
“Well, that’s why there are loans.” Tad says the little L word with big meaning.
Images of me feeling the plumpness of grapes in my vineyard move farther and farther back in my mind, like a car driving away from a designated site. That site may be this site I’m standing on right now. I knew this business would be costly, but damn, that’s a lot of dough.
Yet, something whispers to keep going.
“Tad, I’m not sold on this area yet. Are there any other sections of Malibu you could show us?” I ask.
Christian widens his eyes at me as if to ask why I’m wasting Tad’s time, but he remains quiet.
“There’s one more section of land for sale, but it’s bigger and costs more money.” He pauses. “Let’s do this. You go grab some coffee and watch the waves while you talk about the opportunity here. I can see you both want this, and I want to help you get there. Think about how much you like the area. Let it settle in.”
If Tad sees we both want this, he needs glasses.
“Yeah, we have a lot to think about, Tad. Thanks so much for your time. I’ll be in touch.” I shake his grainy hand, and something about feeling specs of the earth soothes me.
“Thank you, Tad.” Christian says his name without a hint of harassment. The sticker shock must have knocked him silly.
As soon as we close the car doors, Christian says, “I gotta say, Tone Tone, it’s nice over here.”
Huh?
“Uh, yeah it is, but um…what do you think of…everything?” I can’t bear to glance to my left.
“I’m not sold on the idea, but seeing you talk about something with passion struck me this time. What a change from your usual.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Could it be? Could he get it that I need something different in life? Maybe the mention of Pietro finally hit Christian’s artist heart. We found it together, Pietro. His art heart still exists!
“All I’m telling you is that even with the stupid amount of money it would cost, it was good to see you happy.” He reaches over for my hand. “And it’s fun to take a little drive with you.”
“In that case, how about we follow Tad’s advice and grab some coffee at the beach?”
He clicks his seatbelt into its anchor and starts the car. “On the way.”
Chapter Nineteen
"Are you really a ‘Bu girl?” Christian sips his unsweetened black coffee.
“That’s what you’re concerned about?!” I snort as I tip my head.
“Yeah, you’re right. I better not say it too loud around here, or the ‘Buians will make us cross the border.”
“‘Buians? That’s a good one.” The cool October breeze whips my cotton scarf over my face, as if laughing with us.
“Seriously, though, driving here through the vineyards was relaxing. I know you’d work hard if you owned one, but we also could enjoy it together. I’d love to see you more than I do now.”
Together. My whole body jumps at the notion. “Yes! One peaceful workplace. And being together.” I hold my steaming pumpkin-spice coffee steady as I try to contain myself from this turn of events.
“Let’s do a little digging.” Christian reaches for his phone in his pocket and says, “I’ll search, How to get money to start a winery.”
That’s obviously where he’s starting, with the money. I know it’s a big deal, but can’t we enjoy our connection at this moment? Eh, no need to disrupt the tranquil waters and say something, though. The ocean air and Christian’s interest has me on a high.
“There are loans, as we know. There are equipment loans, business loans, and more. Then there’s crowdfunding and private investors.” He laughs. “Do you have any friends with a cool five mil laying around?”
“Five? What happened to the land in the ‘Bu for four?”
“That’s just the land. We’ll need everything else. Like I just said, equipment for one—unless you want to make your own barrels and whatever else we would need.” He angles his head with a matching mouth.
I hold up my mug to disguise biting my curling lip and squealing. He’s saying we.
He continues, “We’ll need bottling equipment in particular.”
Instead of hearing needs and numbers, my mind drifts to labels and names, mirroring the ocean’s serene ebb and flow of its waves. “Maybe I’ll want something music related on the label.”
He places his phone down on the table between us, next to mine. “What would we call our winery?”
He’s playing along?
“Wine Time.” I ball up my napkin and throw it in an attempt to hit him with both my genius title and athletic skills. The wind is not in my favor.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” He spreads his hands in front of his face and gazes into the cliffs spanning the coastline. “Simple and effective.”
The light from a new text on my phone seizes our attention.
I swipe it away as fast as possible since I saw the sender’s name.
David has great timing. Prior to a few weeks ago, I’d think nothing of responding to him right now, so maybe I should? Ugh, staring at my screen isn’t helping the situation. Think, Toni. Do something, quick.
“Just answer him. You know you want to.” Christian’s vibe remains unchanged from moments before our interruption.
“Nah, I can reply later, but thanks. That means a lot.” I turn my phone over, face down. “Besides, I’m enjoying the view too much to be distracted.” I beam into my husband’s eyes so he knows I mean him, despite the beauty that surrounds us.
“So, you never answered me, Tone Tone. Do you think this is the area for us if we did this thing?”
Oh, he’s still on wine time—pun intended. Okay, then. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I see us here. Something in my gut says no.” I try out plural language and carefully watch his reaction.
“Malibu has never been our scene.” He returns my use of words while also grabbing his phone again. After a few seconds, he says, “There’s nothing else close enough to Glendale, though.”
“I wish the LA vineyards still existed. They would be the ideal location.” I take a deep breath of cleansing salty air.
“That would be great. But…” He continues to type. “The next closest places are San Diego—”
“Bzzz. Wrong answer. I never feel at home there for some reason.”
“Santa Barbara—”
“Bzzz. Way too far. Next.”
“Yeah, that’s much farther. Oh, but so is Temecula Valley…” He trails off, as if asking himself.
My interest piques. “Where’s that?”
“I’ve never heard of it either. Oh, looks like it’s at least an hour and thirty minutes away from home. That’s out, especially with traffic adding time. Totally unrealistic.”
But the thing is, as soon as Christian said the words, ‘Temecula Valley,’ I heard them in song. Six glowing beats laying ahead and leading me—I mean, us—on a path to the dream. I need to go there. I don’t care how far away it is from Glendale.
“Can we give it a looksy?” I ask quietly as my shoulders meet my head.
“Toni, we’d have to move for that location, and I’m not leaving my job. It’s out of the question.”
No, it’s not.
But I won’t change today’s motion with a detour, so I say, “Yeah. The right place will come to us.”
“We’ll have to figure it out. Maybe there’s more in this area that Tad doesn’t know about, or…” He sucks his lips inward and looks to the side.
“We’ll be alright, babe.” Let’s hope we are after I drive a few hours away to a certain valley.
Just as this thought crosses my mind, one last gust of wind sends a scrap piece of paper to our table, pinning it to my coffee mug—at least it isn’t my face this time. One written letter on the paper has been separated from the rest of its word. The P stands alone and strong in my hands.
Goosebumps.
Pietro? I hear ya.
I slip it in my pocket without Christian witnessing my zaniness.
When he looks back at me after viewing the beginning of the sunset over the water, he smiles.
I return the smile and lay my hand over my pocket.
Chapter Twenty
I’ve been so consumed with researching how to open a winery that I haven’t checked my professional email in at least a month. I’ve barely checked my personal account too. The only one I’m up to date on is my work email since it’s in my face on my desktop at school. By the time I get home from my long days, I enjoy a little Nala time, a little wine, and a lot of dreaming. But checking my professional email today is showing me something with awesome timing—not.
There’s an alert I signed up for when a philharmonic position becomes available, and guess which one has a section audition for cello in the next month. Yup, you guessed right—the Los Angeles Philharmonic. It’s only my goal being offered to me once again at the exact moment of confusion of whether it’s still my goal. I don’t know what to think anymore, people! My mind is whizzing. Maybe that’s why they call this place La La Land, and I’m definitely a local.
If I would’ve checked this account earlier, I’d have more time to prepare. I’ll need to submit my resume and, if accepted, prepare the excerpts—at least twelve—then need to practice non-stop for those six minutes of pressure to end up with a big fat “No” once again.
Wait. Why do I do this to myself? Because I was rejected in the past doesn’t mean I would be this time. Audition performances don’t influence one another, and they’re blind. Nobody knows who’s playing behind the curtain, so they aren’t biased. Judges don’t say, “There’s Agosti again,” then maniacally laugh throughout my play time.
Or do they?
No, of course not. They’re wonderful musicians and are looking for the best person to fill the spot. That simply hasn’t been me. Yet.
But what am I even thinking? I can’t desert the new destination of my life as a vintner because of an old one as an LA Phil musician. If I followed every dream from when I was a kid, I’d be married to all five guys from *NSYNC and living on their tour bus.
I rub my face and exhale.
Going into practice mode for LA Phil as soon as I see a position is available is automatic at this point. The fact of the matter is that I can’t let this audition erase from my mind any more than I can be sure I’m going to be more fulfilled by being a vintner. I have to give this a shot. Right?
My head whips back to my cello in its case by the door, prompting my shoulder pain. You’d think I’d learn to stop fast neck movement. So, I get up to put some ice on it then unzip my baby free, staring at her as if she’ll make me the perfect player by osmosis. We return to the couch together, side by side, as I let the ice do its work while I lay my hands on my instrument and imagine playing her on that famous LA Phil stage.
The last time I practiced any challenging piece at home would have been…well, the last available LA Philharmonic position a few years ago. I knew those excerpts inside and out by audition time, sleeping and eating quarter notes, rests, and fortes. Once I dreamt a crescendo mark was an alligator mouth about to bite off my fingers. Talk about a musician’s nightmare.
I’ll have to devote a lot of time to practicing again if I want to have my best chance. Oh no, I feel lightheaded. With the holidays coming, meaning preparing for concerts at school, shows I’m performing in, helping private students with auditions for colleges, and, I don’t know, trying to learn what I’d be getting into being a vintner, I’m kind of booked.
But here I am, dragging my music stand from the corner of the room to my practice chair. Although the sheet music I have laying around isn’t usually one included for auditions, it’s a fave of mine and I need to release my nerves somehow so it can do the trick.
