The Gift, page 7
Scrolling…
The places sold with the tasting room, storage room, and vineyard running at full speed, similar to what’s in my mind right now, might be more my speed. I’d walk right in and start creating wine. The faster the better. Ahh, yes.
So, what type of wine would I make? Or, I should say, varietal—I’m already learning so much. Well… I read further in the article. Looks like the type of grapes my land would grow depends on many factors, then those determine the wine varietal.
I hold up my left hand to count them as I read.
Climate.
Soil type.
Sunlight.
Land slope.
Elevation.
Before I need to start using the hand controlling the mouse to continue counting, I stop scanning and imagine tending to my grapes with perfect conditions, filling me with satisfaction. Instead of overwhelming me, the plethora of information motivates me. I can’t wait to walk on the soil of a vineyard. Yes, I must—and soon.
Just as I almost bounce off the couch with anticipation, my eyes see a sentence that breaks the swing of the night.
You’ll need a business plan to secure a loan.
Christian will flip his lid if I take out a loan. The only loan he wants is for a future house. And LA prices aren’t starter-home friendly, so that still may be a while for us.
Moving on, moving on. Don’t let that stop you.
Examining more, I see I’d also need to make more decisions than what I read already—spacing of the vines, what equipment to use... Of course, there’s that pesky decision about leaving the only career I’ve ever known too.
Did you hear a record scratch, or was that just in my head?
I don’t know how to be a vintner. What I know is how to rock a sheet of music and take the listener on a journey. Since I was seven, all I ever wanted was what I have—well, kinda. I never saw myself as a teacher, but I am playing cello professionally at least. When I think of all the sacrifices I made, and my parents, I can’t help but feel guilty for even thinking of giving it up.
What would my parents say? Dad would definitely dislike this idea. I know that much. It’s always been the two of us as the musicians of the family, a true bond and unique part of our relationship. He plays his keyboard, and I play my cello, serenading the family at Sunday dinners and holidays. Flora quit her instrument a long time ago, so I was the one to carry on the musical tradition of the family.
Yet, another tradition from generations back calls to me.
Just as I’m seeing my life’s work slip through my fingers like sand from Venice Beach, Christian walks through the door.
I slam my laptop closed.
“Careful, Tone Tone. Let out that rage on a pillow or something.” He drops his keys and messenger bag on the counter and comes over to me. “You okay?” He furrows his brow.
“Yeah, all good here.” Can my voice be any higher pitched?
He bends down and gives my lips a peck. “Good. What’s for dinner?”
“Um, I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’m a little distracted because of a work thing.”
“I knew something was up. What work thing?” He walks away, and I hear him shuffling through the pantry as I stare out the glass doors.
“I have to switch around my entire schedule or lose my school job because of county ignorance for the importance of the arts once again. No biggie.” I tsk.
“I know how you love scheduling. But you’ll figure it out. At least you can keep the job.”
Yeah, it’s true, but I don’t have a choice. That’s my main job, so I have to do whatever they want to keep the steady paycheck, or we’ll never get out of this apartment. And Christian wouldn’t be happy with me!
My eyes travel back to my resting laptop and remind my brain that I may have alternatives.
But for now, I ask, “Hey, have you heard of Taste of Italy?”
“Can’t say I have.” He crunches on crackers as a pre-dinner snack and sits down next to me.
I shift my evidence—uh, computer—to the opposite side of the couch. “It’s an Italian festival down at the Pico House in the El Pueblo area next month. Wanna go?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Looks like, from the flyer I saw, that restaurants have booths there, so maybe we’ll find a tasty place for our anniversary dinner. I mean, if that’s something you want to do to celebrate.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about what to do that night. I have some ideas.”
“You have?” Is the old Christian really still here? He returned in the nick of time for our milestone day.
“I have. Do you want to hear them or be whisked away and surprised?”
He’s put effort into an anniversary idea? “I guess I’d like to be surprised.” I have enough planning to do on my own now.
“You got it.” He chomps on more crackers.
There’s no way in hell I’m ruining the mood with any conversation about mere thoughts floating through my head, especially when I need to do more in-depth research. Maybe we’ll survive the dip we’ve been in after all. I will not be the one to push us back down the hill.
I imagine holding up a glass filled with cabernet to cheer us. Here’s to hoping for positive changes, be it my career or my marriage. Can’t a girl hope for happiness in both?
Chapter Thirteen
Spreading out my work obligations on notecards compounds my scheduling chaos. How can I have this many lessons, rehearsals for shows, and school hours each week? Trying to rearrange this new fall schedule seems more impossible than the old one I figured out a month ago. I want to walk right into that county office and give them a piece of my musician mind. David would go with me too, I bet. Even though he isn’t an arts teacher, I know he’d support me.
I can’t shake his encouragement when I told him about my real-life fantasy. And I shouldn’t shake it, I guess. But, more accurately, what I can’t shake is the difference from Christian’s reaction.
Ugh, what’s wrong with me? Christian’s been in a better mood lately. I’m not walking on eggshells as much. He’s not giving me passive-aggressive looks. And we’re even more affectionate again. But this doesn’t seem to matter. All I keep focusing on is a swirl of images—good, bad, and ugly. Pietro, Christian, David, me playing cello in Napa, me enjoying time in a vineyard, my vineyard, my own vineyard… AAH! Help! Someone has to get me out of my mental prison.
I know, I know. If I would just be open and honest with Christian, I wouldn’t feel like I’m hiding anything. And technically, I’m not. Right? Wives can have their own adventure going on…behind their husband’s back. It’s not like I’ve signed a loan agreement or anything. I’m just researching. Thinking. Imagining.
And as for the other secret, I never agreed to end my friendship with David. The more I think about that topic, the more I’m irritated at Christian for telling me to do so, like I’m his teenage daughter. It’ll never sit right with me to cut David off for absolutely no reason.
The notecards crumple in my tight hands. I can’t deal with scheduling right now. Maybe if I glance at where vineyards would be possible around Glendale, I’d be able to concentrate more later. You know, with a break. And after I meet my sister for dinner. Yes, food in my stomach will help. I’m not procrastinating or anything.
Grabbing my laptop, I go to the website of my new best friend, Google. Wineries near Los Angeles. Oh, there’s San Antonio Winery. Yup, been there, done that. A few more are listed, but they aren’t located with their vineyards.
Here’s try number two.
Vineyards near LA. Yesss. The same few choices populate first, but there are other choices as well.
Wait. There are vineyards in Malibu? I feel like knocking my head with my knuckle because of the lack of knowledge I have for my hometown once again. It’s getting ridiculous.
Wow, look at these gorgeous pictures. I wonder if there’s more land for sale over there. Would I need to contact a commercial realtor to see these properties in person?
I catch myself acting like I’m going to shop for a vineyard. Slow down.
So, what kinds of varietals are grown in Malibu? This site states they don’t taste the same as wines from Napa, and they are usually sold at lower cost. How ironic that Malibu has anything lower cost. But there’s cabernet sauvignon, syrah, and merlot—tasty triplets—that grow there. And the whites are typically chardonnay and sauvignon blanc. I can deal with those twins.
Searching more areas, I don’t see any vineyards closer to Glendale than Malibu. It’s only about an hour away, so it’d be funny if visiting there was part of Christian’s surprise anniversary plan. Even though he says he doesn’t like wine, it seems to be growing on him…maybe like this idea. Fingers and toes crossed.
But…he probably wouldn’t want to encourage me to do what I mentioned at the winery. Yeah right, who am I kidding? He probably doesn’t even remember. The idea was so far-fetched to him that I bet he hasn’t given it a second thought.
If he only knew what I’m doing right now.
Knock, knock, knock.
Flora and her friends must be here, so I rush to the door.
“Sister!” Flora yells and leans over to hug me. “Don’t get dressed up for us or anything.” She giggles.
I push down my ringlets in an attempt to be more suitable for her while wearing leggings, but I know she’s kidding anyway. And daydreaming kept me busy, so give me a break, people. “Hey there. Good to see you. Come in, everyone.”
Flora and her two friends enter my apartment as she introduces them. “This is one of my oldest friends, Ben, and his friend, Mary, from New Orleans.”
I shake their hands. “Welcome to LA. It’s good to finally meet you, Ben.”
“Thanks, honey,” Ben replies. “You too. And hot damn, you two could be twins.”
Would she be the chardonnay, and I’d be sauvignon blanc?
“Yeah, everyone says that. It’s just that we’re two short girls with curly hair, though. We don’t have any other similar qualities when you really look at our faces.”
We both move our faces together and freeze so he can see for himself. It’s our usual routine by now.
“I’ll give ya that.” He scans the room and sucks his teeth. “This place is not too shabby. Now, if you were in New Orleans, we’d have to get some paint on these white walls, but hey, LA seems to love this simple, modern look. It’s not for me, but it works for you.”
Something about his honesty makes me snort.
“I’ve been vibin’ with your sis, Flora,” Mary chimes in. “Maybe California is my jam. I wouldn’t have guessed with how big it is over here in LA. New Orleans is a small big city, if you know what I mean.”
I guess all of Flora’s friends are as honest as a small child.
“I haven’t ever been there, but maybe someday,” I say. “Can I get anyone something to drink?”
“I’d love some caffeine if you have any. I’m jonesin’ for some strong coffee to deal with this time change.” Mary shakes her hands in exaggeration. “Oh my gosh, look at your cat!”
Nala doesn’t give them the time of day and, instead, continues to stare out the sliding glass doors.
Mary continues, “I have a cat named Mr. Grayson, and he’s my world.”
“What a great name.” I make my way to the coffee pot to feed Mary’s request.
“Thanks. I wish you could meet him.” She sits on a barstool.
Ben adds, “Dios mío, that cat. He’s got a personality on him.”
“What do you have planned for your vacation?” I ask my guests as I fill the tank with water.
“I want to do all the touristy things, like the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, eat a hot dog at Pink’s…” Ben replies.
“I bet you do,” Flora jokes.
“You naughty girl!” Ben also makes himself comfortable on a barstool next to Mary.
After I set the coffee machine to start its magic, I see Flora holding up my laptop.
She doesn’t take her eyes away from the screen and asks, “What’s this you’re looking at?”
I speedwalk over to her, swipe my computer from her hands, and close it. “Nothing.”
“That seems like something.” Flora tilts her head. “You don’t have to be shy about looking at wineries. What, you and Christian planning something for your anniversary?”
I can jump on that excuse. “Yeah, maybe. I was just seeing what I could find to do that may be different. And it reminds me of the wedding in Italy.” That’s not a lie.
“Italy! Oh, boo for me not being there with ya,” Ben interjects.
“And what about me?” Mary adds.
These two.
I smile at Flora.
“Maybe that’s something you two want to do while you’re here,” she suggests. “Take a little drive when I’m working on my store or something.”
“Yeah, how’s that going, Flora?” I need to change the subject. “It’s almost opening day.”
“Yes! And good, but you know, things pop up that I don’t expect. That’s why it’s great that Ben brought Mary along for the opening. He runs a knick-knack store, and she owns a New Age store.”
“You’ll both be gems for Flora right now. And Mary, a New Age store sounds so…fulfilling.” Imagine that. Being fulfilled from work.
“It is. And I’m lucky to still have it all these years later.” She looks at Ben and lifts her eyebrows.
“So,” Flora continues, “she may be able to give me some advice for my startup.”
“A surf store is slightly different than a New Age store, but yeah, I’ll help in any way I can.” Mary’s crystal bracelets clink together as she talks with her hands.
I didn’t connect how Flora is also changing careers—a desk job never suited her active nature, even though it was in hospitality and she loves talking to people. Well, she’s not also changing careers, but…you know what I mean. And my parents weren’t thrilled with her decision at first, but at least she wasn’t a musician to start with, because that would’ve been a disaster.
My heart sinks, thinking of my parents’ faces if I ever decided to leave my music career, but I push the heaviness down.
Anyway, she never stayed more than a few years at one job, but when she worked for other people, she at least had a paycheck and was talented at saving money. Working for herself is not reliable, as my Dad says. But he and Mom are as supportive as possible now, even though they wish she’d choose a different path.
“I appreciate any advice,” Flora responds then glances in my direction. “You know I’ve always loved surfing, so here I am.”
“That’s true, sis. And you have to love what you do.” Pushing down more of that heaviness…
“I can ride a wave with the best of them.” She smirks.
“My humble friend, everyone.” Ben exaggerates a stare to Flora.
“When you have it, you have it, what can I say?” Flora brushes her shoulder a few times with her hand.
The coffee is ready, so I put it in a travel mug for Mary and hand it to her. “Ready to go?”
“Yes, my God, let’s eat already.” Ben pops up from his barstool.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
“I’m ready,” Flora says.
I’m ready for a distraction, now from the reminder of possible parental disappointment. Soon, I’m going to need a distraction from my distraction activity. Then, something else will make me feel guilty for upsetting my loved ones, and I’ll need a distraction from the distraction from the distraction.
Focusing on how Flora’s face lights up when she talks about her passion, my spinning mind settles. I need that spark again too, but at what cost?
Chapter Fourteen
That’s it. I’m not going to fight it anymore. I’m going to own a vineyard. I’ll figure out when and where, but what I know is I have to do it. It’s time to follow my heart, no matter what the peanut gallery thinks. After spending time with Flora and her friends, and hearing their excitement about their stores, I’m listening to my heart and moving forward. That’s all there is to it.
Now, Christian and I are about to dive into the famous chopped salad at La Scala in Beverly Hills on our fancy date night. White tablecloths, low lighting, and a glowing candle between us equals fancy. Oh, also Beverly Hills, of course.
I thought it would be good luck to tell him about my plan here since when we were at Milan’s La Scala the night ended another way. That makes sense, right? They both can’t be negative energies, and 90210 is a zip code for success.
Oh gosh, Mary and her New Age talk sunk into my brain this week. A puff of air leaves my nostrils in a stifled snort.
Well, if this place was good enough for Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor, it’s good enough for Toni Agosti and Christian Kendall. Maybe we’ll run into Leonardo DiCaprio or Gwyneth Paltrow, and they can help me plead my case. I scan the room to make sure they’re not here. Darn, they’re not.
“This salad never gets old.” Christian rockets toward his plate to smell the aroma, his umber-brown eyes lit by the candle’s flame.
“I agree.” Staring at the simple genius of the strips of salami, shredded mozzarella cheese, and garbanzo beans on chopped iceberg and romaine lettuce, I can’t wait any longer to shove it in my mouth. “Mmm. What makes this vinaigrette so good?” I say as I chew.
Is that a judgy look? And I thought he’s been trying so hard lately.
Christian looks down at his salad. “Dry mustard and parmesan, I’m sure.”
