Bitter Roots, page 2
We didn’t. That’s why God invented banks. And second mortgages.
‘Let’s go back to the winery,’ I said. ‘Nothing more to see here that isn’t going to keep breaking our hearts.’
Quinn nodded and turned the ATV around. ‘Why don’t you call Josie and see when she can come by? You two get on better than she and I do.’
He had a point. Quinn had chafed at the iron-clad non-negotiable terms and conditions Josie had insisted on from all her clients. Hire me and you do what I say. Full stop. Don’t waste my time – and your money. Fortunately I had been able to persuade her that Quinn would fall in line. And he had. Mostly.
So I would call Josie and he would call Eve. Josie and I would have a blunt, unvarnished pull-no-punches talk. Quinn was going to try to charm Eve based on the you-catch-more-flies-with-honey-than-vinegar theory and maybe salvage something out of an otherwise total loss.
I didn’t want to burst my fiancé’s bubble, but all the charm in the world wasn’t going to change her sorry-but-no-dice answer.
‘All right, I’ll call Josie,’ I said. ‘But you know when Eve comes by, we won’t just be dealing with her. She’ll bring Richard and he’s going to snow us with a bunch of facts that sound like a foreign language we’re supposed to understand, and we don’t. He’ll back her up two hundred percent.’
Dr Richard Brightman, horticulturalist extraordinaire and professor at the University of Northern Virginia. Between him, Eve, and Jackson Landau they had been the Holy Trinity you wanted to deal with when you needed to buy grapevines. It had been Eve’s all-in gung-ho enthusiasm that convinced Jackson his nursery ought to be a testing ground for Richard’s research trials to clone rootstock that would be more resilient to climate change. First of all, it would put them on the cutting edge of the industry, promoting potential pioneering breakthroughs. Second, they’d get noticed, written about, talked about – possibly even as competitors of her alma mater, UC-Davis, the premier research university in the US for anything to do with grape growing and winemaking. No small feather in the cap. Third, a few years earlier Richard had already perfected a brilliantly simple way after trial and error experiments to graft hardy, resilient rootstock to more disease-susceptible vines with the end result being a grapevine that was guaranteed to be disease- and pest-free. The quid pro quo was that Jackson – who supplied a vast network of East Coast orchards and vineyards – would use Richard’s new graft with its By-God-Guaranteed-Good-Housekeeping-Seal-of-Approval assurance that the plants were in impeccable health. And the real pot-sweetener: Jackson voluntarily paid Richard a nickel for every vine and sapling he sold with the Brightman Graft because it was just such a brilliantly simple but genius innovation.
Which added up to a nice chunk of change for Richard. And a cozy relationship between him, Eve, and Jackson. In other words, how likely was it Richard was going to bite the hand that fed him, to rat out Jackson if he even suspected the vines might have been diseased from the get-go?
Quinn turned off the dirt-and-gravel road that ran alongside the vineyard onto Sycamore Lane, the pretty private road that meandered through our land connecting the winery, our home, the family cemetery, and the Ruins, a tenant house burned by Union troops during the Civil War. A number of years ago we’d renovated the Ruins, turning it into an outdoor stage. In eight days’ time fairy lights outlining the shell of the old house would twinkle, a band would play, and we would dance under the almost-full moon – the Flower Moon, May’s full moon, would appear two nights before our wedding – and celebrate with family and friends at our reception.
As Quinn and I pulled into a parking space behind the barrel room he said, ‘Eve’s a decent person. I think I can get some traction with her.’
I knew why Quinn had blinders on where Eve was concerned, but I also knew trying to get anything remotely resembling traction with her was like trying to push wet string uphill.
‘If you do manage to extort something from her, everyone else with diseased vines is going to want in on it. Especially Otto and Ali. Look at what’s happened to them.’
‘I know.’ He pursed his lips together and frowned. ‘I know. Such a damn shame.’
Otto and Ali James, who owned Bacchus Winery nearby in Middleburg, had lost almost all of their tiny vineyard for the same reason we – and others – had. Dying vines. And, like all of us, they had bought their rootstock from Landau’s.
But unlike most of us, the Jameses were going to lose everything. They had gone all in, played for all the marbles, and now they had nothing in reserve: nada, zilch, zippo, rien. Mortgaged to the hilt, retirement account and savings tapped out, a loan from Blue Ridge Federal that was probably going to be called soon. They were going to close the doors to Bacchus once they sold their equipment to the rest of us for pennies on the dollar – and then what?
Ali was devastated. Otto just lost it.
‘It’s even more of a tragedy considering what it’s doing to Otto. Especially after his meltdown the other night,’ I said.
According to my cousin Dominique Gosselin, owner of the Goose Creek Inn, the most romantic restaurant in the region and recent recipient of a Michelin star, Otto showed up in the bar and proceeded to get so stinking drunk the bartender refused to keep serving him. Someone took his keys and called a cab to take him home to Ali. On his way out the door he turned around and told the entire room, in a voice loud enough that everyone could hear, that he was damn sure Eve and Richard and Jackson knew the vines they were selling everyone were diseased but they’d formed a conspiracy of silence and were stonewalling.
He’d also announced in the same loud, angry voice that he was going to prove irrefutably that they did know and then sue their asses off.
Either that, or he was going to kill someone.
TWO
We climbed out of the Gator and Quinn passed me my cane. ‘Everyone knows what Otto said when he got hammered that night,’ he said. ‘If you weren’t there, you heard about it the next day at the General Store.’
From Thelma Johnson, the sassy octogenarian owner of said General Store, the pulsing nexus and beating heart of our little village of Atoka. You had to love the General Store. It had been an institution practically since God was a boy.
Thelma kept it well-stocked with the essential things we needed around here, from bait to ammunition to hoof polish for the horses, as well as the white stuff you had to have on hand when the other white stuff was falling from the sky. She received a daily supply of fresh croissants, muffins, and donuts from a bakery in neighboring Leesburg – the delivery guy climbed in through the side window to get the key if the front door was still locked – so it was an easy-going, well-established relationship. She also kept three pots of coffee labeled Plain, Decaf, and Fancy going, which meant her store was the place to congregate every morning.
But beyond the coffee and fresh-baked goods, what really kept everyone coming in was that you knew Thelma knew everything, and I mean everything that was happening in two counties – and that she was happy to … well, share her knowledge. Besides, her far-flung sources of information were unimpeachable: a coterie of collaborators known as the Romeos, which stood for Retired Old Men Eating Out. It was an august group of elders that whiled away the days at local restaurants hoovering up any tidbit of information that came along, which they then disseminated to the mother ship. In addition to holding court as habitués of the region’s many dining establishments, they frequented their fair share of watering holes, meaning they were also Retired Old Men Drinking Out.
Which was how Thelma had learned from first-hand accounts about Otto’s threats and the ugly scene in the bar of the Goose Creek Inn. And now everyone in Atoka and Middleburg knew about it as well.
‘I feel awful for Otto and Ali,’ I said to Quinn. ‘Ali told me they’re leaving town once they sell Bacchus and that Sloane Everett might buy the place since their land is adjacent to his. So maybe they’ll come out of this with a little money after they pay off their debts.’
Sloane Everett, our newest neighbor, was a retired NBA legend who had recently moved from southern California to Virginia with his wife, three daughters, and six championship rings. Despite stepping away from basketball he was still a sought-after superstar: a smart, popular, good-looking businessman who had signed lucrative contracts endorsing everything from cars to dog food. The Sloane and Isabella Everett Foundation helped kids in poor neighborhoods by buying school supplies, providing tutors, sponsoring summer rec programs and providing college scholarships.
‘That would be good for Otto and Ali if Sloane bought their place,’ Quinn said. ‘He’s rich enough that he could easily afford Bacchus. Hell, he could afford two Bacchuses.’
‘Yes, but he’s also got dying vines, same as Otto and Ali. They were failing before he even bought his vineyard from Harry.’
‘Harry Dye was completely upfront with Sloane about that when he sold him the place, so it was caveat emptor. Plus Austin made sure Sloane knew what he was getting into as well,’ Quinn said. ‘Austin said Sloane told him that it could have looked like something after the apocalypse, but he really didn’t care about the vineyard and its problems. He bought the house and the stables because Isabella fell in love with the place and she wanted a home on the East Coast in addition to the palace they own in California.’
Austin Kendall, one of the Romeos, had come out of semi-retirement to handle the eight-figure Everett deal for Kendall Luxury Estate Properties and probably could now buy himself a private island with his commission. If that’s what Austin said, his word was gold.
Plus there was the other story that had been going around. Not just that Isabella wanted an East Coast home because she’d grown up in D.C., but also because she wanted their three young daughters to be far, far away – at least geographically – from a little scandal involving their father and a drunken hookup with a cocktail waitress at a ski resort in Utah. When the story got out, as of course it would, Sloane tried claiming the sex was consensual. The waitress had a different opinion and it involved a date-rape drug. Eventually enough money bought her silence and there was no trial, but nevertheless the salacious Internet stories – real and invented – did irreparable damage to Sloane’s golden-boy reputation as an upstanding family man – not to mention his marriage. Isabella took him back, stood by him at a teary, penitent news conference where he professed to being a changed, humbled, and grateful man and talked about loving Jesus as his Savior, not to mention his wife, his daughters, his team, the NBA, motherhood, apple pie, the American flag and the kitchen sink. But after that, Isabella, who knew she’d saved her husband from a career-ending auto-da-fé, had kept him on a short leash.
‘However bad the vineyard looked when Sloane bought it, I heard from Antonio who heard from Vance that Sloane changed his mind about not being interested. All of a sudden he’s decided having his name on a bottle of wine is totally cool,’ I said.
Antonio Ramirez was our vineyard manager. Vance Hall had been Harry’s winemaker whom Sloane asked to stay on, initially telling him to do ‘whatever’ and send him the bill. The only thing Sloane had been interested in changing then was the vineyard’s name to GSV for Golden State Vineyard, or more formally GSV Estate Winery, in honor of his career playing for all four California NBA teams. Now supposedly he was all-in with the vineyard.
Quinn shrugged. ‘That’s what he says now. I wonder how long until he gets bored or burned out and turns it all back over to Vance?’
It was a fair question. Because, sure, it is totally cool and even fun owning a vineyard, but it’s also a hell of a lot of work. I mean, basically, we’re farmers. Anyone who thinks we spend our days toddling around the fields, glass of wine in hand, admiring God’s handiwork and waiting for those grapes to ripen to perfection so we can work our alchemy in the barrel room and, voilà, wave our wands and produce a wine to die for, is, frankly, delusional.
‘I don’t know how long he’ll stick it out,’ I said. ‘But in the meantime, an NBA superstar like Sloane Everett taking charge of his own vineyard right here in Virginia couldn’t hurt us.’
Media attention, more visitors, more visibility. In other words, one of Sloane’s famous slam dunks.
And, God knows, more money as more people came out here to visit and find out about all of us. To buy and drink our wine, enjoy our Virginia hospitality.
Although there was already plenty of money in this region, which was why we were known as the tony, affluent heart of Virginia’s horse and hunt country. A substantial amount of wealth was tied up in beautifully manicured estates with Old World names, some dating from the 1700s and evoking our English colonial roots. Our streets were named for the signers of the Declaration of Independence because they were friends of the man who founded the town in 1787, so we had a long and distinguished American pedigree.
Even more money was invested in horse farms that raised and bred thoroughbreds that one day might be winners of the Derby or at the Olympics or maybe even the really big prize: the Triple Crown. The town’s annual Stable Tour, a fundraiser held every Memorial Day weekend, brought thousands of people out here to take a peek at the glamorous, rarefied world of steeplechase racing, fox hunting, and polo. Along with the chance to stroll through multi-million-dollar stables and training grounds or enjoy the picture-postcard view of future champions grazing in jewel-green pastures with the Blue Ridge Mountains as a backdrop.
We already had a number of celebrities who lived here before Sloane Everett arrived. Mostly they were attracted by the natural beauty of our rolling hills and winding country lanes lined with stacked stone walls and our old-fashioned small-town charm with its horsey, tweedy overtones and beloved traditions. But those folks who had settled here were pretty low-key and appreciated that no one went gaga or gawked if they were seen at the Cuppa Giddyup getting a latte or buying Cow Puddles at The Upper Crust, because that’s how we were. No ‘look who I just saw’ photos posted on social media. Live and let live. Everyone was entitled to their privacy.
Sloane Everett was a whole different kettle of fish. A flashy, magnetic star who was not only buddy-buddy with basketball royalty, but also had A-list friends from Hollywood, not to mention an ex-president and a few Silicon Valley tech moguls who came and sat courtside to watch him play. No one had quite figured out yet how he was going to fit in here – or stand out.
And whether he was going to join what was becoming a louder and louder chorus from his neighbors: vineyard owners and winemakers who had the same problem he did with dying vines. All of which had come from Landau’s Trees & Vines.
This evening Quinn and I were hosting a blending party for our new Chardonnay. It would be a gathering of staff, friends in the business, plus my cousin Dominique and my grandfather, who was visiting from Paris, all of whom would spend a couple of hours swirling, spitting, tasting, discussing and making notes to help us figure out what combination of flavors would make the best Chardonnay from the different barrels we’d been aging.
But while we were doing that, I knew the evening would almost certainly devolve into an informal discussion about our options for getting some kind of retribution or remuneration – anything – from Jackson Landau as compensation for our considerable losses. Which right now was about as likely to happen as Dom Pérignon himself joining us for the evening.
Decades ago in California a group of vineyard owners had sued the pants off a nursery they claimed had been selling diseased vines for years. It had been ugly and bitter, pitting friends against each other and tearing apart a close-knit community. Neither Quinn nor I wanted to see something that savage happen here in Virginia. We were a whole lot smaller than California and we didn’t have the same clout. Our strength came from banding together, from being united and helping each other out. From remembering that we had a shared goal: to make Virginia a winemaking region to be reckoned with. But with Jackson not giving an inch, and Eve and Richard digging in their heels as well, I knew a number of vineyards – most notably Otto and Ali at Bacchus – were already at the tipping point.
By tonight we’d probably know who was ready to get out the long knives and who still wanted to try diplomacy. I knew that Quinn – the Californian among us – would argue for trying to work this out, make a deal, and find the middle ground. No lawyers. No lawsuits. And, God knows, no airing our dirty laundry for the rest of the wine world to see.
He would be in the minority.
Everyone else – from the beating war drums I’d heard – was ready for a fight.
And if those who wanted to draw blood could get someone like Sloane Everett on board, then, Jesus Lord, the fireworks might be epic.
Sloane wasn’t coming to tonight’s session – frankly, he didn’t yet have enough experience or knowledge to be discussing the finer points of taste, aroma, type of fermentation, all the technical stuff – plus, and this was more to the point, it wasn’t clear whose side he was on. He could very well decide he really didn’t want to get mixed up in something that had the potential to turn ugly since he hadn’t bought diseased vines: Harry had. Maybe, like Quinn, he didn’t want to see another California-type explosion that would take his newest interest – GSV Estate Winery – down with it. He could afford to turn a blind eye.
But Vance Hall, Sloane’s winemaker, would be here. He’d know which way the wind blew with his boss.
As if he read my mind – which I often thought he did – Quinn said, ‘Hopefully Vance will fill us in on just how committed Sloane is.’
‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s go inside and make those calls – you talk to Eve, I’ll call Josie – so we can figure out where we are.’
We were still standing next to the Gator, mostly because we didn’t want to have this conversation in the wine cellar in front of Antonio and the rest of the crew. They didn’t need anything else to make them more anxious and jittery these days. ICE was doing a bang-up job of that, swooping down and rounding up people they suspected were in the country illegally, making them disappear. Asking questions later.
