Sour Grapes, page 8
“More cleaning?” I guessed.
“No,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’m going to teach you how we make wine.”
“Oh!” My mood instantly brightened, and I hustled to catch up with her brisk stride.
We stopped first at the destemming machine where a narrow conveyor belt ascended and stopped at a metal container that resembled a meat grinder. A giant corkscrew within the metal-framed box separated most of the grapes from their woody vines.
“In early fall, when the grapes are ripe, we’ll hand pick the bunches and bring them to the barn.” Lucia gestured to the currently silent machine. “This is the crusher or destemmer. Grapes are dumped into the hopper that augers them into a rotating destemmer that knocks the berries off the stems.”
I nodded to indicate I was listening. Rolando had briefly described all of these things to me, but I wasn’t going to interrupt or cut her off.
“The berries fall through the gap between two rollers set to pop them without crushing the seeds,” she continued. “If it crushed the seeds, you’d get too much bitterness.”
“I’m assuming no one actually crushes grapes by foot anymore?”
Lucia curled her lip. “Would you want to drink wine that someone’s feet had been in?”
“I guess not.”
Lucia sighed. “We could do something to entertain the tourists if that’s what you’re suggesting. We usually compost our young grapes that aren’t ready to be wine yet, but I guess we could let visitors stomp around in them first.”
A small smile made its way to my mouth. “That’s very charitable of you.”
Lucia snorted. “Whatever.”
We walked next to the trio of fermentation tanks where I’d recently spent my morning. I looked up at the giant steel silos. “I’ll probably never look at these things the same.” I tried to keep my tone light and teasing.
Lucia’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry.” She tugged at her long, single braid. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“And I should have told you all about Alex earlier,” I admitted. “But anyway,” I said, not wanting to linger on the past, “this is where the alcohol gets made, right?”
Lucia nodded. “Naturally occurring yeast grows on the exterior of the grape. Only the skin protects it from that yeast. When the skin is broken, fermentation occurs. It’s not rocket science,” she admitted. “If you took a bucket full of wine grapes and stomped on them a little, about a week later you’d be making something that resembled wine.
“The yeast eats the sugar, and it makes alcohol,” I recalled.
I remembered that part from a brewery tour I’d been on once. The yeast molecules were basically college frat boys—eating, farting, and having sex with themselves to produce the alcohol.
“And CO2,” Lucia added. She wrapped her knuckles against one of the steel tanks. “While the wine is fermenting, CO2 is released, which causes the skins and seeds to raise to the surface and the juice settles to the bottom of these tanks.”
“Do you skim off the skin and seeds then?” I asked. I pictured a wide-mouthed net, like a pool skimmer.
Lucia shook her head. “We want the skins to sit with the juice. The skins are what give red wine its color. The juice itself is clear; it’s colorless. It doesn’t have the true flavor of the varietal. The true character is really in the skin. The CO2 pushes the skins to the top, creating a thick cap.” She motioned with her hands as if pantomiming the process. “The cap needs to be punched down three times a day to keep the skins moist. It’s my favorite part of this whole process.”
“Because you like punching things?” I hazarded to guess.
Lucia’s mouth twisted. “Who do you think I am?”
“Wine diamonds?” I couldn’t help myself.
“I said I was sorry!” Her voice made an uncharacteristic squeak.
I grabbed her forearm to let her know I was only teasing. The motion was involuntary, almost reflexive, but I realized the presumptive familiarity of the touch only after I’d clasped her arm. We both looked down to where my fingers circled around her denim shirt and her thinly muscled arm.
The main barn door unexpectedly opened. My head jerked in the direction of the open door, and I hastily dropped Lucia’s arm.
Oscar poked his head into the barn. His body was backlit by afternoon sunshine, but I could make out his slim silhouette. “It’s official,” he announced.
Lucia rubbed at her forearm—the same arm I’d been holding on to. “What?”
Oscar stepped fully into the barn. “Bud break.”
“So soon?” Lucia questioned.
Oscar shrugged delicately. “Mild winter? I don’t know: either way, we’ve got new growth.”
“Bud break?” I repeated. I’d heard them say the phrase before, but I hadn’t known what it meant.
Lucia looked back in my direction. “The first signs of spring,” she explained. “Visible growth on the grape wines.”
“Oh! That’s good, right?”
Lucia slowly nodded. “We’ll be on more stable ground in a few weeks once there’s no more threat of frost or hail, but it looks like we made it through another season.”
Oscar beckoned to me. “Come see, Jefa.”
I followed the quiet, slender man outside to the afternoon sunshine. We walked across ground that still felt solidly frozen beneath my shoes. Oscar approached one of the vines closest to the barn. I couldn’t see any noticeable changes, but I also didn’t know what I was looking for.
Oscar’s narrow shoulders curved forward and he bent toward one of the vertical canes. “Look,” he said. His low voice sounded almost reverent.
I stooped closer to the vine. It was barely perceptible, but tiny yellow-green buds dotted the old wood. It reminded me of the new buds on a pussy willow.
Oscar delicately touched a tiny green leaf. It looked more like a bud burst than a bud break. “If the buds survive,” he said, “they create shoots and flowers. In about two months, those tiny flowers will bloom.”
“How do they become a grape?” I wondered.
“Flowers on grapevines are considered perfect flowers; they self-pollinate without need of bees,” Oscar noted. “Each little flower will become its own berry.”
I stared at the vulnerable looking buds. It was a marvel that something so small would eventually be transformed into something entirely different. “That’s kind of magical.”
A second voice surprised me: “Green and delicate, yet somehow resilient.”
I turned in the direction of the new voice. Lucia stood a few feet behind us. I hadn’t realized she’d followed us out to the vines.
She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. With the exception of the Guerneville bar, I’d never seen her outside of the barn before. I’d never seen her in the daylight. The afternoon sunshine made her glossy black hair nearly iridescent.
“Spring is kind of amazing, don’t you think?” I remarked. “A time for rebirth and renewal. Maybe even new beginnings?” I stared purposefully at her, hoping she would get the meaning behind my words: Let’s bury the hatchet. But not in my back.
Lucia shifted her weight from one foot to another. “Yeah. Maybe.”
+ + +
Rain pelted against the windows and periodic gusts of wind rattled the glass in their ancient panes. The sun had set hours earlier, but the inky sky appeared darker than what was typical as storm clouds choked out any light the moon and stars might have provided. I turned away from the rainstorm when I heard the shrill shriek of the hot water kettle I’d warmed on the kitchen stovetop. When I removed the kettle from its burner, the teapot’s urgent sound was replaced with something else.
I stood silent and unmoving in the kitchen and focused on the new noise. Was that a baby crying?
The low cry sounded human, but not quite. I remained motionless, the tea kettle still in one hand, while I waited for the sound to repeat. The low, mournful wail might have been coming from inside the house, but I couldn’t tell. The heavy rain continued to strike the windows like a snare drum solo while the wind produced its own howl.
Great. Not only could I not afford this place, but now it was also haunted. Maybe we could book haunted wine tours, I mused to myself.
I poured the steaming hot water over the waiting teabag at the bottom of my ceramic mug. I paused again when the crying—a siren of some kind?—continued. Was it a tornado warning? If not for the storm raging outside and the failed attempt to get me to scrub away phantom wine crystals, I half considered that maybe Lucia or Carlos was playing a prank on me. Sure, scare the single woman living by herself in the middle of nowhere.
I had no real weapons in the house, but I grabbed a particularly sharp pair of kitchen shears from the butcher block. I stalked slowly toward the front door, which seemed to be the origin of the unnerving cry.
“Very funny, you guys,” I called through the closed door. I didn’t expect a response, but I hoped I would at least scare them off.
I jerked backwards and nearly dropped the scissors when the front door began to rattle. The aged wooden door was drafty with inefficient gaps on all sides. I thought the brutal wind might have been responsible for the way the door shook on its hinges, but the rhythmic rattling wouldn’t stop.
I reached for the door handle with my free hand and gripped the scissors more tightly in the other. I tentatively touched my fingers to the doorknob as if I expected it to bite me. I quickly turned the handle and yanked the door open.
“Ah hah!” I called out, hoping to startle whomever might have been banging on the door.
I stared blankly at the impenetrable darkness beyond my front porch. No one stood on the other side of the door.
“I’m losing my mind,” I muttered to myself.
I started to shut the door, defeated by my overly-active imagination. The door was nearly closed when it was unexpectedly forced back open. I spied movement in my peripheral vision as something dark, medium-sized, and close to the ground, forced its way inside.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” I gasped, worried I’d inadvertently allowed a wild animal—a skunk or racoon—into my home.
I turned on my heel and raised the kitchen shears above my head, although I had no real plan for them. It wasn’t like I could actually stab whatever had scurried out of the rain. I would probably forfeit my house to its new tenant rather than do that.
I lowered the scissors when I realized what—or rather who—had scurried inside to escape the storm.
“Gato?”
The barn cat looked skinnier than usual with its fur matted flat from the heavy rain. His tail looked pencil thin without its usual fluff and his head drooped low, as if embarrassed to be seen by me.
“Hold on,” I told the cat.
I returned the shears to the butcher block and grabbed a tea towel from a kitchen drawer. Gato remained in the same spot, just within the front doorway. I eyeballed the disgruntled-looking animal. He’d never let me pet him before. Would he behave long enough for me to fluff him dry?
I dropped down to my knees beside the cranky feline. “I’m just going to …” I said carefully, more for myself than the cat.
I dropped the kitchen towel on Gato’s huddled shoulders and gave him a brisk rub. He made an annoyed noise, but he didn’t lash out or run away. I rubbed the open towel over his damp fur, tempting fate again.
“Better?” I asked, as if I expected him to reply.
I couldn’t towel him off completely, but he looked moderately drier than when he’d originally scampered inside.
I returned to my feet and opened the front door. I didn’t expect him to leave, but I didn’t want the outdoor cat to feel like I’d trapped him. Gato sniffed at the open door as if considering his choices.
“Are you in or out?” I asked.
After a moment of weighing his options, Gato turned away from the open door. He found a spot on the woven runner in the entryway near my shoes and began to give himself a bath. I watched for a reaction as I shut the door again. Gato looked unconcerned, however, and continued to groom his fur.
I turned on the porch light and peered into the stormy night. The wind gusts had made the rain practically sidewise. I worried my lower lip. Rolando had once told me that the valley didn’t typically get much rain, which was ideal for growing cabernet vines since they required good soil drainage. But what if the vines got too much rain?
Rolando had given me the number to his landline when I’d first arrived on the property. I hadn’t had occasion to use it yet despite the numerous questions I’d had over the past few days. I glanced at the clock over the fireplace mantle. It was late. Should I call him? Would he even pick up? He had windows; he would know it was raining. And it wasn’t like anything could be done about the storm. We weren’t going to stand over the individual vines with umbrellas.
But I knew myself. I knew I would worry all night if I didn’t ask my question.
I retrieved my cellphone from the kitchen. I chewed on my lower lip as the telephone rang.
“Hello?” Rolando picked up after the fourth ring. His voice was rough and deep, indicating I’d definitely woken him up.
I briefly considered hanging up, but the damage had already been done. “Hi, Rolando. It’s June.”
“June? Is everything okay?” I could hear muffled noises as if he was sitting up in bed. I imagined him consulting a clock near his bed to discern the time.
“Yeah, uh, I’m just calling because of the rain.”
“Is the farmhouse leaking?”
“No, no. The house is fine. But it’s raining.” I paused. “A lot. I’m worried about the vines.”
“As long as it doesn’t hail or freeze tonight, they’ll be fine,” he assured me. “Or if you see a giant boat outside with two of every kind of animal, then we’ll get worried.”
I exhaled. “Okay. That’s good to know.” My former anxiety had my cheeks heating with embarrassment. “I’m sorry I called so late.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re taking this so seriously.” Rolando politely rushed me off the phone. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning,” I repeated before ending the call.
bud break
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucia stared at the installation, her eyebrows furrowed. She chewed on her bottom lip and looked to be working out a problem in her head. “So are you like an environmentalist or something?”
“I care about the planet, yeah,” I said. “It’s the only one we’ve got.”
Her features remained pinched while she seemed to supervise the EV charger installation. The crew had installed an EV charging station at the farmhouse earlier in the day. It had taken some time to arrange the appointment, so it only made sense for the company to install a second charging station by the tasting barn while they had their tools and gear already on the property.
“The charging station is a good investment,” I reasoned. “Batteries don’t stay charged forever. And if someone’s driving their electric vehicle during their tour of wine country, they’ll come here to charge up.”
“So we let them mooch off of us?”
“No,” I said calmly. “It takes time to charge. They’ll be on a tour or trying our wines in the tasting room while they wait.”
Lucia still wasn’t convinced. “Nothing guarantees they’ll buy anything. We should charge them to be able to use it.”
“Do you charge people for using our bathroom?” I countered.
“No,” she scowled. “But toilet paper can’t be as expensive as this,” she said, gesturing to the electricians, tools, and exposed wires.
I considered myself a generally positive, optimistic person, but Lucia’s negativity was starting to wear on me. Rolando had said his daughter was slow to accept change, but I hadn’t expected resistance to every improvement or change I made to the property. It wasn’t like I was butting in on wine making—not that she’d let me do anything but pressure clean the barrels.
“Well, I needed one for my car; an extra charging station isn’t hurting anything.”
Lucia kicked at a small rock, causing it to launch across the parking lot. “Whatever,” she grumbled. “It’s your money.”
“Yeah. It is,” I shot back.
“I’m going back to work,” Lucia huffed before storming off.
I watched after Lucia’s retreating form as she stomped back to the barn. I didn’t really need to supervise the installation technicians, but the alternative meant following Lucia and being subjected to whatever new form of torture she’d thought up for me. I cursed under my breath, but went inside the barn as well.
I paused just within the doorway and scanned the open space, but I didn’t immediately see Lucia. I assumed she’d probably gone into the cellar or was hiding behind a fermentation tank to avoid me.
“Oh, June!” Natalie called to me from her post at the makeshift bar. It was still too early in the day for any tours, so she stood by herself. “I’ve got a present for you.”
Thankful for any excuse not to track down the surly assistant winemaker, I crossed the barn to join her. “Present?” I questioned. “But it’s not even my birthday.”
Natalie gestured to a medium-sized woven basket that sat on top of the bar. “Your neighbors dropped off a welcome to the neighborhood gift.”
The basket held two wine bottles—one red and one white—and an assortment of chocolates and salty snacks.
I picked up one of the bottles and inspected its unfamiliar label. “That was thoughtful,” I observed. “Who are my neighbors?”
“Bruce and Darcy Jefferson. They make a nice chardonnay,” Natalie described. “Fruity and not too oaky, if you’re into that.”
I returned the bottle to the woven basket. I had no idea if I was into that.
A quick phone search uncovered that the Jeffersons owned the vineyard to the west of Lark Estates. Their winery seemed similar in land size and wine production numbers. I still had more unpacking and organizing and market strategizing to do, but it would be nice to get away from the property to meet my neighbors. The welcome basket seemed to suggest that the Jeffersons didn’t view Lark Estates as a rival, but rather a peer.
