Sour Grapes, page 9
Similar to Lark Estates, Bruce and Darcy Jefferson’s winery—Silver Stag—was only open to the public by appointment. I drove past the signage at their front gates that warned me of that very fact, but no real knowledge if the proprietors would be at home. While Lark Estate’s public-facing building was a modest, but serviceable corrugated metal-roofed barn, Silver Stag was far more high end. The wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property should have been my first clue.
I whistled lowly as I came upon the property. I hadn’t necessarily been expecting another barn, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for a grey lannon stone structure that better resembled a castle. I looked over at the two humble bottles of wine from our vineyard that I’d strapped into the front passenger seat of my energy-efficient car. Maybe I should have brought more.
I parked my car and shut off the engine. I continued to look for signs of human activity as I exited the vehicle and walked up to Silver Stag’s imposing front door—two doors, antique or reclaimed wood, studded with metal rivets. The door swung open before I had the chance to figure out if I was supposed to knock or ring a doorbell.
A middle-aged woman in a dark purple blouse and black capris pants looked startled by my presence. “Oh, goodness,” she breathed. She pressed a hand to the single strand of pearls strung around her neck. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
I took a step backwards so she wouldn’t feel so crowded. “Sorry. I would have rung the bell, but my hands were full.”
I lifted my arms, a bottle of wine in each hand.
The woman’s features softened. “You’re the new owner of Lark Estates.”
I cleared my throat. “That would be me.”
“Come in, come in!” The woman stepped backwards to make room for me.
I hesitated. “I don’t want to be a bother if you were just about to leave.”
“No, no,” the woman insisted. “It was nothing important. My errands can wait.”
I trusted the woman’s words and stepped inside.
I stared first at the vaulted ceiling. A mural, not unlike what one might see on the ceiling of a Renaissance Era church covered the interior of the entryway. Rosy cheeked, naked cherubs gazed down on visitors and hid behind grapevines and large clay vessels.
“It’s a little much, right?” the woman said, noticing my stare.
“It’s nice,” I appeased.
The woman made a noise. “I keep telling Bruce that it’s hokey, but he likes it. Thinks it classes up the joint or something. I’m Darcy, by the way,” she finally introduced herself. “Darcy Jefferson.”
“June St. Clare,” I returned.
We shook hands, causing the silver bracelets on her right wrist to jangle together.
Darcy Jefferson was a short, blonde woman with a penchant for wedged heels that increased her height by a few inches. Her age was indistinguishable. I suspected her smooth, unlined forehead was the result of facial fillers instead of youth or a regimented skincare routine.
“Thank you for the welcome basket,” I said. “I’m sorry I missed your visit, but I wanted to return the gesture.” I held up the wine bottles I continued to awkwardly carry with me.
Darcy clapped her hands together. “Oh, you’re sweet. I don’t usually imbibe this early in the day, but why don’t we crack into one of those?”
I followed Darcy deeper into the structure. I still didn’t have a word for it. Castle? Manor? The upscale motif continued as we walked: marble tiled floors, dark wood accents, wall sconces, and geometric patterned windows.
“This building is beautiful,” I complimented.
“Oh, thank you, dear. You should have seen what a tacky disaster this place was when we bought it back in the eighties.”
We strode through a series of rooms, each elegantly furnished and decorated, before reaching the back of the well-appointed mansion. Darcy opened twin French doors that led us outside to a patio that overlooked their grapevines. The patio was quaint and intimate with half a dozen patio tables and matching chairs. Like Lark Estates, the vineyard was still mostly sleeping, but I imagined in early and late summer the views were magnificent.
Darcy disappeared behind a formal bar—a massive upgrade compared to the upright wine barrels Natalie used at the barn—and retrieved two clean wine glasses and a corkscrew.
“This is very impressive, Darcy,” I remarked. The compliments kept falling from my mouth.
The woman smiled, pleased by my praise. “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to one of the empty patio tables.
“Hey, Dee?” I heard a robust male voice call from inside the house.
“Out here, Bruce,” Darcy returned.
The French doors swung open again and an older man—or at least visibly older than Darcy—walked outside. He wore a light blue dress shirt and long, khaki-colored cargo shorts.
“Have you seen my readers?” The man paused when he realized his wife wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had visitors.”
“Bruce, this is our new neighbor,” Darcy introduced. “June just bought Lark Estates.”
The man’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh! Welcome to the neighborhood.”
I inclined my head. “Thanks.”
Darcy produced a third wine glass. “June and I were just about to break into the wine she brought. Will you be joining us?”
Bruce glanced at his wristwatch. It was gold and oversized, and it might have cost more than my car. “I’ve got time,” he decided. “Why the hell not.”
Bruce sat down in the empty chair beside me. He was a handsome, albeit older man. His face was unseasonably tanned, which contrasted with a thick shock of silver hair. It made me wonder if that’s how they’d named their vineyard.
He smiled as Darcy set out the empty glasses in front of us and proceeded to fill each one. “So you’re the new owner of Lark Estates,” he observed.
I could read between the lines. I didn’t look the part.
“Yep,” I said, working hard to contain feelings of anxiety and inadequacy.
“How much did you end up paying for the place?” he asked. “I put in an offer, but I guess it wasn’t good enough.”
“Oh hush, Bruce,” Darcy admonished. She settled into her own chair. “This isn’t a business meeting. This is neighbors getting to know each other.”
Bruce held up his hand in retreat. “Okay, okay,” he conceded.
“So how are you liking things?” Darcy pressed. “Are you getting along with everyone?”
By everyone, I assumed she meant my vineyard staff. I hadn’t ventured out to meet the other neighbors yet.
“Everything has been great so far,” I said. I could be honest with my best friend, but I was more guarded with the Jeffersons. “Rolando and everyone have been great. I really lucked out with inheriting that staff.”
Bruce held onto the base of his wine glass and agitated the liquid inside. “Rolando Santiago is a legend,” he openly admired. “You won’t find a more respected winemaker in the region.”
I smiled at the kind words, simultaneously pleased and proud.
“The daughter though.” Darcy’s voice lowered as if she worried someone might overhear us. “She’s a bit of a wild card.”
My smile flattened. “Lucia is very hardworking.” I found myself defending my assistant winemaker. “I’ve only been impressed by her passion and dedication.”
“Oh, of course,” Darcy hastily corrected. “They’re all very hardworking. None of this would be possible without them.”
I took a measured sip of my wine as I considered Darcy Jefferson’s words. Who exactly was the they and them to whom she was referring?
“I’m glad you stopped by, June,” Bruce vocalized, breaking into my thoughts. “It’s always good to be friendly with your neighbors, especially in our business.” He continued to swirl the wine I had brought. “Not everyone feels this way, but I consider us colleagues, not competition. We little guys have to stick together.”
“And gals,” Darcy interjected.
Bruce chuckled. “Right. We little guys and gals have to stick together against the Trader Joe’s and Costco’s of the world.”
“Hey, do you know what they say about how to make a small fortune?” Darcy asked, her blue eyes twinkling. “Start with a large one!”
Bruce held up his wine glass to the late morning sunlight and laughed. “We might lose all our money, but at least we can drink the wine!”
+ + +
I didn’t stay long at the Jeffersons’ property. After I finished my glass of wine, I begged off with the excuse that I needed to get back to work: there was always work to be done. When I returned to the vineyard, everyone was away, busy with their own individual tasks. I could have poked around the property to find Lucia, but I settled for helping Natalie finish setting up the bar area for that afternoon’s tastings and tours.
I found myself frowning at our low-budget setup. I hadn’t previously found fault with the converted wine barrel furniture, but after seeing the Jeffersons’ visitor area, I began to feel a little underwhelmed.
“If we had all the money in the world,” I proposed, “what would you like this place to look like?”
Natalie cleaned a set of wine glasses to remove fingerprints before placing them on the table reserved for tours. “Do we have all the money in the world?” she posed.
I chewed on my lower lip. “No.”
“Then don’t worry about it, June,” she placated.
“What do you think about the Jeffersons next door?” I couldn’t help asking.
Natalie continued to clean. “I don’t think about them at all.”
That was all the answer I required. “O-okay.”
She paused long enough to look up. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know.” I floundered for a response. “I just got a weird vibe from them.”
“Xenophobic?”
I cleared my throat, not expecting her to be so direct. “Yeah. That.”
Natalie made an approving noise. “There’s definitely an Us versus Them mentality between ownership and staff around these parts,” she revealed. “I try to stay out of it; I suggest you do, too.”
I nodded sagely and let her words of wisdom sink in.
I stopped fixating on our peculiar neighbors when the barn door opened and Rolando stepped inside. He removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s getting warm out there. If this heat keeps up, we might have an early veraison.”
Natalie turned to me. “That’s when the grapes turn red.”
“Thanks,” I smiled tightly. I hoped there would come a day—soon—when I’d no longer need these little educational asides.
“Will we see you tonight?” Rolando asked me.
“What’s tonight?”
“The bud break party,” he said. “Didn’t Lucia tell you?”
I tried not to frown. “No. But I was visiting with the Jeffersons this morning. I’m sure it wasn’t an intentional snub.”
Rolando smiled gently. “You don’t have to make excuses for her, June. I know how she can be. I love her, naturally, but she’s a stubborn old mule.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the description.
“Come over tonight,” he implored. “We’ll celebrate the vines, and us, making it through another winter. There’s a big bonfire, food, and music. We’ll burn the old wood that didn’t survive the season or that’s no longer producing fruit.”
“That sounds like fun.” I hesitated despite my eager words. “Are you sure you want me there? In my experience, office parties are less fun when the boss is there.”
This wasn’t your typical work place, and I definitely didn’t feel like a boss, but Rolando would know what I meant.
“I insist,” he said with an encouraging smile. “And I can guarantee you that no one will be on their best behavior just because you’re there.”
His assurances made me a little more confident about the invitation. I nodded my head agreeably. “Okay. I’ll try to make it. Can I bring anything?”
“No. We’ll have plenty of food. Lucia’s aunt, my sister Clara, has been making tamales all day for the occasion.”
I looked to Natalie. “Are you going?”
“Not this time, no,” she said, looking sorry. “I already committed to babysitting my grandbabies tonight. You should definitely go though. It’s fun.”
I nodded my head. “Yeah, okay.”
“You’re supposed to act surprised, by the way,” Natalie said. She stuck out her lip in an exaggerated pout.
I furrowed my eyebrows. “About what?”
“That I’m old enough to be a grandma!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
April in Calistoga was mild, with sunny, typically rainless days that reached 70 degrees and evenings that dropped to 50 or 40 degrees. Anything cooler would have damaged the fragile first signs of life on the vineyard. San Francisco was famously cold, so I had plenty of clothes suitable for the evening’s lower temperature, but that didn’t mean I knew what to wear.
Owning a vineyard might have sounded fancy, but the day-to-day uniform was far from glamorous. I typically wore jeans, heavy work boots, and durable tops like everyone else on the property. But since this was a party, would people be more dressed up than usual? I didn’t want to offend Ronaldo and the others by looking too casual, but I also didn’t want to stick out more than I already did by overdressing.
I eyeballed the clothes in my closet. Nothing in my wardrobe said ‘bud breaking party.’ After much deliberation, I eventually settled on a patterned sundress, a jean jacket, and ballet flats.
I grabbed a bottle of reposado from my limited alcohol collection before leaving the house that evening. It wasn’t the fanciest tequila, but it was far superior to the kind of gasoline I’d consumed as a college student. Alex and I had bought the bottle a few years back on vacation in Mexico. Neither of us were big tequila fans, however, so the bottle had gathered dust in a cabinet of our San Francisco condo.
Just beyond my own property line, Rolando’s house looked out of place on a Napa Valley vineyard. The dark stained, hand-hewn logs would have fit in with a thickly wooded forest farther north, but it contrasted deeply on a semi-arid landscape that favored updated, luxury designs. The dark stain gave the home a kind of gingerbread essence, adding to its already picturesque feel. The home was charming—upkept and tidy—a far cry from the drafty farmhouse I currently inhabited.
The front yard was dotted with small fruit trees, still dormant despite the new growth springing up elsewhere on the vineyard. Rolando had his own vines—a few rows of woody canes similar to those on the main property. I was curious what he did with the fruit he grew on his land, but wondered about the etiquette of the question. Could you ask a man what he did with his grapes?
Rolando answered the door. His warm, genuine smile greeted me and caused some of my earlier anxiety to subside. Most of the vineyard staff unintentionally made me feel inadequate and unqualified—because I was—but Rolando’s continued kindness put me more at ease.
“Come on in, June.”
“Something smells amazing,” I complimented.
“That would be my sister Clara’s cooking. She’s quite talented in the kitchen.” He chuckled pleasantly and rubbed his palm across his slightly protruding stomach. “Which may or may not be a good thing.”
I remembered I hadn’t arrived empty handed. “I brought alcohol. I don’t know if it’s any good,” I apologized.
Rolando accepted the gift and inspected the amber-colored liquid in the squat bottle. “I’m sure we’ll make good use of this tonight. Thank you for the gift.”
I flattened my palms along the skirt of my dress. “No, thank you for the invitation. I’m really grateful to have been included.”
Rolando inclined his head. I thought we might get stuck in the front foyer thanking each other for the rest of the evening, but he turned on his heel and gestured for me to follow him deeper into the house.
We walked through the living room and the attached dining room. I passed several hanging framed photographs that made me want to pause and reflect, but I continued to follow Rolando to the back of the house. The mouth-watering scents intensified as we entered the back kitchen. The kitchen, like in so many other homes, was the center of activities. Everyone had gathered in the room, despite its modest size.
I spied Oscar and Carlos right away, each with an attractive woman on their respective hips. The only other person in the room was an older woman, busy at the electric stovetop, whom I assumed was Rolando’s sister, Clara.
Carlos was the first to greet me. “Eh, it’s Jefa!” His tone was approving as if no one had expected me to actually show up.
I lingered in the kitchen doorway with a raised hand. “Hey, everyone. Thanks for having me.”
Rolando held out the tequila bottle. “Look what June brought.”
A chorus of approving noises filled the small kitchen, and I found myself growing embarrassed by the attention.
Carlos looked comfortable digging through the cabinets and drawers of a kitchen that didn’t belong to him. “We should do a toast,” he suggested. “Clara, where’s the shot glasses?”
I gave a sideways glance to the short, round woman. She may have been a few years older than her brother, but I’d never been good at that type of thing. She wore her dark hair in a short bob that framed a strong jawline and dark, serious eyes. She rattled off a few phrases in Spanish, which I had no hope of decoding.
Carlos understood the directions, however, and opened a cabinet closer to the double basin sink. “Alright!” he cheered. He set up the miniature glasses on the kitchen island. “Is this everyone?” he asked.
Oscar scanned the room. “Where’s Lucia?”
Aunt Clara tilted her head to the ceiling and hollered: “Lucia Maria Santiago!”
Noisy feet tumbled down a wooden staircase. Lucia appeared, looking cross and hurried. She still wore her hair in its signature braid, but she’d changed out of her work clothes for a pair of dark jeans and a fitted long-sleeved t-shirt. Her stampede faltered when she noticed me in the kitchen. Her features briefly showed confusion until her previous sour look reappeared.
