Sour Grapes Read online

  The farmhouse wasn’t in total disrepair, but it was definitely rough around the edges. The kitchen appliances and basement laundry might have been older than me. The aged windows throughout the house were definitely not energy efficient. I could already anticipate how they might shake and rattle during a thunderstorm or how much the winter chill or summer heat would sneak beyond their single pane of glass.

  I opened the cabinets in the kitchen, equal parts curious and horrified by what I might find. No one had lived in the rundown farmhouse in some time—human at least. I prayed I wouldn’t stumble across the decomposing remains of any former wild animal tenants.

  I found an impressive collection of cleaning supplies stored beneath the kitchen sink. The sight of so many disinfectants and surface cleaners momentarily derailed my plans to drive into Calistoga for groceries. Everything would be better once I had a cup of coffee, but I knew myself too well; until the farmhouse had been scoured from top to bottom, I wouldn’t be able to unpack and get settled. The cobwebs, dust, and grimy buildup would have to be vanquished first. I resolved to unpack all of my boxes and to clean the whole house from top to bottom that day. I hadn’t been able to control much since leaving San Francisco; having a clean and organized living space would be the first step to regaining control of my life.

  I was up to my elbows in Comet scouring powder in the kitchen’s enamel-coated cast iron sink when I heard a knock at the front door. It was cold that day—sunny but brisk—and I’d opened all of the windows that hadn’t been painted shut. I’d left the front door open with only the screen door between myself and the elements to air out the house and make sure I didn’t pass out from cleaning supply fumes.

  I heard an upbeat, female voice call to me from the front porch: “Yoo hoo!” The screen door rattled against the doorframe with a second knock.

  I stopped my obsessive cleaning to greet whomever was at the front door. As I walked closer, I spotted a woman peering through the door’s worn screen.

  “Hi!” she called to me, her voice chipper and bright. “Is your husband around?”

  I pulled off my yellow rubber dish gloves and held them loosely in one hand. “Husband? I’m sorry—I think you have the wrong place.”

  The woman consulted the screen of her phone and made a humming sound. “I’m looking for Alex Marchand. I was told he’d just bought the property.”

  “Oh. You mean Alexandre Marchand,” I spoke through the closed screen door. “Alex is a girl.”

  “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! I saw the name on the paperwork and I just assumed.”

  I wiped my hands on the back of my jeans. “Don’t worry. It happens.”

  The woman continued to look flustered by her faux pas despite my assurances.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked. That she knew of Alex’s existence but not her pronouns was curious.

  “It’s more like what I can do for you.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’m Belinda Reynolds,” she introduced herself. “—the seller’s real estate agent. The Mitchells had a conflict, so they asked me to give you a little tour of the place and make some introductions with the staff.”

  Belinda Reynolds was a short, and aggressively perky woman. Everything about her appearance seemed to ooze money and luxury, from the designer sunglasses perched on her nose to her tailored blazer and skirt. The sticker price on the oversized SUV idling in front of the farmhouse had probably cost more than twice my own car.

  I touched a self-conscious hand to the loose bun fixed on top of my head. “I’m sorry. Who are the Mitchells?”

  “The previous owners.” The woman gave me a curious look as if she was starting to doubt I actually belonged on the property.

  “Oh. I-I didn’t know their names,” I struggled. “Alex took care of all of those details.”

  The realtor—Belinda—peered through the closed screen door that separated us and looked beyond me. “Is Alex around? I’m sure she’d appreciate the tour, too.”

  “She … she won’t be able to join us today. But I can fill her in on all the details afterwards.”

  I opened the screen door, but only long enough for me to exit and shut the main door behind me. The woman digested my appearance as I stepped outside. I hadn’t consulted my reflection recently, but I imagined my disheveled appearance. I’d pulled my hair back in a haphazard top bun. A rolled blue bandana served as a headband to keep the flyaways out of my face. My clothes had become grimy like a dust rag. I wore an old, tattered sweatshirt pulled up to my elbows. Stains of various shapes and sizes covered the material. My jeans were similarly old and a boot-cut fit that was no longer fashionable.

  Standing on the front porch, the Belinda Reynolds looked torn. Who was this messy woman squatting at Lark Estates? She was taking my word that I was supposed to be there. In a different scenario, she might have pressed me harder for why Alex couldn’t come along on the tour, but she’d already tripped over Alex’s gender and pronouns. I doubted she wanted another opportunity to offend me.

  Belinda affixed a tight, but cheerful smile to her painted lips. “Okay,” she chirped. “Let me introduce you to your head winemaker first and then we’ll do some exploring.”

  “Watch your step,” I announced in warning. “That last step is a little tricky.”

  Belinda looked down at the steps that descended to the gravel driveway and at the obvious foot-shaped hole in one of the wooden planks. “I suppose you’re second-guessing waving that home inspection,” she chuckled.

  “Yeah,” I returned with a nervous laugh. “But Alex really wanted this property, warts and all.”

  It wasn’t a long or arduous walk between the farmhouse and the tasting barn, but Belinda insisted on driving us in her car. She claimed to be a full-service realtor, but she probably didn’t want to muddy her designer boots in the soft, uneven terrain. I flipped down the passenger seat visor to inspect my face and hair. I licked the pad of my thumb and wiped at a dark smudge just below my right eye. I didn’t know if it was old, traveling mascara or if the farmhouse was really that dirty.

  As we approached the large, metal barn, I began to second-guess my outfit. First impressions were terribly important, so why was I about to meet the vineyard’s head winemaker in clothes I wouldn’t even go to the grocery store in? I considered asking Belinda to turn us around so I could freshen up, but before I could vocalize my misgivings, she’d parked her SUV and had shut off the engine.

  “You’re going to love Rolando,” Belinda gushed, exiting the vehicle. “He’s one of the Valley’s most respected winemakers. You and Alex really lucked out. This place practically runs itself.”

  I climbed out of the SUV and stared up at the tasting barn. Hidden away in the farmhouse, I’d fallen into a false sense of comfort. Owning and managing an actual vineyard had existed in the abstract for such a long time, but now it was going to become a reality.

  Belinda opened an unmarked door on the side of the barn and gestured for me to go inside. I sucked in a deep breath as I walked through the barn door. The bottoms of my tennis shoes scuffed against poured concrete.

  “We’re not open to the public, miss,” a clear male voice called out. “You’ll have to make a reservation on our website for the tour.”

  “Oh … I-I’m not a tourist,” I fumbled. The interior of the barn was dark, and my eyes struggled to adjust to the dim lighting. A single figure sat alone at a wooden picnic table only a few yards from the door.

  The man was older, maybe in his late sixties. His face was deeply tanned with fine wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His denim shirt hung loosely on narrow shoulders that curved forward. He had a full head of hair, dark grey in color, with lighter streaks of silver near his temples. His hair was combed and parted to one side.

  Belinda entered the barn just behind me. “Good afternoon, Rolando!” she greeted.

  “Belinda?” The man sounded confused by her presence. “Que pasa?”

  “I’m here to introduce you to …” She turned in my direction and blinked a few times. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

  I realized I’d never told the woman my name. “June,” I said quickly. “June St. Clare.”

  “June and her …” Belinda stopped again. She didn’t know who Alex was to me and obviously didn’t want to make another mistake.

  I swallowed. “My partner, Alex. But not like business partner. Like, life partner.” God, I sounded so stupid.

  Rolando stood from the picnic table, abandoning the remnants of a sandwich and an apple. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “Forgive me. The Mitchells told me they’d found a buyer, but I didn’t realize the sale had already gone through.”

  I held out my hands. “Please, don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” I insisted. “There will be plenty of time for introductions later.”

  Rolando nodded his head. “If you want to drop by tomorrow morning, I can give you a tour.” He gestured to the barren, sleeping landscape beyond the barn’s windows. “There won’t be a lot to do outside for a few more weeks, but I can orient you to the production side of things.”

  “That would be great,” I enthused. “Thank you.”

  I would have been satisfied to return to the farmhouse and come back later the next day, but Belinda was still committed to giving her version of the property tour. She corralled me back into her SUV and continued to drive away from the barn and the farmhouse.

  I stared out the passenger side window as we bumped along a gravel roadway deeper onto the property. The horizon seemed to stretch on forever with only a few gnarled oak trees to break up the monotony.

  “It’s not much to look at, huh?” I thought aloud.

  “Nothing above ground, no,” Belinda agreed. “Bu
t beneath the soil, the vines are expanding their root systems. They’re storing carbohydrates in their trunk. Kind of like me after a big bowl of pasta,” she joked. Her laugh was sharp and loud.

  “So as you know,” she continued, “the property is twenty acres with seven of that planted with cabernet sauvignon. The property includes the barn, which we just saw, and the farmhouse. Unique to the area, you’ll also find natural hot springs scattered around the property. The Mitchells had planned on building a day spa until they ran into some health issues and had to sell, but you and your wife might consider following through with those plans.”

  I licked my lips, taking it all in. “Maybe down the road. Right now I’d like to make the farmhouse a little more livable before considering new construction.”

  “Of course.” Belinda bobbed her head as she drove. “If you change your mind, the Mitchells included the city-approved blueprints for the spa construction with the property’s other paperwork. No sense re-inventing the wheel.”

  The land became more wild and the road less groomed the deeper we ventured onto the property. My throat constricted as the drive continued. Twenty acres hadn’t sounded like much land when Alex had first proposed the purchase, but as Belinda continued to drive toward the edge of the property, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. At least there was no grass to mow.

  “How big is an acre?” I wondered aloud.

  Belinda hummed in thought. “Mmm … about the size of a football field.”

  I was no sports fan, but I tried to picture twenty football fields attached together. Before my anxiety could completely take over, Belinda slowed her SUV, and the vehicle came to a rolling stop. She put the car in park, but kept the engine running. “Come look,” she encouraged. “You need to see your multi-million dollar view.”

  I exited the vehicle and followed Belinda to the property’s edge. A metal stake in the ground signaled the property line. We stood at the top of a gently rolling hill, not quite large enough to call itself a mountain, but high enough that it offered an expansive view of the valley. A wide river wound back and forth in the distance. A thick bank of clouds had collected on the valley floor.

  “Not too shabby, right?” Belinda observed.

  I hugged my arms around my torso and inhaled. The view was a far cry from the congested city vista we’d enjoyed at our condo. I considered myself a city girl, but I’d enjoyed vacations Alex and I had taken to more rural locations. This was no vacation though.

  “Not bad at all,” I murmured.

  Not too far in the distance I spotted a formidable log home on a flat piece of land in a small clearing.

  “Who lives over there?” I pointed.

  “That’s Rolando’s house,” Belinda revealed. “The Mitchells sold his family an acre about thirty years ago. It’s probably the only reason he hasn’t gone to another, bigger vineyard. I’m sure he gets other job offers all the time.”

  I peered down the rolling hill at the wooden construction below. The home looked rustic, but more updated than the farmhouse. Half a dozen of the same hunched-over dormant vines I’d seen elsewhere on the property had been planted close to the house.

  “He has his own vines?” I questioned aloud.

  “I guess so,” Belinda shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him about it though. That’s as far as my intel goes.”

  I turned to the real estate agent. “Thank you, Belinda,” I said in earnest. “I appreciate you stopping by. You’ve been very thorough.”

  “Oh, I’m happy to help!” she gushed. “The commission on the property is more than enough to pay for my son’s college, so I feel pretty indebted to you gals.”

  The reminder of just how much we’d sunk into the property and how much we’d mortgaged our future on this gamble shattered my temporary moment of euphoria. I cleared my throat: “Glad to have helped.”

  “Do you want me to come back tomorrow and show Alex around?” she offered.

  I wrapped my arms tighter around my torso and continued to stare across the picturesque vista.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  I could feel Belinda’s eyes on me as if she expected more of an explanation.

  I couldn’t explain why I wasn’t more forthcoming with the realtor about why Alex hadn’t been around for the tour. I’d had plenty of time to wrap my brain around our situation; I’d had months to adjust to what had happened. But it almost felt like Coming Out all over again—when people would ask me about Alex, I found myself getting tongue-tied and making excuses instead of just telling them the truth.

  Alex wouldn’t need a tour of the property. Alex was dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I tugged on the brim of my baseball cap as I crossed the short distance between the farmhouse and the tasting barn. I was admittedly nervous and not a little bit terrified for my first official day of working with Rolando, the vineyard’s head winemaker. He’d done nothing during our brief, initial meeting to give me cause for such emotions, but I was still an anxious mess.

  I hadn’t had a first day of work at a new job in over a decade. I was technically the vineyard’s owner, not a new employee, but I still wanted to make a good impression. Added to the first day jitters was the very real fact that I had no idea what I was doing. Buying a winery had been Alex’s idea. As part of her sales pitch, she’d convinced me that I really wouldn’t have to do much—maybe help out with marketing or social media or design wine labels since that was in my wheelhouse. She’d promised that she would take care of the rest.

  I kicked angrily at a small rock and watched it bounce across the gravel driveway. “So much for that plan,” I huffed to myself.

  I hadn’t even known what to wear that morning, but I’d eventually settled on jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and duck boots, with my hair in a ponytail, woven through the back of a baseball cap. I’d gone through more outfit combinations than if I’d been getting ready for a first date—something else I really had little experience with.

  Dating long term the first woman with whom I’d ever gone on a date had saved me from those kinds of awkward experiences later in life, but in other ways it had sheltered me from having to pivot or adjust or muddle through that uncomfortable knot in the pit of one’s stomach. Without Alex to help me navigate, it was like experiencing the world for the first time. I was stripped down, sloughed of old skin and calluses that had built up over the years. I was a newly scrubbed infant, pink and raw and vulnerable, stumbling through unfamiliar territory.

  It was a brisk morning with little wind and no frost on the winter-hardened ground. Looking around at the grey landscape, it was hard to picture that in a few months the vineyard, in theory, would be alive with new growth. For the time, however, I would just have to trust that Alex hadn’t invested our entire life savings on acres and acres of brittle-looking, slumped over trees.

  The air temperature outside was chilled, but a blast of warm air met me when I entered the tasting barn. I found Rolando, the head winemaker, sitting alone at the picnic table inside, just as I’d found him the previous day. It made me wonder if he’d moved at all. As I approached, he didn’t look away from the carefully folded newspaper that he held in one hand.

  Rolando wasn’t an overly tall or overly short man. His shoulders were slightly slumped forward as he drank from a ceramic coffee cup. His fingers curled around the mug as though it was a natural extension from his hand. I felt better about my outfit selection when I observed his blue jeans, boots, and faded flannel shirt.

  “Good morning,” I greeted.

  Rolando’s dark eyes slowly lifted from the newspaper, and he offered me a kind smile. “Good morning, June.”

  He held out his free hand across the table as a sign that I should take a seat. I became nothing but gangly legs and awkward arms as I climbed over the bench seat to join him at the picnic table. I couldn’t help the small, frustrated grunts and noises of complaints that tumbled from my lips. It was like I’d never seen a picnic table before or had never tried to sit at one.

  Rolando silently observed my inelegant arrival as I eventually took up the empty space across from him. He gestured to a folding table behind me where I saw a silver coffeemaker and a stack of similar nondescript mugs as the one from which he drank. “Coffee?” he offered.