Once Upon a Wine (23 page)

T
he next morning, Kat was wrapping up a phone call in the parlor when Cammie came in from the vineyard. “Want the latest grape report?”

Kat clicked off the phone with a big smile. “Who cares about grapes?”

“Uh, I do.” Cammie glanced at her aunt, who was polishing wineglasses by the tasting bar. “We all do, don't we?”

“Right now, we're focusing on strawberries.” Kat put the phone down on an upended wine barrel. “That was the guy who owns the snooty little grocery store down by the boardwalk.”

“The one we never shop at because it makes Whole Foods look like a bargain?” Cammie asked.

Kat nodded. “That's the one. Mom, did you talk to him about donating some stuff for our breakup contest?”

Ginger sniffed. “I tried, but he said no.”

“Well, he may have said no, but he said you were very charming.”

“Well.” Ginger adjusted her necklace, slightly mollified. “Obviously.”

“Did he change his mind about donating?” Cammie asked.

“No, but he said he might want to stock the strawberry wine.” Kat paused to wave through the window to Josh, who was lovingly detailing the tractor by the barn. “He said he's been hearing rumors about it all over town.”

Ginger's hands flew to her cheeks. “He did? My basement wine might find a home in a real brick-and-mortar store?”

“Yep. And they'll probably charge a ton of money for it, too.”

“This is fantastic!” Ginger stepped back from the bar and did a little jig. “Our money problems will be solved!”

“Not quite.” Kat held up her palm. “It's one tiny shop that might go through a case or two per month.”

“Buzzkill,” Cammie muttered.

“Truth teller,” Kat corrected.

“But it's a start,” Cammie insisted. “If we keep hustling and building our brand, eventually we'll turn a profit.”

“Define ‘eventually,'” Ginger pressed.

Kat ignored this and started barking out orders. “Everyone go get dressed. Our goal is to have the display up and running before lunch.”

Cammie blinked. “We're going right now?”

“Yes! No time like the present! Time is money!” Kat clapped her hands to spur them to action. “We'll have to stop and pick up a white tablecloth and those little paper cups, maybe some food to pair with the wine.” She looked at Cammie. “What goes with strawberry wine?”

“I have no idea.”

“Guess. Pretend you're back in your restaurant, bullshitting to a bunch of snobs in suits.”

Cammie closed her eyes and envisioned exactly that. A wistful
smile spread across her face. “Maybe a rich dessert? Like pound cake or cheesecake?”

Kat started making a shopping list. “Okay, so tablecloth, cups, napkins, toothpicks, cheesecake, pound cake . . .”

“Wait a minute,” Ginger said. “Are we just allowed to hand out wine to random people in a store?”

“Why not?” Kat shrugged. “As long as they're over twenty-one.”

“That doesn't sound legal.”

“Does to me.” Kat grinned. “And we're going by the motto that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

“Good luck with that. Call me when you get arrested.”

“I won't have to call you; you'll be right there with me.” Kat slung her arm around Cammie's shoulders, then beckoned for Ginger to join them. “The family that goes to jail together, stays together.”

“
I'm
not going to get arrested.” Ginger batted her eyelashes. “Just look at me. Who would arrest such a sweet, helpless old lady?”

“Spoken like a true grifter.” Kat looked proud. “All right, go get yourselves cleaned up. And don't be afraid to show a little skin. Sex sells, you know.”

“Then take your own advice and wear that lovely blue dress I got you for Christmas,” Ginger said. “It shows off your cleavage and it covers your scars. And your tattoos.”

“I'll let you pick my outfit if you'll let me pick yours,” Kat retorted.

Cammie left them to bicker, and hurried to shower and change. A familiar, almost pleasurable tension was starting in her shoulders and back. She couldn't farm worth a damn, but she could present food and beverage like nobody's business. By the time she headed back downstairs, she had her game face on and the address of the nearest restaurant-supply store mapped out on her phone.

Jacques was waiting for her at the bottom of the staircase, and she bade him good-bye with a kiss on his wrinkly forehead. “Wish us luck, buddy.”

•   •   •

“Excuse me, ma'am, would you like to try some organic, locally sourced strawberry wine?” Cammie held out a white paper cup. “Handcrafted right here in Black Dog Bay.”

The woman in the grocery store aisle was wearing a preppy pair of pink capris, about fifty thousand dollars' worth of diamond jewelry, and a tight, sour expression.

“Strawberry wine?” She lifted the cup to her nose and took a suspicious sniff. “Isn't that something that hillbillies make in a bathtub?”

“You're thinking of moonshine,” Kat said helpfully. “Which is actually making a comeback among the Brooklyn elite.”

Ginger gave Kat a death glare and stepped in to save the conversation. “This was handcrafted from heirloom strawberries with the very latest in small-batch wine-making technology.”

Kat and Cammie both gaped at Ginger. Apparently, the ability to bullshit about wine ran in the family.

The customer looked intrigued. “Really?”

“Yes.” Ginger managed to appear entirely earnest. “It's a secret family recipe with a modern twist.”

“I suppose I'll risk it.” The woman barely wetted her lips with wine. Then she took another, bigger sip. “That's delicious.”

“In season and on point,” Cammie said. “Sweet, but not too sweet.”

“Hmmm.” The woman took another sip. “And how much is it?”

Everyone looked at one another, panicked.

“Thirt—
Forty
dollars,” Cammie blurted out. Ginger gasped. Kat cringed.

“Forty dollars?” The woman blinked. “Per bottle?”

“Yep. We're running a sale.”

Ginger let out a little moan of despair.

But the woman regarded them with newfound respect. “I had no idea fruit wines cost so much.”

“Mass-produced fruit wines probably don't.” Cammie kept her tone and posture aloof. “But this is unique. Locally sourced.” She paused, eyeing her potential customer. “Limited edition.”

Ding, ding, ding.

The blinged-out blonde cocked her head. “Limited edition?”

Cammie nodded, her eyes earnest. “When it's gone, it's gone.” She neglected to mention that Ginger would just whip up another “limited-edition” batch.

“I'll take six.” The woman piled bottles into her European-style grocery trolley. “I'm having a dinner party this weekend, and I've invited the mayor. I want to serve something besides the same old crab cakes and sweet corn.”

“The mayor?” Cammie tried to remember if she'd met him. “You mean Summer's husband?”

When the woman finally smiled, she bore an uncanny resemblance to the Grinch. “Yes, I suppose that is how Dutch is described these days. You know Summer?”

Cammie nodded. “She's great.”

“And she loves this wine,” Kat threw in. “She was an early adopter of the brand.”

At this, the customer seemed a bit panicked. “I'll take it all. All the stock you have on hand.”

While Ginger started to protest, Cammie loaded up the lady's trolley and helped her over to the cashier. A few minutes later, she be-bopped back to the wine display, whistling a merry tune.

“Let's pack it up. Our work here is done.”

“What was
that
?” Ginger demanded, her cheeks pink.

“That was us selling your strawberry wine to the highest bidder and adding a ton of cachet to our brand.” Cammie paused, waiting for the gratitude and accolades to start rolling in.

“But it's all gone!” Ginger threw up her hands. “The whole point of this was to get the word out!”

“Trust me: I know what I'm doing,” Cammie assured her. “That lady is going to blab about her exclusive, limited-edition wine
all
over town. By the time your next batch is ready, we'll have a waiting list.”

“About that waiting list . . .” an unfamiliar male voice interrupted.

The women all startled. Cammie turned around to find a tall, balding man wearing baggy cargo shorts and a threadbare Yale T-shirt.

“Couldn't help overhearing,” he said with a smile.

“Yeah,” Kat murmured. “'Cause you're eavesdropping.”

The man pretended not to hear this. “I'm Darryl Kilgore. I have a house on the beach over in Bethany.”

Cammie and Kat exchanged glances. “Okay.”

“Are you really using organic strawberries in your wine?” he asked.

“Yeah, they're from a farm right down the road.”

“The McKinlays' farm?”

“How do you know the McKinlays?” Cammie asked.

“Be right back.” Kat rushed to help the woman who'd bought all the wine carry the bottles out to the parking lot. “Don't say anything juicy without me.”

Darryl fixed his attention on Ginger. “You must be the new owner of the vineyard.”

“Wait.” Cammie frowned. “Who are you again?”

“I'm a summer resident who owns a number of businesses—including a wine club.”

“A wine club?” Ginger looked intrigued. “People get together and drink wine? We want in.”

Darryl chuckled. “The wine club sends monthly selections to its members, who live all over the country. We have the largest subscriber
list of any club east of Napa.” He moved in on the sole remaining bottle of strawberry wine, the one Cammie had poured samples from. “May I?”

He proceeded to taste the wine in almost a parody of pretension—swirling the liquid in the paper cup, looking down at the color of the wine, smacking his tongue as he assessed the effect on his palate.

“I like what you've done here,” he finally said. “Elegant but whimsical. Very summery.” He focused all his attention on Ginger. “You're the vintner?”

“Well. I use the stove in my kitchen and the shelves in the basement.”

“We're looking for commercial production space,” Cammie said quickly. “To comply with health and safety codes.”

Ginger turned to her and whispered, “We are?”

“Starting tomorrow,” Cammie murmured back.

“How soon can you make another batch of this?” Darryl asked.

Cammie waved as Summer Benson wandered into the shop.

“Hey, guys!” Summer's eyes lit up when she saw the samples. “Ooh, cake. And is that wine?”

“Not just wine—
free
wine. Cheers.” Cammie stepped away from her aunt's side and filled a paper cup to the brim. “You should've been here a few minutes ago—we just sold a bunch of this to some woman who knows you.”

Summer drank deeply, relishing every drop. “Who?”

“I didn't catch her name.” Cammie tried to come up with a good description. “She was blond, tiny, head-to-toe Lily Pulitzer.”

“That was probably Mimi Sinclair.” Summer tilted her head. “Was she mean?”

“I was scared of her.”

Summer nodded. “Mimi Sinclair.”

“I'm kind of surprised that you two are friends,” Cammie said.

Summer scoffed. “Oh, we're not.”

“But you're going to her dinner party this weekend.”

“That's what she thinks.” Summer held out her cup for a refill.

Kat returned from the parking lot, visibly limping from pain but trying to hide it. “Oh, hey. Fancy meeting you here.”

Summer put down her cup, concerned. “What's wrong?”

“Just a little twinge from an old injury.” Kat sucked in her breath and pressed both hands on her back. “Ow. Sorry. Ow.”

“You need to slow down,” Cammie admonished her cousin. “You're going to hurt yourself. Correction—you're going to hurt yourself worse than you're already hurt.”

“I'm
fine
,” Kat insisted, though she was wincing.

“You don't look fine,” Cammie said.

“You look like I did when I woke up in the hospital after an emergency plane landing,” Summer chimed in.

Kat gritted her teeth. “Totally. Fine.”

“Do I need to call Josh?” Cammie threatened.

“No. Please, no. I'll be good.” Kat swore. “He'll make me lie on the couch all afternoon with a heating pad and a bottle of Advil.”

“A fate worse than death,” Summer said dramatically.

“Inertia
is
death,” Kat informed her. “I have plans for this afternoon. They involve a tractor, not the couch.”

“Listen, I'll deal with the heavy lifting. Could you stay with her?” Cammie nodded at Aunt Ginger, who was deep in conversation with the guy in the ratty T-shirt.