Once Upon a Wine (4 page)

“It's also my gift to you girls.” Ginger nodded at the house, the barn with the sloping roof, the weeds, the rows of delicate green vines. “One day, all of this will be yours.”

Kat gave a strangled cough.

“This is your inheritance.” Ginger rocked back on her heels and waited for applause and adulation.

Cammie chose her words very carefully. “We're happy that you're happy.”

Ginger beamed. “You're sweet.”

“But, and I'm just asking out of curiosity . . .” Cammie glanced over at Kat. “What happens if this doesn't work out?”

Ginger tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Well—and I'm just free-associating here—what if, by some chance, the whole wine thing doesn't work out?”

“Oh.” Ginger waved one hand. “That.”

“Yes. That. Because of the whole ‘we don't know anything about making wine' thing.”

“We'll figure it out.” Ginger shrugged, her bracelets jangling. “It's glorified grape juice; how hard can it be?”

Cammie looked to Kat for help, but Kat had checked out of this conversation. Cammie could practically see the screensaver in her cousin's eyes.

“It'll be fine.” Her aunt beamed. “I trust the universe.”

“Um . . .”

“And, more importantly, I trust you, Cammie. You know all about wine.”

“Um . . .”

Ginger leaned closer and whispered, “This is your second chance. I know things didn't work out in California, but you'll make it work this time. I have faith.”

Cammie shut down. Her head ached; her stomach soured. She
didn't want Ginger to trust her. She didn't want to be responsible for yet another failure.

Ginger seemed oblivious to her anguish. “Besides, if this doesn't work out, I have a backup plan.”

Kat snapped back to attention. “Oh yeah? What's that?”

“Worst-case scenario, I can always move in with one of you girls.”

“B
reathe,” Cammie said, as much to herself as to Kat. “Breathe.”

“If there was ever an appropriate time to hyperventilate, this is it!” Kat cried. “What are we going to do?”

“I don't know, but I'm going home.” As soon as the word left her lips, Cammie realized that she had nowhere to go. Los Angeles was no longer an option. She'd given up her apartment and her job.

“What? You can't just quit!”

“Sure I can.” Cammie tried to sound casual. “It's easy.”

“No.” Kat's eyes gleamed with determination. “Nobody's quitting. No one walks away until this place turns a profit.”

“Kat, I know you're all gritty and hard-core, and that's great.” Cammie took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising panic. “But do you have any idea how hard it is to make a profit here? Vineyards are a money pit. Unless you're a celebrity or a fifth-generation winemaker, it's not going to happen.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yes.” Cammie looked at her. “I do.”

“Okay, you do.” But Kat seemed more determined by the moment. “So we have to bring our A game. Every competition of my life was just a warm-up for this.”

Cammie leaned back against the side of the car and waited for reality to sink in.

Thirty seconds later, Kat frowned. “So, uh, where do we start?”

“We don't,” Cammie said. “I'm telling you, we need to walk away. We'll put this place up for sale tomorrow and cut our losses.”

Kat started to protest, but Cammie interrupted.

“No. I'm serious, Kat. I'm not doing this again. This is doomed to fail.”

Kat joined her at the side of the car. “I hear you.”

“Good.”

They stood in silence, staring off into the clear blue sky and smelling the faint trace of grass and soil.

“Well, if you don't want to talk about the vineyard, let's talk about the hot farmer.” Kat raised her voice and said, “Hey, Mom! Guess who we saw on our way into town?”

“Who?” Ginger hurried to join them.

“Remember that guy Cammie dated the summer after she graduated college? Well, he's still here and he—”

“Let's talk about the vineyard.” Cammie silenced Kat with her palm and shifted her brain into business mode. “The first priority is cash flow. We need to pay for water, labor, and equipment.”

Kat pulled out her phone and started taking notes.

“How much do we have coming in per month right now?” She looked at her aunt.

Ginger stared back blankly. “Well, nothing yet, dear.”

“But we have to make and package the product before we'll see any profit.” Cammie glanced around at the rows of vines. “We're
going to be hemorrhaging money till harvest.” She paused. “Which brings up another important question: How are we going to make the wine when harvest time gets here?”

Ginger patted her hair. “We have some time to figure that out.”

“You're forgetting the biggest issue,” Kat pointed out. “What the hell are we supposed to do with these grapes today? Right now?”

They all looked at one another.

Cammie crossed her arms. “What did the previous owners say about all this when you bought it?”

“They said that this was a hobby and they spent only two weeks a year at the property,” Ginger reported, her confidence faltering. “The husband was a fancy Wall Street banker who used to hand out bottles of his wine to his friends at Christmas.”

Kat shifted her weight and leaned toward Cammie. “Gee. If only we knew someone who knew something about growing grapes. Someone like, oh, I don't know—
a farmer
.”

Ginger's face lit up. “That's a great idea!”

“No.” Cammie shook her head. “Just no.”

“Why not?” Ginger and Kat demanded together.

Cammie sidestepped the issue. “The grapes aren't going to matter if we can't make it to fall without going bankrupt.”

“I can stake us some cash.” Kat tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Josh found a great financial manager and invested most of my earnings. We were going to save it for . . . Well, never mind. I can have a check in about a week.”

“Josh takes such good care of you.” Ginger shaded her eyes with her hand and studied Kat's expression. “Where is he, anyway?”

“In Maryland,” Kat replied ever so casually.

“Is he teaching over the summer? I thought he'd be here with you.”

Kat mumbled something incomprehensible.

“He'll come out and join us, won't he?” Ginger pressed.

“Mom.” Kat's tone made Cammie flinch. “Drop it.”

Ginger clutched her daughter's arm. “Oh dear. Is there something wrong between you two? Tell me everything.”

Kat wrenched her arm away. “This summer is about your crisis, not mine.”

Ginger gasped. “So you admit there's a crisis.”

Cammie stepped in between them. “If we're going to fight all day, can we at least do it in the house? It's hot out here.”

Everyone could agree on this, at least. Kat strode toward the house with Cammie and Ginger on her heels.

“You know how I adore Josh,” Ginger started. “Whatever is going on with you two—”

“Don't try to make this about me, Mother.”

Cammie sucked in her breath and hung back. When Kat started referring to her mom as “Mother,” it was time to duck and cover.

“The only reason I'm here instead of back in Maryland with Josh is that you decided to throw away your life's savings after you watched the Travel Channel in a hospital waiting room.”

Ginger's mouth dropped open as they climbed the creaky steps up to the porch. “Is that what you think this is about? A few minutes of watching the Travel Channel? For your information, I've wanted to buy a vineyard ever since your father and I honeymooned in Europe forty years ago.”

At the mention of her father, Kat looked a bit sheepish.

“We went to Italy,” Ginger informed them as they reached the front door. “We toured lots of vineyards.” She turned to Cammie. “Red super Tuscans like you wouldn't believe.” Back to Kat. “The sun and soil and fruit. It seemed like such a wholesome, simple life. We agreed that when we retired, we'd buy our own vineyard. But then, of course, he left, and I had to get practical.”

Kat mumbled an apology.

“I've been thinking about this for decades,” Ginger continued.
“I did my job, I raised my child, and now I can do anything I please.” She held open the screen door. “Now stop talking back and make yourselves at home.”

From Ginger's description of the vineyard's previous owners, Cammie expected the farmhouse's interior to look cozy and rustic but luxurious—lots of exposed beams and exposed brick. Instead, she found wide wooden floor planks, fading floral wallpaper, and dust. So much dust. What had once been the front parlor had been converted into a tasting room, complete with a bar and several empty wine barrels that were, presumably, intended to serve as tables. The curtains were lacy, the windowpanes were smudged, and the old-fashioned wallpaper looked out of place with Ginger's furniture, most of which was midcentury modern.

“It's . . .” Kat trailed off.

“A work in progress,” Ginger finished. “We'll redecorate later.”

Cammie walked past the parlor and checked out the rest of the first floor, which included a large, sunny kitchen; a refurbished bathroom; and a pantry as big as the closet in her LA apartment. She was reaching for the basement door when she heard Kat's voice sharpen in the parlor.

“Hey! Put down my phone.”

“In a moment, dear.” Ginger sounded sweet but implacable. “I just want to check something.”

“Who are you calling?” Kat demanded. Cammie returned to the tasting area in time to see Ginger fending off Kat and greeting someone on the other end of the line. “Hello? Josh?”

Kat snatched the phone away and hung up.

“Katherine Elizabeth Milner.” Ginger pressed her palm to her heart. “You just hung up on your husband.”

“Technically,
you
did.” The phone started ringing, and Kat dropped it onto the table as if she'd been scorched.

“Would you two stop?” Cammie put her hands on her hips.
“We are dealing with a situation here.” She ignored the still-ringing phone. “This is not the time to turn on each other. We're a team, and we need to start acting like it.”

“Fine.” Kat took a seat on one of the wine barrels. “I say our first team decision should be drinking heavily.”

“I second that.” Ginger clicked the phone to “silent.”

Cammie nodded. “Motion carried. We're in a damn vineyard. Where's the wine?”

“The previous owner left a few bottles in the kitchen,” Ginger said.

Cammie frowned. “Like, in the refrigerator or in the cabinets?”

“Right on the counter, next to the stove.” Ginger started toward the back of the house. “I'll go get a bottle right now.”

“Great.” Cammie sighed. “This place was owned by some rich guy who doesn't know that the number-one rule of wine is to keep it away from sunlight and heat.”

Kat looked heartened. “See? We're kicking that guy's ass already.”

Ginger returned with a dusty bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a few water-spotted drinking glasses. As Cammie dug the sharp tip of the corkscrew in, the cork started to crumble. She made a conscious decision not to interpret this as a bad omen and kept going.

“This actually looks better than I hoped for.” When Cammie poured, the red wine was dark but not cloudy. She leaned over the rim of the glass and took a few tentative sniffs. “Smells okay, too.”

Kat sniffed her glass. “What are you smelling? Because I just smell wine.”

“That's good.” Cammie straightened up. “If the bottle had been corked—that's what they call it when it gets contaminated with cork taint—it smells . . . not good.”

As Kat and Ginger looked on with wide eyes, Cammie took a tiny sip of wine. She swirled it around her palate. She swallowed. And then she went to the sink to get a glass of water.

“Well?” Ginger demanded.

Cammie busied herself with the faucet handles. “Um, what kind of wine is that? Merlot? Pinot noir?”

“You tell me,” Ginger said. “You're the wine expert.”

“Answer the question,” Kat said. “How was it?”

“Don't keep us in suspense.” Ginger stepped closer, her eyes wide.

Cammie considered this for a moment. “Better than vinegar; worse than Franzia.”

Kat groaned.

Ginger looked around, confused. “What's Franzia?”

“The lofty heights to which we aspire,” Cammie said.

“It's wine in a box,” Kat informed her mother. “We used to drink it at college parties.”

“So there's a market for it, is what you're saying?”

Cammie turned around and leaned back against the sink. “My opinion doesn't count. At the end of the day, I have no clue what I'm talking about. We need to take this to an expert.”

“Something every buyer should do
before
finalizing their vineyard purchase,” Kat added pointedly.

“I had cancer!” Ginger retorted. “Think about that!”

“How can I not, what with you reminding me every fifteen minutes?”

Ginger stood up, wedged the cork back into the wine bottle, and appealed to Cammie. “You're the only one of us with any related experience. It's your call, Cammie. If you say this is hopeless, if you say we should give up now, I'll listen.”

“What?” Kat cried. “You'll listen to her but you won't listen to me?”

“That's right. You're a skateboarder, not a restaurateur,” Ginger said.

“Not anymore,” Kat muttered.

And Cammie wasn't a restaurateur anymore. None of them had turned out to be the woman she'd thought she'd be. But at least
Ginger was trying. Ginger would rather try her damnedest and fail than listen to all the voices in her head that told her to give up.

So Cammie didn't tell the truth. She told her aunt what she wished was the truth: “It's not hopeless. We've come this far. Let's give it a shot.”

Lots of hugs and high fives, which dwindled into awkward standing around. Kat and Ginger both regarded Cammie expectantly. “What now?”

Cammie pulled out her phone and did a quick search. “Google tells me there's a wine bar on Main Street. Someone there must know something about wine. Let's go.”