Just Like That

by Karin Kallmaker

  She banished the flicker of Syrah Ardani’s eyes from her memory. The real tragedy, she already suspected, was that Anthony Ardani was a sweet, thoughtful man who couldn’t find his checkbook if it was nailed to his forehead. She was certain her examinations of the books and bank records would find that the vineyard had survived under his management only because they’d not borrowed heavily. The recent influx of cash had likely led to unwise spending and unwise borrowing. She’d seen it a hundred times. And she knew how the story ended, damn it.

  She was revising her opinion of Syrah Ardani, however. She was no debutante, but certainly she was unused to facing life’s hard realities. Her workday began at noon and she’d barely made it on time. Her friend, Jane, for all her show of affection for Missy, had promptly begun flirting with the women at the bar and she was certain the pair of them spent a great deal of time doing just that— flirting in bars. It reminded her too much of Mira. Different bars, different women, but the same lack of direction and ambition.

  Annoyed at her temporary lack of focus, she found her way back to the road and followed Missy’s directions to the highway. It was clogged with weekend traffic, but she didn’t have more than a few miles to go. She knew that off of some of these exits were private roads leading to even more private estates. Somewhere in the area an uncle of Mira’s had “a little place” of several thousand acres, and among the other things kept there was a collection of cars most museums would envy.

  She liked the money she’d made, but Toni sincerely hoped, having seen the inside of Mira’s world, that she never had so much that she traveled from place to place to visit her things.

  She didn’t know why she was thinking about Mira. She left the slow-moving highway behind, taking instead another country road that passed the tasting rooms for wineries with names she recognized, like Glen Ellen and Mondavi. She turned west and left what little town there was. The temperature dropped under the canopy of trees and a quick right led her past the tiny marker reading “Netherfield.”

  The driveway, cracked in places, wound through more trees, and even the car sounded hushed. The house, Missy had explained, was over two hundred years old but was structurally sound, if in need of some serious repair. It seemed like the kind of place where spirited heroines swooned into the embrace of heroes with dubious morals.

  The shade of an ancient oak tree, circled at its base by cement benches, dropped the temperature around the back of the house several more degrees. Three men were huddled over the empty pool, discussing, no doubt, the equipment spread out on the ground. How Missy had found someone willing to work on a Sunday Toni didn’t know, but the prospect of a swim some quiet afternoon was highly appealing.

  She parked the car, disturbing a yellow-eyed cat enjoying a nap in the corner of the garage. Jingling Missy’s keys in one hand she crossed the badly patched driveway to the house. She could appreciate what had caught Missy’s eye about the house and grounds, but there was a lot of work ahead of her.

  A door opened with a loud creak and she turned, expecting Missy, but the hair was slightly darker, the frame slightly smaller.

  “Toni! Darling!”

  She returned Caroline’s hug with some warmth, then regretted it when Caroline’s hands went too far down Toni’s backside. “I had no idea Missy was expecting you.”

  “She wasn’t. But as soon as I got her note about the house and that you were out to explore it, too, I realized how dull Santa Monica was and headed upstate.” Caroline tucked her hand under Toni’s arm as they went into the house. “What a great old place this is.”

  “You were just calling it a rattrap,” Missy said from the kitchen table. “You were gone a while, T.B.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be made so welcome. They have a cook and everything.”

  Missy smoothed the newspaper in front of her. “I need a cook, a butler, an amanuensis of some kind.”

  “Or cooking lessons,” Toni observed.

  “I made Pop-Tarts just this morning.”

  Caroline reclaimed her own seat at the table and picked up a glass of wine. “So you’ve had lunch, Toni?”

  Caroline swirled the liquid in the glass idly, and Toni found herself thinking of the wine Syrah Ardani had served her. It had been undoubtedly good, and listening to Syrah explain to her customers about legs, color, light and fruits of their wine had been educational. “I have. It was very good.”

  Caroline pouted. “You’ll still take me to dinner, won’t you? We can even leave Missy here. She’s hoping some creature named Jane will call.”

  “I saw Jane at the Ardani place.”

  Missy’s head shot up. “You did? What did she say?”

  Toni didn’t want to admit Jane had been flirting and pouring wine for three very cute women. “Not much. I was busy.”

  “She looked okay? She was well?”

  Caroline groaned. “All I’ve heard about since I got here was Jane this and Jane that. Who is this woman?”

  “She’s an artist,” Missy said.

  Toni volunteered, “She also does landscaping.”

  “A landscape architect? Well, Missy, you could certainly use one of those around here.”

  “No,” Toni said carefully. “She does landscaping.”

  “As in…plants grass?”

  “She’s an artist,” Missy said again. “Toni, now that you’ve seen the Ardani grounds—Jane did a lot of that. I consider her an artist through and through and I don’t care how she makes money with her hands.” She sighed. “I want to monopolize her hands the rest of the time.”

  “How long has she been like this?” Caroline frowned across her wine at Toni.

  “I only got here yesterday.”

  “Will you two stop acting as if I’m nuts.” Missy tossed her newspaper onto the table. “Neither of you has a clue about feeling the way I do. Neither of you even has a heart!”

  She stormed out, leaving Caroline to look at Toni archly. “Hormones?”

  “I’m willing to bet Jane arouses something hormonal, yes,” Toni said.

  “This woman sounds extremely unsuitable.”

  Toni agreed, but abruptly she did not want to say so. There were aspects of Caroline she did not like, and finding herself in agreement about Missy’s love life was unsettling. It wasn’t Jane’s job that bothered her, it was a sincere doubt that Missy was more than a fling for Jane. “We may have to leave it to Missy to decide.”

  Caroline shrugged. “She has been going on and on about the women around here. Are they really all that?”

  Last night Toni had not thought so, but honesty and the memory of Syrah Ardani’s eyes compelled her to say, “Some are.”

  “Well, take me someplace I can see the choices. Since, I am assuming, you continue to be…unavailable?” Caroline arched one eyebrow.

  “Mira and I broke up.”

  “Missy told me. I’m so sorry.”

  Toni laughed. “No, you’re not. I’m not either.”

  Caroline was grinning. “There’s a restaurant called French Laundry. Let’s go there for dinner.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Toni said. “And I don’t think we’ll be getting in on the spur of the moment.”

  “You could buy the place on the spot and I’m sure we’d get a good table.”

  “What would I do with a restaurant?”

  “Feed me. I had the most wretched flight into that tiny airport in town and I was lucky to get a rental car at all.”

  “They told me I couldn’t get one until tonight, so you were lucky.” Toni found herself smiling indulgently at Caroline. There was a lot she liked about Caroline, too, particularly that she admitted to animal appetites with ease and made no secret of her pleasure in having them fulfilled. “Okay, I’ll feed you. But let me go talk to Missy.”

  She found Missy in the large common room, at war with the wallpaper. A crew was arriving first thing tomorrow morning— Toni had agreed to let them in and get them going while Missy headed for work in San Francisco�
��to remove it properly, but Missy had started the job on her own, with her fingernails.

  She was just digging into another large piece when Toni caught her hand and trapped it under one arm. “You’ll spoil your manicure.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re not behaving like you.”

  “Like I don’t know that. Don’t you think I’m scared to death? I don’t know what hit me when I saw her. At first I thought it was just lust but I feel…” She squeezed her red-rimmed eyes shut for a moment. “I feel like sunshine when I’m with her. All that sappy, emotional crap from some second-rate movie. That’s how I feel.” A smile broke through the anger and tears. “I feel just like that and I’m loving it.”

  “You’re very different people.”

  “Oh, don’t start on her job again—”

  “That’s not what I meant. At the winery she seemed very comfortable chatting up the women there. I wouldn’t want you to get in over your head and find out she’s not capable of being serious.”

  “Oh.” Missy crumbled rotting wallpaper between her fingers. “Well, thanks, I guess. I mean, I’m sure it was innocent and I think she can be very serious. But I appreciate you caring enough to tell me. Listen, take Caroline away, would you?”

  “My pleasure,” Toni said. “I need some fresh air. You were right about Ardani Senior.”

  “Adorable, huh?” Missy dusted her hands. “And Ardani Junior? How was she on closer examination?”

  “Who are we talking about?” Caroline leaned in the doorway, and Toni took a moment to appreciate her undeniable elegance.

  “Syrah Ardani. She has gorgeous eyes.” Missy gave Toni a teasing look. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  Toni nearly made a joke but something compelled her to be honest. “They’d have been quite fine if she hadn’t been hung over.” She thought of their expressive depth, the shifting shades of gold, brown and black, and her own awareness that she was the last person on earth Syrah Ardani wanted to behold. “They’d have been fine indeed.”

  “Well,” Caroline said, her own eyes sparkling with curiosity, “I can’t wait to meet Syrah Ardani and her fine eyes.”

  Chapter 6

  “Maybe it’s the meter.” Syrah resisted the urge to give the device a good shake. “We should test it again.”

  Carlo filled another small clear plastic cup from the barrel in question while Syrah reset the testing meter. “We’re low on L.A.B.”

  “We’re low on everything, not just the reactive acids. I hope to know by the end of the day what kind of order I can place that will get us to harvest.”

  As always, Syrah dipped the testing strip into the red-pink liquid, then tasted the wine herself without swallowing it, spitting the mouthful back into the cup. She did not have her father’s palate, but she was learning. Still, her mouth didn’t say last year’s zinfandel was destabilizing, but the meter did.

  “Trouble, pumpkin?”

  Carlo drew another small cup and Syrah watched her father evaluate it. “Let’s get some L.A.B. into it today.”

  “We’re low on it.”

  “We’ll lose the barrel,” he said. “This one is closest to the morning sun and always has some trouble with stability, but it can produce complexity. It’s not going to take very much. The natural yeast has done its work.”

  Syrah frowned at the meter, which confirmed her father’s assessment. Lactic acid bacteria would shut down the rising pH, but she was going to have to rely on his help for the formula. She didn’t yet have that kind of skill.

  “I’ll see how much we’ve got of what and let you know,” Carlo said.

  Syrah nodded her thanks. They were lucky to have Carlo’s expertise, and knowing that one of the big outfits had been chatting him up didn’t make her happy. They couldn’t compete on anything except their charm. “I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Means I have to stop in and say hi to Bennett.”

  “Cheese toast this morning,” her father said.

  “I am already there.” Carlo left them to the quiet of the largest fermentation barn.

  “That woman will be here at nine,” Syrah said. “I wish you’d let me help get things together.”

  “I think I have it handled. She’s Bill’s daughter all over—has his dry humor.”

  True, there was very little residual sugar in the woman, Syrah wanted to say. “Well, I’m here and I did go to college, too.”

  “I’d rather you spent time learning the barrels.”

  “Me, too. I wish that was all there was to running this place, but we owe money to people.”

  Her father gave her one of his frustratingly sunny smiles and said, “So what did you taste in this one?”

  “Too much acid by the time it settles. Delawares can do that.”

  His smile broadened. “How did you know there were Delawares in there?”

  “Aren’t there?” She recalled the complex acidities of the wine against the sides of her tongue.

  He nodded. “Only Carlo and I knew that. And a few temporaries who helped load the crusher that day. They came on with just the right late acids. This is the only barrel I did a blend for and it’s going to be reserve from release day one.”

  Pleased with herself, Syrah said, “It had Alsatian tone and was more pink than a pure zinfandel, I thought.”

  “Excellent. Anything else?”

  “Once we treat the acid, it will have an intense flavor without being buttery. Peppery without the acid.”

  “Very good, pumpkin.”

  Syrah felt a glow of pleasure. “Oh, I told Carlo I didn’t think the top row caps had been pushed down in the last round. Row four, the Pinots.”

  He frowned and headed for the ladder. “I’ll check and do it if need be.”

  “Dad, let Carlo send someone up there.” She watched him climb the ladder and wanted to say, “I’m not a little girl and you’re not a young man,” but arguing with her father never worked. He just didn’t hear what he didn’t want to. “Dad, please.”

  “I’ve done this a million times and I’ll be fine.” His head appeared over the edge of the third-level scaffold. “I’ve got the safety gear on.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Syrah muttered under her breath, then with a start she realized they weren’t alone. Even with the morning sun streaming in the open door, it wasn’t hard to tell who the tall silhouette had to be. “Ms. Blanchard.”

  She stepped out of the sunlight at her back and Syrah could see her poised, angular face. “Please call me Toni. I’m early, I apologize. I thought the traffic would be like it was yesterday.”

  “Monday mornings are much better. You don’t have to take the highway, either. I can draw you a map from here to Netherfield by back roads.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The silence was awkward enough that Syrah broke it with an anxious, “Have you had breakfast? Can Bennett fix you anything?”

  “When we settle down to work I’ll admit coffee would be welcome.” Toni took two more steps toward Syrah, gazing up at the barrels.

  She wore jeans today, Syrah noted, creased and new, with a short-sleeved top of deep blue that was cotton, not silk. Both were undoubtedly acquired from one of the boutiques in Napa’s prime district. Casual but obviously new mocs didn’t give her the same height as the Vogue pumps had, but she was still at least five inches taller than Syrah. Five-nine, Syrah thought, or five-ten. “Would you like to get started?”

  “I don’t want to take you from your work. I thought, actually, you could show me a little bit about the process so I know what I’m asking questions about.”

  “They missed the lot of them,” her father called down. “Tell Carlo they’re capped now. Just one more to do.”

  “Someone left the caps off?” Toni touched the barrel nearest her, fingertips running over the roughly polished oak.

  “No, caps are the stems and skin and other pieces of the grapes that float up during fermentation. They’re essential to th
e flavor, so it’s necessary from time to time to gently push them back down into the wine. Plus, if they sit on top too long they could start their own spoilage process, and we don’t want to add that to our wine.” Syrah cast an anxious look upward as her father started the climb down the ladder.

  “Forgive my ignorance, but I see pulleys, and the barrels appear to be moveable. Why wouldn’t you bring them down to ground level to check them?”

  “Many wineries do,” Syrah said. “We prefer not to move some of them, though, because sediments can get stirred up. These barrels have some of the most delicate of our wines.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sure it’s more efficient to move the barrels.” She didn’t mean to sound defensive.

  “Possibly.” Toni shrugged. “How many buildings are there like this?”

  “We have seven more like this, another of stone for the slowest reds and two large fully automated buildings for the single-season whites. We’re not a mass producer of wine. We grow a lot of grapes, though.”

  “From the papers I reviewed, I was surprised to see that your largest income is from grape sales, not wine.”

  “It’s why we’re a vineyard, Ms. Blanchard.” Syrah’s father dusted his hands on his khakis. “Ardani grapes are legend. We can claim part of ninety percent of the award winners every year.”

  Syrah wanted to whisper to him not to tell this woman who had so much power over their future that their competitors would jump at the chance to buy their vines.

  “How interesting,” Toni said. “How does that work? By that I mean, why would another winery need your grapes?”

  “Not everyone has zinfandel grapes from hundred-year-old vines. Our soil, on the upper two hundred and extending to Honeysuckle Bench, has a clay loam base. But the middle two hundred sits on more gravel and our Syrah can be intensely flavored…”

  Syrah watched them walk toward the house, torn between admiration at her father’s poise and aggravation that he was and always had been so trusting.

  Carlo brought a tally of the chemicals on hand, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she had to order calcium, sulfur dioxide— the list went on and on, and that was just to treat the wines fermenting or aging in barrels. She also thought that it was time to bottle a full row of noble casks, which meant an order of long-necked flasks that set the dessert wine apart. She was afraid to spend a dime, afraid if she told Toni Blanchard anything, they’d end up with nothing.