“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.
Kat shook her head. “That’s dude’s still yammering on about what a big deal he is?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to leave her alone to deal with him.”
“No problem. See you at home. Oh, and, Cammie?” Kat showed them the screen of her cell phone, which featured Jacques’s latest glamour shot. “Our boy’s practically a Kardashian.”
chapter 30
The next morning, Cammie got up at four thirty, headed out to the grapevines with Jacques, and stumbled back to bed at nine a.m. She was drifting off to sleep when she heard Aunt Ginger calling her from the kitchen. “Cammie! Rise and shine!”
Cammie burrowed under her covers.
“Cammie!” The voice was closer this time. Ginger was climbing the stairs.
Cammie groaned into her pillow as the bedroom door opened.
“Camille Breyer!” Ginger whapped Cammie’s feet with a rolled-up magazine. “Get yourself out of that bed this instant. I’ve been calling you for five minutes straight.”
“You have?” Cammie lifted her head off the pillow, trying to look groggy and innocent.
“Knock it off. You’re much too smart to play dumb.” Ginger whacked her with the magazine again. “Now hop to. I have something to discuss with you.”
“What now?” Cammie sat up, trying to steel herself for the latest fiasco.
Ginger gave Cammie’s feet another smack. “Move over and I’ll tell you.” She sat down at the foot of the bed, her expression bemused. “You know,
I always tried to do my best by you girls . . .”
Cammie’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, the cancer’s back.”
“What? No, don’t be silly.”
“But you just said—”
“Let me finish.” Ginger used her sternest school-secretary voice. “It’s rude to interrupt.”
Cammie hung her head, chastened.
“When I bought this winery, I thought it would be a good bonding experience. I thought we could have one last summer out here as a family.” Ginger cleared her throat. “I also thought you and Kat needed some direction in your life, after everything that’s happened this year.” She smiled ruefully. “I was so busy thinking about hopes and dreams and missed opportunities that I didn’t really think about the grapes.”
Cammie smiled, too. “Ah yes. The grapes.”
“The grapes and the roses and the fungus and the bugs and the pesticides and the weather.”
“And the weeds,” Cammie added. “Don’t forget the weeds. And the birds.”
“Ugh.” Ginger made a face. “Farming is the worst.”
“But we’ve made it this far,” Cammie pointed out. “If the rain holds off, we might actually have something to harvest in the fall.”
“Here’s hoping.” Ginger reclined and settled her head onto the pillow next to Cammie’s. The two of them stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. “But while we’re waiting—all three of us—for the grapes to grow, something else is happening.”
Cammie thought about the kitschy wooden magnet on the refrigerator. “We’re blooming where we’re planted?”
“That’s right.” Ginger chuckled. “Well, some of us more than others.”
“Listen, I’m trying. I downloaded a weather app, okay? I’m practically American Gothic over here.”
“You’re doing great, Cam. We all are. Kat bought the tractor, I fermented the strawberries, and you masterminded a marketing plan starring a toothless show dog.”
“You also found a boyfriend,” Cammie reminded her.
“Slow down.” Ginger held up one hand. “Geoffrey and I are just dating. There’s no need to label everything.”
“But you like him.” Cammie paused. “Hats and all.”
She expected Ginger to start raving and ranting about not being so superficial, but Ginger surprised her by laughing. “He does have unusual fashion sense.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“There was a time,” Ginger conceded, “when I was, oh, about your age, when that would have put me off. I would have been too self-conscious to go out with someone who wears what he wears. But now? It’s very freeing. He’s confident in who he is. And that leaves me free to be who I am.”
Cammie patted her aunt’s arm. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Well, honey, one day you’ll learn: There’s more to life than looking cool.”
“I’m glad that you’re happy and I’m glad you’re confident, but are you sure he’s qualified to make the wine in the fall?”
“I’m sure.” Ginger sounded completely at peace with the decision.
“Then I’m on board. And I’ll help with the strawberry wine, now that we’re increasing production,” Cammie volunteered. “As long as we’re waiting for the harvest, we might as well make ourselves useful.”
“Well, yesterday we did more than make ourselves useful. We made money.” The mattress shifted as Ginger pulled a folded piece of paper out of her bathrobe pocket and handed it to Cammie.
Cammie unfolded the pages, then sat up and stared at her aunt. “What is this?”
“Turns out locally sourced strawberry wine has a niche market. That man at the grocery store—”
“The self-important blowhard in the Yale T-shirt?”
“That’s the one. He’s made a provisional offer to buy the North American distribution rights for the strawberry wine.”
Cammie started scanning the documents as fast as she could.
“He said he was interested; he said he was going to write up an offer.” Ginger rolled her eyes. “I thought he was blowing smoke. But five hours later, that showed up in my e-mail.”
“Damn.” Cammie located the financial-terms clause. “That’s a lot of money.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to get a lawyer to look this over, right?” Cammie squinted at the small typeface. “I mean, this is just an opening offer; you can probably negotiate for more.”
“That’s why I’m coming to you with this. You have experience in this industry. What should I be thinking about? What else do I need to know?”
Cammie started to reread the written offer from the beginning. “Well, you’ll have to spell out that you’ll retain the rights to the recipe, the brand name, and licensing. All he’s getting is distribution rights.”
“Could you write that down?”
“Sure. Let me maybe put on pants first, though.”
“No hurry,” Ginger assured her. “And a third of it will be yours, of course.”
Cammie froze. “A third of what?”
“The distribution money.” Ginger got out of bed and headed for the door. “See you at breakfast.”
“No.” Cammie double-checked the amount specified in the offer letter. “I can’t take this.”
“It’s yours, honey. You earned it.”
“You earned it,” Cammie countered.
“We earned it together, so we profit together.”
Cammie tried to figure out a way around this. “Then I’m going to reinvest my profit back into the vineyard.”
“Nope. Sorry.” Ginger turned up her nose. “It’s yours. End of discussion.”
“But I didn’t even kick in to buy this place,” Cammie protested. “I know you’re still in the hole.”
Ginger tightened the sash on her yellow robe. “But I love it here. As I said, this is my dream. You have other dreams.”
“But—”
“Stop arguing. You’re taking the money and that’s final, young lady.” Ginger closed the door behind her, leaving Cammie alone in her room.
“This isn’t over,” Cammie called after her aunt.
“Yes, it is,” Ginger yelled back through the door.
Cammie felt paralyzed with conflicting emotions for a minute or two. Then she opened her closet and pulled out her running shoes. Those seemed like the right thing to wear when chasing down a dream.
• • •
The Whinery was locked and dark when Cammie arrived. She hesitated by the front door, debating her next move. It made perfect sense that a wine bar would be closed on a Saturday morning—after all, Jenna had to sleep sometime.
She slipped her fingers into her pocket and touched the smooth, folded papers that Ginger had given her. Until that morning, she’d thought that money was the only thing stopping her from trying to buy this bar. She’d convinced herself that if only funds weren’t an issue, she would be brave enough to try again, despite her previous failures.
But now, looking through the plate-glass window at the empty barroom, she wasn’t so sure. The Whinery was an institution in Black Dog Bay. If she ran it into the ground, the community would suffer.
Now that the biggest obstacle was out of the way, she had to admit the truth: She didn’t trust herself. She knew what she wanted, but she wasn’t brave enough to reach for it. She took her hand out of her pocket and turned away from the glass door. She would go back to the vineyard and keep the grapes alive until fall. That was more than enough of a challenge.
Cammie started back to her car, but before she’d taken ten steps, she heard Jenna’s voice from across the street. “Hey!”
Cammie turned and raised one hand in a halfhearted wave.
“Are you looking for me?” Jenna looked rumpled in flannel pajama pants and an oversize hockey jers
ey.
“No, I just . . .” Cammie glanced at the Whinery, conflicted. “No.”
“Come on.” Jenna pointed to the Jilted Café. “Let’s get coffee.”
“But I—”
“Coffee.”
Cammie gave in and dashed across the street. She and Jenna were lucky—a padded booth by the café’s brick wall opened up as they entered.
Jenna placed her order with the nearest server: “Two huge mugs of black coffee. No, wait. Bring three, just to be safe. And maybe throw a shot of espresso in them for good measure.”
Cammie stared at the curly-haired brunette. “Should we just hook you up to an IV full of caffeine and adrenaline?”
“God, I wish you could.” Jenna stifled a huge yawn. “I’m exhausted. Friday nights at the bar are like a frat party.”
Cammie nodded and picked up the menu, feigning interest in the omelet descriptions. “Mmm.”
Jenna practically started salivating when she saw the waitress approaching with three mugs of coffee. “So, what’d you need?”
“Nothing.” Cammie stared at the menu text.
“Come on, tell Auntie Jenna. Are you having another wine emergency?”
“No.” Cammie finally glanced up. “The vineyard is actually under control. For once.”
“That’s all you can ask for.” Jenna closed her eyes and savored her first sip of coffee. “If the building’s still standing, I’m winning. That’s what I say.”
Jenna looked at Cammie.
Cammie looked at Jenna.
“Make me an offer,” Jenna said. It was an order, not a request.
Cammie thought about the contract draft in her pocket.
“I’m a very reasonable woman,” Jenna assured her, “who wants to move back to Boston.”
“I’m about to come into some money,” Cammie hedged. “But not enough to secure a business loan. I’ll need a huge down payment because my last restaurant went bankrupt.”
“What about finding a business partner?” Jenna pressed.
“Kat might’ve been willing to go in with me, but she just lost a bunch of investments. All she has in her portfolio now is a tractor.”
Jenna held her mug in both hands and leveled her gaze. “I’m selling it, whether you buy it or not.”
Once Upon a Wine Page 25