A Case of Syrah, Syrah

by Nancy J. Parra

  “That’s why you have the van,” Holly said with a nod. “A name that big takes a big vehicle side to put it on. I’m surprised you don’t have an actual bus.”

  “I thought about an old school bus,” I said, “but I want to keep the groups small so I don’t forget and leave anyone behind.”

  “You need a mascot,” Holly said. “Everyone loves an adorable mascot.”

  “Clemmie would be a good mascot,” I said.

  “Your cat hates everyone,” Holly said. “You need a puppy.”

  “Clemmie does not hate everyone. She’s particular.”

  “She’s bitten every boyfriend you ever had.”

  “She likes women better,” I said. “She hasn’t bitten Aunt Jemma . . . yet. They have sort of a truce worked out.”

  “You’ll need extra insurance if you take Clemmie with your tours as mascot.”

  “I guess I’d better leave the cat home then,” I said and finished drinking my smoothie. “I have to go. Cristal will kill me if I’m late.”

  “Fine,” Holly said. “But a mascot is still a good idea.”

  “My first tour is tomorrow with Laura’s group. I doubt there’s time to adopt a mascot,” I said as I hitched my yoga bag over my shoulder.

  “You are braver than I am,” Holly said and walked me to my car.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it takes guts to do anything for Laura. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t like you much, plus I hear she’s a crazy control freak.”

  “I’m learning how to work with the control thing,” I said and opened my car door. “It’s good practice. I’m sure Laura won’t be the last cranky client. So far it’s okay. She’s already approved of all the stops and verified that I’ve only charged her for the tastings that have her stamp of approval. It seems she believes in organic, full-bodied red wines only.”

  “So are you going to take her to Aunt Jemma’s place? You guys are organic, right?”

  “No, I’m keeping my business and Aunt Jemma’s winery separate,” I said. “At least for now.”

  “Why?”

  “So Aunt Jemma won’t get sued if anything bad happens.”

  “What could possibly go wrong with a wine-tasting tour group?”

  “Nothing,” I said and gave her a quick hug good-bye. Still, with any event, you had to be prepared. It was why I carried liability insurance. I didn’t want to tempt fate.

  Chapter 2

  The wine-tasting room was hopping.

  “The zinfandel is the most well-known of the California grapes,” I said as I poured an ounce of zin in each glass for the five people in front of me. “Old zin vines, such as Aunt Jemma’s, are known for their big bold fruits. A portion of her vines are over one hundred years old and survived Prohibition.”

  The gray-haired woman in front of me sipped the wine. “I understand Prohibition closed many of the vineyards. How did they manage not to get torn out?”

  “Well, these vines are up on a hill and carefully cultivated inside a circle of brush and scrub trees. The rest of the land was changed to fruit trees and hay fields. That’s why you taste dark cherry in the red and hints of peach in the whites.”

  “Interesting,” said the gentleman wearing a fedora and a bow tie. “I taste coffee in this selection.”

  “It has a darker aroma of coffee, and the next one has a chocolate hint,” I said. “People like complex tastes. Some of the uniqueness comes from the old vines, and the rest comes from the earth the vines are growing in.”

  “Do you still have fruit trees?” asked a woman with champagne-blonde hair and an “I Love My Grandchildren” sweat shirt.

  “There’s a small orchard left on site,” I said, “but most of the acres have been converted back to grapes.”

  “How are you doing with the drought?” asked the first lady.

  “Grapes like harsh conditions. We’re also lucky to have a natural spring running under the property, so we use drip irrigation for the vines when needed.”

  “The grapes use less water than the fruit trees, so it’s smart to go back to vines,” the gentleman explained.

  The tasting room was filled with the scent of freshly poured wines, cheese and crackers, and hard sausages. Inside, there were five small café tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths. I practically had to shout to be heard above the din of people talking and drinking. Outside were picnic tables and benches. Every seat in both areas was filled with people from the two buses that had come in. After the tasting, many people would buy a bottle or two, and we would uncork them and offer glasses so they could picnic under the trees. The bocce ball field was full of players—the seniors knew how to have a good time on a sunny afternoon.

  “What is the origin of the California zin?” a second man with a bald head and intelligent green eyes asked.

  “Some thought the grape was native to California,” I said. “Then it was thought to have come from Italian stock. But with DNA testing, they discovered the California zinfandel were original to Croatia. It turns out there were several vines sent over in the early 1800s from Austria. These vines made their way across the United States with the gold miners during the Gold Rush era. The vines flourished in this part of California, and an industry was born.”

  “Hey, I’m Croatian too,” said the bald man. He lifted his glass. “Here’s to the wine of my ancestors.”

  “Hear, hear,” the group said and toasted each other.

  I made my way to another group that was ready for white wines. Juan, Cristal, and I worked as a team, talking and laughing with customers, filling and refilling their glasses, ringing up purchases of wine and food, and holding IDs in exchange for wineglasses. We let them buy bottles of wine and asked that they give us their IDs in exchange for wineglasses to use outside at the picnic tables. When they were finished, they returned the glasses, and we returned the IDs. The group stayed for two hours and climbed back on the buses happy and pleasantly tired.

  We waved good-bye and studied the carnage left behind.

  “That went well,” Cristal said. “I signed up twenty new wine-club members.” The true goal of wine tasting was to entice new subscribers, who signed up for a year and received quarterly wine selections. Some were shipped, but most were opportunities to return to the winery and pick up their selections and perhaps buy more. Wine-club memberships were the bread and butter of the winery business.

  “I signed up two but sold thirty bottles,” I said.

  “That was a good group,” Juan said with a nod. “I sold eighteen memberships. Jemma should be very happy.”

  “The white wines went as well as the reds,” I said. “Juan, you and Mary must be happy.”

  “I’m happy when any of my wines sell,” Juan said with pride showing on his round, weathered face.

  “It’s four thirty,” Cristal said. “Let’s clean up. I have a date.”

  “A date,” I teased her. “What the heck is that?”

  “A good time with a handsome fellow. You should try it sometime,” she teased back.

  I shook my head. “Too busy,” I said.

  “Too picky,” she shot back.

  Juan chuckled. “I’ve got my Esmerelda. She and the kids keep me sane.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “A good man would be a nice addition to your life.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” I said, “but I’m fine the way I am, thank you very much.”

  He shrugged. “That’s what everyone says before they fall in love. Once you taste love . . .” He left the rest of the sentence up to me as he walked away. Juan was a small man—I’d say about five foot four, since he was three or four inches shorter than I was. But his thin, wiry frame was strong from years in the fields. He usually wore denim jeans, a T-shirt, and a dusty old jean jacket with long sleeves to protect him from the sun. My favorite part of his ensemble was his hat with long flaps of thin cotton that shielded his neck and face. But all his protection didn’t make much difference; his skin was still
dark and leathery from a life spent outside.

  Cristal, on the other hand, was so fair it was nearly blinding. She had long white-blonde hair that was thin and currently pulled back into a low ponytail. Her skin was pale enough that you could see the blue veins underneath. Her eyebrows and lashes were also white blonde and could only be seen with makeup darkening them. It gave her an elfin look. I half expected her ears to be pointy. She had three stars tattooed on her right cheek bone. The blue ink mirrored the cornflower-blue of her eyes.

  She was thin and long but not tall. She played up her fairylike looks with flowy bohemian blouses and skirts. She liked to wear moccasins because we did a lot of standing and walking whenever a tasting group came in. We were both twenty-eight—close enough to thirty to start worrying that our lives would never get themselves together.

  Aunt Jemma would laugh at me whenever I mentioned how old I was. She said that your twenties were meant to be spent discovering who you were and what you wanted. I was afraid that I’d be fifty before I really had my answers. As for now, I was glad to try my hand at my own small business.

  We spent another hour cleaning up after the groups. The bocce balls had to be picked up and stowed away until the next group came in. Dishes were washed, and trash was taken to the dumpster. Aunt Jemma was a fiend about recycling, so we composted any leftover foods and recycled glass bottles. It was a few extra steps, but recycle bins on the property encouraged people to help out and not simply stuff everything in the trash containers.

  I was sweeping the floors when Juan came in with a tan cocker spaniel under his arm. “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Juan said and held the puppy out to me. “I found her under the old vines.”

  “Not again,” Cristal said sadly.

  I took the puppy, and she cuddled in my arms and licked my face. “What do you mean, ‘not again’?”

  “This is the third dog in as many years that has been abandoned in the old vines.”

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Some people seem to think they can leave puppies in the country and the dog will fend for itself.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said and looked into the puppy’s brown eyes. “Who could give you up?”

  “There’s no tag or collar,” Juan pointed out.

  “Maybe she’s microchipped,” I said.

  “We should take her to the vet,” Cristal said. “They’ll be able to scan for a chip.”

  “I like her,” I said and held the puppy tight. She licked my face. “Holly said I needed a mascot. I could make her my tour mascot.”

  “We need to take her to the vet to see if she is healthy,” Cristal pointed out.

  “I bet she’s starving,” I said. “Come on, baby. Let’s see what we have for you to eat.” I walked her up to the big house. Clemmie met me at the door. One look at the puppy, and she jumped up on the countertop. Her tail twitched angrily. “Aw, Clemmie, don’t be like that. She’s only a baby.” I pulled out two bowls and put water in one and some canned stew in another, then set them down in front of the puppy. She wagged her tail and wolfed down the food. Clemmie jumped down to drink from the water bowl and check out the stew. The stew bowl was empty, and the cat batted the puppy’s nose and then walked away.

  The puppy yipped, more startled than hurt since Clemmie hadn’t extended her claws. I picked up the pup and hugged her tight. She squeaked at the attention. “It’s okay, baby,” I said. “Clemmie’s ornery.” I looked the pup in the eyes. “I think I’ll call you Millie. Do you like that name?” The pup licked my cheek and wagged her tail. “Millie it is.”

  “What do you have there?” Aunt Jemma asked as she walked into the kitchen.

  “It’s a puppy Juan found in the old vine growth. Cristal thinks someone abandoned her. I fed her.” I cuddled the dog. “I’m going to name her Millie.”

  “Oh, dear,” Aunt Jemma said and looked at me through her reading glasses, which were perched at the end of her nose.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Millie is going to be my tour mascot.”

  “As long as she stays with you in the pool house,” Aunt Jemma said. “I don’t have time to housebreak a dog. Your cat is nuisance enough.”

  “I’ll see to her needs, I promise.”

  “How did the wine tasting go?”

  “It went well. We sold several club memberships and a case or two of wine.”

  “That’s senior citizens for you.” Aunt Jemma chuckled. “They’re in their second childhood with permission to drink, God love them.”

  Suddenly the puppy decided to start peeing. I raced her outside and put her in the grass, but not before my pant leg got wet.

  “Have fun with that,” Aunt Jemma called to me.

  I stuck out my tongue at her. The puppy wandered away from me for a bit but then headed back the moment I called her name. I sent Aunt Jemma a smug smile and took Millie back to the pool house. There was a lot of planning to do before my first tour. But before that, I changed into a new pair of pants and called the local veterinarian to make an appointment to see if Millie was chipped and then to get her started on her well-doggie care with shots and such. I was lucky—they’d had a cancelation and could see me today.

  “Come on, Millie,” I said as I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. “We have a few minutes before the appointment. Let’ see what all is left to do for our first tour.”

  An hour later, Millie didn’t seem at all upset to be at the vet and, in fact, picked up the leash I’d bought her and walked herself right up on the scales. She was eighteen pounds of fluff and love.

  “Dog’s healthy,” the veterinarian, Kathi Summers, said. “I would guess she is about three months old.”

  “Does she have a microchip?” I almost hoped that she didn’t.

  “Most dogs do these days. If so, we can contact the chip company and see if they can find her owner. She’s in very good health. My guess is she ran away. There’s no way anyone would abandon such a beautiful puppy.” The vet ran a scanner over Millie’s body. There was a small beep.

  “So she has a chip in her?”

  “Yes.” The vet showed me the information that popped up on the screen of the scanner. “Looks like the previous owner didn’t fill out the paper work to verify the dog’s address. I’ll contact the company, and they will get me the name, address, and phone number of the dog’s breeder. They can tell me who the owner was.”

  I hugged the dog. “I’ll take her home until her parents come for her,” I said. “I like her and would rather house her with me than leave her with you, if that’s okay? Besides, she’s used to my place.”

  “Okay,” Dr. Summers said. “But I wouldn’t get too attached if I were you. Fostering a puppy is a lot of work, and then you must give the dog to its forever home.”

  “I’m not going to get attached,” I lied and picked up the pup along with a heartworm pill and some expensive dog food. “Come on, Millie. Let’s make you comfortable in your new place.”

  “Don’t get attached,” the vet called after me. I waved my acknowledgement.

  “Too late,” I whispered into Millie’s ear. The pup licked me on the cheek. We went straight to the pet store, where I bought a sparkling pink halter, a warm fluffy princess bed, a tote full of toys, a dog kennel, and a book on how to house-train a dog.

  “Aunt Jemma is going to learn to love you,” I said. “You watch. She might still complain about Clemmie, but she sneaks her treats. I know because Clementine told me so.”

  “How does a cat talk to you?” Holly asked. She was standing next to my car as I came out of the pet store.

  “She has her ways,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.” Holly peered at the puppy. “I was walking by when I saw your car, but it looks like you took my advice on getting a mascot.”

  “It wasn’t planned,” I said. “Juan found this beautiful puppy in the old vineyard. I named her Millie
. Millie, meet Holly. Holly’s my best friend and therefore is your best friend as well.”

  The pup looked at me with big brown eyes, then wiggled to get closer to Holly. My best friend’s heart melted as she picked Millie out of my arms.

  “Oh, my goodness, aren’t you the sweetest thing?” Holly said as she took Millie and held her against her chest. “What did you buy her?”

  I spent the next ten minutes showing her everything I’d bought the puppy, including a small pink T-shirt that said “Mascot” on the side. “She’s going to be the perfect little guide to keep my tour lively.”

  “Speaking of tours, how’s the planning going? You never did tell me where you were going.”

  “I plan on taking them through the Quarryhill Botanical Gardens and then down the road to one of the hidden wineries.”

  “What’s in Quarryhill?” Holly asked. “Do I know it?”

  “It’s a botanical garden with the most live native Asian plants in the United States. It’s got a creek running through it and these great bridges. Really good scenery.”

  “But I thought you were doing wine-tasting tours.”

  “I’ll have snacks and wine in the back of the van. We’ll do the hike through the gardens, stop for wine and snacks at the picnic area, then visit the wineries in the area. It’s my premise. ‘Off the Beaten Path’ means we’ll visit some of Sonoma’s hidden gems while we tour wineries.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “That’s what I thought when we started planning this tour. I like that it’s different than just a wine tasting. As a health-conscious person, Laura liked the idea of a hike.”

  “Be sure it’s okay to take the puppy before Laura shows up,” Holly said and kissed Millie, who was eating up all the attention.

  “I thought you wanted me to have a mascot,” I said. “Besides, who doesn’t love a puppy?”