Fanged Love

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Neli sets down the mirror on a little table next to the chair I was just poking. “Boz, there are no servants—they’re all long gone. We have employees now, and they went home for the day. As for your supper, I’m sorry to say that we’re fresh out of virgins.” She inhales sharply and raises her voice again. “Because you’ve been asleep for five centuries! Hellooo!”

  “Hello? But I am right here. Why are you saying hello?”

  “Ohmygod. You’re impossible.” She takes my hand and drags me to the window. “Look outside. You see there? You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  “I do not know what a Kansas or Toto is, but—” I gaze at the rolling hills bathed in the golden rays of the late evening sun. Rows of grapevines stretch as far as the eye can see. “Those are mature vines.” And mature vines take at least three years to grow. I know this because we have always made wine and grown grapes on my land. We are quite good at it, actually. However, last year a fungus wiped out our entire vineyard, which was why we had to increase the rents. The peasants who farm the rest of my land, growing grains and a variety of vegetables, cannot expect me, their lord, to go without. And a few of them starved. So what? People die. It is what they do.

  “Now do you see?” Neli asks.

  I raise one brow. “Yes. Very clearly. And I have warned you against asking favors of that witch. Now we will have to burn the entire vineyard and start over. I am not about to drink cursed wine from magic vines.”

  Neli throws her hands in the air. “Fine. You win. Those are magic witchy vines. People are living inside that flat box.” She points to that TV thing on the wall. “And you were not poisoned by the village witch. You also haven’t been asleep for five hundred years while I struggled to keep us safe, put myself through college, and built a multimillion-dollar award-winning winery.” She exhales sharply. “Oh, and I didn’t have to move you and your stinking castle, brick by brick, to California because your land in Transylvania was seized under eminent domain laws and used to build a huge mall. Nope. None of that happened.” She taps her foot.

  Neli is a bit of a rascal, but this story goes far beyond her usual tricks. I am beginning to believe her. “So you really have no virgins for my supper? What am I going to eat?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stella

  I’m practically a virgin with my current dry spell. It’s the only explanation for why I keep having these intense dreams that leave me hot and aching. I lie in bed a moment longer, trying to remember the scraps of dream. A mysterious stranger made me levitate with all the incredibly good orgasmic vibes. I never saw his face, just felt his powerful presence. Sigh. Back to reality. Now that I’m back home from college, I’m not likely to meet a man like that anytime soon.

  I get out of bed, opening the bedroom curtains wide to another sunny June day in Napa Valley. I brighten at the view as I keep my gaze focused on the neat lines of well-tended vines. I love neatness and order. Probably the planner in me with my penchant for lists and checking things off them. Most every problem can be solved with the right plan.

  Hmm, maybe I should make a plan for meeting a guy. But first I need to focus on my new job here at my family’s vineyard.

  My gaze is inevitably drawn past the vineyard, rolling hills, and oak trees to the monstrosity on the other side of the road, a medieval stone castle—complete with towers, turrets, and an actual moat with a drawbridge. Castle Sangria was constructed about five or six years ago and is definitely out of place here. Rumor is an eccentric reclusive billionaire built it as an homage to his ancestral home in Italy. Personally, none of us have ever met the man, but the vineyard manager, Neli, seems friendly enough. And very young—about my age, twenty-two. I have only met her once, about a year ago, when I was home for Christmas break. My mom had me deliver homemade sugar cookies in yet another attempt to make nice with the antisocial neighbors who are rarely seen in public. My parents are the opposite; they’ve been active members of the community ever since they moved here to start Stellariva Vineyards when I was little (Stella—me; Riva—Italian for creek).

  I spend a few moments looking for signs of life across the road like usual. It’s really strange that their winery just showed up out of the blue, started growing grapes, making wine, and winning awards left and right, while my family’s been at it longer with zero awards. But it’s kept our family going for years. I mean, sure, my parents haven’t had the money to maintain our old Victorian house, but that’s just because they reinvest in the business. Plus, they were paying for my college tuition.

  And now I’m back home, after graduating from UCLA, to work at the family winery as their manager. If Neli can be successful at it, then why can’t I? I’ve been preparing for my role for years. Still, I plan to shadow my father, the master winemaker, to be sure I’m up to date on the production side. Next I’ll spend time with my mom, who does the marketing. We’re close, and I’m proud to work for the family business.

  I turn from the window and shut off my white noise machine that I sleep with every night to ward off ghosts. Ha! Kidding. No such thing as ghosts. I’m much too practical to believe in the otherworldly. It’s just that this old Victorian house settles at night, and lately it’s been making all kinds of creaks and ghostly moan-like sounds. The white noise machine is to cover those completely explainable noises.

  I take a quick shower and then dress in my favorite short-sleeved, pale pink floral maxi dress with black sandals. I love wearing maxi dresses that drape loosely to my ankles. So much more comfortable than jeans or pants. I leave my hair down since I’ll be working indoors today. First stop, the kitchen. I’m hoping the twins made something good for breakfast. My seventeen-year-old identical twin sisters—who will be seniors in high school this fall—are culinary geniuses.

  In the kitchen, I find my sisters working on their latest recipe. The space is so inviting and cheerful, with honey wood cabinets, a huge center island, and a double-basin farm sink at a window that overlooks the backyard. The scent of warm cinnamon fills the air, and my stomach growls.

  My sisters have their long hair up in high ponytails. We three girls resemble our Italian mother’s side with our dark brown hair and eyes, our petite frames, and light olive skin. I’m five feet four, and the twins are an inch shorter. Cute as buttons. Mabel wears an apron with a lemon pattern over her T-shirt and shorts. Eliza sticks with her peppermint-candy-striped apron year-round.

  Mabel turns to Eliza. “What do you think about adding—”

  “—pureed strawberry,” Eliza says.

  “Just for the filling,” Mabel says.

  “Yes!” Eliza exclaims, heading to the refrigerator.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Morning,” Mabel says cheerily. “We’re working on a dark chocolate cupcake recipe.”

  Eliza lifts the strawberry container in a little wave. “Less than two weeks until the bake-off.”

  “I know. It’s all I hear about around here.” I help myself to a glass of water. “Any chance you made breakfast before the cupcakes?”

  Mabel waves toward her twin. “Eliza made cinnamon rolls, but Dad took them out for the staff.”

  “You snooze, you lose,” Eliza says with a grin from the sink, where she’s washing the strawberries.

  I cross to her. “Guess I’ll just steal a few strawberries.”

  “Back away from the strawberries,” Eliza says, lifting the colander and setting it on the counter away from me.

  “Just one,” I coax.

  “Ha! I was kidding before,” Eliza says. “I saved a cinnamon roll for you. It’s on the dining room table.”

  I beam. “You’re now officially my favorite sister.”

  Eliza sticks her tongue out at Mabel.

  Mabel arches her brows. “Eliza is my favorite sister.”

  “Oh! Direct hit!” I stagger and pull the pretend knife from my back. Mabel smiles and goes back to measuring ingredients for cupcake batter. The food processor whirs a moment later, and they’re b
ack in action.

  I take a seat at our glossy cherrywood dining room table and devour the cinnamon roll. Nothing like fresh baked…anything, really. I’m going to have to be careful not to gain a hundred pounds sampling everything they make. My sisters are eager for the state bake-off because the prize is full tuition to culinary school. One of them will use that money to go, while my parents cover the other. Mabel wants to focus on cuisine and Eliza on baking. Their ultimate goal is to open a top-rated restaurant. It would be cool if they did that here at the vineyard, but we’ll see where they end up. They’re both trying to get into different culinary schools. Mabel in New York and Eliza in France.

  My dad appears unexpectedly in the dining room just as I get up from the table. Normally he’s tending the vines or in the cellar. His dark brown hair is parted to the side, his round cheeks clean-shaven. He’s wearing a faded chambray button-down shirt, khakis, and his beat-up work boots. “Finally, you’re up,” he says.

  “It’s not that late,” I say. “You’re just an early bird.”

  “Get up with the sun this time of year.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I thought I’d sit in on your meeting with Mom today.”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem.” I head through the kitchen and outside to Mom’s office in the cottage out back as Dad follows. The space was originally an in-law unit, which my parents used to rent out, but then the twins came along, so it became the office.

  It’s unusual for Dad to want to leave his post overseeing the production of the wine, but hey. It’s his vineyard. Mom’s too. When they’re ready to retire, they’ll hand it over to me and my sisters (if they’re interested). Until then, Mom and Dad are my bosses. I don’t mind working for my parents. I know they value my contribution. They were thrilled that I wanted to work here. Of course I did! The winery means everything to me. It’s my namesake, my legacy.

  I enter the cottage, and my mom swivels in her black mesh office chair. “Morning, sweetheart.” Her dark brown hair is back in its usual bun, no makeup. She favors T-shirts, jeans, and a beige cardigan that’s probably as old as I am.

  “Morning.” I stop to give our old dog Sadie a scratch behind her big floppy ears. She lifts her soulful bloodhound eyes to me for a moment before resting her head on her drool-covered paws. “No, don’t get up,” I murmur. She’s about ten years old and deaf, but she can still sniff out a rabbit from a mile away.

  I straighten to find my dad is already seated in the wooden chair across from the desk. I take the other chair. The cottage is sparsely decorated. Just a long wooden desk with chairs and a few art prints on the white walls. The highlight is a large window with a view of the vineyard.

  “So should we start?” Mom asks.

  “Oh! I should’ve brought a notepad and pen.” I pull my phone out of the deep pocket in my dress. “I’ll jot down anything important in my notes app.”

  I look up at the silence to find my parents exchanging a look. “What?”

  “Let’s not write this stuff down,” Dad says.

  “It’s of a delicate nature,” Mom says.

  “Oh, okay.” I look from one to the other, confused. “Is it marketing related? Do you have a new idea for bringing in business?”

  “In a way,” Mom says. “I’m hoping you can help with that.”

  “We’ve done everything we can think of,” Dad says with a note of worry that has me sitting up straighter. “Wine club, online sales, the tastings.”

  Mom shakes her head sadly. “Wine club was a good idea, but only a few people were willing to commit to a monthly membership.”

  A sense of dread fills me at their tight expressions.

  “And tastings are seasonal,” Dad adds.

  “You said online sales did better than you thought,” I say. “Right?”

  “At Christmas they were good,” Mom says.

  “It’s just become a very crowded, competitive market,” Dad says. “There’s so many new wineries coming on the scene, and it’s harder to get distribution in stores.”

  My gut tightens. I remember them talking about how the wineries from Latin America were taking over shelf space in the stores. I didn’t realize this was what they meant. “Okay, I’ll come up with a plan. Something that shines a new light on Stellariva wines.” My mind is already cranking with ideas that won’t cost too much, when Mom drops the bombshell.

  “Here’s the reality, honey,” she says. “We’re nearly broke. I’m not sure we can keep the winery going much longer.”

  I suck in air.

  “And sending the twins to culinary school next year is looking iffy,” Dad says.

  My stomach knots into a sickly mess.

  My mom opens her laptop. “I’ll show you the numbers.”

  A few moments later, I take the offered laptop and stare cold hard reality in the face. They’re not just nearly broke. They’re also in debt. I can’t believe they kept this from me. They knew I planned on joining them in the family business.

  “I don’t understand.” I swallow hard, looking from one to the other. “You paid for my college.”

  “We took out a loan against the house,” Dad says.

  “We didn’t want you to leave college in deep debt,” Mom says.

  My sickly stomach knot turns into a lead weight filled with guilt. I look to the ceiling. Okay, I realize they put themselves in debt just to help me out, but they knew the vineyard was my future, and now it’s at risk of falling apart just when I finally come on board. If only they’d been up front with me, I could’ve told them I’d rather deal with student loans than a business on the brink of collapse. I’m baffled at their logic and angry they kept this from me, but above all, I’m heartbroken. For them. For me. For my sisters. We love this place with all our hearts. It’s part of our family.

  Wanting to be strong for them, I bury my fear that we could lose Stellariva, and face them again. “How long has this been going on? This decline?”

  “Five years,” Mom says.

  Dad runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “We didn’t want you to worry. Now that you’re working here, you need to know. We hoped you’d come up with some smart way to save the winery that we hadn’t thought of.”

  Five years? This has been going on for five freaking years? I slowly blink. How could they keep this from me? We’ve always been so close. They knew I planned on joining the family business, yet they brought me on board a sinking ship. I could’ve gotten a job elsewhere, started working my way up the corporate ladder. I had an internship at a marketing company last semester that wanted to hire me, but I turned it down in favor of the vineyard. My parents knew that. My nails press into my palms, every muscle in my body tense. I’m pissed, but at the same time, I feel guilty for being so angry, knowing they got me through college debt-free out of love. It was probably an overprotective move on their part to keep me in the dark about their financial problems and let me enjoy college. Still, give me a choice in the matter.

  “I can’t believe you kept this from me,” I say in a low voice, trying to digest this huge blow. I need to be strong and not let my emotions take over, but it feels like a betrayal from the people I love and trust the most. I could’ve handled the truth and done something about it. Maybe they just don’t trust in me as much as I do them.

  “I kept hoping it would turn around,” Dad says quietly.

  “I didn’t want to burden you with our troubles,” Mom says.

  I lift my palms. “But you knew I planned to come back here. You know how much the vineyard means to me. You named it after me. Of course I want to see it thrive for generations.”

  “That’s what we’re counting on,” Mom says, glancing at Dad. He nods. Both of them turn to me with hopeful expressions.

  I narrow my eyes. “From here on out, no more secrets, no more protecting me from the truth. I’m in this, and I need to know exactly what’s going on.” Whatever it takes, I am going to save this winery.

  “Max is retiring at the end of the month,”
Dad says. That’s Dad’s assistant manager. The man has been with us from the beginning.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “We need a new hot water heater,” Mom says.

  “That’s it, right?” Dad asks Mom.

  Mom knocks on her desk. “Knock wood. That’s all I can think of.”

  Failing winery, deep debt, no culinary school, losing our best employee, and a broken hot water heater. That’s plenty!

  I stand on shaky legs. “I need some time to think.”

  The pressure of the survival of the vineyard, my sisters’ futures, my legacy, all on my shoulders. It’s too much.

  “We’re happy to talk more when you’re ready,” Mom says.

  I lift a hand in acknowledgment and head back into the main house. Two things are clear—secrets are the worst, and I desperately need a plan.

  I spend the better part of the day trying to come up with something, going over the numbers again and again, but the truth stares me straight in the face. Without a miracle, this winery will fold within the year. No, I refuse to allow it. If there’s a miracle to be found, I will find it.

  I sleep restlessly that night, and I’m up at sunrise, feeling completely out of sorts. I dress quickly in a lavender maxi dress with my taupe ballet flats, deciding a walk will help clear my head. A few minutes later, I head out the front door and down our long driveway. I still can’t believe my parents kept something so important from me! The medieval castle across the road looms large as always. I glare at it, a stab of jealousy making my gut tighten. Their winery must be swimming in money. They’re constantly featured in all the top wine magazines.

  But what makes their wines so special compared to ours? I stop on the road and stare up at the enormous dark castle. A light wind pushes my long hair in front of my face, and I smooth it back. We practically have the same soil. The sun and weather are identical. We grow the same varietals, and my dad has a degree in viniculture from Sonoma State. He even worked at a top-notch winery up in St. Helena before buying our place. He knows what he’s doing. The only explanation I can think of is that our neighbor’s grapes are simply better. Maybe they brought their plants over from Italy. Lots of wineries do that—pay big bucks to an established vineyard overseas for their vines.