I was somewhat familiar with irradiated food. “Like they do milk in Europe?”
“Pretty much the same, but less is more. We’ve found that low-level irradiation and refrigeration of grapes before they’re made into wine magnifies the healthful aspects of drinking red wine, making it a good source of antioxidants two or three times more potent than regular reds.”
“Aha!” I pumped my fist in the air. “Wine as health food. There is a god.”
“Please,” Craig pleaded dramatically, “don’t encourage her, Ted.”
We all laughed, then Nanci said, “Unfortunately, most Americans freak out when they hear the I-word, thinking they’ll glow in the dark if they consume irradiated products, but lots of countries, including Mexico, use the process to ensure a bacteria-free food source. Works especially well with poultry and dairy.”
“I guess too many Americans remember Three Mile Island,” Craig said, “I know I do. I was a teenager and very impressionable. California already had San Onofre on line and it was scary to think we’d all be zapped by Gamma rays. Set nuclear power back a hundred years.” He faked a frightened look at the barn.
Nanci patted his hand. “Trust me, you’re safe here. The food irradiation facilities themselves do not become radioactive, and don’t create radioactive waste.” She went on to explain that Cobalt 60, which is what they use, is manufactured in a commercial nuclear reactor. The small radioactive pencils, which have a shelf-life of five years, get re-activated, and that’s done by shipping them back in special hardened steel canisters that are designed to survive the worst roads without breaking.
“Designed to survive even your road?” I quipped.
Ted faked indignity. “Keeps the riffraff out.”
Craig smiled. “Evidently not, Hetta made it.”
“Yeah,” I scoffed, “but I could have used a Hummer.” Revisiting Nanci’s lesson on transporting the steel canisters, I added, “What if the truck carrying the pencils crashes into something?”
“No danger. Even if they did break open, which is doubtful, Cobalt is a solid metal and will not spread through the environment under normal circumstances. However, I would not advise picking one up with your bare hands.”
I rolled my eyes. “No worries there.”
“Tomorrow we’ll give you the Viña Estrella grand tour, but for now, let’s get you two into your rooms so you can freshen up for dinner. Hope you’re hungry, because we serve fantastic meals around here to go with our fabulous wine. Not to brag, of course.”
On the way upstairs, I muttered under my breath, “Craig, there will be no counting of calories, nor glasses of wine tonight. We are on vacation.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Who me?”
Chapter 17
We gathered for dinner at eight, each of us dressed in our own version of casual chic.
I’d draped myself in a long, loose, gauzy, rust-colored number that set off my hair color and covered a multitude of sins. Craig wore a sports jacket and jeans, Nanci was elegantly attired in basic black, and Ted sported a black linen Mexican guayabera wedding shirt, as did his two ranch foremen. Rosa, in a stunningly colorful huipil—pronounced wee-peel—a traditional, richly embroidered top from her homeland, added a splash of Mayan chic.
Soft candlelight bathed the room, strains of classical Spanish guitar set the mood.
I felt ever so urbane, which, after living on a boat for so long, awakened fond memories. There was a time when I jet-setted with the fast crowd thanks to a big fat expense account and the company of men with murky backgrounds, panache, and endless wallets. The ambiance at Hacienda de las Estrellas was reminiscent of starry nights in Aix-en-Provence, a villa in Italy, or a seaside balcony on Mallorca.
Before serving their prize-winning 2002 Cabernet Sauvignon, Estrella Sirius, named after the brightest star in the heavens, Ted, with hammy flair, repeated one wine connoisseur’s review. He swirled the wine in his glass and held it to the candelabra. “Brilliant ruby color.” Sniffing loudly he declared, “Forward, fragrant aroma of spice and berry.” He took a sip. “Ah, firm tannin laced with,” he paused dramatically, “flavors of spicy oak.” He swallowed and announced, “Impressively lengthy.”
We applauded his act, then Craig said, “So, what does that all mean in English?”
Nanci smiled. “It’s wine snob speak for looks good, smells good, tastes good. Hey, it works for us. This wine retails for fifty bucks a bottle, and beats others twice the price.”
“Bravo,” I said, raising my glass. “To good wine and good company.” The wine was, as advertised, fantastic.
Ted stood again. “To Jenks. Wish that rascal was here, but at least he’s sent us new friends.”
“To Jenks,” we toasted, which gave me a moment’s fleeting sadness, quickly banished when I dove into savory roasted lamb, freshly dug and boiled fingerling potatoes, salad laced with local goat cheese and, for the grand finale, flan to die for. Call me two-faced, but old Jenks just faded into the background.
A fabulous Cabernet Sauvignon complemented the main course, and for dessert they broke out a bright blue bottle of ice wine they named, Estrella EV Lacertae, after a cold star. I was not only getting a lesson in wine here, they also dispensed a dollop of astronomy.
During dinner I asked Nanci. “How long has your family been making wine?”
“The original vines arrived with my great-grandfather in the 1850’s. We’ve made wine for our own consumption for generations, but I was the first family member to actually get a degree in both viticulture and enology with intent to sell our product.”
“My turn to buy a vowel,” I quipped, getting a laugh.
“The culture of growing grapes, and the art of wine making,” she explained.
“Where does one go to learn such stuff?”
“UC Davis.”
“There’s a wine school? Where do I sign up?” I asked. “Heck, I’ve already done my lab work.”
Craig shook his head at me and smiled, then turned his attention to Nanci. “You were a Caggie too? I was in Vet Meds.”
They talked about their mutual university, we drank more, discussed our backgrounds, the usual chitchat. It was my kind of meal: long, delicious, good conversation, great wine.
Rosa and other management employees sat with us at an ancient hand-hewn dining table that probably decimated a goodly portion of a cedar forest. The employees didn’t add much to the conversation until asked a direct question, but it was obvious they all spoke English, which, in deference to our presence, was the only language spoken. On another night, I suspected they stuck with Spanish.
Kitchen help came and went, the diminutive Sonrisa among them. Dressed in the simple white blouse and skirt favored by campesinos, or country folk, for eons, she wore her jet black hair in two shiny braids that reached past her waist. She glided in and out with various dishes and, at one point, while filling my water glass, raised her head and, for the first time I made eye contact with her. I opened my mouth to say thanks, but was shocked by pure hatred in those cold, black eyes.
Rattled, I quickly turned toward Nanci, who was recounting the story of an ancestor, a Prussian mercenary hired by the Emperor of Mexico, Maximilian I.
France’s Emperor, Napoleon III, sent Maximilian I to rule over Mexico when the Mexican government refused to pay up on debts. The whole venture was ill fated, certainly for old Max, who was put to the firing squad by Benito Juarez. Nanci’s ancestor, however, was a little more far-sighted than the ill-fated Austrian archduke, for he deserted the Emperor’s army and beat feet for the Texas border in time to save his own hide.
“Thus, Cinco de Mayo,” I said, “the holiday commemorating the liberation of Mexico from France.”
“Mostly celebrated in East LA,” Nanci quipped. “In Mexico we don’t pay it much attention.”
“So then, your ancestor hit Texas around 1867, if memory serves me. What was his name, and where did he end up?” I asked, my interest piqued. As a member of t
he Daughters of the Republic of Texas, and a tenth-generation Texan, I’m always on the lookout for new potential relatives, no matter how many cousins removed.
“His name was Paul Reineke. He married into another Prussian family who had immigrated to Texas in the early 1850’s. It was their daughter, also named Nanci, who scandalized the family by marrying a Spaniard. They ran off to Mexico, to the Spaniard’s ancestral land, where we sit today. So, here I am, all these years later, making wine.”
I love stories like this, but have to admit I’m green-eyed jealous. If my family had held onto even a smidgen of what they owned during the Republic, I’d hold the deed to most of downtown Austin.
We chatted on about history and the fates left us by our ancestors. After dinner, Nanci, Ted, Craig, and I sat on their verandah, finishing off the ice wine. Ted lit up a Cuban cigar and, to my amazement, Craig accepted one as well. Once Ted found out Craig was a veterinarian they talked horses, cattle, and all manner of farm animals.
When Craig talked about the pet tracking chip he was working on, Ted wanted to know, “Where can I get some? We have a lot of acreage here and hundreds of livestock to track. I could save countless man hours—” he caught a look from Nanci, “uh, person hours, hunting down stray animals.”
“Actually, I have a few chips and a tracker back at Hetta’s house, but they aren’t really approved for use as yet.”
“Approved in the United States, right? Hell, man, we’re in Mexico. Sell me a few, I’ll be your test ranch.”
“Deal. I can let you have five chips and a radio tracker unit, but I have to hang onto my more sophisticated toy, the one that uses satellite tracking, to show off to potential investors.”
“I’ll take what I can get. What do you say, Nanci? Let’s cyber-brand some cattle, especially Booger Red, that badassed longhorn of yours. Knowing where he is might save someone from a having a really crappy day.”
I perked up. “You have longhorns? We Texans love longhorns.”
“Not this one,” Ted told me, “he’s meaner’n a fire ant.”
Now, that is mean. I hate fire ants, having stepped into the little bastards’ nests and had them swarm up my legs. First they bite, just to get a good hold on you, then they sting. Not only do they attack en masse, every sting leaves a festering reminder for weeks. “Uh, just in case, what do we do if we run into this Booger Red? Kiss our butts adios?”
“Actually, once he’s introduced to you everything is okay, but until then, if you see a big ugly dude with a six-foot horn span, sit tight. You’ll be riding one of our horses and so long as you stay in the saddle you’ll be fine. Not that he won’t threaten, but he knows our stock and, so far as he’s concerned, you are the company you keep. Whatever you do, though, don’t dismount.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll hang on like a fly on a fresh bull patty.”
Ted grinned. “Jenks said you had tenacity.”
“Oh, yeah? What else did he say about me?”
He threw his hands up. “Nothing. Honest.”
“I’ll just bet. Did he by any chance tell you where and what he’s doing that sent him out on a secretive mission to God knows where?”
“No, but knowing him, he’s probably somewhere no one else will go. We left a few unsettled scores in that desert. Why, when we were in Desert Storm we forayed into enemy—” he stopped dead when Nanci shot him a searing side-look. Caught mid-sentence he tried backpedaling. “I’m sure things have changed a lot since we were there,” he said weakly.
Not to be deterred, I demanded. “Scores to settle? And you forayed into enemy what? Or more importantly, what enemy? He’s supposed to be installing software, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, that’s just me, reminiscing about the bad old days like old military farts do. Forget it. Times change, and software guys like Jenks probably don’t go out on clandestine missions anymore.” If he was trying to redeem himself, he failed miserably by putting in that probably.
Nanci chuffed in disgust. “Ted, do yourself a favor and just shut up. And don’t ever go into politics.”
Ted gave her a what’d I do? look and tried once again to weasel out. “I was just telling war stories. You know how we old vets love to relive the so-called glory.” He was almost home free until he added, “Like I said, I’m almost sure Jenks isn’t doing that stuff anymore,” earning him, once again, the hot seat.
I pushed. “What stuff?”
Nanci, done with the direction of this conversation, stepped in. “Hetta, why don’t we leave it to Jenks to share his and Ted’s military adventures with you. More wine?”
Nice diversionary tactic, Nan. I accepted the wine and the not-so-subtle suggestion to drop the Jenks subject, but my mind flew thousands of miles away, where I pictured Jenks, dressed like Lawrence of Arabia, under attack by keening terrorists dead set on a beheading. For some reason this conjured up the white SUV we’d seen earlier in the day, first at the ranch gate and, to my mind, by the river. Was it the same vehicle?
“Hetta?”
I realized everyone was staring at me. “Uh, you were saying?” I asked to cover my embarrassment. I hadn’t heard a word.
Craig waved his hand in front of my face. “Ted was telling me they make a commissary run to Fort Huachuca in Sierra Vista occasionally, and maybe they’ll drop in for a visit. We can pick them up at the Bisbee Airport.”
Brought back to this continent, I asked, “They have flights into the Bisbee Airport?”
“Not hardly,” Ted said. “I have a couple of aircraft. When we go grocery shopping in the States, or down to Hermosillo, we take the Baron. Around here, for running down livestock, I have a nifty ultralight.”
“Great. Just let us know when you’re coming. Bring your clubs if you’d like to play golf.”
“Oh, we will,” Nanci said “We love Turquoise Valley Golf Course. Do you play?”
“Not no, but hell no. I have way to much self-regard.”
Chapter 18
Early the next morning, we saddled up several of the winery’s horses and set off on an estate tour.
Knowing I’d be astride a large animal for most of the next day, I drank several glasses of water between sips of wine the night before. Nothing worse than a hangover on horseback, even on the horse I drew. His name, appropriately, was Rocinante, for Don Quixote’s skinny old nag. In a play on words, the slightly demented man from La Mancha dubbed his decrepit horse Rocinante, meaning reversed: a nag reborn as a gallant steed.
Picturing this Rocinante as a warhorse would indeed require the imagination of a Cervantes, but the horse’s advanced age and docile temperament suited me to a tee. When I expressed doubts about my horse’s stamina, Craig did a quick medical exam and rudely pronounced the horse fit for hazardous duty.
The guys led, while Nanci rode astride a spirited Arabian that was obviously miffed with having to keep pace with our sluggish company. Babycakes, the antithesis of his name, pranced, danced, and snorted in disgust at our lack of speed. Nanci ignored his antics, easily controlling him while pointing out various buildings, explaining their purpose, and which employees did what and why. I learned wine making is a complicated, sophisticated business, and she was an expert. I’ll never uncork another bottle without appreciating what it takes to get it into my wine rack. But then, most of my wine comes with a screw top.
While taking a break at a vista point, I brought up something that bugged me. “Nanci, I have to ask you a question. It might sound silly, but I get the distinct impression that Sonrisa doesn’t much like me.”
“Don’t take it personally. Her nickname certainly doesn’t fit her nature, any more than this horse’s does,” she patted Babycakes, “but being a Mexican, I appreciate our national habit of playing with names. For instance, a really fat guy might be called Gordo, for fat one, but he also might have a moniker like Flaco, for Skinny.”
I had a thought. “Say, what does the nickname, Nacho, stand for?”
“Oh, that’s just the diminutive for
Ignacio.”
I smiled. Ignacio? Geez, no wonder Nacho chooses to go by his nickname. “I used to think sonrisa meant sunrise, but now I know it means smile. And you’re right, the name doesn’t suit. Does she ever smile?”
“Not in my presence. She is a little odd, but maybe she’s not used to us yet. We cut her some slack because she showed up, out of the blue, just when our Rosa badly needed a friend. They are from the same area, with similar family backgrounds, just like Lupe was.”
“Lupe?”
Nanci’s perky mouth drooped. “Such a sad thing. Rosa’s best friend, Guadalupe, they were like sisters, two orphans who found their way here via different, but similar roads. Rosa was teaching Lupe the ropes at the grape irradiation processing facility, and Lupe was a fast learner. Then, one day, she just disappeared. Gone. We contacted the police, anyone who knew her back home, everyone we could think of. Nothing. Rosa was devastated.”
“I can imagine. How long ago did this happen?”
“Two months. Sonrisa showing up on our doorstep a week later, looking for work, was a godsend for our Rosa.”
I pictured the hateful look on Sonrisa’s face the night before and questioned her being God-sent to anyone, but maybe she just didn’t like redheads. Or visitors. Whatever, she quickly regained her annoyingly bland countenance when I caught her out, but I’d witnessed that hate-filled look.
An unworldly bellow jolted me from mulling over Sonrisa’s lack of grace. Startled, I sat straight in the saddle and snapped my head around. A jillion pounds of angry longhorn charged directly at me. Booger Red, I presume.
“Remember, Hetta, sit tight!” Nanci yelled. “He’s a little short-sighted, but once he recognizes Rocinante, he’ll stop. Whatever you do, stay in the saddle.”
I got a death grip on the saddle horn and held my breath as the biggest damned longhorn on earth, or even Texas, barreled my way. Back on my granddad’s ranch I’d hand-fed his longhorn stock, but this one looked like he was going to have me, and my horse, for lunch. Just ten feet away, he put on the brakes, and when he finally skidded to a full stop, one six-foot horn tip was within a few inches of my leg. Rocinante never even flinched, but I was within seconds of requiring a diaper change.
Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series (Book 4)) Page 11
