A Delicate Finish

by Jeanette Baker

  He released his breath, unaware that he’d been anxious. Francesca wanted this very much, but he’d had his doubts. Pinot Noir blends had never been successful in the Santa Ynez Valley. The elegant red wine reached its peak of expression in the centuries-old domains in France’s Burgundy region and typically went for over a hundred dollars a bottle. A good California Pinot Noir like Williams Selyem sold for three hundred dollars. Other vintners had tried but, too often, brought forth weedy thin wines that couldn’t hold up in competition. Jake respected Francesca for stepping up to the challenge. A good Pinot Noir with its silky texture and powerful flavor was one of the best wines to accompany food.

  Two days later, accompanied by Francesca, Jake inspected the bins. The Pinot Noir juice was a dark plum color, smelling of blackberry jam, wild cherries, clean earth and honey sweetness. Jake nodded. “It’s perfect. What kind of yeast will you add?”

  “The Burgundy RC212 to start with, then the commercial Pinot Noir yeast.”

  “Be sure to tell Cyril to punch the skins down at least four times a day,” he warned. “We want to keep them from oxidizing at the top of the fermenter. Get lazy and you’ll have the whole batch smelling like nail-polish remover.”

  She nodded. “I’d planned to press it a little sweet and allow the last bit of fermenting to occur in the barrel. That should protect some of the more delicate fruit aromas.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You really have done your homework. I’m impressed.”

  “You sound surprised. Why would you think I know less than you on the subject?”

  “Don’t get touchy, Francie,” he said gently. “I was complimenting you.”

  Her color rose. “Sorry. I’m feeling a little sensitive about these grapes. Pinot Noir is a delicate wine. That’s what makes it interesting for me.”

  They walked in silence down the gravel path to the car. Jake no longer needed crutches but he still sported a slight limp. He climbed into the passenger side, allowing Francesca to drive.

  Instead of immediately turning over the engine, she looked around at the hills in the dim, afternoon light. “Dusk is my favorite time of day,” she said in a hushed voice. “The workday is finished, but it isn’t late enough to turn in for the night. It’s really stolen time, the time when life actually begins.”

  He looked at her for a long minute, wishing he didn’t always have to pretend where she was concerned. Then, too soon, he would have to look away. Sometimes she would say something that tore at his heart and made him remember what she was like when they were first married. He wanted to stare at her until he had his fill, but he couldn’t and then he would bleed all over again.

  “What do you say we look at the Chardonnay vines in the morning?” he asked. “I think they’re ready, too.”

  Francesca turned the key in the ignition and backed out on to the dirt road. “Did he fire you?” she asked suddenly.

  “Who?” Jake kept his eyes on the road.

  “You know who. Jack Cakebread.”

  “No,” he said evenly. “He didn’t fire me.”

  “You’ve been gone a long time. A winemaker isn’t of much use to a winery if he’s never there.”

  “I’m not much use to them either way.”

  “C’mon, Jake. Bones heal in half the time you’ve given them. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Let’s leave it, okay?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me. I could find out, you know. All I need to do is call Napa. Do you think he won’t tell me?”

  He shook his head in exasperation. “All right, Francie. You win. I quit. I’m not going back to Napa. I’m staying here.”

  “Define here.”

  “In Santa Ynez, or somewhere else in the county.”

  When she didn’t say anything he defended himself. “I grew up here. This is my home.”

  They pulled into the courtyard in front of the estate house and still she was silent.

  “Say something,” he said.

  “What good will that do?”

  “I’d like to know how you feel.”

  “It has nothing to do with me,” she said bluntly.

  “It has everything to do with you.”

  “You have a right to come home. It will be awkward having you here for good, but we’ll manage.”

  “Christ, you’re stubborn.”

  She pointed to a silver-gray Infiniti parked in the courtyard, changing the subject. “Isn’t that Mitch Gillette’s car?”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Francesca bit back a smile. “I imagine he’s come to see Julianne.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  This time she laughed. “Listen to yourself, Jake. You sound like an outraged father. The man is taken with your mother. You should be grateful that she’s enjoying herself.”

  “I’d be more grateful if he was somebody else. He’s years younger than she is and he’s affiliated with GGI.”

  “He’s not years younger. He’s only slightly younger and I think it’s marvelous.”

  “You would,” he muttered.

  Francesca ignored him. “Let’s go in and join them.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt them.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! What do you think they’re doing? Our son is in there.”

  Julianne opened the door before they climbed the stairs to the porch. “There you are,” she said. “I was wondering what happened to you. We have company. I tried to get him to stay for dinner, but Drew and Sarah are at home.”

  Jake spoke first. “He’s right, Mom. It isn’t a good idea to leave teenagers to their own devices.”

  Mitch stepped out from behind her. “I’m sure he’s right, Julianne. Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Think about this weekend.” He nodded at Francesca. “Everyone’s invited. Goodbye, now.”

  He climbed into his car, waved and drove away.

  “What did he want?” Jake asked.

  “He’s hosting a housewarming,” said his mother. “He wants me to cater it.”

  Jake brightened. “That doesn’t sound like an invitation to me.”

  “He wants me to cook, Jake, not serve, and we’re all invited. I’ve told him we’ll be there.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Francesca slowly. “It will look like we approve of his being here. I don’t want people to think we’re accepting the inevitable.”

  Julianne exploded. “For Pete’s sake, Frances, it’s a housewarming, not an endorsement of GGI. Lighten up a little. The man’s lonely. The kids are lonely. They could use some friends.”

  Jake and Francesca stared at her in astonishment. Julianne rarely lost her temper.

  She looked from one to the other. Finally, she threw up her hands and marched into the house.

  Eleven

  Mitch looked at his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. “Drew,” he called from the bottom of the stairs. “Sarah. It’s time to go.” He had an appointment with the board of directors of the Santa Ynez River Water Conservation District at eight-thirty. That allowed him exactly thirty minutes to drop the twins at school and make it down to the boardroom, a tight squeeze under the best of circumstances.

  He walked into the kitchen and poured coffee into a travel mug, twisting down the lid securely. Then he sat at the kitchen table and drummed his fingers impatiently. Two minutes. He would allow them two more minutes and then he would personally escort them from their rooms into the car, regardless of their state of undress.

  Christ, children were difficult! How had Susan managed it all alone for all those years? If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Registering them for school was a feat he congratulated himself for accomplishing with out losing his temper. Untold amounts of paperwork were required, from birth certificates to cumulative records from their previous school, proof of immunizations, sports’ disclaimers, credits completed, report cards and test scores verified, to name a few.

  Interestingly e
nough, Drew’s scores qualified him as a GATE student, eligible for enrollment in the district’s honors’ program. Why hadn’t he known that until now? The question was a rhetorical one right up there with the way he should have known that Drew was a vegetarian. He blamed himself. The fact of the matter was, he didn’t know his children at all. That was his fault as well, and to some degree, Susan’s. Upon reflection, she had been perfectly content to relegate him to the status of absentee parent, one who paid the bills while abrogating the bulk of responsibility.

  Once again he looked at his watch and stood purposefully. “That’s it, kids,” he shouted. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  Sarah materialized at the top of the stairs, her midriff bare and her hair in the kind of disarray that, Mitch had recently learned, was intentional. She smiled and floated down to meet him, apparently in no particular hurry.

  “Where’s your brother?” Mitch asked.

  “He’s coming.”

  He handed her a brown bag. “I packed a bagel for you.”

  She grimaced. “I’m not a breakfast person, Dad. I wish you wouldn’t go to the trouble of fixing it.”

  “It isn’t any trouble, Sarah, and you have to eat. You’re skin and bones.”

  She ignored him and stuffed the bag into her backpack. “C’mon, Drew,” she yelled up the stairs. “We’ll be late.”

  Drew shuffled down the stairs. At the sight of his son, bleary-eyed and tousled, sporting a wrinkled shirt and pants that barely covered his backside and dragged on the floor, Mitch closed his eyes briefly, reminding himself that every generation had its own form of rebellion and that showers were obviously no longer fashionable. “Good morning” was all he said, handing him a brown bag.

  “What is it?” asked Drew.

  “Bagel.”

  Drew nodded, accepted the bag and followed his father and sister out to the car.

  “Everything’s all taken care of at school,” Mitch said.

  Neither Sarah nor Drew commented.

  “Are you nervous?” their father ventured.

  “No,” they said in unison.

  “Really?” Mitch raised his eyebrows. “I think I’d be nervous if I had to attend a new high school. It’s all right to be nervous.”

  “Cut the therapy,” Drew said. “We’re not nervous because we don’t care what these rednecks think of us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Sarah reprimanded him sharply. “I, for one, would like to make a few friends.”

  Drew shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Mitch refrained from saying anything. The fifteen-minute drive was completed in silence. Not until he dropped them off in front of the administration building with an admonition to be outside near the flagpole after school did he breathe a sigh of relief. He didn’t envy them. They would be outsiders. High school wasn’t the time for a teenager to change schools. Even he knew that. But what choice did he have? He needed to make a living, and GGI had sent him here. He was conscious of a flash of annoyance. Mitch was accustomed to being in control. It was difficult for him to give up something important to someone else. Damn Susan! She’d never done anything convenient in her entire life, not even dying. Immediately he was ashamed of himself. She’d suffered a great deal and must have worried about the future of her children for a long time. The least he could do was respect her memory.

  He was almost at Santa Ynez and he’d yet to rehearse his argument. A nagging worry that had nothing to do with grapes crossed his mind. Drew and Sarah were his children and despite their bravado, they were only fifteen and had recently lost their mother. On top of all that, they had been pulled out of their comfort zone and forced to relocate to another home and another school where they knew no one. No wonder Drew needed drugs. Maybe Sarah needed them as well.

  Mitch felt his heart pound. He should go back and reassure them that if they weren’t happy, they didn’t have to stay. He would find them a new school. How much could children their age take without falling apart? Who could he ask? There was no one, except, maybe, Julianne. She had three children who’d lost a father at an early age. Maybe she would have some insights he hadn’t thought of. Immediately he felt better.

  * * *

  Drew slouched against a column near the boys’ bathroom, affecting total disinterest in the activity around him. It was lunchtime and he was hungry, but not hungry enough to stand in line in the middle of a bunch of strangers, and certainly not hungry enough to sit alone at one of the tables, an announcement to the world that he was a loser. Where was Sarah? She was supposed to meet him near the flagpole at lunch, but she’d flaked. If he wasn’t so irritated and resentful, he’d be concerned. It was out of character for Sarah not to show up. He knew she would have a good reason. She’d probably found a whole new group of friends. Sarah was good at making friends. Whatever, the end result was, he was alone. What if he just walked out of here? What if he told his father he wasn’t coming back?

  What could he do? Drew rationalized. Mitch Gillette wasn’t one to get physical. Drew couldn’t remember a time when his father had spanked him or even laid a hand on him for anything at all. His father would be angry. Maybe he would even tighten his curfew, but nothing more serious than that.

  “Hey, what’s up?” a voice said from behind him.

  Drew didn’t turn around. The question couldn’t possibly be addressed to him. Other than Sarah, he knew no one at Refugio High School. God, what a name! He couldn’t even pronounce it.

  “Hey, you,” the voice said again. “I’m talking to you.”

  This time Drew managed to swivel around. A boy with a seriously shaved head, a hoop earring in his lip, another in one eyebrow and two in both ears was talking to him. Drew nodded, forcing himself to look at the perforated face.

  “You’re new here,” the kid offered.

  Brilliant. How hard was that to figure out? But what could you expect from rednecks who lived in a town without even a movie theater? “Yeah,” he replied. “How’d you guess?”

  The kid grinned. “What’s your name?”

  “Drew Gillette.”

  “Gillette? Like in the razor blades?”

  Again Drew nodded. He’d heard that one before.

  The boy looked him over and then looked away, apparently satisfied. He leaned against the building across from Drew. “If you’re not doing anything after school, me and a couple of friends have a band. You could come along and listen.”

  Despite himself, Drew was interested. “What do you play?”

  “Bass guitar.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Cool. I’ll meet you in front after school. You got a car?”

  Drew shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “No problem. I’ll get you home.”

  The weight lifted from Drew’s shoulders. “Thanks.”

  Mitch left his sandwich untouched, downed the last of his iced tea and looked around for the waitress. Christ, it was hot, even sitting at a table in the air-conditioned comfort of the Vineyard Café his clothes felt uncomfortably sticky against his skin. The man across from him, Jason Quinn, of the Santa Ynez River Water Conservation District, had eaten his way through his hamburger and was halfway through his French fries without breaking a sweat.

  The waitress refilled Mitch’s iced tea. He swallowed his frustration and strove for a pleasant, conversational tone. “Can you give me a date as to when GGI might be able to break ground for the water pipes?”

  Quinn wiped his mouth with his napkin, drained his Diet Pepsi and cleared his throat. “Your company has acquired a considerable amount of land that requires laying pipe adjacent to already established waterlines. Some of those are owned privately. You can break ground as soon as you want, but you’ll have to decide whether you want public water or private or both. A private well requires permission.”

  “I told you, the vineyards in question have already been purchased by GGI.”

  “You haven’t done your homework, Mr. Gillette. Buying up a vineyard doesn�
�t give you water rights,” Quinn corrected him. “You’ll need DeAngelo access for water. Francesca has the closest well and, quite frankly, you don’t have a prayer of acquiring it. Francesca DeAngelo’s family has been growing grapes in this valley for a hundred years. Her vineyard and winery are profitable corporations. People in this valley have long memories. Don’t even begin to think you can push out the small vineyards.”

  Mitch gritted his teeth. “We have no intentions of pushing out family-run vineyards. Those GGI have acquired wanted to sell. They were on the market. The families had other interests and were only too happy to sell to us.”

  “Which brings us back to my original point. You need water from the DeAngelo well. The Santa Ynez River Water Conservation District doesn’t supply water to the area your company will need it supplied to. We no longer get our water from Lake Cachuma. Everything comes from surface waters from the Sierra Nevada watershed. To commit to the amount you need wouldn’t make sense for us. We’re in the middle of a real estate boom. Single-family homes are our first priority.”

  “Could we make it worth your while?”

  Jason Quinn smiled thinly. “Everything doesn’t always come down to money, Mr. Gillette. On this planet, water is limited. We have the same amount of drinking water today as we did when our ancestors’ knuckles scraped the ground, only instead of three hundred thousand Homo sapiens walking the earth, we have six and a half billion. Tell me how you can justify tying up the amount of water a vineyard of your company’s size will need simply to grow grapes.”

  Mitch frowned. “You have a point. But this enterprise still needs water and the vineyard and winery will provide jobs and tourists for years to come. Tell me where I should go from here.”

  Quinn looked at the check, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and slid both across the table to Mitch. “You’re not going to like this.”

  Mitch picked up the check and left the ten. “Probably not,” he agreed.

  “Convince Francesca DeAngelo to share her well.”