“We checked on the yield, looks good, not too much,” he swallowed. “Fred assured me the rootstock is good, survived the last phylloxera.
“Is calling the winery Prophesy Estates a going to be a problem?” Estate wineries needed to source their wine from their own back yard in order to be considered authentic estate grown.
“It’s just the winery name, we’re not labeling the wine ‘estate grown’. It should be okay. The yield should be about 84 tons of grapes which will make about 3,500 cases a year assuming no spoilage, but we won’t know about that for another year after everything has been in bottle for awhile.”
He ticked off the amounts on his long fingers. One fingernail was bright purple, on the verge of turning black.
“Smashing concrete with a sledge hammer again?” I lightly touched his finger.
“You don’t want to know.”
We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, swirling the wine, savoring the pasta and bread.
“Do you think she’ll be ready for the wedding?” I finally asked.
“She has to be.”
Chapter 5
We drove together to Ben’s place after dinner. We planned to stay the night there so we wouldn’t have to drive too far tomorrow. Ben’s place was just up the road from the winery. Besides, I liked lounging around Ben’s grandmother’s house, and Ben had rashly promised Cassandra he’d be there to help first thing in the morning. One of my jobs in the morning was to discuss the shower plans with Ben’s grandmother, Emily.
Ben and his grandmother share a house. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. Her house is roughly 10,000 square feet; Ben lives in one wing, Emily, the other. The house was built in the Spanish style sporting three, two story wings that surrounded a stylish courtyard. It was in this flagstone “room” complete with burbling fountain, that Emily and I planned to hold the shower.
I loved sitting on the patio with my first cup of coffee in the early morning. The new sun slanted across the flat patio stones, filling the patio with light and warmth that could last all the way to November. I raised my face to the sun and drank it in just as completely as I drank my coffee. Ben studied the local paper. Emily and I traded casual comments about the shower, but we were uninspired and not much planning got done.
“I like John, he’s been catering here for years.” Emily managed to cross her legs on the patio chair and tuck her bare feet under her thighs, an impressive trick for a woman going on eighty.
“I agree, but I’m getting a sense that we are not going to get our way.” I glanced at my phone, it had been well over twelve hours since I heard from one of the Furies, their silence was ominous and made me nervous.
“Oh Ben, I hope I’m not disturbing you!” Cassandra drifted out to the patio trailing a long diaphanous robe and matching silk slacks, her long hair drifted around her shoulders like a renaissance inspired halo.
She looked ethereal: I looked slept in.
Emily didn’t bother to hide her disdain. She rolled her eyes, unwound her legs and picked up the coffee pot. “I’ll be inside.”
I said something vague and scrambled out of the way, not interested in further comparisons between me and the perfect woman. But I didn’t go far.
As I made my exit, I saw Cassandra flip her long hair over her shoulder and bat her eyes. Maybe if you are willowy and lovely, you can get away with a smirk and a toss. Me? I have to put my back into it. I ducked into the guest bath just off the patio. No one noticed. I heard Emily banging in the kitchen making far more noise than cleaning up after cold cereal and coffee warranted.
“Ben, you must, must help me.” Cassandra’s tone was one of a wheedling teen, I must, must, must attend the beach party. I must, must, must possess these designer shoes. I know from whence I speak.
“The paper work is too much for me! I know we need to have it all in, Fred says I have to do it myself, he can’t just sign everything. And Peter charges too much an hour.” Cassandra’s voice began to creep up an octave. “There is just so much! Who knew there was so much paper work for a simple business? Peter says his assistant can help me, should I hire the assistant? He says I can borrow her at no charge, what do you think of that? She can type and stuff.”
Ben did not answer, but I imagined his eye was starting to twitch.
There was a shuffling sound and Cassandra dropped her tone to one of seductive coaxing. “Benjy, when can I take a break from all this work and just sell the wine? You know, pour it and get awards and go to banquets. I’d be good at banquets. Or those guests vintner events, those are fun.”
“The wine is not even in barrel yet.” Ben sounded un-moved by her predicament. “This is crush, no one takes a break during crush, you know that.”
“I have most of it in barrel,” she contradicted. “One more batch, one more crush. It was easier when I was down under.” She muttered.
“You wanted to own a winery, you wanted to do it yourself.” Ben pointed out cruelly. “And you have Fred and if we bring in this new girl, it shouldn’t be too much of a strain.”
It sounded like Cassandra needed someone like Patricia at her beck and call. Patricia was a genius at computers and paperwork, but I was in no position to make a suggestion, no matter how salient or valuable. Maybe Peter O’Reilly the Third will produce the ultimate assistant.
“Do I have to start paying back your loan right now? Can’t you wait until spring when we will sell cases and cases to the restaurants? I know a few of them will adore the white, we can sell that right away. I can do that myself.”
I felt, rather than heard, Ben sigh.
“Yes, you can sell your white. Of course, you can probably sell it tomorrow, if you had all your paper work finished.”
The bathroom tile was cold on my bare feet but I was determined to tough it out. I clutched my coffee mug, its warmth countered the chilly tile.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket. “We need to discuss the cake.” Texted one of the Furies. Ah, here they were. And I was worried.
I typed furiously back simultaneously keeping track of Ben and Cassandra’s conversation.
“I’m not here to hassle Peter, you know how we are.” In other words, he didn’t want to be the heavy, and I didn’t blame him.
“Petite Marie is a friend of mine, you want someone else?” I typed back.
“Please,” Cassandra wheedled. “You used to do anything for me. We made a great couple. For a while.” She amended.
“We had one night.” He pointed out. “We were never a couple.”
I sipped my coffee, my ear glued to the bathroom door. I hooked the small grape - shaped bath rug with my toes and pulled it over to cushion my chilled feet. In my mind I visualized him rolling his eyes. So far, he was saying exactly the right things: from my point of view.
My phone buzzed and I jumped: “Tiffany Cakes is far more suitable.” Claire texted.
Who spends time typing out the word suitable on a text message? I glared at my phone.
“We could change that.” I heard Cassandra purr, all predator now.
There was a disturbing silence. I placed my hand on the door lever, ready to interrupt and reluctantly texted with my right thumb. Emily had stopped banging and clanging in the kitchen, where was she when I needed her?
“All right, I’ll call.” I typed in and turned off the phone.
“Cassandra you have to stop. It’s not fair to you. I told you, we aren’t right for each other. A relationship needs to be between equals.” Ben’s voice had that edge that I had heard only twice, and I was delighted to hear it aimed at someone else besides me.
“I can be your equal,” she said quickly.
“There is someone else, and you know it.” His voice was stern.
“Her?” Cassandra said dismissively. “She’s too big.”
“Solid.” Ben immediately corrected. “She is everything to me, and don’t forget it.”
I absently worried my ring as I leaned on the door making sure I c
aught every word.
“I was everything to you once.” She was plaintive now. I had never heard a women burn through so many emotions and so many extremes in such a short time and so early in the morning. She was like an actress, playing the part of the over-worked wine maker with nowhere to turn. And she managed to pack in five variations of that role in as many minutes.
“Cassandra.” Ben said softly and carefully. “You are not everything to me. You are a project to me. A good project, a good friend, but a project none-the-less.”
“I can hate you, I can ruin you.” She offered half-heartedly. “I even have someone else, what do you think of that?”
“I think that’s great, I wish you well.”
It was not the answer she was hunting for.
“You have wonderful blue eyes.”
I heard the chair scrape on the tile and his bare feet slap against the patio tile.
“I’ll drop off the numbers and some names for you to call after the party this afternoon.”
“This afternoon may be too late. I think I do hate you.” She decided.
“That’s fine. Just don’t hate Patrick Sullivan, that will hurt you far more than any amount of animosity against me.”
Her feet beat a sad tattoo on the hard tile floor. The patio door slammed and then the front gate.
“Okay, you can come out now.” Ben called.
I pushed open the bathroom door, clutching my now cold coffee.
“Did you know I was there the whole time?”
He grinned, “I never miss a chance to show off.”
The late afternoon sun illuminated Prophesy Estates’ faux urns and pillar crowns giving them and the milling guests an almost authentic antique patina. I had discovered the oyster bar immediately upon arrival and was reluctant to give up my place or my friendly chat with the shucker whose family had been gathering Hog Island Oysters for three generations. I didn’t dare ask the boy if he worked wedding showers, the Furies would counteract that gesture in a heart-beat, or with a succinct text. They hated every one of my suggestions. I was batting 1,000.
Ben had hired a group of students from the local college wine business and marketing program to give tours to the guests. Cassandra mentioned they would get school credit, which translated, meant they would not be paid. All is fair in love and wine.
All afternoon the students snaked guests through the stacked barrels and squat stainless tanks and around randomly tumbled pallets and tubing, all the while admonishing the tour members to watch their step so as not to stumble over hoses and coiled ropes. Cassandra was one of those brilliant women who couldn’t find anything once she set it down. But, as she pointed out herself while giving the finale big VIP tour, that didn’t matter, what mattered was the perfect wine.
I dragged myself away from the delectable raw oysters and trailed behind the VIP tour, just to be a good sport, just in case Ben asked. The tour began with a video of the history of Prophesy Estates. We all gathered in the tasting room and watched the video on a huge flat panel screen recently installed over the tasting counter. The video production was top quality. I knew how much those videos cost, Raul, a former long-term guest of my grandmother, produced videos and web-cam montages. He is very good at what he does and I’ve inadvertently picked up some information just from his endless lectures on his favorite subject. Raul is so devoted to his art that I’ve taken to sweeping my Grandmother’s house for hidden web-cams on a regular basis
This production was less about the newly refurbished winery and more about it’s founder and CEO, Cassandra. For seven minutes we watched Cassandra squint in the sun, We watched Cassandra expertly crush tiny grapes between her slender fingers, We watched Cassandra direct a crush in the Hunter Valley (many clips were gathered from various times, I was surprised that she didn’t include baby’s first day at the beach and baby’s first wine glass as well). We watched Cassandra stand in a lab pouring bright liquid from beaker to beaker.
I thought the video was a little much, but the guests seemed enthralled. Cassandra probably figured that if Coppola could make wine, then she could make a movie.
“Clips of this and other videos were posted on the Prophecy Estates web site,” Cassandra announced. “We like to keep all our guests and future shareholders in the loop, we all love the romance of the vine, how we make it, what it takes to be an artist.” She trailed off and looked as dreamy as her image in the video. The men shuffled restlessly. A couple of women whispered to each other.
Cassandra raised her hand and one of the young people scuttled out with glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
“We didn’t bottle this here of course.” She explained. “But this year’s zinfandel looks promising, it should be a great year. Come in March for our barrel tasting.”
Had Ben approved of expenditures like the video? He hadn’t said. Clutching our full glasses, we trailed behind the wine maker herself. We all obligingly oohed and ahhhed at the huge stainless steel tanks, ready for next season’s whites. We admired the stacked French oak barrels, teetering at five barrels high, all filled and aging perfectly, Cassandra assured us. Thirty barrels surrounded a long table, set as if for dinner. But I knew there were no plans or permits to serve in here just yet, it was just for show. To my left, cases of the white wine were towered to the ceiling almost touching the beams and steel poles that crisscrossed just under the roof. A few lower sections had been wrapped in plastic, but it looked like the wrap had run out and no one had bothered to continue with the project. Was that Fred’s job? I couldn’t even see the very top of the cases. Was that safe? I glanced around for the forklift but didn’t see one. It could be parked outside.
I even listened to Cassandra rattle off a complicated formula on how she could tell when the brix levels were just perfect before she picked her grapes. The guests were appropriately impressed. I knew figuring the brix levels weren’t all that difficult.
I bugged out during her technical explanation of brix and yeast, it sounded suspiciously like cooking, something I have no interest in or aptitude for. I retreated back to the oyster station, crouched in the cool shadows of the building, and happily began to slurp away.
Fred stalked out of the tasting room, clearly abandoning his post.
“Oyster?” I offered, grinning at the lovely Hog Island oyster shucker.
Fred grimaced and shook his head. “I better not, I’m the staff here. “
“They aren’t alcoholic.” I slurped down another one.
“What she’s saying in there.” He shook his head and reached for an oyster. His color was high and not flattering to his unfortunate complexion. “Sometimes I wonder if she really knows what she’s talking about.”
“Of course she does, it’s her winery.” I said. Besides, Ben believed in her, and Ben was a pretty good judge of character and potential. He wanted to marry me after all.
Fred ignored me and focused on something just past the olive trees.
“What is she doing here? Excuse me.”
He dashed off with no more explanation than that. Not that I deserved a lengthy explanation; I was just a guest. I sighed and considered taking the oyster shucker home, but before I could ask, Cassandra emerged from the tasting room, her tour duties apparently finished. She was certainly resplendent in that long tuxedo jacket and matching rose colored silk slacks. She wore no jewelry, well, she did just opened a winery, I was sure it was just a matter of time before she found a new man who would be thrilled to invest in the winery and drape her with the appropriate weight of jewelry, she was that kind of woman.
Peter Klaussen O’Reilly the Third, dressed in a well-cut suit and red tie, strolled from the tented parking area down the path to the patio just as Cassandra stepped into a patch of sunlight.
When Ben and I first met, he told me O’Reilly had broke Cassandra’s heart so thoroughly that Ben had to charge in on his metaphorical white horse and save her. I had watched O’Reilly freeze at the mention of her name. I had watched Ben rear up like a gri
zzly in Cassandra’s defense. And yet, here O’Reilly was, all innocence and light. Cassandra must have forgiven him enough to accept his investment in the winery. And Peter must be reconsidering their relationship enough to, at the very least, throw money at her.
As he approached Cassandra, a young woman appeared at the tent entrance. She was distracting by merit of her completely inappropriate ensemble. Most of the guests were draped in silk slacks and flowing hand painted jackets. Precious stones glinted in the sunlight. Most of the women cleverly eschewed high heels and stood on the cement patio and between the vines shod in elegant flats or sandals.
This girl had some youth on her side, her flowing light brown hair contrasted against skin that seemed too pale for the end of summer. She wore an ill-fitting cocktail dress that looked like something she bought this afternoon in a hurry, it was too short and her closed toed pumps were too formal.
None of this apparently, bothered Peter. She paused at the tent entrance, spotted Peter and rushed as decorously as possible to catch up and attached herself to his side.
“This is my new assistant.” He stopped before Cassandra, I was a little more to the right.
“I read all up on wineries, I know I can help,” the young lady glanced at her escort, then back to Cassandra. “You.” She finished, albeit lamely.
“There isn’t that much to do.” O’Reilly cast her a warning glance but the girl was too happy with herself and her surroundings. If he wanted Cassandra back, this was not the way to do it. Was the man completely tone deaf to women?
“This is amazing,” she continued, “did you see who was here? Martha Anderson, Henry Trione, Henry Hansel, why are they all named Henry? That Mrs. Anderson is a serious heavy-weight in the community.”
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out Page 6
