Till Death Do Us Tart

by Ellie Alexander

  “Wow, it’s huge.” Ramiro jumped out of the car.

  Carlos beamed with pride. “Sí, it is one of the oldest vineyards in the region, with well-established grapes.”

  I watched him point out how the grapes had been intentionally planted on the rocky terrain so that they would have to fight for survival. Carlos was an expert when it came to wine. As part of his training as a chef he had taken a variety of classes and workshops from world-class sommeliers and toured vineyards on practically every continent. The thing that made his style unique was his ability to put people at ease when it came to wine. He was knowledgeable without being pretentious. When he hosted tastings on the Amour of the Seas he was known for whipping up whimsical pairings. Like a buttery chardonnay with salty potato chips, or a deep red blend with decadent chocolate cupcakes.

  “It is wonderful, no?” Carlos pointed to the paper lanterns hanging from the trees and the colorful burlap banners strung along the deck. “You have already done so much.”

  “Just for the wedding,” I replied. As if on cue, a yellow Hummer rumbled up the dirt road, kicking gravel and dust in its wake. “Oh no,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What is it?” Carlos looked at me with concern.

  “Richard Lord.”

  “Ah, sí. I must meet with him.”

  “Not today. You and Ramiro just got here.”

  Carlos waved dust from his face. “It is okay, do not worry, Julieta.”

  Richard slammed the brakes, sending out another cloud of dirt. I stepped away. Ramiro pointed down the hill where a few vineyard workers were kicking a soccer ball. “Is it okay if I go explore?”

  “Go for it.” I looked to Carlos for confirmation.

  “Sí.” He nodded. Ramiro sprinted down the hill. As much as he resembled his dad, he was still a kid at heart. I appreciated that he wasn’t trying to act older. “He is a good kid, yes?” Carlos noted as we both watched Ramiro run through the vines.

  “He’s amazing.” I squeezed Carlos’s hand.

  Richard Lord lumbered out of the Hummer. True to his typical fashion he wore a pair of tight white golf shorts that did little to enhance his bulky frame. He paired the shorts with a ridiculous green Hawaiian shirt with neon-yellow pineapples. He looked like a Sasquatch ready to board a cruise. “The rumors are true, huh?” His heavy gait left footprints in the dirt as he stormed toward us. “I heard that you were in town and figured Juliet would bring you out here to try and dig her claws in.”

  “What does that even mean, Richard?”

  Carlos clutched my hand in an attempt to try and appease me. Then he dropped it and walked over to Richard. “It is good to see you again.” He held out his hand.

  Richard made a point of grasping Carlos’s hand and then clapping him on the back. It sounded like it must have stung, but Carlos’s face remained passive. “Two of my business partners in the flesh. What do you say we pop open a bottle of pinot and have a little chat on the deck?” His tone indicated that it wasn’t a request.

  We followed Richard up the short steps that led to the deck. He paused when he reached the top and puffed for air. If walking up five steps left Richard out of breath he was in worse shape than I had thought. “Hey, what’s that crew doing down there?” His booming voice echoed as he pointed out the workers kicking the soccer ball.

  “Playing football,” Carlos said, with a wink to me. “It is wonderful. It makes the grapes happy and happy grapes mean wonderful wine.”

  Richard hiked his golf shorts over his belly. “I’m going to have words with them about that. There’s no time for play. They’re on the clock. They should be working.”

  Carlos shrugged.

  “Where’s the help around here?” Richard yelled.

  “We’re closed,” I reminded him. Uva’s tasting room was open each weekend and three days a week, in addition to hosting special events. When our good friend Jose owned the winery he and his wife shared duties in the tasting room. Otherwise, they hired seasonal workers to help with the harvest, crush, and vine maintenance. Hiring someone to oversee the tasting room was one of my top priorities. I didn’t have time to manage that on top of everything else. As long as we hired someone with experience they could coordinate volunteers. Many local wineries used trained volunteers to pour in their tasting rooms. It was a win-win. The volunteers received payment in the form of wine, and the tasting rooms didn’t have to take on the expense of extra staff.

  “What would you like to drink?” I asked. “I’ll get us a bottle inside.”

  “You better make it two.” Richard sneered.

  “Anything you like is fine,” Carlos replied, taking a seat next to Richard at one of the hand-carved wooden tables with a sweeping view of the vineyard.

  I unlocked the sliding glass doors that led inside. Jose and his family had lived and worked in the house. He had converted an old barn adjacent to the house into a tasting room. The main floor of the home consisted of a large chef-style kitchen, a family room, office, and small bathroom. Upstairs there were three bedrooms and an additional bathroom. I’d been mulling over ideas for the house since I had learned that Carlos and I were part owners. My latest brainstorm was to rent it out for private parties and weddings. We could update one of the bedrooms upstairs into a bridal suite. Mom didn’t know it yet, but she was going to be my test bride. In my conversations with other winery owners, I had learned that many of them supplemented their income by renting out the property. The possibilities were endless, from opening the space up for family reunions to renting as an Airbnb.

  The kitchen as it stood looked very bare without Jose’s family’s dishes and plates. The last time Carlos was here we had dined outside under the stars. Jose and his wife had treated us to an authentic Mexican feast. I remembered the kitchen feeling alive with energy and laughter. Today it felt sterile.

  At least it has wineglasses, I thought as I removed three glasses from the cupboard near a wall of wine bottles. Jose had left stemware, barware, and the equipment needed to make wine, all of which came with the sale. I scanned the wine racks and decided on a 2012 bottle of pinot noir. That year’s crops were record-producing. The summer had been warm and dry. Vintners throughout the Pacific Northwest had deemed it the best year for wine in decades. Many went on to win awards for that year’s near-perfect bounty.

  I returned to the deck with the bottle of pinot and handed Carlos and Richard glasses.

  “What did you pick?” Richard snatched the bottle from my hand. He had to hold it a foot from his face to read the label. “Twenty twelve. That was a good year.” He sounded disappointed that I knew my wines.

  Richard struggled to uncork the wine. He tugged so hard that he snapped the corkscrew in half. “Great.”

  “May I try?” Carlos offered.

  “It’s ruined.” Richard set the broken corkscrew on the table.

  “That is okay. I do not need a corkscrew. Watch.” Carlos picked up the bottle of wine. He stood and removed one of his leather shoes.

  “What’s he doing?” Richard asked.

  “No idea.” I shrugged.

  Carlos placed the bottle of wine inside his shoe and then walked over to the stone wall at the far end of the deck. He held the top of the bottle and began banging the shoe against the wall. Slowly the cork emerged, like a tortoise from its shell. After a few heavy hits, he removed the bottle from his shoe and twisted the cork the rest of the way with one hand. “Voilà!”

  “How did you do that?” Richard’s face puffed out.

  “A trick I learned from a French chef many years ago. It is good to know, sí?” He poured the raspberry-colored wine into our glasses. “You never know when you might need to open a bottle.”

  It didn’t surprise me that Carlos could remove a cork without a bottle opener. And I had to admit that watching Richard’s reaction made it even sweeter.

  Carlos put his shoe back on and sat down. “A toast to new ventures.”

  We clicked our glasses together.


  “About that.” Richard took a huge swig of his wine. “What is your intention with the property? I’m in a position to buy out your shares immediately.”

  “Buy out?” Carlos looked confused.

  “Yes, as in adios. See ya later. I’m willing to pay fair market value for your share in the winery.” Richard held his wineglass to the light and swirled it so fast I thought it might slosh on me. I scooted my chair away. “I explained this to Jose when he sold me my shares. I’m in a position to diversify my investments. I’m not sure if Juliet told you that we’re offering free wine tastings every afternoon at the Merry Windsor to our guests. It’s been a huge hit.”

  What Richard failed to mention was that he wasn’t serving Uva wines for his free tastings. My friend Chef Garrison had told me that the Merry Windsor was “treating” their guests to cheap boxed wines and stale crackers and cheese. It was a classic Richard Lord move, which I’m sure was brought on by the fact that Chef Garrison had started hosting happy hour tastings for guests at Ashland Springs with some of the Rogue Valley’s best wines and elegant bites. Richard was notorious for copying anyone he considered to be competition. Although I did wonder why he kept mentioning wanting to diversify his investments. What was he scheming now?

  “But we don’t want to sell,” Carlos said, sounding surprised.

  “Look, you don’t know Southern Oregon like I do. People aren’t going to take to foreigners, especially around these parts. I’ll cut you a deal to get your investment back. No harm done.”

  “No.” Carlos swirled his wine. I could tell from the vein pulsing in his forehead that he was fuming, but he kept his composure. “We are not interested in selling. Are we, Julieta?”

  “Nope.” That wasn’t entirely true. Adding the winery to my already full plate had been one of the reasons I hadn’t been sleeping well, but I refused to bow to Richard Lord’s whims. Not to mention that spending time at Uva in preparation for Mom’s wedding had deepened my attachment to the vineyard.

  Richard polished off the wine in his glass. He stared at us with his bulbous eyes while he poured himself a refill. “Have it your way, but you realize you have to get my sign-off on everything we do around here.”

  Carlos shook his head. “No, this is not true.”

  “I think it is, actually,” I said, taking a sip of the wine. Hints of berries came through in the crisp, clean pinot.

  “No, it is not,” Carlos insisted.

  “But Carlos, we’re equal partners. The three of us and Lance.”

  Carlos ran his finger along the rim of the wineglass. “Did you read the paperwork I sent you?”

  “Yeah.” I had skimmed the contracts. “Most of it.”

  He chuckled.

  Richard’s face had gone as red as the wine. “What are you talking about?”

  “The contracts. When Jose and I made our deal, he was worried about the winery being torn down and turned into a housing development. He sold three portions of shares in order to ensure that wouldn’t happen.”

  “Right, but that makes us equal,” I said.

  “No. You see, Jose was to keep a small percentage—five percent—for himself. But he decided against it and offered that to me. Those shares belong to you solely, Julieta. We are the majority shareholders in Uva.”

  The look of dismay on Richard’s face made me almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

  Chapter Seven

  Richard almost spit his wine all over us. He pushed to his feet. “What? You have more shares than me? How? How is that possible?”

  Carlos topped off his glass of wine. “It is how Jose wanted things.”

  “This is unacceptable. I’m going to consult my lawyer.”

  “Sí, it is a good idea. I hope that we can work together. I would like to hear your thoughts on the vineyard.”

  Richard fumed. “I have to go.” He pointed a fat finger at my face. “You’ll be hearing from my people, Juliet. I know this was your scheme. You and your mother are always up to something.”

  “No, Julieta had nothing to do with this,” Carlos said, standing as if to protect my honor.

  “Like I said, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” He tugged at his Hawaiian shirt and stomped down the stairs.

  I doubted that Richard had “lawyers.” Maybe he had a lawyer. And I would bet that his lawyer was also my lawyer. It was hardly as if Ashland was teeming with law firms.

  “He did not take that well.” Carlos sat down.

  “That’s Richard. I tried to warn you. Why didn’t you say anything about my five percent?”

  “This is why I sent you the contracts. You did not look at them?” He sounded hurt.

  “Sorry. I’ve had so much going on with the wedding and renovations that I didn’t take the time to fully review them.”

  “It is okay. Do not worry.” Carlos raised the bottle of wine. “Would you like more?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. But like Richard, I don’t understand. Why did Jose sell you his shares?”

  Carlos and Jose had hit it off immediately when they first met. They shared a common language and a love for organic food and wine. Jose had struggled with the decision to sell Uva. Ultimately, he decided that the financial burden wasn’t worth the stress to his family. However, he did not want to see the vineyard that he had spent years building up being torn into plots for subdivisions—a common trend in the farmland surrounding Ashland as of late. “He had planned to keep a piece for himself, but when his wife decided that they would move home to Mexico he did not want to have to worry about the taxes and banking. He asked if I could afford a bit more. He did not want to give this option to Richard because he knew that Richard does not care so much about the vineyard.”

  That was true. I knew that if Richard had complete control of Uva he would develop the property immediately.

  “Was it legal?” I asked.

  “The sale?” Carlos tilted his wineglass. “Sí. Of course. It is good. It should not be a problem.”

  I hoped he was right. There was something about his tone that made me nervous, made me think that he wasn’t telling me everything. I wasn’t sure how the business had been set up. Did every stakeholder have to sign off on selling more shares? Or could it be that because Carlos was already a shareholder he had first right of refusal to buy Richard out? The last thing I needed was a court battle with Richard Lord.

  Ramiro arrived, dripping with sweat and smiling broadly. “They are very good soccer players.” He plopped down next to Carlos.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  Carlos offered him his wine. “Vino?”

  I knew the drinking age was lower in Spain but I wondered if kids Ramiro’s age drank.

  Ramiro laughed. “No, do you have some water?”

  “Of course. Let me get you some.” I went to the kitchen to get him a glass of ice water. If Carlos and I really did own the majority shares we could potentially do some amazing things here, I thought as I piled ice into a glass. Then again, was Carlos even considering staying?

  I returned with water and the three of us chatted under the warm late-afternoon sun about Spain and Ramiro’s friends and soccer team. The vineyard smelled of warm grapes and baking pine needles. Conversation flowed with ease. Ramiro was bright and engaging. He spoke with his hands (like his father) while he regaled us with tales of surfing off the coast of Spain where he was almost stung by a stingray and once came within a few feet of a shark.

  Chef Garrison pulled up about an hour later in a white van with the Ashland Spring’s logo painted on the side. “Jules, hey! I wasn’t expecting to see you today,” he said, jumping out of the driver’s seat. He was accompanied by three staff members, one of whom looked familiar. I stared at the guy as they unloaded trays of supplies from the back of the van. He was in his early to mid-thirties, with jet-black hair, a bunch of tattoos, and a goatee. Where did I know him from?

  Suddenly, it dawned on me—Torte. This was the guy I’d seen h
anging around Torte the other morning. The guy that Lance thought was following him. What was he doing here?

  I excused myself from the table after introducing Carlos and Ramiro, and followed Chef Garrison inside. “Can I talk to you in private for a minute?” I asked.

  Chef Garrison set a gallon of olive oil on the kitchen counter. “Sure.” He looked at me with concern. “Is something wrong?”

  I pointed to the office. “No, I just want to go over something with you,” I lied, and led him to the office and shut the door behind us. Carlos wasn’t a fan of my meddling. I didn’t want him or anyone else to hear our conversation. “Sorry, I know I’m acting weird, but I want to ask you about one of your staff members,” I said to the chef.

  “Shoot.” Chef Garrison glanced in the direction of the kitchen.

  “It’s the guy with the goatee,” I said. “I saw him hanging around Torte a few days ago. Has he worked for you long?”

  “Adam? Uh, no. He came from a temp agency, but he’s been great. A good, solid worker. I hired him as dishwasher but he’s done some serving for private events too. Why? Did something happen at Torte?”

  “No. I’m sure it’s nothing. It was just weird to see him here. He was acting a bit strange at the bakeshop. Almost like he was watching us work. I’m sure I sound paranoid.” I didn’t want to betray Lance’s confidence.

  Chef Garrison leaned his head back and nodded. “No. You’re not paranoid. That’s on me. I told the staff who are working this event to stop by Torte and buy a pastry and take a look around. I know this is a special event for the entire town and I thought it would be helpful if they had a taste of what the vibe of the wedding is going to be like, and where better to get that than Torte.”

  “Good thinking.” I smiled, feeling more at ease. Maybe Lance was being paranoid. It was much more likely that Adam had come to Torte on his boss’s request rather than to tail Lance. I thanked Chef Garrison and went back outside to join Carlos and Ramiro.