Vintage Ladybug Farm

by Donna Ball

  “And bring people to your restaurant,” added Bridget. “It’s all a part of the process—everything supports everything else.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Dominic. “Are you ladies going to add a restaurant to the plan?”

  “Well, we have to find a place for it first.” Bridget, in an ivory corduroy jacket with pink calico trim and matching pink suede Uggs, picked her way carefully across the dusty concrete floor toward a row of chipped porcelain sinks, which she examined with a barely concealed expression of dismay. “I don’t think we can have it in the barn. That’s where we keep the ewes in lambing season, and Bambi and Rebel sleep there in the winter, and it’s awfully close to the chicken coop.”

  “Not very elegant,” agreed Lindsay.

  Dominic chuckled a little. “Well, you have plenty of time to think about that. First you make the wine, eh?”

  Lindsay smiled at him. “That sounded very French.”

  His eyes took on a twinkle. “Put a Frenchman within twenty yards of a vine and his accent will return—even if he was born in the US.”

  The overhead hatch at the far end of the cellar squeaked open and a square of light spilled down the shadowed stairs, followed by the sound of Cici’s footsteps. “The first thing we’re going to do,” she said as she descended, “is put a real door at the top of the stairs. Every time I come down here I feel like I’m a runaway on the Underground Railroad.”

  She reached the others and announced, “Lori is bringing Mark’s parents for Sunday dinner.”

  “But we have a hole in our roof!”

  “Sunday? That’s only three days away!”

  Cici looked at Dominic. “She said to ask you about something called petite mandrake from the Euro region.”

  Dominic looked blank for a moment; then his expression cleared. “Of course. That’s a good idea. Jurançon varietals do very well here, and some of the petit mansengs have won awards. I think it would be well worthwhile to make them a part of your long-term plan.”

  “Did the original vineyard have those petit whatevers?” Cici asked.

  “No. The original vines were Bordeaux varietals—cabernets, shiraz, merlot.”

  “Then that’s what we’re doing,” Cici said.

  Dominic gave a slight lift of his eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Well, then,” he said. “Shall we talk about the plan?”

  “I hope it includes replacing these sinks,” Bridget said dubiously, twisting a dry faucet open and closed. “They don’t look very sanitary.”

  “Stainless steel would be better,” Dominic agreed. “But that’s another expense.” He glanced around until he found a towel, stiff with age, crumpled near the sinks, and used it to wipe off a tall table in the center of the room. He opened a folder there and invited them to join him. “Basically,” he said, passing around papers from the folder, “there are three different approaches to running a winery. The first is the way we talked about last year, by operating your own vineyard. Since you already have established vines, that certainly makes the most sense. But it’s also, as you’ve seen, a risky way to a slow profit.”

  “And expensive,” added Lindsay with a sigh. “All those vines we lost last summer just about wiped out the profit we made from hosting that wedding.”

  “There’s nothing cheap about owning a winery,” agreed Dominic. “Or,” he added with a wink toward Cici, “having a wedding. Congratulations on your daughter’s engagement, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” she replied a little distractedly. She held one of the papers at arm’s length in order to better read it, frowning. “What is this—312 cases per acre?”

  “That’s how much wine your vineyard will produce at maximum capacity,” he explained, “if everything goes right.”

  “Which it never does,” Lindsay pointed out.

  Bridget, who had the foresight to bring her glasses, finished examining the sheet much more quickly than the other two, and now did some rapid calculating in her head. “It says here 2000 cases the first year, 10,000 cases in five years.” She looked up at him over the rims of her readers. “We only have six acres in vines. We can’t even make 2000 cases, much less ten.”

  He nodded. “The difficulty is that any winery with a production of less than 5000 gallons a year has very little chance of success, and you’ll come in just under that even if all goes well.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Lindsay, looking up from her paper. “You said that the Blackwells didn’t run a small winery, but they had the same amount of acres we do, right? So what did they do?”

  He smiled. “You don’t make money from a vineyard,” he explained. “You make money from wine. Which brings me to the second way to run a winery.” He passed out another set of papers. “You buy the grapes from someone else.”

  Bridget’s eyes widened. “We have a whole vineyard, and we’re buying grapes?”

  Cici’s frown only deepened. “Lori’s business plan didn’t say anything about that.”

  “Your original business plan was good,” he assured them, “as far as it went. But it allowed for slow growth, and, frankly, not much room for error—like the kind of weather disaster we had last year. You wanted me to help you recreate the Blackwell Farms vineyards. Well, in essence, this is what they did. The reason Judge Blackwell brought my father over from France was to make wine, not to grow grapes, so the first thing he did was search out the best varietals in Virginia to mix with the European stock the judge was growing.”

  “No kidding,” said Lindsay, surprised. “That little sneak.”

  “It’s done all the time,” Dominic assured her. “In fact, I don’t know of a winery in the country that hasn’t, at one time or another, supplemented their vintage with grapes from another vineyard.”

  “Sounds expensive to me.” Bridget looked worried.

  “And we still wouldn’t be able to start selling for …?” Cici looked at Dominic inquiringly.

  “A year, at least, from harvest time,” Dominic admitted. “Two for some varieties.”

  The three women looked from one to the other uneasily. “I think I liked Lori’s plan better,” Cici said. “We still didn’t make money for three years, but the up-front investment was a lot smaller.”

  “And we didn’t have to worry about cleaning this place up for three years,” added Bridget, wrinkling her nose.

  “There is a third way,” Dominic said, and passed out another paper. “Custom crush. That’s when you buy the actual crush—the wine, if you will— already crushed, pressed and fermented, to be shipped here for storage and bottling under your label.”

  “But that’s cheating!” Bridget exclaimed.

  “It wouldn’t even be our wine,” Lindsay objected, and Cici was shaking her head in agreement.

  “It will be as much your wine as you want it to be,” Dominic said. “You can create custom blends, decide how to age it and for how long, choose the varietals. You’ll bottle, brand, and label it. It will be your wine. And you can start selling this year.”

  Now they were interested.

  “How soon this year?” Cici asked.

  “Depending on what you order and what’s available … late summer.”

  A flash of excitement went around the group.

  “Now we’re talking.” Cici grinned.

  “We could have our tasting room ready for tourist season,” Bridget said.

  And then Lindsay said, “We could open our first bottle at Lori’s wedding!”

  A moment of reverential silence fell, held in expectation that didn’t quite dare to become hope. Cici’s eyes lit up, and she beamed.

  Dominic said, “My recommendation, if you’re really serious about this, is to use a combination of all three methods. Use custom crush to finance the operation until your first harvest and import grapes to supplement your yield. You can be in business in six months.”

  As one, the three women held up their hands and slapped palms. “We can do this,” said Lindsay. “We really can!”

 
; “Who knew?” agreed Bridget, grinning broadly.

  And Cici declared, “Dominic, you are a genius.”

  Dominic smiled, but he looked torn. He brought out the final set of papers and passed them around. “Here’s the bottom line,” he said.

  The minutes passed as the women studied the spreadsheet, and the ebullience in the room sank like a hot air balloon in cold weather.

  “Tractors … harvest crew …” murmured Cici.

  “Label design, operations manager,” added Bridget, her eyes glued to the paper.

  “Licenses, permits, bottles,” said Lindsay. She looked up. “We didn’t even think about bottles.”

  “The good news is that you have all the equipment,” Dominic said, almost apologetically. “The presses, the barrels, the bottling apparatus. Really, you can’t imagine how important that is. It puts your chances of success in the highest percentile. But even starting out with custom crush, as you can see, you’re looking at a significant investment.”

  For a moment, no one said anything, and no one dared to raise her eyes from the paper. Bridget swallowed. Cici cleared her throat. Lindsay murmured, “Too bad we can’t afford to make wine. I sure could use a drink.”

  “Come on, we knew this wasn’t going to be cheap,” Cici said. She drew a breath and looked at Dominic. “So how do people generally go about financing this sort of thing?”

  He shrugged. “Various ways. A lot of folks these days are using their retirement funds and cashing in their investment portfolios. A small business loan isn’t out of the question. You have all the elements of a solid business plan. You just have to put it together. Of course, it would help if you could get a few investors.”

  “Investors,” Bridget agreed, cheering somewhat. “I like that idea. Where do we get those?”

  Dominic’s smile seemed a little hesitant, almost shy. “Well,” he said, “if you’ll permit me … I’d like to be the first. Not for money,” he added quickly, as he saw an excited mixture of hope and protest form in their eyes. “But if it suits you, I’d like to offer my services as operations manager and vigneron for a percentage of the profit. That will cut your operating costs almost in half, and we’ll draw up a contract that you can take to the bank.”

  Bridget’s eyes grew big. “You would do that? For us?”

  “I’d do it for me,” he corrected, and a noticeable relief relaxed his expression and caused his eyes to crinkle at the corners. “I’ve got a good pension and I don’t need the income, plenty of time, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see this winery up and running again.”

  Cici gave a muffled cry and flung her arms around his neck, hugging him hard, followed by Bridget. Lindsay stepped forward awkwardly, gave him a brief, one-armed embrace, and took a quick step back, looking embarrassed. “Thank you,” she said. “This is incredibly generous of you.”

  He extended his hand to her formally, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “I look forward to a long and prosperous partnership,” he said.

  Lindsay laughed and shook his hand, relaxing a little. “Really,” she said. “How can we thank you? Would you like to come for dinner Sunday? The least we can do is make you a meal.”

  “As much as it pains me to turn down a chance at your cooking, Miss Bridget,” he said, with a nod in Bridget’s direction, “it appears you all are going to have your hands full meeting the in-laws on Sunday.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Lindsay said, obviously disappointed.

  Cici spoke up quickly. “You don’t have to be here for that, Lindsay. Why don’t you take Dominic to lunch for all of us?”

  Lindsay swung an alarmed look on her, but Bridget chimed in, “What a great idea! There’s that darling new B&B out on the highway, and I heard they serve a wonderful Sunday brunch.”

  “I’ve been wanting to check that place out,” Dominic said.

  Lindsay looked back to him. “So have I.”

  “We’ll need a reservation,” Dominic said.

  “I’ll make it,” all three women said at once, and when Lindsay once again shot a look at them, Bridget and Cici just smiled sweetly.

  “Sounds like it’s a date,” Dominic said, smiling at Lindsay. “I’ll pick you up after church on Sunday.” He turned to Bridget and Cici. “Give me a call if you need any help with the business plan. Meanwhile, I’ll get the paperwork started for you to take to the bank, just to show you’ve applied for your licenses and permits. You’ll need to incorporate, and when you’re just starting up, it’s safer to let someone who knows what he’s doing serve as agent for the business and handle all the legal documents and finances. I like that lawyer in town, Frank Adams, unless you have somebody else in mind.”

  “No, he’s great. Of course,” added Cici, “Bridget and I are going to be pretty busy the next couple of weeks, but Lindsay can go into town with you to talk to him if you like.”

  Another look from Lindsay, which they ignored.

  “Sounds good. I want to stop by and say hello to Miss Ida Mae before I leave, and then I’d better get on back, but I’ll be in touch. Call me if you think of any questions.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Lindsay said, deliberately refusing to look at her two friends.

  Bridget and Cici pretended to be absorbed in studying the spreadsheet until the trap door closed behind the couple. Then they looked at each other, grinned, and shared a silent high five.

  ~*~

  In Ida Mae’s Kitchen

  ~*~

  Dominic felt like a school boy again the minute he stepped into that kitchen, and he suspected he looked like one, too: wiping his feet on the mat, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, just standing there grinning and taking in the smells and sights and tastes of home.

  “Miss Ida Mae,” he said, “I declare you are looking fine. And this place smells like every dream of my faraway childhood.”

  She straightened up from removing a tray of cookies from the oven, giving him a glance and a small grunt of dismissal. “You always was full of words, boy.”

  He came forward and took her face in both his hands, kissing her on each cheek. She not only tolerated the affection, but flushed with it and slapped him playfully on the arm with her dishtowel as she stepped away. “You are your papa’s son, and that’s a fact.”

  “Whoever would have guessed that after all these years my path would lead me back here, following in his footsteps, eh?” He unzipped his jacket and sat at the work island, watching her plate the cookies.

  “I would,” she said flatly. “You staying for lunch?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I just came to talk to the ladies and look over the winery. It looks like we might be making wine as early as this summer.”

  “Is that a fact?” It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was skeptical or matter of fact. She set the plate of cookies on the counter before him, the warm moist flavor so fresh from the oven that it practically left rivulets of steam in the air as it drifted toward his face. “You sure it wouldn’t be anything else that brings you sniffing around here, are you?”

  He fought back a grin with only partial success as he broke off a corner of a cookie and popped it into his mouth. “Some things,” he admitted, “are irresistible.”

  Ida Mae took two onions and three potatoes from the vegetable bin and brought them to the cutting board. Dominic took another cookie, a whole one this time.

  “An odd situation, isn’t it?” he observed. “Three city women buying a big old house like this out here in the country. But then, I guess they’re not ordinary women.”

  Ida Mae brought the sharp edge of a chef’s knife down on the end of an onion, severing it with a clank. She peeled away the skin and began to rock the knife back and forth, producing neat, even slices.

  “That young one of Miss Cici’s, Lori, is as sharp as a tack. And Lindsay has done a world of wonder with Noah. I’m as proud to work beside him as any man I’ve ever known, and that’s no small thing when you consider
where he came from. You have to have a big heart to reach out to an orphan boy like that and make him your own. She’s quite a woman.”

  Ida Mae turned the onion slices over and began a deft chopping motion. Dominic pretended to watch her.

  “Not,” he added casually, “that they’re not all fine women. But …” He took his time selecting another cookie. “Supposing a man was to take a particular interest in courting just one of them. I wonder what would happen.”

  Ida Mae scraped the diced onions to one side of the board and sliced the head off a second one. “Not a thing in this world,” she said sharply, “if that man don’t get out of my kitchen and speak up for hisself.”

  Dominic’s grin was slow and abashed. “Ah, well, now no one can say I haven’t tried. The truth of the matter is, there’s so much estrogen in the air around here I’m not sure any man has a chance to even be noticed through it.”

  “Is that a fact, Mr. Fancy Words?” She did not look up from her chopping. “I reckon you’d best just go on home, then.”

  He broke his cookie in half and chewed one half of it thoughtfully. “What they’ve done here, what they all have together, it’s really something special. A fellow would be a fool to try to break it up.” He stood up. “It was good visiting with you, Miss Ida Mae.”

  Ida Mae scraped the onions to the side of the board and began paring a potato with swift, economical movements. “A house full of women is a soft place to land, that’s a fact. But it’s also got itself some hard edges, and I don’t reckon anybody you’d ask would deny that. Now that boy, he’s got his own time coming, and he won’t be wasting much time brushing the dust of this place off his feet. Seems to me it might be a welcome thing to have a man around to chop the wood and climb the ladders and leave his wet towels on the floor from time to time. Just seems to me.”

  Dominic paused and looked back at her speculatively. Then he smiled, snagged another cookie, and saluted her with it. “Thanks for the cookies, Miss Ida Mae,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”