“I saw you in television commercials for a big bank after the show,” she said.
“Yes, and before the show aired, I appeared on college campuses, at state fairs, and all sorts of other events to promote it. I was happy to recede into oblivion after it was over, and financially, I was flush. My parents were thrilled, since my brother had already made his bundle and my sister was on the way to becoming a well-known model when she married a businessman from Brazil who manufactures shoes. She’ll never have to worry about money again—or footwear.” He smiled.
“And you?”
“I’m doing okay,” he said. “I’ve invested most of the money I made with a friend who managed to parlay it into a windfall. I do some consulting work for the family business. When my life settles down, I’ll get started on those books. For now, I’m content writing the occasional article.”
“Like the one you’re writing about the wine industry,” she supplied.
He felt a stab of guilt over that. His recent conversation with Walter Emsing still weighed heavily on his mind.
Fortunately, they soon reached San Elmo Vineyards, where they entered the parking lot through a high stucco arch. Following others who were there for the tasting experience, they proceeded to the building, where a long polished counter held glasses of wine poured by a friend of Gina’s from school.
His name was Shawn, and he escorted a small group outside to an arbor-shaded nook and told them the story of San Elmo.
The winery had been started by Italian immigrants, like Vineyard Oaks. But unlike Vineyard Oaks, San Elmo had gone through many owners. The Italians had sold out to a German family in the early 1900s, and the winery had almost failed under their ownership during Prohibition in the twenties. Somehow it had managed to stay afloat in the thirties, when a San Francisco firm had taken it over. The winery had enjoyed relative prosperity in the 1940s and then had been snatched back from the brink of bankruptcy twenty years later. The San Francisco firm had sold out to another company, but San Elmo had kept its name, and now it was owned by a group of European businessmen.
Josh wondered if Starling would allow Vineyard Oaks to keep its name if they bought it from the Angelinis. He slid a glance in Gina’s direction, but she was paying rapt attention to Shawn’s talk.
When he’d finished his spiel, Shawn poured a glass of sauvignon for everyone in the group. Josh put all thoughts of Walt’s interest in Vineyard Oaks out of his head and followed Gina’s lead in the wine-tasting ceremony. She taught him to study the color of the wine and then move the glass in a circular motion.
“This releases the wine’s vapors,” she said, demonstrating. Then she held the glass close to her nose and inhaled deeply.
“That’s how to detect the wine’s bouquet,” she told him, and he followed suit. Gina took a sip of the wine and slowly swished it from one side of her mouth to the other. Then she spit it into a container provided for this purpose. This, she explained, was perfectly proper wine etiquette for tasting purposes. Josh did the same.
“What flavors do you detect?” she asked him.
“A certain fruitiness,” he said carefully.
“That’s very good,” she told him with a nod of approval. “This is a crisp wine, slightly herbal with a hint of oak.”
They tasted two more wines, and Josh learned to distinguish certain flavors—citrus as opposed to currant, for example. To think that he had been drinking good wines for years but had never known how to discriminate among the distinct and separate flavors that comprised each one was mind-opening.
When they were headed toward Vincenti Brothers, Josh asked Gina about the varied history of San Elmo.
“It’s not unusual for a winery to be passed from one owner to another many times,” she said. “Vineyard Oaks is lucky. We’ve managed to hang on to it all these years.”
But maybe not much longer, he wanted to say.
She went on talking, which kept him from giving himself away. He listened, his guilt mounting. “Vineyard Oaks has been a success because we all believe in the winery’s importance. When my grandfather came here from Italy to grow grapes, he pinched pennies until he and his brothers and sister could buy land. Then they worked it themselves, planted the vines, cultivated them, saved them from insects and fungus and all the things that can destroy a vineyard, and finally, they learned to make some of the best wine in the valley.
“And they taught everyone in the family to depend on one another, and we all help out when we’re needed. My sister, Barbara, for instance, works many long hours at the winery office for no pay because times are hard right now. That’s okay, though. She doesn’t mind.”
He couldn’t imagine his sister, Valerie, working in their family business for no pay, and he doubted that he would, either. He had been raised with values that didn’t emphasize the importance of family in the same way Gina’s did.
“As I mentioned,” Gina said, a frown pleating her forehead, “the winery is going through some tough times. That’s okay. It happens. Uncle Fredo always figures out how to solve these problems.”
“He seems capable,” Josh ventured. “And very sharp.”
Gina nodded in agreement. “No one’s smarter than Uncle Fredo. No one makes better wines than we do.”
When she saw his questioning look, she hastened to fill him in. “It’s a fact, Josh. Our wines win lots of awards. Quality has never been a problem, but production is. Unfortunately, our plant machinery is old and some needs to be replaced. Operating expenses continue to rise, even though the price of wine is depressed. The low prices we get for our wine keep us from producing more. It’s a vicious circle.”
“Business is usually cyclical. Isn’t that the case here?” Josh didn’t want to seem too interested, and he didn’t want to press Gina for information. She didn’t seem to suspect that he might have serious reasons for wanting to know more about the problems at Vineyard Oaks.
“The atmosphere surrounding the industry is scary right now. The trend is for the smaller wineries to be bought out and torn down. Then the land is planted with more vines. We would all hate to see that happen to us. Fortunately, we have faith in Uncle Fredo, and Uncle Albert, and in everyone who’s pulling together to bring Vineyard Oaks out of its slump. We all want the winery to survive and be passed along to the next generation. And it will survive. It has to.” Gina spoke eloquently and with the passion that he had always sensed in her.
“I hope so,” Josh said quietly. He hated to see that white line of worry etched between Gina’s lovely winglike brows. He resisted the urge to reach over and pat her hand or slide his arm around her shoulders in comfort. Gina had told him nothing about the Vineyard Oaks situation that he didn’t already know from scuttlebutt that he had picked up here and there around town, but today she had raised his awareness of the personal aspects of the situation. In light of that, he made up his mind to ask Walter to cross Vineyard Oaks off his list. There were other equally interesting wineries available, and Josh decided to find out more about them as soon as he could.
“Take a right turn at this sign,” Gina said. “That’s it—the one with the arrow.”
He was glad that Gina wasn’t aware of his involvement with Starling Industries as she swung along beside him on the path to the big Victorian house that housed Vincenti Brothers’ tasting room. The house had been meticulously restored to its former glory, and the tasting room occupied the former parlor. They sat at a large oak pedestal table while an employee poured the wine. Josh couldn’t help contrasting this tasting room and the one at San Elmo with the small one at Vineyard Oaks. Here there was even a gift shop where people were buying things like corkscrews, wineglasses and T-shirts printed with the winery’s name. If Vineyard Oaks had a gift shop, it would produce revenue for the company, and he wondered why the Angelinis had never pursued this avenue.
Despite her worries about her family’s vineyard, Gina appeared to have put them behind her as they tasted a zinfandel, a cabernet and a chardonnay so i
mpressive that Josh later bought a couple of bottles for his parents at the gift shop. After they left the shop, he and Gina sat on the porch swing overlooking the rolling vineyards. Behind them, people chatted at picnic tables on the patio and strolled in the extensive gardens.
“I’m sorry if I vented about the winery a while ago,” Gina said. “I shouldn’t be discussing family business.”
He could have mentioned his phone conversation with Walter Emsing, but he didn’t want to spoil their outing. He was sure that he’d be able to deflect Walter’s interest in Vineyard Oaks, and since that was the case, he saw no point in alerting Gina. She’d only spread the word that someone was interested in buying the winery, and then he, Josh, would most likely be banned from all future family gatherings, which would effectively cut him off from Gina. No, he couldn’t say anything. It would be a huge mistake.
And so Josh kept silent. What Gina didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Or him.
Once he’d made this decision, he felt more comfortable with himself and freer to concentrate on her. On the way to the car, he took Gina’s arm to help her over a rough spot on the path. She didn’t resist, even leaned into him a bit. “Josh, I haven’t done a wine-tasting tour in a while. It’s good to be doing something fun,” she said, smiling up at him as he opened the car door for her.
“I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting your invitation,” he told her.
For a moment, she seemed disconcerted, and while he waited for her reply, he walked in front of the car and slid behind the steering wheel.
She shifted in her seat so that she was angled toward him. “I don’t see how you can write about our industry without going on a wine-tasting tour, and I know the best places to go.”
“Thanks,” he said, “for making the time.”
“Maybe I should be the one to thank you. For giving me the excuse to leave work for a change.”
“You’re indebted to me, right? You’re so grateful that you’re willing to do almost anything I’d like, right?” He grinned at her.
“Not exactly,” Gina said, but she smiled back at him.
He eased the car out onto the highway and accelerated, keeping his eyes on the road but sparing a glance at the woman beside him. Gina’s hair, fluttered by the breeze from the sunroof, was gilded with the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, and her eyes, darkest brown with shimmers of amber, were clear and bright. Neither one of them spoke until they rounded a curve in the road lined by fences encircling a variety of houses and gardens. “All right,” he said, “tell me about our next stop on the tour.”
“It’s straight ahead up that mountain,” she said, and when he followed her gaze, he saw an enormous white villa perched on the mountain. In the distance, a small herd of black-and-white cows drifted down a hillside; overhead, a hawk rode a strong wind current.
She directed him down a narrow road, and as they got out of the car, he saw a ski gondola conveying people up to the villa.
Josh took it all in. “You saved the best for last, right?”
“Surprised?”
“I was expecting another place similar to the last ones.”
“Oh, Century Vintners is special,” she said.
They got in one of the gondola cars and were ferried smoothly and effortlessly upward to a platform where passengers disembarked. Leading away from it was a pathway that ended in front of two heavy oak doors, and inside the villa, artful black-and-white photographs lined the walls. When Josh moved closer, he saw that all of them had to do with growing grapes or making wine.
“Century has been here longer than almost any winery,” Gina told him as they made their way to a huge outside deck overlooking the valley. They were shown to a table under a yellow-and-white-striped umbrella, where they could watch the sun sinking slowly behind the mountains in the west. “This place is a big tourist attraction.”
“I can see why,” Josh said. The scenery reminded him of some of the more picturesque and charming places he’d visited in Italy.
Some of their fellow wine tasters were getting up from their tables and taking turns at a large telescope set up at the edge of the terrace.
“Ready for even more spectacular scenery?” Gina asked. She led him to the telescope, then demonstrated how to train it on the vineyards down valley. He studied their patchwork pattern for a long time. “I feel as if I can see for miles,” he said, moving aside so she could look, too.
“If you try really hard, you can spot the top of the Vineyard Oaks office building,” she said. “It’s below the mountain shaped like an anvil.”
He looked again and found the Vineyard Oaks property on its hilltop right away, including the doors to the wine cave. Again, he wondered why Vineyard Oaks didn’t maximize its advantageous location, add a terrace where wine tasters could sit and look over the valley, give tours of the wine cave.
“I didn’t get a chance to go inside the cave at crush,” he said.
“It tunnels way inside the hill,” Gina said. “We have parties there sometimes, surrounded by the big wine casks, food spread out on wide tables.”
“Sounds like fun,” he told her.
When they went back to their table, a server came to take their order, and after their wine came, Gina smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “Look, Toto, we’re not in Boston anymore,” she said jokingly.
He smiled back. “There are vineyards in New England. I’ve never visited any of the wineries, though.”
“What’s it like, New England?”
“Extremely cold in the winter. Beautiful autumns. All kinds of people. You might like it.”
“Maybe.” She toyed with the stem of her glass. “Do you miss it now?”
“At this precise moment, no,” he said, gazing deep into her eyes.
He thought he detected the first signs of a blush creeping up from her neck. “Stop staring at me,” she said.
“Why? You’re a treat.”
“When there’s so much scenery out there?” She waved her hand in the direction of the valley. “Don’t be silly.” She sipped her wine.
“You shouldn’t undervalue yourself, Gina.”
“I don’t.”
He thought she did, though, and wanted to reassure her. “The producers of the show considered you gorgeous enough to compete against some of the most beautiful girls in the country,” he said, remembering the first time he’d seen her walking down the stone staircase at Dunsmoor Castle, wearing a white flowing gown, her face illuminated by candlelight. He’d been tempted to choose her right then and there.
“I suppose that’s true,” she allowed. “It’s—um, maybe I don’t want to say that.”
“Say what?”
“What I was going to say. Tell me about your family, Josh. I’d like to know more about them.”
“Wait a minute. We’re not finished with the topic at hand. You should feel comfortable saying anything to me, anything at all. I don’t want you to censor your thoughts. That might have been necessary on the show, but it isn’t now.”
“Oh, Josh, there’s no point in raking through the rubble of our past relationship.” She cast her gaze downward.
“I wouldn’t call it rubble. We’re rebuilding.” He smiled at her in what he hoped was his most encouraging manner. “Out with it, Gina. I want to hear what’s on your mind.”
She sighed deeply, then regarded him doubtfully. “Against my better judgment, I’ll tell you what I wanted to say a few moments ago. Josh, I did feel great when I was chosen to compete on the show, but I’d never considered the emotional fallout.”
“Are you sorry you did the show?”
“Not exactly. I had a lovely vacation in a Scottish castle, and I met some fine people. I just needed a while to recover, that’s all.”
“Recover from the experience, or from something else?”
She seemed to think this over, appeared to come to a decision. She looked him straight in the eye. “Josh, I might have smiled when I walked away from you that nig
ht in the parlor, but inside I was very sad. Your rejection hurt. I didn’t let on to anyone, but the whole situation affected me deeply.” She shrugged—a valiant little motion of her shoulders that went to his heart.
“Gina,” he said, saying her name slowly. “I’m sorry.” He reached over and took her hand. It was small, the finger-nails short and lacquered with clear polish. He turned it over and traced the lines with his fingertip. “I shouldn’t have listened to the producers. They kept telling me the show was just a game, and I even convinced myself of that when I was playing it. I never worried about whose hearts would be broken or who would hate me afterward.”
She pulled her hand away. “Hate you? Did someone?”
“Not any contestants, as far as I know, but I got all kinds of nasty viewer mail afterward. Mostly, people sounding off about my lack of good judgment.” He laughed ruefully. “They were right, of course.”
“Now you tell me.”
“You’ve never given me a chance before now,” he said gently.
“Maybe because I didn’t want to hear what you had to say.” Her voice faltered, and she bit her lip. He was stunned when her eyes flooded with tears. She fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief.
Shaken at this unexpected display of emotion, Josh leaned back in his chair, gazed out over the vineyards dotting the valley floor, waved away a bee that was headed for the pots of geraniums near the terrace wall. To think that he had caused Gina any pain at all tore him apart. He had never considered the consequences of the Mr. Moneybags game from any perspective but his own, and he was rocked to his core as the true reality of the show struck home.
“I’m sorry, Gina,” he said helplessly. “More sorry than you can imagine.”
Heard It Through the Grapevine Page 12
