by Peter Prasad
“No. I checked references and read their credit report. The farm board says, ‘Do it.’ Powell says ‘Do it.’ The deposit’s ready to go. We need the frickin’ money today.”
“Who’s Powell?”
“That pot-smoking liberal lawyer with the Japanese art collection up on Sonoma Mountain. He was Dad’s friend.”
Jake wanted his next decision to be how slowly he could savor his ale. The baked-dry Sonoma heat poured through his open window. The familiar smell of death was gone.
Wally had a point: cash was king. He decided to begin to trust again, starting with Wally. “They’ll pre-pay the first year. The check’s in the glove box.” Wally waved at the dashboard.
“Money’s a good start. This sounds better than growing bud in the barn. How much?” Jake felt the new civilian wheels in his head kick into gear.
“Enough plus improvements, water pump, barn repairs. I worked up a list with Marco. It’s all there.” He waved at the dashboard again. Jake finished his beer and wiped his hands on his jeans. Wally merged onto a country road toward the bank in Santa Rosa.
“Artisan cheese is getting support in Sonoma. We have 20 cheese dairies in county now. Sheep make great cheese.” Wally began bouncing up and down on the bench seat, driving with one hand.
“The Spencers are cool. They’re big on organics, bio-diversity. They’re flat-out clean freaks. They want me to run the lab. I’ll do quality control, milk analysis, cultivate native yeasts, and harvest bacterial agents.”
Jake felt a twinge of pride in his little science-professor bro. He pulled a manila envelope from the glove compartment. He scanned the paperwork, starting with the lease agreement. It looked complete. He reviewed the checklist Powell had made. He saw where Wally and Marco had initialed each page. He saw the deposit check and whistled: $18,000.
“Frick sake, the tax man can take a hike. I’m in.”
Wally hooted and hand-tapped the dashboard. Jake kept reading. Wally’s contract specified lab-tech with a list of job functions to keep a ‘farmstead certified’ rating. Jake looked up. Wally cut him off. “Organic comes later, after seven years of paperwork and inspections.”
Jake watched the brown hills capped with green-tree fringe roll past. Jake knew cows, not sheep; milk, not cheese—but he was willing to learn.
He selected his words carefully. “Bro, this looks great. You’ve been busy. We can improve the place and you got a job. Jerry would like it.” Wally grinned at Jake’s approval.
“So will you sign as co-owner?” Jake gave his brother a moment of eye contact and nodded in agreement. Wally hooted and shook his clenched fist out the window at the sky.
“Diggity! You’ll like the Spencers. Marco knows sheep and Sandy sells at farmers markets. They work a circuit, long hours, bro.”
Jake watched Wally’s eyes shine with a new future. “We’ll move a cheese shed onto the property. All stainless steel with a 30-gallon pasteurization vat. That costs $30,000. Way chill. And an air-conditioned clean room for the cheese to age. Marco designed it. We’ll improve the barns and build sheep pens.” Wally paused to let the vision sink in.
Jake drifted behind Wally’s enthusiasm, half-listening and soaking in the sunshine.
He noticed the beers and pain pills begin to smooth the heat.
“See the last page? That’s for you, property manager, if you want it. Basic dairy duty.”
Jake turned to the job description and read through the list. He knew how to do this: install pumps and new electrical circuits, mend fences, build paddocks, feed animals and move manure. A regular $1,500 a month plus gas and materials. Minimum wage, but no commute. No resumes. No interviews. No lines. No rejections. No snipers. The tax man could go shoot someone else.
Jake opened another beer and turned to Wally, grinning. The Knight Brothers Sonoma Sheep Dairy bumped bro-fist.
At the bank, Jake shook hands with the Spencers, and excused himself to the Men’s room. He decided to ease off on being hard-charging Jake; this was Wally’s deal. He swallowed a red pain pill and slowly walked back to find his new tenants.
Wally was right. He liked them. Marco, lanky and calm-spoken, had the gentle vibe of a dairy man with a calloused grip hardened by chores. Grinning, he showed a chipped front tooth. Jake sensed Marco reserved judgment. He’d help birth a lamb at midnight and clean pieces of placenta out of the birth canal.
Sandy, not yet 30, the bubbly talker in the family, came from Sonoma. Marco, a Wisconsin native, met his younger wife in a college food-science program. They’d launched their brand a year earlier and leased commercial kitchen space.
They dreamed to turn it up a notch with a milk-sheep herd. “From grass to cutting board,” Sandy said, her pale freckled face beaming. Sun-streaked red hair framed her bright blue eyes. Jake smiled and signed the lease agreement. He and Wally banked his discharge check, the lease payment and cleared the tax liens.
They were broke again. Jake figured he’d bought himself a year and time to heal.
Wally was clearly caught up with these cheese dreamers. If the creamery worked out, he’d have found himself a career. For now he had a lab to run, applying his chemistry education. Painkiller haze was coming over Jake. Saving the farm was enough for one day. He wanted to go home.
Poverty hadn’t changed the view. Sonoma was in late dry season, earth in slow fade under a remorseless sun. Jake had missed the green grass of spring and the riot of wild yellow mustard. Now in October, the land was baked to a faded ivory dotted with brown patches. One good cloud-buster would bring renewal, but rain wasn’t likely until mid-November.
His two dairy barns on the crest of a hill grinned defiantly. Jake grinned back.
He and Wally owned it all now, free and clear: his buildings, his manure, his blades of grass. Jake was surprised his throat choked up. For five years, his home had been a billet, a bunk and duffel dumped into a locker or closet.
The pain pills made him think sideways. He might start shouting sonnets. He and Wally hadn’t been roommates for eight years. He waited for Wally to look away and he splashed beer on his small speck of mother earth.
Jake raised his sunglasses and squinted. Behind the barns, the land sloped down in a wide sweep to more pasture. A glint of emerald showed where the grass sipped at a year-round spring, fed by an aquifer with run-off from Sonoma Mountain. His dairy had more green than most. He had deep wells.
Water is life across California farmlands. Jake’s natural spring was like money in the bank. Other dairies were forced to supplement with alfalfa and grain by June. Jake would try to keep Marco’s sheep on grass almost year-round. He made a mental note to check the spring. It had to be kept cleaned out and directed to drain to feed the grass. It was his job and he’d be paid; hell, he’d do it for free.
The fences stood strong; they ran straight and true. None of the outbuildings had collapsed. The barns towered above it all, without paint, framed on thick oak beams and slatted in wide first-cut redwood planks, weather-worn dull gray and contoured to the land.
The sheet-metal roofs, once white, showed bare patches and oxidization. The squat red-brick cottages had wrap-around verandas and overhanging metal roofs in better condition. He saw Sandy’s wash hanging on a line by the upper cottage.
Wally explained that Marco and Sandy had moved in a month earlier. Wally had cleaned the other cottage, where he and Jake had grown up. He donated Jerry’s clothes to Salvation Army and upgraded to dorm deluxe with fresh paint, a coffee maker, new pots and pans, a large computer monitor and no TV.
Up valley, grape growers delighted in Sonoma’s long, dry summers. The wine makers praised the afternoon heat that pushed the sugar in the grapes. They delighted in the morning fog that chilled grapes to a flavorful acid balance. The mineral rich volcanic soil contributed more flavors. Fermentation lifted sugar into alcohol and alcohol into money.
Early morning chill preserved fruitiness before the afternoon sugar race-up. Most mornings, the fog burned off betwee
n sun rise and midday. Sonoma winters were gray and wet, with rain blowing in December through March from the Pacific Ocean 20 miles away. Yet winter’s monotony was often broken by crystal bright blue days that made Sonoma almost perfect.
He collected his beers, lifted his kit from the truck and followed Wally into their cottage. The solid wood door opened onto a large living room with a kitchen area across the back wall. Jake took the bedroom on the right, once Jerry’s room, clean and Spartan now. The new bed looked like heaven. Jake pushed it into the corner of the back wall under the window. He jumped into deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke early, before dawn, his body on military time which worked for a sheep-dairy man. He lay awake and listened to the quiet, peppered with gusts that rattled the cottage. He celebrated with a beer and a sandwich.
He tasted ocean salt in the air. The fog carried moisture to wet the grass. He smelled home and childhood, his piece of dirt. It was a civil change from an Army of snores, grunts and farts. He preferred the honest smell of dairy manure to the odor of G.I. barracks.
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CHAPTER TWO
Koch Semper, a self-proclaimed leading light in Sonoma’s wine industry, wanted privacy. He took a seat on a hard wooden bench at the last back table in a coffee shop in Santa Rosa, with his back to the wall so he could watch for her to enter for her interview. She would be the fifth candidate he’d seen this week and he wondered if he’d have to lower his standards again.
He offered good money, ten percent above the local pay scale for a winery marketing intern and he’d carefully researched the salary for the position. Semper was careful about details; he prided himself on due diligence and research. It was part of his reputation, what people paid for when they retained him. Semper had his finger on the pulse of only the most discerning European wine buyers. He’d been at Oxford and had the impeccable manners of a gentleman who knew his market. His supremely educated taste buds matched his visionary entrepreneurial acumen for selling blended Sonoma wines.
He wanted an as-yet-undefined factor in his new intern and he’d know her when he found her. He offered a real job of importance which might grow into tasting-room manager. The women he’d seen to date were blank-faced automatons, overly made-up divorcees or just plain wrong.
What was so hard about the job he offered? Take instruction, be discreet and serve me. His intern received the added benefit of working with the renowned Koch Semper, an enologist of distinction. He brushed an imaginary crumb off his tailored gray three-piece suit and sipped Earl Gray tea. Only his adored English blended tea this well, he sighed.
He watched the latest candidate arrive and park her older silver Prius in the lot, stepping out on spindly black high heels. She wore a dark blue skirt and jacket with a white lace-collared shirt tucked into her skirt. No belt required, with that slim waist. She made a good first impression. She’d neatly tied her brown hair in a ponytail. That was permissible, he decided. She was young, which he liked. Were those blond streaks in her hair? Self-applied? Well, he would change that.
Unconsciously, Semper stood and wiped his damp palms against his gray cotton suit pants. He always wore three-piece suits, in cotton, because Sonoma was too hot for wool. He smiled at her and raised his hand as though indicating a bid at one of his wine auctions. She noticed and walked to him, evidently mustering all the confidence she had.
“Hi. I’m Vanessa Cantor. Are you Mr. Semper? For my interview?”
Semper stood taller and sniffed. “Dr. Semper, if you please. Yes, indeed I am, and you might be my new marketing intern. Please fetch yourself a cup of tea and let’s chat.” He handed her a five-dollar bill.
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m pleased to meet you in person,” Vanessa beamed at him. She looked down at his tea cup and read the tag at the end of the string. “Earl Gray, that’s my favorite. Please excuse me. I’ll be right back. Here’s my updated resume.” She laid the ivory-white sheet on the wooden table. She smiled and curtsied to him. This interview was so important. She wanted to please him. She so wanted a job in wine.
Semper nodded and sat, scanning her resume. He studied her from under his narrow eyebrows as she stood in line. It was a good sign that she had his taste in tea. She appeared to be two inches shorter than him, despite her high heels.
He’d studied the email version of her resume. He knew she had graduated from Sonoma State with a degree in wine marketing. He also knew she lived with a woman who appeared to be her mother. They shared a mobile home in Rohnert Park, ten miles south on the freeway. He’d driven there to investigate after dark, stopping a discreet distance away and staying in his Jaguar.
Now Semper felt the first stirring of desire. She had a round Kewpie-Doll face with a nice complexion and a pointed little chin. No obvious tattoos. She was ten pounds overweight. Semper liked to put pudgy people in their place and subservient to him. She had impressive blue eyes. Did she wear contacts? He wore brown contact lenses.
Vanessa returned with her Earl Grey. Her thoughts: Please God, please, make him like me. No one else did. She sat straight and proper, pushed her bust out and smoothed her mother’s blue skirt. She sipped her tea.
“Isn’t it the best tea ever, Dr. Semper?”
Then, oh damn, she blushed. She felt the heat in her neck burst into a red blotch on her skin. It embarrassed her. The blush flowered across her breasts, like always. Her dilated capillaries betrayed her. She cleared her throat and looked away, waiting for the embarrassing rush to subside. Semper began to throb in his pants.
“Well, Ms. Cantor, I’ve studied your resume. That’s why I’ve agreed to see you. That’s why you’re a candidate.” He strummed his fingertips on the table top.
He decided not to grill her as hard as he had grilled the others. Vanessa’s white skin enchanted him; her blush triggered a smidgen of kindness. He savored it and asked a safe, open-ended question. “Please tell me about yourself? Why are you qualified to be my marketing intern and personal assistant?”
Personal assistant? That wasn’t in the job description. Maybe this is going well, Vanessa thought. She chattered on about her interest in marketing and wine and the Internet and her Twitter account and her summer jobs as a waitress and her love of Sonoma and how important marketing was and small business and on and on.
Semper let her ramble, nodding sagely. He set his face in an expression of strict judgment, looking down his patrician nose with his head turned sideways. The ‘Roman Senator’ look, he called it. He wondered if he’d reduce her to a puddle of desire. Could he make her wet, wanton and begging? Ever confident, Semper said yes to himself.
Vanessa had graduated with honors. Wine-marketing was her consuming passion. This was the perfect job and she wanted to learn from a master.
To this, Semper made an odd sound deep in his throat.
She was a diligent student, cracked the books and worked hard to learn. She had people-skills. She applied her knowledge and was never bossy or a know-it-all. Her managers said she provided attentive customer care in all her food-service jobs. She knew the importance of winning repeat customers. They were the backbone of small business and necessary to build a prestigious winery like Dr. Semper’s.
She knew the value of a dollar. She saved her money from babysitting in high school and from summer jobs to buy her Prius; it was so economical. She was paying back her college loans, but a state college was not that expensive. She’d never be demanding and always make do with the marketing budget he allowed her. He’d look over her shoulder, wouldn’t he, please?
Personal assistant was fine. Six days a week and Saturdays were fine. She went to church with her mother on Sundays. This was her one little fib. She preferred to lie in bed all Sunday morning and blushed to think what she did to herself. She ended the interview with a gush and a giggle, cleared her throat and sipped her Earl Grey. She was afraid to look into his eyes. Her fingertips batted at the lace around her collarbone. Might he like her?
Semper studi
ed her hands at her collarbone. She had nice nails with plain pink polish. No glued-on do-dads, decals, glitter or rainbow streaks. “Give me a moment to consider this,” he said.
Vanessa studied the cashier at the pastry counter. Semper divined that she touched herself like that whenever she told a lie; an awkward, unconscious habit. He liked knowing how to read her little deceptions. He took his time with his tea, savoring it. Semper decided she might be teachable.
“Very well, Ms. Cantor. I’ll try you.” He gave her his most successful and radiant salesman’s smile.
“Oh, thank you so much, Doctor Semper. Please call me ‘Vanessa.’ In fact, ‘Vannie’ is okay too.” She was desperately afraid she would embarrass herself by blushing again. Oh God, she had a job. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother. She had a dream job in wine. She had a green light to go places in Sonoma. Her new life had arrived.
Semper savored that. Vannie, his yummy little Kewpie Doll. He imagined her blushing from head to hip. He was too excited to stand up. “Very well, Vanessa. We shall put Vanessa on your business cards. I’ll print them to say “winery marketing manager.” But this is a trial, mind you.” He waved a manicured finger at her and she dropped her eyes.
“A trial internship with a contract. A few rules first. Never be late for one of my meetings. My time is exceedingly valuable. Always take notes at our meetings. You’ll need notes to review and get things right the first time. I don’t suffer mistakes.” He paused to let his instruction sink in as she rummaged in her purse for pen and her notebook.
“I’ll keep you busy. We’re in the middle of setting up systems and reopening the winery. I insist you always wear business attire. What you’re wearing today is agreeable. Stockings are not necessary in this heat. Always be well-groomed, well-mannered and professional, especially with my clients. We never use the word ‘customers’. They spend too much money with us.” He smiled at that.
