Page 60 of Gone With the Wine

Plus my bum shoulder is aching. Both shoulders have some arthritis in them, but my right one is worse and I’m feeling it this morning. I try not to take too much medication for them because that stuff can eat away your gut, but this might be a day I need some.

This isn’t what I envisioned when I thought of owning a winery. I’m not naïve or stupid; I knew there’d be work involved. But I kind of pictured myself walking the paths and sitting on a terrace drinking wine. I suppose I could just do that—I don’thaveto pick grapes. But I want to.

This place is mine. Its success depends on me. And I have to be successful.

I may feel old and cranky and horny, but I’m also determined. I can ignore a few sore muscles and a sexy winemaker and focus on grapes.

By eleven, I’m starving. Time for a lunch break. There’s a shady spot in the yard with picnic tables the crew moves to with their lunch, which I assume is why that spot is there. I start past them, but Antonio waves at me. “Hey, boss! Come join us for lunch.”

I halt. They want me to have lunch with them? “Um, okay, sure. I just have to check in with Bianca at the lab.”

I find Antonio there but no Bianca.

“She went back to Caparelli,” he tells me. “She said she’ll check back later. I think they’re a little short handed over there.”

Right. Shit. She’s probably working harder than I am.

Another thing to admire about her—she’s definitely not lazy.

I go slap a handful of shaved ham between two slices of bread, add a little mustard, then carry it and a bottle of water back to the picnic tables. Antonio moves over to give me room to sit and I listen to the crew chat about all kinds of things—their kids, spouses, truck that needs a new muffler. Their camaraderie surprises me. I even answer some of their questions about hockey and my previous life.

After lunch, I have a brief huddle with Carol about delivery of the new barrels, then head back out to the crush pad. Trucks are dumping grapes from huge bins and we start the process of de-stemming and crushing the grapes to get white juice. It’ll settle to reduce solids before we move it to tanks or barrels to ferment. Bianca has prepared yeast to inoculate the must—the unfermented juice—to start the fermentation process.

Bianca’s back, waving away bees, sloshing around in rubber boots that are loose around her calves. When I catch sight of her face, my heart bumps. I corner her and frown. “What’s wrong?”

Chapter13

Bianca

Rosa and I are out in the yard talking about the capacitor for the forty-year-old press we’re using, which has just broken down.

“Jake’s trying to source one,” I tell her. “But so far no luck. And they’re not even expensive!”

“What’s Jake trying to source?”

We both turn at the male voice behind us. Uncle Geno approaches, wearing his straw Panama hat.

“Hi, Uncle Geno,” I say.

“Hi,” Rosa adds.

He stops, waiting for us to answer him.

“The capacitor on our press is broken,” I tell him reluctantly. The last thing I want to do is share our problems and challenges with him. He already thinks we can’t do this.

Sure enough, he smirks. “Are you reconsidering your decision to keep this place? Since things don’t seem to be going well.”

“Things are going fine,” I reply, resisting the urge to tell him to fuck off. “Just this one little problem.”

“A new press is expensive,” he says.

“We don’t need a new press.” Actually, we do. Forty years is ancient. I spare a brief, longing thought for the state-of-the art pneumatic press back at Castillo Lorenzo, with its touchscreen control and pre-programmed pressing cycles.

“You could always stomp the grapes yourselves,” Uncle Geno says.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you here, Uncle Geno?”

“Just checking in on you girls.”

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