Page 22 of Que Será, Syrah

“Yes!” Bianca gets up and pours herself another cup of coffee. “We really need to end this conversation before I have an anxiety attack.”

“No, listen,” I tell her. “You’ll like this. I’m talking about raptors. If we could entice a mating pair of some type of raptor to build their nest somewhere on the grounds, that would be good, right?”

“Oh.” Bianca sits back down and nods. “Okay, yes. That would make a difference.”

“Make a difference how?” Rosa asks. “And what are we supposed to be doing with these raptors, anyway?”

“They would actually help keep the rodent population in check,” Bianca explains. “And prey on the birds who eat our grapes. It’s actually kind of genius.”

“And we wouldn’t be doing anything,” I add. “That’s the best part. Other than putting up cameras and livestreaming the footage so everyone can see what they’re up to.”

“Cameras?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “There are raptor cams set up all over California. There are several in the Bay Area that do falcons—Berkeley, San Jose, Alcatraz—and another in San Francisco for ospreys. And there’s at least one place in SoCal that monitors barn owls.”

“So, all we’d need to do is put up a few cameras and we’re done?”

“We probably only need one camera,” I tell her, getting excited. “At least to start.”

Have I finally hit on something they both actually like and are open to? Halleluiah! “You focus the camera on the nest, so people can watch online as the eggs hatch, and the babies grow up. Once they fledge, all their fans will want to come here to watch them flying around. And, when they’re here, we sell them wine. And branded merchandise, or whatever. It’s kind of a shame Jake’s parents didn’t think of that because having birds as brand ambassadors for a winery called Take Flight would have been a perfect fit.”

“Oh,” Bianca says suddenly. “That’s why it sounds so familiar. Jansen’s already doing it. So maybe we can ask him for tips?”

“He…what?” I ask as my heart drops.

“Yeah, can you believe it? His vineyard manager suggested it. You should go see it. He bought this state-of-the-art barn owl nest box. It came with its own solar powered, Wi-Fi camera. I don’t know if he’s streaming it though. He should do that, right?”

“Yeah, totally,” I say, crossing another great idea off my list. “I mean, assuming there’s anything to stream. But if he’s already got a nest box set up, we wouldn’t want to put up another one this close.”

“Oh, because the birds are territorial, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I glance through my list.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Rosa observes. “I thought we were onto something there.”

I nod agreement. Do I even want to suggest we build a habitat for native butterflies and other pollinators? No, I sure don’t. I don’t think I can take any more rejection at the moment. I scribble some notes regarding other ideas I need to research—artwork, food trucks, bike tours, picnics. All of which have the advantage that I can get started now and don’t have to wait for Spring.

“So, are we done?” Rosa asks. “Or was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

“Two things actually,” I say. “Bee, have you given any more thought to the idea of hosting barrel tastings over the winter? I know it’s premature, but almost no one does it, so it will be unique.”

“I guess it’ll be okay,” she tells me. “But only occasionally. It can’t become a regular thing. And I’d want to be on hand to supervise. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but…”

“I know. The wine is your baby.” I nod politely, and refrain from pointing out that in my last steady job I conducted barrel tastings all on my own, without supervision. All. The. Time. “What about the Rosé?”

Rosa’s eyebrows rise. “Do we have a Rosé?” she asks Bianca. “We don’t, do we?”

Bianca shakes her head. “Not at this point. But Legs wants me to release a blend in the Spring and…I’m thinking about it.” She turns to me and adds, “I can’t make a decision on that until I see how everything’s tasting in the Spring.”

“All right,” I say. “Good enough.” But is it really? If she decides against it, it’s going to be another year, or maybe two before we have any wines to sell—or taste. And what am I supposed to do until then?

The minute I walk through the door of the Golden Cougar Bar and Grill I’m greeted by a chorus of familiar voices.

“Hey, look who’s back!”

“Allegra?”

“Legs! Over here!”

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