Page 3 of Corkscrew You
Even if they don’t think much of her taste in clothes, I bet the taut women would give their next implant for that mass of coppery-blonde hair and those blue-green eyes. Sure, she has freckles on every piece of exposed skin, including her makeup-free lips, but I’ve always had a thing for freckles. Blame it on my teen crush on Penélope Cruz.
I also didn’t expect her to be so petite. That said, she does have the hand strength common to everyone who works in agriculture, male or female. Modern technology only helps so much when you need to hoist a cow or change a wheel on a tractor. And, yes, despite its romanticized reputation, wineisan agricultural crop, no different from apples or corn or beets.
Not that Shelby Armstrong would agree. Mind you, I could say two plus two equals four and she’d argue tooth and nail against it. She may not be as stubborn as it sounds like her old man was, but on the mule scale, I’d place her at a solid 8/10. Something we have in common. Except that I top the dial at 11.
“Why are you doing this?” she says. “If you don’t give a flying fig about the winery, then why take this job in the first place? I mean, the money can’t bethatgood.”
“Who says I don’t give a fig? And who under ninety says ‘fig’ anyway?”
“I do. Andyousaid, ‘A winery’s a winery.’ Like it’s nothing special.”
“It isn’t.Nobusiness is special just because it happens to be yours, or your family’s.”
I’m trying to be patient here, but this is Commerce 101.
“The basic requirement to remain solvent applies even if the business was founded by Great Grandfather Lemuel in 1700-and-whatever,” I tell her. “And to stay solvent, you need more than a familiar name over the door. You need income that exceeds expenditure, and you need cash flow, so you’re not running on empty. Flora Valley Wines’ last statement of position looks like a kid’s moneybox that’s filled with Pokémon cards, three pennies and a gummy bear. How the hell did you survive this long? Did you make meth on the side?”
“No, I sold my body,” she says, and immediately blushes like the aforementioned beets.
I could be an asshole and remark on the blushing, make a sarcastic comment. But while she might be a royal pain in the butt, she doesn’t deserve to be humiliated. More importantly, I don’t want to give any impression that I might have noticed her body. That isnotthe way to start a professional arrangement.
It’s also, inconveniently, a lie. She’s biting on her lower lip now, right where a freckle is, and part of my brain is trying to convince me thatI’dlike to bite on that lower lip. Luckily, the smarter part of my brain reminds me that (a) I don’t want to be reminded about my last relationship, and (b) the bottom lip belongs to someone who, as they say in France,ça me fait chier.Translated and adjusted for local idiom: gives me the shits.
Yep, forget the Louvre and the stinky cheese. The greatest thing about France is how inventively they trash talk. The worst thing about France is how badly I was humiliated there. But that was then. Now, I’m back home. With a plan that I need to get back on track.
“Flora Valley would be bankrupt without JP,” I remind her. “But all he’s done is taken it off life support.Ican make it profitable. Butyouneed to follow my lead.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll what? Fire me?”
In that instant, she reminds me of my sister, Ava. A human incendiary device from day one. When Ava’s eyes flashed like that, everyone but Dad would duck for cover. Dad would laugh and call her Little Miss, which, naturally, riled her even more.
The thing with Ava, though, is she gets shit done. She’s goal-oriented, pragmatic – all us Durants are. When JP first described Little Miss Shelby here, he called her “a fine young woman, with an optimistic spirit and her father’s same magic touch with wine.” The words he failed to include were, “hidebound and next-level naïve.” Neither quality is of any use to me, and I’d be doing neither of us a favour to pretend otherwise.
“Frankly,” I tell her, “if you’re going to be more hindrance than asset then I won’t hesitate to cut you loose. I know plenty of skilled contract winemakers. JP might not like it, but he’s given me free rein. And, ultimately, it’s the success of his investment that JP cares about.”
I expect a salty retort, possibly some name-calling. Small risk of a glass of water thrown in my face. But there’s no flash in her eyes now. I’ve made her sad, not angry. Wow. Don’tIfeel like a figging asshole?
“We were doing fine,” she says, “until Dad got sick. I’m sure you don’t think cancer is an excuse for non-performance – you’d probably have fired him, too. But weweremaking a profit up till then. It was just that he—”
Her voice cracks and she swallows, trying to keep it together. I can’t let her see that I’m affected.Idon’t want to admit I am.
“The winery was so important to him,” she goes on, “that he felt compelled to control everything. He did it in such a way that no one complained. Theywantedto be part of it. We all did. But when he got sick, he didn’t have the energy to do all the stuff he’d done before, and things kind of got away from him…”
“And let me guess,” I say, without thinking. “He denied there was a problem and refused all offers of help.”
Her eyes widen with surprise and then become curious.
“You’ve had something similar withyourdad?”
Fortunately, one of the superpowers of a Durant upbringing is a perfect poker face. Ava insists I have a tell – a slight hitch of my left eyebrow. It’s her usual wind-up. I know I give nothing away.
But why not? Where’s the harm in telling Shelby that, yes, Ihavehad the same experience. That the whole reason I’m sitting across from her is because my dad would sooner die than admit how sick he is. He wouldn’t admit the irony of that, either.
I could tell her that all five Durant siblings freaked out when we discovered our father wasn’t immortal. We might not leave cookies for Santa anymore but we still secretly believed that Mitchell Durant was indestructible. When news of his heart condition reached us, we raced back to our hometown from all corners of the world to help out Mom, to spend time with our father, and to figure out what the hell to do from now on. We made a plan, swiftly and decisively, and now we’re in the process of executing it. The Durants are a tight team, even if we fight more like MMA opponents who persist in ignoring the “no biting” rule.
My part in the plan is to take this job. I don’t particularly want it. Vineyards bring up unwelcome memories, mainly about my own behaviour. I put work before my relationship and that ended as you’d expect, with my ass being dumped. Dad’s illness gave me the excuse to slink back home, and his stubborn refusal to get proper medical help means my family have been mercifully focused on him and not me.
Now, ironically, I’m in a position where workhasto come first. If I’m to have any hope of reviving this dead duck winery, Shelby Armstrong needs to step right back. She might be a decent winemaker, but she’s got the acumen of a moth in a candle factory. She needs to follow my instructions, to the letter, no debate, I need her to see me as her boss, and keep a professional distance. Which is why I won’t tell her anything about my dad. And Icertainlywon’t mention my ass-dumping.
