Chapter 6
Jansen
“ H ow was the fair?”
Diego, Antonio, and I are walking in the vineyard. I glance at Diego. “It was okay. Kind of fun. I learned some stuff about wine blends.”
“Huh. That’s good.”
Diego pauses and plucks a grape from the vine. He pops it in his mouth.
We’re looking at the grapes to see if we’re ready to start harvesting.
Diego makes a face. “I wish I had more experience with this.”
Antonio tries one, too.
The grapes look good to me—fat and purple. I might as well try one, but I have no idea what I’m looking for. Yep. Tastes like a grape. “This tastes pretty good to me.”
“It can taste good a while before they’re ready to pick,” Antonio says. “I think they need longer.” He makes a face. “I’m used to working with the winemaker to decide.”
Both these guys know what they’re doing in their own jobs. Antonio is my cellar manager. He was working as the cellar assistant until I bought the place, which involves a lot of stuff—moving wine, topping, filtration, cleaning and sanitizing the equipment, helping with bottling, and, like pretty much everyone here, helping with the harvest. He just doesn’t have a lot of experience with actual winemaking. Diego looks after the vines—pruning them and trellising them, monitoring soil moisture, monitoring pests and diseases, and overseeing the harvest. And yeah, he knows how to assess the grapes for ripeness, but the winemaker needs to be involved, too.
Except I don’t have a winemaker.
“Let’s check the Brix.” Diego holds up some kind of tool, then plucks a bunch of grapes and squeezes them over it. The juice drips into a well. “The sugar in the grapes is measured in degrees Brix,” he explains to me. “It should be between nineteen and twenty-five degrees. We can also check the pH and TA levels.”
I know most of that. “TA?”
“Titratable levels. A good target for red wine is generally six point five to seven point five grams per litre.”
“This feels like chemistry class.”
“Yeah, there is a lot of chemistry. But you know, there’s no substitute for experience. Most winemakers I’ve worked with use the science but also the taste and feel of the grapes.”
I was more of a science girl.
Last night I learned so much about Bianca Martinelli. I thought she was a smoke show that night I met her, but after listening to her rattle on so passionately about wine, about a dog wearing a bow tie, even about destroying her teacher’s shed, I’m even more attracted. She’s fun. Interesting. Seriously bangable. Also, young. Too young for me.
She’s not immature, though.
“I don’t have that kind of experience,” Diego says regretfully. “Are you hiring a winemaker?”
I shake my head to refocus. “Yeah. Working on it. How close do you think we are to harvest?”
“The forecast is for warm weather. So it could be a matter of days.”
“Shit. I won’t find someone that quickly.”
“Probably not. This isn’t the best time of year to be hiring someone. And after we harvest, there’s a lot of work to do. Testing, checking sugar and alcohol levels, making adjustments. I can do that, but it’s a lot for one person.”
“Okay.” I rub my forehead. I have to quit fantasizing about a winemaker and actually run my goddamn winery.
“We also need to get the reds bottled,” Antonio says. “Unless you want to let them age even more.”
Hell if I know. “How do we know when they’re ready?”
“They’re ready when the cork goes in the bottle,” he says.
Diego laughs.
Ah. That was a joke.
“Seriously, it’s the same thing—experience. Tasting the wine. Deciding if we want to blend any of it, or bottle them as single varietals.”
This I understand now, thanks to Bianca.
“Okay. Leave it with me for a bit.”
They both nod.
I make my way back inside. The person who really runs the business is Carol. She’s the accountant for Take Flight and luckily stayed on. She does a million other things, too, though. I stop in the door to her office. “Hey, Carol. How are you?”
She smiles. I think she’s about sixty, but her deep ochre brown skin is unwrinkled and her smile is youthful. Curly hair bounces around her face when she talks and moves. “I’m good, thanks, boss.”
I smile at being called boss. “How was your dinner last night?” She told me yesterday that her son and new daughter-in-law were having her and her husband over for the first time in their new home.
“It was really nice! Isabella cooked us a lovely dinner. The chicken was a little dry.” She makes a face. “But I didn’t tell her that. And they’re settling into the house.”
We chat a bit more and then I go into my own office and sit at the desk.
Bianca gave that dipstick her number last night. Lucky for me, I have a good memory when it comes to numbers. I pull out my cell phone and look at it for a few minutes.
Am I really calling her for business reasons?
Or am I calling her because I want to give her the business?
Heh.
Might as well be honest. It can be both.
No. This has to be strictly business.
I hate having to admit I need help. Needing help makes you weak. So my dad always told me.
Finally I tap in the digits.
It rings a couple of times, then she answers. “Hello?”
“Hi. Bianca?”
“Yes…”
“It’s Jansen Beck.”
After a beat of silence, she says, “Hi, Jansen.”
“I hope you don’t think this is stalkerish, but I heard you give that guy your number last night. It, uh, stuck in my mind. And this morning I was talking to my guys here and we have some problems.” I pause and grit my teeth. “I’m hoping you might be able to give me advice.”
“Mmm.” I can almost hear her thinking. “What kind of advice?”
“We aren’t sure when to pick the grapes.”
Another short pause. “Oh.”
“Also, we have wines that need to be bottled. Antonio says we might want to blend some of them. And we were talking about that last night, and you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I do know a little about it.” I hear the smile in her voice. “We’re going through the same things here. Except we don’t have any wine to bottle.” She blows out a sharp breath. “But never mind that. We’re getting close to harvest, yes. I’m going to be helping Jake today, but I could come over there later, if that works.”
Better than I’d hoped. “Sure. That’s fine.”
“Three-ish?”
“Sounds good. You know where I am?”
“I live next door.”
“Right. Okay. Great. See you then.”
I end the call. Okay. It didn’t sound like she’s going to call the cops on me. Although I do have a contact in the sheriff’s office. Ha.
I lost some sleep last night, thinking about her. That never happens to me. Since my divorce, I’ve gone out with a few women, but I haven’t been so caught up in someone that I keep thinking about her. Dreaming about her. Fantasizing about her.
Get it together, man.
Carol and I go over some business things and I give her approval to order supplies, stuff I don’t understand, which frustrates me, but I’m learning. I spend the afternoon with Diego in the vineyard being taught more about caring for the vines.
“I want to get some owls,” he says.
I frown. “How do you get owls?”
“There’s a group in Napa that build owl boxes so that barn owls will nest in them. Owls eat rodents, so it helps us with rodent control.”
My chin jerks down. “We have a rodent problem?”
“Not a problem, but there are always mice and rats.” He shrugs.
“So much for the romantic beauty of winemaking.”
He grins. “Using rodenticides is harmful to the environment, and possibly to the grapes, so this is better.”
“Eco-friendly,” I murmur. “Okay, let’s do it.”
I’m checking the time until it’s nearly three, then I go to the house to wash up. My face in the mirror is already tanned from being outside in the sun. I rub my stubbled jaw. Should I shave? Change my shirt? I’m kind of sweaty. Nah. What am I thinking?
I step back outside and see Bianca walking across the yard from the line of trees that separate our properties.
Once again, I feel like I just took a poke check to the gut.
Her smile as she turns her face to the late afternoon sun. Her glowing skin. Her sparkling eyes. I feel like I’m a hundred years old, tired, dirty, sweaty, and she’s striding across my yard with a spring in her step like one of those baby goats she gushed over last night.
Maybe I should get some goats.
Jesus. No.
I jog down the front steps to meet her.
“Hi.” Her smile is polite. She’s dressed in cut off shorts and a striped tank top that hugs her generous tits, with work boots and socks on her feet. A hot pink bra strap slides down one shoulder and straggly threads hang over smooth thighs, drawing my attention there.
My body is responding, and this is not good. I clear my throat and try to keep my expression neutral. “Hi.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Are you always grumpy?”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not grumpy.”
“You sound grumpy.” She shrugs. “And you’re scowling at me.”
“No, I’m not.”
She levels me with an incisive look. “Okay.” She slides her gaze up and down over me. “Um. This is how you dress to work in the vineyard?”
I look down at my striped dress shirt, dark jeans, and brown leather shoes. “What’s wrong with this?”
She grins. “You look like you’re ready to go to a fancy club.”
I roll my eyes. “Guess I should cut off my jeans, eh.” I rake a glance back over her thighs.
She laughs. “Jorts is not a good look on guys. Maybe just get some boots. So. Should we have a look at your grapes?”
“Yeah. I see you brought help.” I gesture at the refractometer she’s carrying. “We checked some grapes earlier.”
“What was the Brix?”
I fill her in as we walk toward the vines. “And Antonio said some other testing could be done.”
“Yes. I’ll do that, too. We need to look at a few different areas, though. Just because grapes aren’t ready in one part doesn’t mean the whole vineyard isn’t ready. Some rows ripen more quickly if they have more sun exposure, or less if they’re exposed to a lot of wind.”
“That makes sense.”
We walk down a path between vines. It’s quiet here, peaceful and almost spiritual. The air is soft and fragrant with the scent of grapes and sun-warmed earth.
“Also some varieties take longer to get to optimal ripeness. Chardonnay and pinot noir are early ripeners. Cabernet sauvignon and syrah come later.” She leans in to inspect some of the plump, golden chardonnay grapes hanging on the vine. As she reaches out a hand, I notice dirt under her short fingernails. Is that a turnoff? Hell, no.
I think of all the manicures my ex-wife got, and her perfect white-tipped nails. I thought they looked nice. Classy. But this girl’s dirty nails are weirdly adorable.
“These are beautiful.” The reverence in her voice matches the hushed atmosphere. “I’m looking for any shriveling or desiccation.” She gently moves bunches of grapes and proceeds down the aisle, studying them. “Now we’ll taste.” She pops one in her mouth in a sensuous gesture that makes my groin tighten. She bites down, chews, and swallow. “I’m checking the way the skin pops when I bite into it, then tasting. It should be more…tropical than green. Green definitely has a taste. These are still green.”
“Okay.”
“But very close.”
I follow her as we move along and she scrutinizes grapes. Every movement of slender arms and graceful hands draws me in. When she cups clusters of heavy grapes, my balls tighten. I can’t look away.
We eventually come to the cabernet grapes. She does the same there, with the same worshipful admiration of the grapes. Something stirs in my midsection at her devotion and enjoyment. “I taste cherry,” she says. “But not black cherry yet.”
She takes another grape, bites it open, then studies it. “I’m looking at how brown the seeds are.” Then she eats the seeds, chewing them. “We check the color of the grapes, the color of the stems and the seeds. The plumper and easier they pull off the vine, the riper they are. And chewing the seeds is another clue—they’re softer and chewier when ripe. And of course the taste. No bitterness. The characteristics of the varietal should shine through.”
“I would never know that.”
She gives me an amused look. “No.”
“You think I’m an idiot for doing this, don’t you.” I feel like I’m failing a test. I don’t like it.
She hums. “No. It’s bold, I’ll give you that. But you seem like someone who’s determined to succeed.”
I nod. “Yeah. I didn’t make it to the NHL without determination.”
“Exactly.” Our eyes meet.
I shouldn’t have asked her to come here. Did I think I could be with her and keep things strictly grape business? Ha. I’m an idiot. My hands are sweaty and my cock is taking notice of how short those cut-offs are and also my chest keeps pinging.
The moment stretches out, heat building around us. Then she blinks rapidly a few times and looks away. She swallows. “If you pick the grapes at the right time, everything else falls into place. You know when you have a perfectly ripe piece of fruit and it’s so delicious, but then one day later it’s overripe and mushy?”
I nod.
“You want to get the grapes at that moment—when they’re super delicious and the fruit has everything it needs.”
“But how do you know? That’s my problem.”
“Truthfully? It’s a bit of magic. You can measure sugar content and pH but it really comes down to taste. The relationship between acid and sugars and tannins. When the grapes are perfectly delicious. But not necessarily sweet. And no machine can tell us that. You have to trust your palate. Intuition.”
I cough. “I suspect you can’t teach intuition. Or magic.”
The corners of her mouth, perpetually smiling, lift higher. “No.”
We check more grapes, walking the paths in the quiet sunshine, probably for a couple of hours. Then Bianca says, “Okay, take me to your lab.”
I feel proud that I know I have a lab and where it is. We hike back to the building, and I lead the way to the back.
“This is nice,” she says, looking around the lab. “It looks like it was recently updated.”
“Yes, they told me they’d updated the lab about two years ago.”
She sets about testing grape juice, making notes on her iPad, mumbling to herself and explaining things to me.
“You’ll need to keep a close eye on the chardonnay,” she finally says. “And the pinot noir is close, too.”
Sure. I’ll keep an eye on them. Despite watching her closely (very closely) today, I don’t really know what I’m looking for.
“Are you ready for harvest?” she asks, looking up at me. “You have workers lined up? It’s an intense time.”
“Diego tells me we are. He has workers ready to come when they get the word.”
“Okay, good.” She sighs. “We’ve been having some trouble finding help. Apparently, a lot of places are facing labor shortages now, and most workers have already been hired. Or they’ve gone into hiding because of that ICE raid at Garrafeira last week.”
I frown. I recognize the name of the winery. “ICE raid?”
She makes a glum face. “Yep. We rely a lot on immigrant labor. Anyway, I’m glad you’re ready.”
“Should I apologize for that?”
One corner of her mouth kicks into a wry smile.
I can’t look at her without noticing her mouth. Does she kiss with as much energy and passion as she shows about wine?
“Of course not,” she says. “You’re running a business.”
“Trying.”
“Aren’t we all.” She pauses. “What about the reds you want to bottle?”
“Right.” I slide off my stool. “Do you have time to check them?”
“Sure.”
I lead the way from the lab down to the cellar with its many barrels of wine. I love this place. The vineyards have a special atmosphere, but this place is unique—dark, quiet, mysterious.
Bianca makes a soft sound of pleasure as she looks around. She likes this, too.
“Do you have a wine thief?”
“Of course.” I know a few basic things. I fetch the long glass tube as well as a couple of glasses, and hand it to her.
She inserts the tube into a barrel through the bunghole, holds her thumb over the top, and pulls it out containing beautiful cabernet sauvignon. I hold out two glasses and she releases wine into each. “You’re tasting, too?”
“You bet. I’m learning.”
She nods, smiling, returning the rest of the wine to the barrel.
We both sip. I’m getting used to watching her search out various nuances. It’s sensuous. And sexy. Once again I can’t take my eyes off her.
We taste various barrels, and she offers up opinions and is firm that the wines are ready to be bottled.
“What about blending some of them?” I ask.
She pauses and tilts her head. “I have ideas.”
“Of course you do.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“I’ll pay you,” I say, desperation husking my voice. “I want to make good wines.”
She gazes at me for a long moment. “I have a job already. Not to mention, my own winery.”
“I know.” I scrub a hand over my mouth, my gut bunched in a knot. If she says no, I’ll be mortified. This is why I hate asking for help. Keep it casual. “I just need temporary help. I’m going to hire a winemaker, but we need to bottle right now.”
“Yes,” she says slowly. “You do.”
“You have your own winery to worry about, I know.”
“True. But we don’t have any wine. Unless…well, right now we don’t.”
My lungs are suddenly incapacitated. The silence in the cellar weighs dense and heavy around us as I wait for her response.
“Can I think about it?” she asks.
I nod, my throat feeling like I swallowed a whole grape.
“Okay. Well. It’s nearly seven! I should go.”
The back of my neck and shoulders tightens. I’m not ready for her to leave. “Stay for dinner.”
She doesn’t seem surprised by my impulsive invitation. She regards me thoughtfully.
“Can I tempt you with wine? I have a 2018 cab.”
“A spectacular year,” she murmurs, lips curving once again. “Tempting.”
Oh, fuck yeah, I’m tempted.
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks. I’ll just call Rosa and let her know I won’t be home for dinner.” She pulls her phone out of a pocket in those indecent shorts. Speaking of temptation…
“They’re probably busy doing the bone dance,” she says as she makes the call.
I choke on a surprised laugh.
A moment later, she rolls her eyes at me as she leaves a voice mail. She ends the call and says, “See?” She waves a hand. “Okay, take me to the 2018 cab.”