Chapter 14
Allegra
I get up the next morning determined to turn things around—for myself, and for Caparelli. Having grown up on a winery that was already established, already successful, I think I may have underestimated the level of difficulty in starting over from somewhere this close to scratch. Maybe Geno has been right all along. Maybe we can’t do this on our own. But my sisters aren’t ready to give up yet, and I refuse to be the weak link, the screw-up who causes us to fail.
Which means I need to double my efforts. One way or another, I need to find some way to keep our brand alive and our name relevant until there’s wine to sell.
Since we already have something of a green light in terms of food trucks, that seems like a logical place to start. But I immediately run into a problem. The first few trucks I contact want to know how much business we do here, and what kind of crowd they can expect. When they learn we’re not even open yet? They lose interest quick.
Which, honestly, I should have expected. Apparently, the only businesses in Napa that aren’t expected to turn a profit are small wineries. Who knew?
Bottom line, I need people—potential customers—in order to attract the food trucks. But, with nothing else to sell, I need food trucks if I want to attract the people. No people, no food trucks. No food trucks, no people. It’s a vicious circle taking me nowhere. I need to find a better way.
I drive into town, hoping that’ll give me a better sense of what brings people to Oak Creek Canyon—other than wine, of course. There must be something we can offer that they’re not already getting elsewhere.
It’s a gorgeous fall day, sunny and warm. The air is fresh, the leaves just starting to turn. It’s perfect. Just being here, being home, lifts my spirits. All the same, my first stop is the Rise ‘n’ Wine for an iced caramel macchiato—just to further boost my morale.
My plan is to start at the tourism board. I’ve heard they offer winery tours, so they were on my list of places to visit anyway, once we’re operational. But that also seems like a logical place to ask questions and find information on what tourists want to do here.
I’m in sight of their building, when I’m distracted by the business directly across the street, by the row of mint-green cruiser bikes lined up in front—shining brightly and enticingly in the sun—and the signs in the windows offering TOURS in big, block letters that might as well be neon, because that’s when inspiration strikes.
As I recently told Clay, I worked as a tour guide in several cities throughout Europe. If leading tour groups was the best gig ever, then bike tours were the best of the best! Easier on my feet than walking tours. And easier on my lungs, as well, since you’re generally not expected to talk as much.
I can barely wait for a break in the traffic to rush across the street and through the front door of Wheeling in the Vines. Once there, I shamelessly trade on my family’s name and reputation—and my own background as a tour guide and former cellar rat—to talk the owner into letting me lead a series of tour-and-tasting events, which will take in several of the wineries along Silverado Trail. Including (obviously) Caparelli.
Eventually, tour-goers will be able to taste our wines, too, of course. But for now, I figure we can provide a place to stop, to give everyone a chance to rest and eat lunch while I regale them with stories of what it was like to grow up on a winery in Oak Creek Canyon. With vineyard dirt under my nails, my clothes and hands perpetually stained purple, and a sommelier’s encyclopedic knowledge of wine bred into my soul.
And yes ! Of course I’m overselling it! Fake it ’til you make it is totally gonna be my motto from here on out. And maybe that kind of blatant manipulation didn’t work out too well for Russell Crowe (I mean Max) in that movie the other night, but Napa Girl is the one who ended up with the winery, and that’s the energy I intend to channel.
But getting back to the Tour and Pour, as I’m calling my new venture, if our guests haven’t already purchased a boxed lunch elsewhere, they’ll soon have the opportunity to order from the food trucks that I know will be clamoring for a spot close to our newly refurbished patio.
Which…okay, we don’t actually have a patio yet. So that needs to be my next project.
With that in mind, I head to neighboring Vallejo, to my favorite consignment shop, where I’m able to score four, lightly used picnic tables for barely more than the cost of the paint I’ll also need to buy in order to spruce them up.
Back at the winery, I once again requisition a few of the interns. Hey, it’s been a coupla weeks since the last time. And, seriously, Bee and Jake need to learn to share.
I set my crew to work weeding and washing and otherwise prepping the neglected brick terrace just outside the tasting room. It’s convenient to the parking lot, has easy access to the rest room (okay, it’s behind the bar, so not ideal) and it also boasts a decent view of the vines. So, what if it’s a little crowded with four picnic tables? I figure that will just encourage people to socialize more.
I’m standing back, admiring my work, when my sisters appear. “There you are!” Rosa calls. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“Well, I’m here,” I say as I gesture at the tables. “What do you think?”
My sisters look puzzled. “Are we…throwing a party?” Bee asks hesitantly.
“No, it’s our new picnic area.”
“Um…did we need a new picnic area?” Rosa asks, while Bee whispers sotto voce, “I didn’t know we had an old one?”
“Yes,” I remind Rosa. “We do if we want food trucks,“
“But… do we want food trucks?” Bianca asks, looking even more confused. “I mean…why?”
“Because! I’m trying to create buzz, that’s why. I’m trying to get people interested in what we’re doing here, so they’ll be excited for our opening. So, that they’ll buy lots of wine and we can hit the ground running.”
Bee nods. “Okay. That makes sense. But if we don’t have any foot traffic, what’s going to bring in the food trucks?”
I groan internally. I should have figured she’d immediately pick out the weak spot in my plan. I could have saved myself several hours this morning, if I’d talked to her first. Not that anyone ever has time to listen. “I have ideas,” I say, hoping I sound half as confident and mysterious as she did last night. “I’m working on it. But you still haven’t said—how does it look?”
“It looks great,” Rosa replies, a little too quickly. “I just wonder if we need all four tables? It seems a bit…”
“Crowded?” Bianca finishes for her. “Although, that’s probably because of all the paint colors. I think it would look better if they were all painted the same.”
“One of the darker colors,” Rosa agrees. “Because, otherwise, once we start serving wine, they’ll be stained in no time. And that’ll look?—”
“Blah,” Bee supplies. “And dingy.”
“Mm.”
My lips roll in as I try to keep from screaming. Only one of the colors I’ve chosen is actually dark, and the burgundy shade clashes with the brick. Also, the point of using multiple colors was to disguise the fact that the tables are not all the same size or height, or in the same condition. Mission accomplished there, I guess.
“A dark green would look nice,” Bianca offers. “Or maybe a redwood stain?”
Stain? Seriously? Is my sister suggesting I strip the paint off all four tables , sand them all down and then stain them? “What do either of those have to do with wine?” I ask.
My sisters exchange a look. “What does what have to do with wine?” Rosa asks. “Are you talking about the paint?”
“Yes! I can’t believe you didn’t see it,” I say as I point to each table in succession. “ Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay, Cabernet, Rosé . Did you really not get that?”
Two identically confused expression meet my gaze. “Nope, sorry.” “Didn’t get it,” my sisters say.
Yeah, we are so not in sync, I think to myself. “Okay, never mind. So why were you looking for me anyway?”
“Oh! Right!” Bianca says, looking suddenly much more animated. She gestures at the closest table and asks, “Is this dry?”
“Dry enough, I guess,” I respond with a shrug. What does it even matter? I’m going to be repainting it, anyway. Or staining the damn thing. Or—I dunno—maybe I’ll just chop them up for firewood. So, they can be used for a funeral pyre after I die of annoyance.
I make a mental note to check the county calendar for a list of Burn Ban dates—because the last thing I need is to get tangled up in any more red tape.
“Bianca has something she wants to share with us,” Rosa explains.
“Okay. So, this is just an experiment,” Bee cautions, taking three small tasting cups from the satchel she’s carrying, and then a flip-top bottle half-filled with a murky yellow liquid. “And it’s super , super premature. So don’t expect it to taste like much right now. It’s only been fermenting for a handful of weeks.”
“Got it,” I say, watching as she carefully fills three glasses with something hazy and sparkling. “It’s embryonic wine.”
“Proto-wine,” Rosa agrees, flashing me a grin.
Bianca rolls her eyes. “So, I got to thinking about what you said, Legs, about Nonna and her pét-nat, and— No, this isn’t that!” she hurriedly explains, when I start to get excited. “But I’ve been playing around with this field blend and…I don’t know.” She hands out the glasses and shrugs. “I think there are some possibilities here. See what you think.”
Rosa and I sniff cautiously, smelling grape juice and yeast, wincing as the carbon dioxide hits our noses. It’s harsh and overly sweet, bubbly with a hint of funk. But beneath it all…there is something. Something promising—I think Bee’s right about that. Something exciting. Something…familiar.
“What kind of blend did you say this was?” Rosa asks, taking another small, experimental sip.
“A field blend,” Bee replies—a nonsense answer that earns her two disbelieving glances.
“Really?” I demand.
“No, what varietals?” Rosa clarifies—unnecessarily, in my opinion. It’s inconceivable that Bee didn’t know what she meant.
“Just, you know,” Bee shrugs nonchalantly—too nonchalantly, if you ask me. “Two of the grapes we harvested at the beginning of the season.”
“Bee…”
“Fine. It’s a pinot and a chardonnay.”
Rosa blinks. “But that’s…”
“ Champagne ?” I squeal in delight. “We’re making CHAMPAGNE ?”
And now I’m the one catching disgusted glances from my sisters.
“Legs,” Rosa scolds, reproachfully. “C’mon.”
“What?” Bee stares at me, aghast. “No! Of course not!”
“Oh, I know, I know,” I brush their protests away. “We aren’t allowed to call it that. But…are we?”
Bee’s eyes sparkle excitedly. A grin spreads over her face as she nods. “Yes? I…I think so? Maybe?”
“Omigod,” I scream. Fetal champagne splashes everywhere as I tackle-hug my sister. Thankfully, Rosa has the presence of mind to grab the glasses out of our hands before they go flying, too. “Bee! I love you! Both of you,” I amend, pulling Rosa into our hug. “This is…” I say, my voice breaking. “Omigod.”
“Legs?” Rosa puts a hand on my shoulder and tugs, leaning in to see my face. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
I shake my head and sniffle loudly. “Nothing’s wrong. This…it means everything.”
Bee’s eyes widen in alarm. “You know it won’t be ready for a while yet, right? And—we still don’t know—it might be awful.”
“What? No way.” I shake my head. “Awful? Those grapes? Grown here ? With you calling the shots? Pfft. Of course it won’t be awful. I already know, it’s going to be exceptional.”
“I think so, too,” Rosa agrees. “But, Legs, you’re looking awfully upset for someone who claims to be happy.”
“It’s because you listened to me,” I tell them. “I didn’t think anyone was listening. And I know I’ve screwed up, and that you hate all my ideas?—”
“What?” Bee asks.
“We listen,” Rosa protests. “And of course we don’t hate your ideas.”
“We don’t,” Bee agrees. “You have good ideas. Not about paint colors, or pizza toppings, perhaps. But, in general…”
“Wine colors,” I snap back with faux annoyance. “Wine. Why don’t you get that?”
Bianca lays a hand on Rosa’s arm. “Promise me something,” she tells her. “If I ever produce a vintage that looks like that—” She nods toward the terrace.
“Fired,” Rosa responds, with perfect deadpan. “Immediately.”
“Thank you,” Bianca replies solemnly.
“Oh, screw you both,” I grouse, but without heat, as they pull me in for another three-way hug. For the first time since I got home— No. For the first time since I got the call about Nonna—my heart feels light.
We can do this , I think, as I send my thoughts winging up to heaven. We will do this. We’ll make you proud.
It’s a crazy moment. I feel hopeful and validated, optimistic and invincible. And I blame everything that happens after on that feeling. I really should know better by now.