Grayson #2
“This is a new Cayuga and Seyval blend scheduled for launch next year,” Anson explains as he pours our glasses at the antique oak dining table, the rich aroma of truffle risotto filling the air.
Sitting across from me, Lala’s already downing her glass of white grape juice, cheeks flushed from running her little behind off outside. She’s still at the age where my sheer size and strength trump any soccer skills she has, but soon, she’ll start whooping my ass.
Eliza murmurs a polite thank you, her back ramrod straight and fingers playing in her lap as Anson sets down the bottle and sits.
“Tell me your thoughts.” Anson initiates his routine, holding his glass up in the low light to inspect the white-gold liquid. A little swirl. Some sniffs. All that scientific bullshit someone somewhere once deemed necessary for enjoying wine.
Eliza picks up her glass, observing my brother’s twenty-seven-step process before turning hesitantly to me.
“I’m not a wine expert. At all,” she’d told me when I first shared the invite earlier today.
I’d assured her it wasn’t required. When Anson shares the final iteration of a product, he’s already decided to produce it. This little family tasting is just tradition. Our opinions mean nothing.
With a pointed look at her, I haul the glass up to my mouth and throw back a gulp like it’s cheap beer. There’s a subtle, amused shake to her head before she delicately brings the glass to her mouth and takes a polite sip.
“That’s delicious,” she says.
She isn’t kissing his ass. I’m not a wine guy, but it is delicious. Tastes like summer.
“This will be our first blend that trends slightly sweet,” Anson informs us, no doubt dumbing it down for our unrefined ears.
“It’s very good,” Lala declares from the rim of her juice cup.
Anson’s lips tip into the warm smile only Lala can pull from him. “So good that she’s been asking for it every day.”
Lala nods emphatically. “I’ve been telling everyone at school about it.”
His smile slips. “Have you?”
“Mrs. Johnson said it’s not appropriate to talk about in school, but I told her it’s just grapes! What’s wrong with grapes?”
My shoulders shake as I fight a laugh.
Anson runs his hand across his chin. “There’s nothing wrong with grapes, La. But as you know, wine contains alcohol, which is an adult topic. We’ve talked about this many times.”
Her little face wrinkles in confusion. “But I have wine.”
She has grape juice from the grocery store. But Anson doesn’t want to ruin the magic. “You have a special kid wine, which doesn’t contain alcohol. But we only produce it for you, so no one else knows that. We can talk about these things as much as you’d like, but only at home.”
“But I bet Mrs. Johnson drinks wine.”
“Mrs. Johnson is just trying to do her job and make sure everyone follows the rules, which includes not discussing activities that are illegal for those under the age of twenty-one.”
“You said that sometimes you have to make your own rules.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Anson looks to me for help, but I’m not the one giving an eight-year-old daily business lessons. “Remind me to talk to you about the importance of discernment.”
“Dis-cern-ment,” Lala repeats, frowning at all the syllables. “Is that my new word of the week?”
“Yes.”
“Speaking of new words,” I cut in, finally taking pity on him, “Got a name for this blend yet?”
“No.” He takes a long, belabored sip and sets down his glass, sharp eyes sliding to Eliza. “Do you have any thoughts?”
Eliza takes a moment to drink before answering, like she needs to gather her courage.
“Sweeter wines obviously appeal to wine enthusiasts, but they also attract more casual drinkers. They’re more approachable.
” She clenches her hands in her lap, like she’s trying to force her nerves away.
“Brand consistency is important. But if you do want to reach those more casual, summertime day drinkers, I’d go with a warm name.
Something inviting, maybe with a local spin.
A Garnet Shores Blend, Waterfront White, something like that. ”
I don’t think her chest moves as she waits for Anson’s response.
When it comes, it isn’t what either of us expects.
“How much do you know about the wine industry?”
“Very little,” she answers honestly.
“How quickly do you think you could learn it?”
“I’m a fast learner.”
It’s the first note of confidence in her voice all night. I want to appreciate it, but I’m too busy working out why Anson would ask that question.
There’s only one plausible reason.
He confirms it when he sets his glass aside and says, “I’ve been outsourcing most of my marketing efforts until now, but Gold’s is reaching a point where it’ll be more efficient and effective to have an in-house, full-time team. I want you on it.”
For a second, my mind goes blank. From shock, maybe. Then a tidal wave of hope and possibility crashes in.
Anson is offering her a full-time job in Garnet Shores. A reason to stay. A damn good one, too, as he adds, “I understand you come from the Boston corporate environment. Your salary would be competitive, and you would be my Director of Marketing, reporting directly to me.”
Beside me, Eliza is a wide-eyed, unmoving doll, her jaw hinged open.
“Take time to think about it, then tell me if you want to discuss this further. I do not want an answer now.”
I want an answer now. I want her to nod her head and scream yes. Say she’ll give it a chance. Stay in this place that clearly makes her happier than the city does, despite her bullshit deflections last night.
But I can’t demand her agreement. Can’t make her decisions or choose what’s right for her.
For all I know, she might already have a job offer elsewhere, or a new lease signed in the city.
“Wow. Okay,” Eliza finally stammers out. “Thank you. I’ll let you know.”
Anson dips his chin, like he didn’t just rip the fucking rug out from both of us, and heads into the kitchen. I jump to my feet, right behind him, because if I stay at that table, I’ll just study her face like a scientist observing amoebas for any signs that she wants this.
And because, once again, Anson’s blindsiding me with hiring decisions that affect my farm.
“Didn’t think to give me a heads up?”
“It isn’t a farm position,” he states, not bothering to turn around as he plates the risotto.
Man, the deliberately obtuse thing comes so naturally to him.
“She’ll be doing marketing for all of Gold’s, which includes the farm.”
“She will.” He carefully sets the seared scallops on top of the risotto.
“But marketing for all of Gold’s has always fallen under me, and in this role, she’ll be spending most of her time at headquarters, here.
You’ve never even interacted with the outsourced teams when they’ve occasionally stopped by the farm. ”
“This is different.”
Anson pauses, a scallop suspended in the air. “You clearly don’t hate her anymore. So is this different because you want to fuck her?” The scallop descends onto its plate. “Or because working with Eliza now has you interested in our marketing operations?”
“You shouldn’t be talking about your employee that way,” I grit out.
“And you shouldn’t be thinking about an employee that way.” He sets the tongs down and faces me, his expression indifferent. “Though I guess it doesn’t matter, because she’s my employee and not yours. You’re colleagues. You can do whatever you want.”
Growing up, Dawson and him would go at it like bulls, taking backyard wrestling and play fights too far. Enough for one of them to sport the occasional bruised eye or bloody nose. I was always the one to break them up, but right now, I’m feeling inspired by my little brother’s volatility.
The girls are right around the corner, so I settle for a humorless chuckle. “You’re a real dick, you know that?”
He lifts his chin, giving me a deductive scan like the expert analyst he is. “So it’s none of those two options, which means you have feelings for her.” His eyes narrow. “But if that’s the case, I don’t know why you’re pissed. This is a happy surprise for you.”
It is. But I’ve just spent the last couple of weeks resigning myself to the inevitability that she’ll leave. Torturing myself with it.
When I don’t say that, because it sounds too damn pathetic, Anson does what he does best and sucker punches me. “Tell me, what difference would it have made if you knew? She hasn’t accepted.”
This offer means nothing, dumbass.
Doesn’t mean this is what she wants. Doesn’t mean she’s staying. Doesn’t mean she’ll even consider it at all.
That’s what he’s saying. As always, he’s indisputably right.
“Just would’ve been nice to have a heads up.” Done with this conversation, I palm two of the plates and carry them out.
Before I round the corner into the dining area, Anson, in all his apathetic glory, says, “I do hope she says yes. It’ll be good for this business.”
For the first time, I don’t give a damn about the business.
But I go on and hope right alongside him as we all share dinner together.
And every time Eliza answers one of Lala’s silly questions, or lets her intelligence fly in a debate with my brother, or sets her delicate fingers around the wine glass, that hope morphs more and more into permission.
Premature, ill-advised-as-hell permission.
It’s gasoline and a spark to the giant pile of tinder inside of me that she’s been stacking since the day she showed up and spat fire at me in the office.