Josie
Thirty-six
I close the spreadsheet on my laptop and check the time in the corner of the screen.
The lawyer sent over a meeting invitation this morning for his client, Malcolm Westcott.
When I finally learned his name, I didn’t have to look him up.
I already knew who he was. He develops AI for healthcare and is big on bringing medicine to rural areas.
He’s also regularly in the international news.
So maybe I’m a little nervous, but I’m ready.
When the video connects, Mr. Westcott appears in a sleek office with a city skyline I don’t recognize behind him, looking exactly as confident as a man with his kind of money probably should.
“Josie,” he says, smiling as if we’ve known each other for years. “Thanks for making the time, especially on the weekend.”
“Of course.”
“My wife and I love wine,” he says, getting right to it. “Not just collecting it. The land, the process, the patience. All of it.”
I nod, already listening differently. This sounds promising, like someone who’s interested, not just burdened with more money than they know how to spend.
“Several years ago, we bought a vineyard in St. Helena.” His expression brightens as he speaks. “Beautiful property. Good exposure, established vines, enough acreage to do something meaningful, if we can get the operation where it should be.”
St. Helena also gets my attention immediately, though I keep my reaction measured.
Napa Valley is a mecca in the wine industry, and St. Helena is the pinnacle in Napa Valley.
It’s not the kind of place where people buy casually unless they have more money than sense. But Malcolm doesn’t sound careless.
“How much acreage?” I ask.
He gives me the number, which is similar in size to Black Bear, and then explains more about the property while I take notes.
Blocks, plantings, slopes, and the general layout come quickly, and although he doesn’t speak like a vineyard manager, he has clearly paid attention.
That again makes the conversation more interesting.
“We’ve been producing wine for about five years,” he says.
“Five years,” I repeat, making another note. “How much are you producing annually?”
Malcolm gives me the number, and my pen stops moving.
I look at what I’ve written, and then up at him. “That’s total production?”
“Yes.”
“For the whole property?”
He nods, and the first real question forms in my mind. I ask about planted acreage, yields by block, replanting schedules, and whether any sections are too young to produce. Malcolm answers as best he can, but the more information he gives me, the less the numbers make sense.
The property he describes should be doing more. A lot more.
I tap my pen lightly against my notebook and study the figures again. My curiosity fades into something sharper, and the call becomes a vineyard assessment. The obvious answer is probably hiding inside several smaller problems nobody has connected yet.
Malcolm watches me through the screen. “You’ve got that look.”
I smile. “What look?”
“The look people get when they’ve found the problem before they’re ready to say it.”
I shake my head, but my attention stays on the numbers. “I haven’t found anything yet.”
“But something caught your attention.”
“Yes.” I glance at the acreage again. “Your production seems low for the amount of land you’re describing.”
Malcolm leans forward, his expression sharpening with interest. He doesn’t look offended, which is again a welcome sign.
“That,” he says, “is exactly why I wanted to talk to you.” He goes on to tell me about his team at the vineyard.
The equipment is top of the line. The staff is big for the amount of production.
When he’s finished he cocks his head expectantly. “What do you think?”
“Your output is definitely low,” I say.
Malcolm nods. “How low?”
“Low enough that I’d need to know why before I could say anything useful.
” I keep my tone professional, but the numbers have my full attention now, and my brain is itching to dig in.
“Are you selling fruit offsite, holding blocks back, or dealing with disease pressure, water restrictions, or yield limits?”
Malcolm gives me a small, almost rueful smile. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
I sit back slightly. “Nobody knows?”
“Not in any way that makes sense.” He rests his forearms on his desk and looks directly into the camera. “I’ve had people explain parts of it. I’ve had people give me theories. I’ve had people tell me it’s normal for a young operation, which sounds convenient every time someone says it.”
His answer gets my pen moving again. The issue could be land, farming, management, production choices, or several things working together, but the vagueness bothers me more than the low output. Vineyards always have reasons. Sometimes they’re ugly, expensive, or inconvenient, but they exist.
“So you don’t have a clear diagnosis,” I say.
“No.” Malcolm’s expression sharpens, but not with irritation. If anything, he looks relieved to be speaking plainly. “And that’s why I need you.”
I pause with my pen above the page.
He leans forward a little, his confidence returning in a more focused way.
“I need someone who understands vineyards from the ground up. I need someone who can look at the soil, the vines, the blocks, the water, the farming practices, and the production decisions,” he says.
“Then I need that person to tell me the truth.”
“It might not be a flattering truth.”
“I won’t be paying for flattering.”
I nod. “So you’re not looking for a vintner.”
“No.” His gaze holds mine. “I’m looking for an expert.” He continues before I can respond. “I want someone who can identify the problems, find solutions, and build something exceptional.”
I glance down at the numbers again, but they aren’t the whole story. They’re the first visible symptom. Whatever is happening on that property runs deeper than production volume. “That’s a big job,” I say.
“It is,” he says, unbothered. “I want you to take it on, Josie.” His gaze stays steady through the screen. “I don’t want a caretaker. I don’t want someone who tells me the vineyard is fine because that answer is easier. I want you to come in and lead us.”
His directness leaves very little room to hide behind professional politeness. Malcolm is offering resources, authority, and a chance to build something on a scale most vintners can only imagine.
I let the offer sit for a moment before answering.
The opportunity is tempting, and pretending otherwise would be ridiculous.
A St. Helena vineyard with real resources, serious ambition, and production problems I already want to solve is exactly the kind of challenge that would have pulled me in without hesitation a year ago.
“It’s intriguing,” I tell him. “Very tempting.”
Malcolm smiles, but I keep my hand near my notebook and stay focused on the practical part of the conversation.
Enthusiasm is easy when everything exists only in theory.
Vineyards become much less romantic once you’re standing in the rows, looking at weak fruit, bad irrigation, tired vines, or decisions that should have been made three seasons earlier.
“But I can’t commit today,” I say.
His smile doesn’t disappear, though it changes slightly. “I didn’t expect you to.”
“Before I decide anything, I need to see the property,” I explain. “I need to walk the land, look at the blocks, understand the irrigation, and see what the vines are actually doing.”
“That makes sense.”
“The numbers tell me something is wrong,” I add. “But they don’t tell me why.”
Malcolm nods, and for a moment I think I’ve bought myself some time. Surely he understands the limit of what this call can accomplish. Then his expression brightens again. “I’ll send the plane tomorrow.”
I stare at him for a second. “The plane?”
“My plane,” he says casually, as though he’s offered to send a car across town. “You can fly down in the morning, tour the property, meet the team, and walk the vineyard with me.”
The speed of it almost makes me laugh, though I manage not to. Malcolm isn’t trying to be flashy. He’s simply used to removing inconvenience the moment it appears. If I say I need to see the land, he hears a travel problem, not a timing problem.
“We can further discuss the role while you’re here,” he continues. “If the fit is right, we can work out an agreement before you fly home.”
“You move quickly,” I note.
He shrugs. “When I know what I want.”
The answer is flattering, but the pressure beneath it is impossible to miss. He may not expect me to commit immediately, but he’s still trying to turn my interest into momentum before I have time to think too much.
“I appreciate the confidence,” I say.
“Then let me make it easy.”
I lift a hand before Malcolm can build the plan any further, and he stops with his mouth half open, still wearing the look of a man who assumes logistics are the easiest part of any problem. “Malcolm, this is a busy time of year. I currently have a job.”
His posture shifts, and some of the energy eases from his face. “I figured it might be.”
“It’s not just about finding a free day.
” I glance out the office window, where Black Bear waits beyond the glass with rows that need attention and problems that cannot be handled from Napa.
Whatever the future holds, I won’t abandon Sera and my current responsibilities.
“My vineyard needs me right now, and I can’t leave just because another opportunity is exciting.
Please understand, anyone who would leave their work mid-season isn’t someone you want on your team. ”
Malcolm nods slowly, and to his credit, he doesn’t try to argue. “I understand.”
“I’ve committed myself to be here through the holidays.” I pause, because the truth needs to be clear. “If you need someone immediately, I’m not your person.”
He studies me, and for a second I expect disappointment to cut through his easy confidence. Instead, his expression warms into something steadier. “I only want you.”
I sit up straighter, surprised.
“If that means waiting, I’ll wait,” he says. “We have a team in place. They can work with what they have until you’re available.”
“That may be a while.”
“I heard you.” His smile is faint but certain. “Through the holidays.”
That gives me something real to consider. Malcolm isn’t treating my commitment to Black Bear as an obstacle to bulldoze. He is simply adjusting around it, which makes the offer feel both less urgent and harder to dismiss.
“When you have time,” he says, “I want to bring you to Napa. You can walk the land, see what you’d be facing, and then we’ll talk.”
I nod because that is the only answer I can give him right now. And somehow, at least for now, the opportunity remains open, waiting on the other side of harvest, holidays, and every unresolved question still tangled through Black Bear.
For a moment, I feel a little giddy and rather powerful, though I’m careful not to let it show on my face. Napa has not disappeared because I refused to get on a plane tomorrow.
I thank him, and after the call ends, I stay at my desk with my notebook open beside me and the vineyard beyond the window.
For quite a few years, leaving Black Bear had been my goal.
I just needed to collect enough experience and knowledge to make myself saleable first. But then Sera and I got a taste of success, and we saw our work pay off.
When I thought we might one day own Black Bear, that changed everything.
It gave me the grit and focus to persevere, even through all Evie’s nonsense.
And now absolutely everything feels like a question again. Eventually maybe this could be the answer.