Chapter 3 #2
“I need to work. Actually work, not sit on charity boards and smile for photos.” The words came out more forceful than I’d intended, but I didn’t try to soften them. “I have a degree in marketing from one of the best schools in the country, and I haven’t been able to use it like I want to.”
“Let me guess. Your dad patted your head and told you to run off and look pretty?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. Feel free to kick me under the table if I say something like that again.”
“It’s true enough,” I muttered, meeting his gaze directly. “He’s never taken me seriously. Not that it’s entirely his fault.”
“Yeah, it is,” Bas chimed in.
“That’s enough, Sebastian,” his father warned.
“Look, I meant it when I said I wanted to handle this professionally. Can we set up a time for an interview? I mean, if the position is still available and you’re interested in what I can bring to the table.”
“Dad—”
Thomas raised his hand. “I know exactly what you bring to the table. No one understands how a winery operates better than someone who grew up living and breathing the vineyard. I’m also familiar with Berkeley’s Haas School of Business.
Their marketing program is top-notch. Ranked among the highest in the country. ”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Tell me about Whitmore. How you see it.”
“It’s one of the oldest wineries in the Russian River Valley.
Established in 1934 by your grandfather.
You’re known for your award-winning Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, and you’ve built a reputation for sustainable practices and innovation while respecting tradition.
” I took a breath, and a smile tugged at the corner of Thomas’ mouth.
“Weaknesses?”
“Legacy wineries assume their reputation speaks for itself, but if millennials have never heard of you because you’re not where they’re looking, your history doesn’t matter.”
“See?” said Bas.
Thomas cocked his head in his son’s direction. “Let the woman talk.” His gaze returned to mine. “What else?”
“You’re competing against boutique wineries that tell compelling founder stories and make customers feel part of something exclusive, while you’re trading on a legacy that feels more like a history lesson than a lifestyle brand.”
“Interesting observations,” he said.
Before he could ask another question, I continued.
“Those are generalities. Easy ones. But for me to really understand what Whitmore is up against, I need to learn this place from the ground up. Literally. I’d want permission to work in the vineyard, to get to know your process from vine to bottle.
I don’t want to market the wine in a vacuum—I need to know it.
Understand it in ways that will make my work authentic. ”
Thomas exchanged a glance with Bas, and silent communication passed between them, father and son understanding each other without speaking.
“That’s an unusual request,” he commented.
“I know. But I’m serious. About all of it.” My eyes bored into his. “I need this chance, Thomas. I need to prove I can be more than my last name.”
My blunt honesty surprised even me. But they were true. Truer than anything else I’d said.
He was quiet for several seconds, then he nodded. “You’re hired.”
It took a second to register. “Seriously?”
He laughed. “Yes, Izzy, seriously. You can start after the new year. Bas can give you an overview of the vineyard operations. We’ll draw up a formal contract in the meantime, with a standard starting salary and benefits package.”
When I reached over and touched his hand, my heart was pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. “Thank you. You won’t regret this. I promise.”
“I know I won’t.” His smile was kind. “Where are you staying?”
“A short-term rental. A cottage a few miles from here. I’ll need to find something more permanent eventually, but it’ll work for now.”
“We have guest cottages on the property,” Bas said, looking to his father for confirmation. “Three of them. Empty this time of year. You could stay in one of those.”
I looked between them, not quite believing what I was hearing. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose—”
“You’re not imposing,” Thomas said firmly. “Consider it part of the employment package. Bas will show them to you tomorrow morning. Pick whichever one you prefer. They’re all furnished, utilities included.”
His generosity overwhelmed me. I’d come here expecting to beg for a chance, to grovel and plead. Instead, I’d been given a job and a place to live.
“Thank you,” I said again. “Really. Thank you both.”
I drove back to my rental cottage two hours later, processing everything that had happened. The conversation had stretched on after dinner. Bas filling me in on their winery operations until Thomas announced that was enough shop talk for the night.
The best part was that they’d both treated me as a colleague. Someone whose opinion mattered.
Now, lying in an unfamiliar bed, I stared up at the dark ceiling. I should’ve felt relieved, but there were other things preventing me from relaxing.
The lie about going to Italy was merely the beginning. The rest of it—the other lies and secrets—would hurt both my father and Kick so much more if they found out. When they found out.
I had to hope that, by then, I’d be strong enough to face whatever came next.