Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DANNY
A va took the news better than expected. I suspect Cam has been quietly but firmly advising her against taking on too much. And from what Nate’s told me, organizing the crush party is a lot of work. I’ve never been to it but it sounds like it’s going to be huge. Up to three hundred locals of all ages setting up picnic blankets in and around the vines, the grapes having been harvested a couple of weeks before. People can bring their own food or buy what’s on offer. Iris from the Cracker Café grills Cuban sandwiches on site. Chiara’s dad owns a business that supplies Italian pastries to restaurants, and he brings along enough cannoli to feed the entire population of Sicily. Local growers bring baskets of watermelons and peaches, cherry tomatoes, and sugar snap peas. Ted’s team at Bartons serve up non-alcoholic drinks because this is a family-friendly event. The actual crush itself is done in a line of big plastic bins, set up so everyone can watch, and anyone who’s brave enough can leap in bare-foot and help the main Flora Valley Wines crew stomp the grapes.
Nate told me that for ages, the crush party was super small, just winery workers and their families, and it was Shelby’s mom who did all the catering. Gradually, it got bigger and bigger, but it’s only possible because the community makes it so. The local businesses that provide food and drink either do it for free (Ted) or only charge enough to cover their costs. There’ve also been the odd donations from anonymous benefactors. Likely suspects are Ted (again) and more recently J. P. McRae, majority Flora Valley investor. It’s also possible that our dad’s now a donor as well. He and J. P. are old friends and therefore intensely competitive. Dad wouldn’t consider for a second investing in anything as flaky as a family winery, even one run by his own son, but he’ll match every cent J. P. donates to charity. And let’s face it, Flora Valley Wines is as close to a charity as you can get without actually standing on the street corner rattling a donation box.
All the more reason for the crush party to be a success. Having strong connections to its community is how most small businesses survive. Because that’s how they become the businesses locals recommend to visitors. This might sound strange coming from a car salesman, but my business depends on a community, too, of car enthusiasts and mechanics and parts suppliers and restorers. I’m a competent mechanic myself but I’m always coming up against stuff I don’t know or can’t figure out. For every favor I ask, I make a point to give back whenever I can. And I don’t expect every favor I do to be returned. Generosity isn’t weakness. It’s the oil that keeps relationships running sweetly.
And generosity doesn’t have to be a big sweeping gesture, either. Sometimes it’s as simple as bringing a super stressed person coffee. Especially when that person is me.
I’ve run out of ground coffee for the machine. Should have picked some up in Verity yesterday but I did not. I got a pickleball paddle and four yellow plastic balls, and they are caffeine-free. It’s only six in the morning, too early to walk to Nate and Shelby’s.
Okay, so I’m pacing up and down. Is there a word like hangry for being coffee deprived? Stresspresso? Ragey-au-lait?
That’s it. I’m walking to Nate and Shelby’s. Coffee brewing is quiet. I won’t wake anyone. Unless Shelby’s ancient coffee pot finally explodes.
Sun’s coming up, and it’s another day in paradise. As I walk, I start thinking about yesterday, and how I couldn’t wait to tell Nate about the deal with Ted, right up until we were all together eating burgers. I looked across at Nate and saw our dad, and in my mind, I heard him say that money wasn’t a subject for polite conversation. Unless you’re nagging your children about planning for their futures, of course. Also, Nate and Shelby aren’t starving, but they’re hardly well off. I’m happy to compete with Nate when we’re on an equal footing, but it feels wrong to brag when we’re not. I’d come across like Scrooge McDuck diving into his cellar full of gold coins.
Mom and Dad gave us Durant kids every advantage, it’s true. But we all know how privileged we are and we also know that Mom and Dad expect us to make our own way now, without their help. Dad in particular was always super clear about that. It’s why he gets so down on me – because my way’s not the way he’d have chosen. I could call him up now and tell him about the success I had yesterday, but deep down, I know it wouldn’t make any difference. He’ll point out that it was a flash in the pan, a one-off favor from Ted, like the one-off favor his friend with the Ferrari did me. He’ll ask me when the next big sale is coming and all I’ll be able to say is, “maybe next week, maybe never”. He’ll point out how flaky and risky that sounds, and I’ll end the call before I say something I regret and spend the rest of the day feeling like a shitty loser. I love my dad, but sometimes he makes it hard for me to like him.
Huh. There’s a light on in the kitchen. With luck, it’s Shelby, and she’s already got the coffee brewing on the stove.
It’s Frankie. Sitting at the kitchen table, scowling at her laptop. She’s concentrating hard and hasn’t noticed me. It’s one of those moments where you don’t want to startle someone but you know you’re going to.
I settle for a cough as the least disturbing announcement of my presence. Fail. Frankie leaps like I’ve stuck her with a pin.
“What are you doing here?” she demands in a stage whisper. “It's the crack of dawn!”
“Ran out of coffee,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “If Shelby’s coffee maker bites your hand off, don’t come crying to me.”
Frankie’s cute when she’s annoyed, and I will never, ever say that out loud. I do stand behind her and plant a quick kiss on the nape of her neck. I half expect her to swat me away like a fly, but she thumps back in her chair and lets out a frustrated, “Gah!”
“What’s up?” I ask. “Anything I can help with? After I’ve had coffee, I mean?”
She exhales a long breath. On her laptop screen I can see a route map, of…
“The Camino de Santiago? Isn’t that the trek your mom’s doing?”
“Yup. My guess is she’s somewhere between here”—Frankie points her finger at a spot marked Pamplona , in Spain—“And here.” Her finger moves to a spot further west marked Burgos .
“And this is important why?”
“Because Mom decided to go all authentic medieval and not take her phone,” says Frankie. “So, I need to track her down so I can leave her an important message.”
Lack of caffeine makes me a little slow. “How will you do that?”
“I’m going to contact every possible place of accommodation along the route. I can eliminate any big chain hotels – Mom would sooner sleep in a bus shelter – but it’s still a loooong list. And I could be completely wrong about where she is, which is fun.”
“Will coffee help?” I admit it, I’m on a single track here.
“No, Danny,” she replies, turning around so she can give me an even stare. “I am dialed up to eleven right now. I am at Defcon one and my hand is on the big red button. If I get any more wired, I will launch into hyperspace.”
I wait a beat. “So, I guess a quickie is also out of the question?”
She’s got a good aim. Her pen almost clips me on the ear as I make a run for it.
“I’ll fix you breakfast!” It’s my plea for mercy. “Whatever you want!”
I’m safe. Frankie is smiling. A little wryly, but still.
“What I want,” she says, “is to not have so many issues with my goddamn mother. I’m too old for this shit.”
“I hear you.” I really do. “Let me get some nuclear-powered liquid in me and I’ll sit down and help you out.”