chapter TWO
I am using a map for the first time in a decade. Yes, a map. An honest-to-goodness gigantic piece of paper that takes up the entire passenger seat.
The hybrid car I rented doesn’t have navigation, and my cell isn’t getting a lick of service in this area of the valley. Jeremy warned me this morning that I’d need to take a map. I was about to laugh at his joke—I mean, who uses a map anymore?—when he handed me one and sent me on my merry way.
Makes me wonder where the hell I’m going.
And I don’t mean just the location.
For an area that is high in tourist traffic, I feel like I am in backcountry. When I take a left off the Silverado Trail, dry dirt kicks up from the road as I make snakelike turns.
I follow the road through the cliffs. Rows of gorgeous vines with perfectly formed grapes clinging to ropes and wires, luscious in the morning dew of the valley.
The amazing thing about the scene is that the vines grow low in the valley and high up into the mountains.
There is no place these miraculous plants are not thriving.
Plants? I wonder if that’s the correct term or if I’d get my head chewed off by some vine enthusiast.
My lack of knowledge in wine and vines is making me a little nervous about the interview I am about to go on. Naomi was sparing with her knowledge of Russet Ranch and exactly what it is I would be doing there. All I know is, I am meeting with the owner, Ed Martin.
Dressed in a crimson sundress and a pair of tan wedges, I pulled my hair back into a braid, taming the curly mane to look as polished as possible.
I’m also wearing my favorite gold chain necklaces that layer from the base of my neck down to the center of my rib cage.
I paired it with large gold hoops and a couple of Alex and Ani bracelets that jingle as I turn the steering wheel into Russet Ranch, making a quick right as I almost missed the sign altogether.
A worn, weathered wood sign with the name written in green, red, and white paint is stuck into the ground on the side of the road.
It is smaller than those of the larger vineyards, but I’m sure that it was eye-catching when it was new.
At this moment, the wood is grayish, and I’m sure easily missed.
I drive up the long road that leads to the winery and stop just beyond a trellis of green that hovers over the road. I park the car and step out, admiring the seclusion of the property. Hidden in the shadows of the hill is a large red barnlike building.
My shoes crunch on the gravel as I walk up to the barn.
It is a large structure, about two stories high, with white trim and two large doors in front.
To the right are a picnic table and a small garden flourishing with vegetables.
To the left is a beat-up pickup truck with bumper stickers that let me know exactly what the owner thinks we should do with our borders.
I’m also pretty sure I’d find a shotgun in the backseat.
There isn’t anyone out here, so I walk up to the large doors and pull the one on the right. It opens easily, and I step away from the brightness of the outdoors and into a room so dark that I have to adjust my eyes a few times to see.
In front of me are rows and rows of oak barrels, that might or might not be filled with wine, piled high to the ceiling.
I step to the side, around the barrels, and almost collide with a sofa.
Stepping back, I place my hand on the top and feel the smooth velvet material against my palm.
My eyesight is now acquainted with the low lighting, so I get an opportunity to look around.
A sofa, two wingback chairs, and a wagon-wheel coffee table are in the center of the room.
A Persian-style carpet is underneath, and a couple of folding chairs are scattered about.
At the end of the room is a black bar with a couple of bottles of wine on top and a few liquor bottles on the back shelf.
The space is dusty, obviously ignored and in need of a can of Pledge.
But perhaps the most peculiar thing about the room are the walls.
Painted a faint mauve, the wooden walls are lined from footboard to molding with nails—thin, shiny nails you’d use to hang a small picture frame or poster.
It’s as if every memory has been removed, and the nails splintered into the wood are all that’s left as a reminder.
All memories, except for one.
On the back wall above the bar area, to the left, is a portrait of a child, painted in dark browns and tans, highlighting the cherub lines of the little girl’s face and the soft curve of her eyes.
She looks to be about four years old with brown eyes and matching hair in a half-up, half-down hairstyle.
Her lips are a perfect bow shape, as most little girls’ are.
She looks sweet and happy, yet the lone placement of the portrait brings on a forlornness that is hard to ignore.
“Who are you?” a hard voice bellows from the other side of the room.
I turn around and see a figure standing by the wine barrels.
The dim light of the room allows me enough light to take in the man looking back at me like I’m an intruder in his home.
He is about five-five with broad shoulders and a wide middle.
He is leaning to the side, and when I look down, I see the cane in his hand.
“I’m Crystal Reid. We have an appointment.” I take a step forward. “I’m here to interview for a job to…” I swallow. “You told Naomi you were looking for someone?”
The man, who I presume is Ed, hobbles forward. He is wearing khaki pants and a checkered flannel shirt with suspenders and a brown fedora. His face is accentuated with a black beard that reaches below his neckline.
“Naomi? That curly-haired gal who does the fancy designs?”
I simply nod.
“Ah, that girl doesn’t know how to mind her business.” He limps over to the bar and walks through the opening flap that is up, allowing him to get behind the bar.
Resting his cane against the wall, he leans over the dishwasher and pulls out two glasses. They’re not wine glasses. Instead, he’s taken out two small juice glasses, and he places them on the bar.
He grabs a bottle of wine and starts to open it when he looks over at me. “Well, don’t just stand there like a tepid goat.” He pours the wine into the glasses.
I put my shoulders back and walk up to the bar. I rest my hands on the matted black vinyl that lines the edges like a cushion. The bar is only about seven feet long, so there isn’t anywhere to stand that isn’t rather close to him.
“Drink this.”
I take the offered glass, take a sip, and place it on the bar.
The old man is looking at me with a grimace.
“Jesus Christ, how do you expect to work at a winery if that’s how you drink your wine?” He takes the glass from the bar and throws it into the sink behind him.
He walks back over to the dishwasher and takes out two wine glasses, one smaller than the other. Holding them up, he says, “This is for red,” motioning to the larger one in his right hand. “And this is for white. Never let anyone serve you wine in anything other than one of these.”
I nod and watch as he pours red wine into the larger glass. I don’t have the heart to tell him that, while in college, I used to drink box wine out of a mug. I don’t think he’d appreciate that anecdote.
Taking another sip, I am mildly uncomfortable since his beady eyes are condescendingly looking at me. I am definitely doing something wrong again.
“What is it this time?” My hand places the glass on the bar a little too dramatically.
He pours more wine into my glass and then pours some into another red wine glass for himself.
With his fingers pinching the bottom of the stem, he holds the glass up, tilting it away from himself on an angle, and he starts swirling the wine in the glass.
“Before you take a sip, you have to look at it first.”
I tip my head to the side. “I would, if you turned on a light.” My voice is a little snarkier than it should be.
He narrows his eyes at me before walking over to an adjacent wall and flipping a switch.
The lights above the bar area illuminate, and I see just how unkempt the space is.
The bar is full of scratches, and the vinyl liner is peeling back.
The linoleum floor is mismatched, and quite a few of the tiles are missing.
The entire area behind the bar is a mess of empty bottles, knocked over knickknacks, and a clock that’s blinking from never being reset.
Also, in this light, I can see Ed’s face properly.
He is about sixty years old, and the lines of his face are hidden behind coarse facial hair.
His skin is dark, like someone who works outdoors all day would be, and his hands are callous.
While he might have been letting this building go to waste, he certainly has been keeping himself busy outside.
Ed rests his glass on the bar, and with his palm flat on the base, he places his middle and ring finger on each side of the stem and swirls the bottom in circles.
The wine swoops and twirls inside the glass.
I try to mimic the movement. At first, I do it too fast, and the wine looks like it’s trying to escape, so I slow down.
He holds his glass up again toward the light and then gives it another tilt, allowing the wine to roll around. I pick up my glass and do the same.
“See how the wine is dark in the center and light on the outside? If the color is watery at the edge, then it’s insipid. If it’s dark and red, then it’s been oxidized and past its prime.”
I look at my wine glass and the pink that lines my wine. It looks pale to me. “Well, if that’s the case, this wine will lack flavor,” I state.
Ed lifts his chin in a way to suggest I try the wine.
I do and shrug my shoulder. It’s not terrible wine. It’s just as okay as my box wine.
I place the glass on the bar and ask, “How much is a bottle of this?”