Chapter 7
Despite outwardly refusing to use The Langhorne Chart to refer to the classifications she and her colleagues had created, it was gaining some traction.
It was probably because he kept sending emails to academic subscription groups asking if anyone wanted to use it for this or that.
Say something enough times, and it starts to walk on its own.
Natalie hated getting rattled; she was usually so much harder to faze, but with Neil looking so freakin’ handsome, her mind would not focus.
Stupid, smug… She flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror at the front of the bus, seeking the nameless yet smug newcomer.
A pair of dark eyes met hers in the reflection, and moving her gaze back to her screen was all she could do not to flinch. She tried to swallow her leaping heart.
“You all right?” A whisper close to her ear made the fine hairs on her neck stand up with a shiver.
She stole a glance to her left, finding Neil smiling wickedly at her from under his long lashes. “I, uh, yeah,” she stammered. “Why?”
He shrugged. “You seem…unsettled. Which is so unlike you.”
“Oh. No, I’m just…I don’t know. Giving a tour of the winery to a group of academics and specialists in the industry is a different beast from what I’ve gotten used to in the last few months.
The normal demographic of these groups teeters between pensioners who are mostly here because it’s an included stop on their tour or girls who want to say they went to a winery rather than just from cellar door to cellar door.
Even the interested and enthusiastic ones aren’t as critical and interrogatory as this group will be. ”
“You will be fine,” Neil said, smiling widely. “You know this place better than the back of your hand.”
Natalie smiled at him, even as she felt her face warming up with every moment. How does someone even get to be as good looking as Neil? She wondered through the brain fog that looking at him for too long often created in her.
“Hey, is this the spot?” someone behind her asked.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so caught up in staring at Neil, she would’ve noticed that the bus had come to a stop. “Yep,” she said, bolting upright. “Sure is.”
She tried to laugh and smile her way through getting everyone off the bus, but missing her cue to start the introductory spiel had thrown her off.
“Right,” she said as she looked around the group and counted the people she knew and the few extras she did not.
“This is Section Nine. It is one of my favorite places on the estate because, despite its name, it was one of the first areas planted fully by my great-grandparents. The Fitzgeralds have been here for well over a century. The vineyard underwent many upheavals—two World Wars, the Great Depression, droughts, fires, and floods. We only survived Prohibition thanks to the contracts with churches all over the country. Without communion, we may well not have. Sections One through Five were the original varietals. However, they have been somewhat hybridized as they were originally brought from regions not similar enough to our local climate to thrive independently. My great-grandfather is to thank for a lot of that work, and for bringing in what is now known as Section Nine from a region in the South of France, which enjoys a similarly Mediterranean climate.”
“So, these didn’t require hybridization? They’re to be considered heritage?” Mr. Stare At You In Bus Mirrors piped up.
“Not that simple,” Natalie replied, trying to remain cheerful. “They have not been deliberately hybridized. However, for well over fifty years, a flower garden took up almost an acre from that fence line to the old oak tree over there.”
She pointed at the landmarks as she spoke, and the group followed her moving finger as she did so, all except for the one who had asked the question.
Did he not understand what she meant by pointing out the existence of the flower garden?
Surely, anyone that arrogant would understand the basics of cross-pollination before interrogating her about it, right?
“Where there are flowers,” she said, “there are bees.”
The group laughed, and Natalie felt her confidence grow as she regained her flow.
“While we love our Apis Mellifera—they are to thank for every single bottle of wine made; after all, without bees, there are no harvests—they do tend to take a more haphazard approach to pollinating than maybe we as academics would prefer,” she continued.
“It was noted that the vines in this section had become hardier than Section Ten despite being from the same stock. Section Nine developed darker leaves that were less prone to sun damage, among other things, and their blooms started to take on a shape more similar to that of Section Three, which was Nine’s closest neighbor across the garden.
” Natalie gestured over her head in the general direction of the first three sections.
“Is that why the garden isn’t here anymore?” Langhorne asked. “Isolating the varietals?”
“No,” she replied. “Sadly, a fire decimated the garden around forty years ago. The decision was then made that, considering the opportunity presented, it would be best to plant out the area with new vines. While cross-pollination is impossible to avoid in an open and natural setting like this, it’s far less likely to have a significant effect without the substantial population of a huge flower garden right in the middle of it all. ”
Mr. Smug ’n Sneer snorted as she finished speaking, though he did at least have the decency to look sheepish as several people turned to look at him. “Sorry, I just meant—well, obviously, she’s not wrong. Why would there have even been a garden here in the first place? Seems poorly thought out.”
Natalie smiled stiffly. “Well, you’d have to ask my great-grandfather’s great-grandmother. She was one of the first Fitzgeralds here, and she started the garden, from what we can tell.”
“Right,” Mr. Smug said. “So, do you ship bees in, now that the garden is…?”
“No,” she said quickly, catching the beginnings of several horrified looks in the group.
“Absolutely not. We maintain a very good relationship with several local beekeepers. Each section has its own—permanent—hive. We have no desire to risk the health of hives brought in from far away or to risk the spread of unfamiliar issues among local bee populations.”
Much to her relief, everyone who had reacted poorly to the man’s suggestion seemed satisfied with her response.
“Now, please feel free to look closer, though please don’t venture too far down the rows.”
Watching as they dispersed, she was glad to have a break from the free-form introduction that had somehow bled into the first talking point. At the end of the row was a small cluster of people, and she moved to stand with them.
“Sorry, this might be a silly question,” a female voice came from the back of the group. “But you said they developed darker leaves?”
“Yes. Slightly larger but darker leaves than what they originally had.” As Natalie got closer, she saw that the woman was Langhorne’s wife.
“Does that mean these pretty purple freckles?”
Natalie blinked hard. “Freckles?” she asked, stepping forward to look closer.
Sure enough, dark purple splotches were dotted around the leaves. A sinking feeling in her stomach made Natalie feel like she was swaying—this was not normal. Glancing over, she saw the next vine was the same way.
“Uh…” she said. “Not exactly. Generally speaking, the base, sort of green, became darker. I’ll show you in the next section how bright these usually are.”
With a broad, customer-service-like smile, she raised her hand and addressed the group, gazing down the row—all of them had the same dark purple splotches.
“Apologies for the back and forth, but another group is coming up behind us, so it would be great if you could all return to the path…just in case.”
She thought this was the one benefit of them being professionals; they knew if tourists saw a bunch of people in the rows, there would be nothing any tour guide could do to keep them from tramping up and down with no concern for the plants.
Besides, they had all been happy to brush their shoes off and disinfect before entering the bus; no tourist was likely to do that and risk bringing in all sorts on the soles of their shoes.
“Let’s continue to the next section, shall we?” Natalie asked, still smiling forcefully.
The group looked mildly confused but obliged.
All except for him. He was inspecting the leaves closely, and Natalie rushed over.
“Have you seen this?” he asked, his voice a low whisper.
“Please, let’s not keep everyone waiting.”
“But have you—”
“Yes. Please, don’t concern yourself; it’s all in hand.”
He looked at her like she was crazy, but thankfully, he complied and followed her to the bus.
Oh, God. They’re going to want to walk down all the rows now…
“Hey, uh, not to be a party pooper,” Mr. Smug said.
Natalie whipped around and fixed him with a glare.
“Uh,” he stumbled. “It’s just that I noticed the weather forecast. I got a possible storm warning?”
Natalie grabbed her phone. There was an increase in the chance of a thunderstorm later, but certainly not a warning. May thunderstorms weren’t unheard of, but the last thing she wanted was to be stuck on a hill with nothing tall around while lightning strikes littered the sky.
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Langhorne exclaimed. “Darling, I don’t think—”
“Agreed, Mrs. Langhorne,” Natalie said, cutting in. “Let’s swap lunch for brunch, shall we?”
The passengers on the bus nodded almost in unison, and Natalie sighed with relief.
Neil bumped her shoulder with his as she settled back into her seat. “How’s about dinner?” he asked.
“Dinner?” she repeated. “No, it was only a half day. Lunch was—”
He smiled with a silent laugh. “No, I know that. I mean, you and me—how’s about dinner?”
Her heart leaped, and she felt her cheeks heat as her lips tingled. “Oh, right…sure,” Natalie answered, doing her best to keep her voice from squeaking. “Yes, that would be nice.”
He winked at her, and she was almost certain she felt lightheaded.
Well, the day isn’t a total write-off.