Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Wine flies when you’re having fun!
Never in a million years did I expect to be writing those words in chalk, but here we are.
I’ve had my hands in a lot of businesses over the years.
I’ve dealt with tech conglomerates, pet food manufacturers, perfume bottle makers, even a company that makes trash cans, but this is the very first one that I’ve ever had my hands this far in.
My usual day-to-day consists of phone calls and meetings with the C-suite employees—I don’t run registers or write cheesy lines on a welcome sign.
Part of it’s the size. Glass of Vine is anything but a corporate empire with its mere ten acres of vines and lone man filling community service as it’s only reliable nonemployee.
Part of it’s the fact that, silly as it seems, I don’t want to let teenage Reese down. This is what I thought I’d be doing when I was young, and if I only get a few months to try it, I want it to be good. Excellent, even.
And, well, possibly the biggest part is that . . . I own the place. As of yesterday’s signing of closing paperwork, Glass of Vine is all mine.
I had the money, the time, and not a single reason to say no. The Family never would’ve approved the deal—I knew it as my fingers hovered over the send button of my email to Trish—it’s too small. So I bought it and knew there wasn’t a reason to tell anyone.
My mother and sisters—and Gavin—will read into it like it’s a concrete sign of me coming back here, and I’m not prepared to make that decision.
I need to see how this plays out first to know if that’s even a viable option.
I’m treating this like I have every other business I’ve acquired in my career: without emotion and with a focus on creating value.
According to my model based on diversified revenue streams—commercial bottle sales and tasting room purchases combined with future wine club memberships, special events, and classes if Banyan can keep his free-loving dick in his flowy pants—my projected annual numbers should hit at least one million in the next three years.
That doesn’t include the increased income if I use Nancy’s house as a short-term rental once she moves out.
Tourists who want a fully immersive experience would eat up the opportunity to sleep on a working vineyard—or winery if I ever get to that step—and I’d eat up the augmented profits by them doing so.
Yes, the vineyard is in good shape, but to accomplish all my goals before I go back to Chicago, this weekend needs to be flawless. And if that means me writing stupid sayings on signs, so be it.
Someone who wasn’t so controlling would have delegated that task to Gavin.
Gavin, who I haven’t stopped thinking about since Thursday night.
Gavin, whose truck is currently parked across the property at his shed along with a half dozen others like it is every Saturday morning.
I adjust the welcome sign and try various angles for the opening prop of the tasting room door.
I double-check the bottles and glasses behind the bar.
I close the door then reopen it.
I arrange all the handmade glasses by color.
I go to the bathroom to look in the mirror and wonder if I took this casual concept too far.
As much as I love my go-to outfit of a pencil skirt, silk blouse, and pumps, if I’ve learned anything from Banyan these last weeks it’s that it’s easier to function in this environment with something more basic.
I’m in jeans, tennis shoes, and a simple grey T-shirt.
Nash will be here in thirty minutes with the first tour—maybe I should go back to Mom’s and change.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. It’s seventy-nine perfect degrees with low humidity and I’m sweating.
Then it hits me.
I’m nervous.
Oh, God.
This has to go well—I may have plenty of money, but I still spent over a million dollars on this place and that’s still a lot of dollars. And I hate—hate—failing.
Banyan comes into view through the doorway, strolling through the vines in flowy orange pants, a white linen shirt—buttoned—and some brown horned device around his neck. My throat closes.
We can’t do a soft opening like this. Me and him?
What the fuck was I thinking?
It shouldn’t be a ton of people, but there might be enough that if something goes wrong, an extra set of hands would be nice.
Gavin’s working in his shop—whatever that means—he can’t help.
Nancy’s in the middle of a move. Even though she had her eye on a smaller house before she accepted my offer, because of how fast our deal went through, she doesn’t close on her new place for two weeks. She’s still living in the farmhouse and using every free minute to pack.
My mom shouldn’t lift anything heavier than ten pounds, not that there’s much to lift. Also, she’ll drive me nuts.
I pull out my phone. Who can I call?
Rue would be great, but when she told me to ask her nicely for help, that sealed the deal of me never eating crow to her. I’ll shut the place down before that happens.
I’ll call Remy. I’m scrolling for her number when the crunch of tires on gravel makes my stomach jump then drop. Nash can’t be twenty-five minutes early!
But the voices that follow don’t belong to tourists or Nash. As soon as car doors open and slam closed, it’s screaming kids I hear.
I barely get a full step outside when I spot my mom and sisters and Addie tackles me with a hug.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, wrapping my arms around her.
She grins. “Helping.”
Remy barely says hi as she brushes past me to go straight for the bar to grab a glass and a bottle. She pulls the cork out with her teeth, spits it on the bar like a seasoned alcoholic, and foregoes using the glass to chug straight from the bottle.
Rue steps next to me. “Darren called this morning.”
“Ah.” I look away from the sister who’s drowning her sorrows to the one dressed like a farmer. “We’re not open yet, by the way.”
Bennie, Luke, Nora, and Addie race down a row of vines as Nancy calls a greeting from her front porch and Mom goes to her.
“And Mom’s supposed to be resting.”
Rue snorts. “Have you met her?”
She’s right. I’ve all but given up trying to control that woman. Her brain tumor wreaked a little havoc, but its removal and her recovery have been seamless. I came down here convinced she needed me to take care of her, but she doesn’t.
Judging by the fact I was mid-freak out when they pulled up, maybe I’m the one who needs help.
That’s annoying.
“Why are you here?”
Rue’s head teeters with a hum. “Remember that time you had a lemonade stand and wouldn’t let Remy and me help because you were a greedy little shit?”
I snort. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Liar.” She puffs her bangs out of her eyes. “You were barely open for business before bugs landed in the lemonade, and you were begging us to help you make more.”
“To be fair, I didn’t anticipate kamikaze flies.”
Rue tracks Bennie as she climbs a tree. “When we told you no, you got pissed and dumped the lemonade out.”
I can’t help but laugh; I did do that. They wanted half the profit after I’d done all the work. When I offered them a split thirty percent, they refused.
“That was the day I decided to hate you forever,” I admit with a bright smile. “Your point?”
“Funny, same day as me.” She shoves her hands in the front pockets of her overalls.
“Anyway, we got to thinking about it and figured it would be a shame if you dumped all the wine out because there was nobody here to help.” Her lips twitch.
“All that stress can’t be good for making a baby, you know? ”
They came to help. Even after I told them no.
Family is the worst yet impossible to survive life without.
I wrap my arms around her and hug her tight.
“Don’t get carried away,” she says as we teeter side to side. “It was your boyfriend’s idea.”
Warmth fills my chest. Gavin never said a word. My gaze goes to the shed—his truck is still there—then I pull back from Rue. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
After an okay look, she goes to Remy, prying the bottle out of her hand to take a sip of her own.
They came to help. I let myself sit with that. If this were the city, I’d never be in this situation in the first place, but I also don’t know who would show up to rally around me if I were.
“Alright, people,” I holler, wrangling everyone into the tasting room. “This way.”
Mom, Nancy, and Banyan say nothing, but Rue and Remy stand like soldiers at attention. Assholes.
“Not that I was having doubts about doing this with just two people but thank you for being here.” They chuckle.
“Today and tomorrow are very, very soft reopening days. Nash is bringing three of his tours both afternoons, but there hasn’t been any other advertising with such short notice.
Maybe we get a couple drive-bys. I’m projecting thirty to eighty guests, averaging forty-five to sixty-five minutes per visit, depending how freaked out they are by Banyan. ”
Banyan spins on his toes. That are covered in Crocs.
Moving on. “I’m shooting for selling twenty bottles, so if you’re mingling, feel free to plant that seed in the conversation.
And the glasses”—I point to the shelves of the retail section—“are unique to Glass of Vine, but I’m not sure how they’ll move as they aren’t an easy item for tourists to transport.
But—” I shrug. “They’re pretty to look at and made by a local artist, so we’ll see how it goes. ”
Even though I have big plans for the future, we’re starting very basic: wine, glasses, Banyan’s pervy knowledge. I have to get a baseline to see what’s feasible and what isn’t.
“A local artist?” Remy asks in a too-loud voice followed by a too-loud laugh. “Is that what you call him?”
Nancy whispers something to Mom that leads to her whispering back, and Rue elbows Remy then scolds her, no doubt about her alcohol consumption.
Banyan says, “The fire”—he makes a fist—“and the heat.” He makes another fist then slams the two together in a fist explosion. “You feel that?”
“No.” I blow out a sharp breath. “Any questions?”