8. Gemma
GEMMA
Rather than answer my question, Bas packed up the remnants of our dinner. He rewrapped the cheese, wiped the knife clean, then filled the basket with unhurried care.
“Bas?” I pressed.
“It’s late. I’ll walk you home.”
“It’s not that late,” I said.
“It is for a farmer.”
He held the office door, and short of planting my feet, there wasn’t much to do but walk through it.
We crossed from the event center to my cottage in the dark. The only light came from the porch of the main house.
“I can walk home on my own,” I said, getting more irritated with every step I took.
“As I told you before, there’s wildlife it would be best you didn’t bump into on your own.”
At the bottom of my steps, he stopped while I continued to the door. I unlocked it and turned to face him. There was no way in hell I’d repeat the question. For a man who made a federal case of my dodges, he was awfully comfortable with his own.
“I meant it,” he finally said.
“What I asked is what you meant by it.”
“That’s the only answer I have for you right now, Gem. Good night.”
I watched him disappear into the dark, then went inside.
I opened my laptop and reviewed the emails I’d flagged for follow-up.
A linen vendor messaged that she was sending fabric samples tomorrow, and a florist in Sebastopol wanted a ruling on dahlias for November, so I responded saying I’d prefer frost-hardy stock.
The following night was a barrel tasting at Percy Ridge for the growers’ association.
Walt Percy hugged me like we’d known each other for years and introduced me to both of his sons, not that either was ready to commit to the bachelor auction yet.
Bas stayed by my side most of the night, but barely spoke.
For the rest of that week, Bas left in his truck at first light and came home after dark. If I was still working in the event center, he’d stop, wait for me to wrap up, then walk me to the cottage.
“The insurance broker returned my call this morning,” he said once we were partway there.
“That’s good.”
“Do you need anything else from me?”
“Nothing that can’t go in an email,” I responded.
I hated how polite we were both being. Then again, wasn’t it what I wanted?
No personal or romantic relationship? Actually, before I crossed it out, it had said no romantic or physical relationship.
Friendship might’ve been nice, but since I was his employee and tenant, that was probably out of the question too.
“Wait, there is one other thing,” I said once we were at my door and he was about to walk away.
“What’s that?” he asked from where he stood.
“Would you mind coming in for a minute?”
He hesitated but climbed the steps and followed me inside.
“I want to host a tasting for potential sponsors here. We can hold it later this month and invite everyone we think might be interested in supporting the Wicked Winemakers’ Ball.
That would include wineries, restaurants, owners, managers, families.
We could call it First Pour or something like that. ”
“Sounds expensive.”
“The beauty of it is it will cost very little.”
He raised a brow.
“We have several caterers who would love to be chosen to serve their food at the ball. This can be their trial run. Same with florists, linen companies, even bands.”
“You’re going to suggest they do it for free?”
“We’ll negotiate a fair price. Keep in mind it won’t only be Whitmore they’ll be ‘auditioning’ for, so to speak. It will be anyone and everyone who’s important in the valley.”
“Do you think they’ll go for it?”
“Maybe not, but there are at least a dozen caterers who would jump at the chance. Same with florists.”
“So it’ll be like a showcase.”
I nodded. “That’s a better word for it. Another thing is that, at the same time we’re working on donations for the ball, we can talk up the space for other events.”
“You could talk it up.”
I sighed without intending to. “Yes, Sebastian, I’ll be the one to pitch both the sponsorships as well as solicit bookings for other events.”
“I told you to call me Bas.”
I shouldn’t push him, particularly since I was asking for something, but his standoffishness was getting to me. “That’s what your friends call you. I’m an employee.”
“Knock it off, Gemma.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Got any wine open?”
Before I could answer, he spotted a bottle of red on the counter and helped himself. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew where the wineglasses were since the cottage came complete with everything one might need in the kitchen. I hadn’t even bothered to unpack most of what I brought.
He handed me a glass, then motioned to the living room and took a seat on the sofa. I suddenly felt like an interloper in what was supposed to be my home. At least for the rest of the year.
“Please make yourself comfortable. Don’t mind me,” I muttered.
“If you’ve got something to get off your chest, say so. Otherwise, I’m too tired to deal with passive-aggressive bullshit.”
I could tell him I was still waiting for an answer to my question from several days ago, but that would only make things worse.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. You’ve seemed distant.”
“What I am is busy, Gemma. A place this size doesn’t run itself.”
“Then, tell me what it takes,” I said. “I work here too, and all I see is your truck leaving before the sun is up.”
He turned the wineglass by its stem.
“Pruning has to be finished before the weather heats up. That takes crews, and it turns into a race the minute it gets above fifty at night. The day the buds push, frost season starts, and I need the fans tested and the weather watched from then until the middle of May. Inside, the reds from last harvest are in blending trials, the whites get bottled this month, and every one of those decisions used to be something my father and I discussed together. Now, it’s on me. ”
“And that has you gone before dawn?”
“No. That has me up before dawn.” He set the glass down. “What has me gone is my father’s half of the job.”
“Which is what?”
“Selling the wine. We move most of it through a distributor, and that relationship needs my attention. A lifetime of restaurant accounts in the city, buyers he knew by their first names, dinners he never missed. When the owner of a place like this dies, all those people wait to see whether the son is worth the shelf space. The summer wine lists are being decided right now. So I drive from place to place, sit at their bar or at a table, and pour.”
“That’s where you’ve been going.”
“That’s right. We can’t afford to let these relationships slip. Everyone is expecting me to fail as it is.”
I leaned forward and set my glass beside his. “Who’s expecting you to fail?”
“Like I said, when an owner dies, everyone watches and waits to see what will happen. In our case, it’s me taking over. Other family-owned wineries sell and get swallowed up by corporations. Some stop producing wine and sell their grapes to other operations.”
“So the event I’m proposing is one more thing you have to think about.”
“I didn’t say that. I think your plan is sound as long as the vendors play along.”
“If they don’t, I’ll rethink it.”
“Hang on. If the point is getting people to pony up, don’t you have to wow them?” he asked.
“Basically, yes.”
“So don’t scrimp. You said you hire out whatever you need and I pay for them when you give me the invoice. Do that.” He was quiet for a moment. “And if you need upfront money, invoice me for part of it now.”
“I hope it won’t come to that, but I appreciate the offer, Bas.”
“It isn’t only for you. It benefits Whitmore. That it’s at a time of year when whatever I might be doing wrong is less apparent is a bonus.” He paused, took a sip of wine, then set it down again. “Other than money, what do you need from me?”
“Visibility.”
“I’ll be behind the bar.”
“That isn’t necessary—”
“It’s where I’ll feel most comfortable. The tasting room staff can help out too. You don’t have to work them into your budget.”
When he stood, I did too, expecting to walk him to the door. Instead, he poured more wine for both of us. “Got another one anywhere?”
I opened the pantry door. “Take your pick. The place came well stocked.”
He grabbed a bottle and had it open almost before I turned around. “I guess you get pretty good at that.” He stuck a wine key in his pocket.
“You have no idea.”
“Can I make you something to eat?” I asked.
“Have you had dinner? Wait. Never mind, I know you haven’t.”
I went to the fridge. “Your easy options are goulash or potato soup. If neither of those sound good, I can make—”
“Both.”
“Pardon?”
“I want some of both.”
“They’ll taste better heated on the stove than in a microwave, but—”
“Stove is fine.”
Knowing what his last few days must’ve been like, I didn’t give him shit for interrupting me twice. “It’ll be about twenty minutes.”
“Got anything in there for a salad?”
“Yes.”
When he skirted around me, I grabbed his arm.
“I can make it, Bas. Go sit down and enjoy your wine.”
He shook his head. “If I do that, I’ll fall asleep.”
I pulled one of the dining chairs out from the table. “Take a seat. There’s one more thing I want to discuss with you.”
“Only one?”
I crossed my eyes at him. “For now.”
“Let’s get it over with, then.”
“I think you should name the event center for your father.”
His eyes scrunched.
“It isn’t something you have to decide on tonight.”
“It’s a really good idea, Gemma.
I couldn’t contain my smile. I wasn’t sure how he might react and was relieved he didn’t shoot my plan down. “The event could serve as the official unveiling of the new name.”
“I want to do this, and I want to honor my father.”
“Okay.”
“But what I’m going to say may sound like I have an ulterior motive.”
“Go on,” I said, pulling out the chair beside him.
He sighed and scrubbed his face. “You’ll think I’m an asshole.”
I raised a brow.
“Okay, more of an asshole.”
“Spit it out, Whitmore.”
“It’ll help with all the old guys.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“They’ll like that I’m honoring him.”
“That doesn’t sound like an ulterior motive. That’s exactly what it will be.”
“My brothers and sisters should be here for it.” Bas pulled out his phone. “How far out on this are you thinking?”
“We don’t have much time to waste in terms of getting the sponsors for the ball lined up. If it was up to me alone, I’d say mid to late March.”
When he typed something into his phone, I got up and put the soup and goulash on the stove.
“I’ll know by tomorrow who can be here,” he said.
“Did you just group text them?”
He nodded. “I don’t have time to call all of them. Especially tomorrow, and they’ll need time to make travel plans.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
“I’ll be in Healdsburg most of the day. The wine director at the Creekstone wants to taste the new vintage before he redoes the summer list. Then two restaurant accounts in town, and home by dark if nobody talks my ear off.”
“I’ve booked more weddings into Creekstone’s ballroom than anyone in the county. Annette Cortese runs the events side.”
“I’ve only ever dealt with the wine director.”
“I know Annette well enough to drop in on her tomorrow.”
He watched me stir the pot for a minute before he said anything. “Are you suggesting you come with me?”
“I’m offering.”
“Why?”
“To sell wine. You handle your guy. I’ll pitch Annette on pouring Whitmore. We’ll see who brings home the bigger order.”
“It’s not a contest.”
“Everything’s a contest. That’s what makes it fun.” I set the spoon down. “Well?”
“We’ll leave at nine. Not as far a drive or as much traffic as going into the city.”
That was the other reason I’d offered. Healdsburg was fine. If he’d mentioned San Francisco, I’d have stayed home.
Twenty minutes later, I had dinner on the table.
He was almost through the goulash before he slowed down. “This is really good. Both of them are.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you cook like this all the time?” he asked.
“This time of year, I do. Comfort food for chilly nights.”
“Where did you learn to make this?”
“From my mother.”
She’d taught me to make both when I was a kid, in the mornings, before she started drinking for the day.
He didn’t ask anything else about her, and I was glad he hadn’t.
I didn’t talk about my family. Not with anyone if I could help it, but especially not with a man whose own had built an estate and kept it for generations.
My mother drank herself to the point of passing out too many nights a week and lived in a falling-down house twenty minutes from here.
I wasn’t sure whether any of my brothers still lived there or not.
All were a few years older than me, and we’d never been close.
In fact, they were more like strangers than siblings.
I’d spent my whole adult life making sure nobody who hired me could picture where I came from, and I wasn’t going to undo that over a pot of goulash.
When Bas finished, he carried his dishes to the sink and washed them before I could object, then corked what was left of the second bottle and returned it to the pantry.
“Thank you for dinner, Gemma. I haven’t eaten like that in longer than I want to admit.” He headed for the door, and I followed to lock up behind him.
“See you at nine,” I said.
“Come up to the house, and I’ll make you coffee.” He hesitated before stepping over the threshold. “You know, when I said agreeing to this event wasn’t for you, that it benefited Whitmore too?”
“Yes.”
“It’s mostly for you, Gem.”