Season of Change. Melinda Curtis
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wine that may or may not be great. And to do that, she needed to continually win the battle over Slade’s well-intentioned but unrealistic production goals and his budget miscalculations.
He tossed cash onto the table. “I should get the twins home.”
She followed him out the door. He sent the twins ahead to the truck.
“We’ll work this out together, keeping in mind what our investment goals are and what goals you can deliver on,” Slade said from between lips that barely smiled. “Can you bring me a revised purchasing plan and budget in two days?”
“Absolutely.” Christine wasn’t sure where she found the audacity to add, “But I’m going to make recommendations based on year-one output for the next few years.”
Those perfect lips of his settled into a thin line.
The sad part was, it didn’t diminish his perfection in any way.
* * *
“WELL? HOW’D IT GO?”
“Dad?” Christine shut her grandmother’s front door behind her, taking a moment to enjoy the cool air, before processing her father was here. Forty-five minutes of back-road driving from his place of employ to Harmony Valley. Midafternoon on a Monday. Uh-oh. “What are you doing here?”
Brad Alexander stood in the living room wearing blue jeans, work boots, and a faded black L.A. Flash T-shirt. He looked at home amid the overstuffed leather furniture and big-screen television. He looked at home despite the white doilies and pink throw pillows Nana had scattered around the room after Grandpa left for the big man cave in the sky.
Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Nana snapped a pink tea towel in her son-in-law’s direction. “As usual, he’s butting in where—”
“Agnes, I just wanted to see how my little girl did on her first day.” Her father’s smile was infectious, capable of smoothing over many an awkward situation. He closed the distance between them and gave her a hearty hug.
“It’s a great opportunity, Dad. I think I’ll like it here.” If she could get things on track for a manageable launch.
She wasn’t going to tell her dad about Slade’s five-year production plan or their lack of quality wine storage. He’d worry. He’d stress. He’d show up one day ranting about Slade’s plans to compromise the quality of her work or some other unforgivable action and insist it was time she moved on. As a lifelong veteran of the wine industry, her dad was always watching out for Christine’s career and her brother’s. It was what he lived for. It was his passion.
It had come to be her Achilles’ heel.
“Now that you see Christine’s happy, you can drive back to Napa.” Nana tried to herd Brad out, shooing him away with her dish towel. Since Nana was barely five feet and her dad topped six feet, no amount of towel brandishing was going to work.
“We have to visit.” Her dad pulled Christine over to the big leather couch.
Don’t let this be one of those conversations.
“Tell me about the vineyards. I drove by, but you weren’t there. The vines look—”
“Like they need tying off and cutting back. I know, Dad.”
He walked my vineyards?
Her father was one of Northern California’s best vineyard managers. He loved his vines almost as much as he loved his family, as proven by how well he groomed both his vineyards and his children’s careers. Three times Christine had made the leap from one winery to another. Three times it had been because her father proved her wine-making values had been compromised.
There wouldn’t be a fourth.
Too bad she hadn’t told her father that.
No doubt recognizing the warning signs of a long conversation, Nana sank into the massive recliner with an annoyed huff. She was so short and petite, she practically disappeared into the cushions.
There’s still time to cut him off.
Her father only had eyes for Christine. Or rather, Christine’s latest challenge. “You should have some interesting Cab because—”
“The eucalyptus shades the southwestern corner in the afternoon. The grapes from those vines won’t be as tannic.” He stepped on her territory without an invitation. Primal instincts knotted between her shoulder blades, urging her to defend her turf. Instead, Christine patted his sunspotted hand and strove for peace. “That’s perfect for small blocks of wine. I’ve got this, Dad.”
“And I’ve got your back, like always.” He grinned.
With effort, Christine held on to her smile. She had every reason to be happy—overseeing the final phase of a winery construction, producing small lots of high-quality wine. It was every winemaker’s dream. She shoved aside the memory of Slade’s quirking eyebrow. Held back knee-quaking concerns about wine storage. She’d make this place shine. Without her father’s interference.
Nana folded the towel in her lap, patted it, and looked at Christine with raised silver brows.
“It means so much that you came by today,” Christine said at the same time that her dad asked, “What about these bosses of yours? They’re still committed to making the good stuff?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Slade wanted to make fine wine. He just wanted to make too much too soon. If they’d spent their contingency budget, they were probably anxious for the winery to turn a profit. She just had to make sure they stayed patient. She had at least a year to convince Slade slow growth was the way to go.
“Because if they’re not,” her father said, “you need to keep your eyes open to other possibilities.”
Christine plucked at the hem of her T-shirt. “Dad, it’s my first day.” And as with other first days—the fourth grade, college, an internship, her first full-time job—her dad was being overprotective.
“These boys are different,” Nana said. “They promised this winery will turn things around here.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “I have more experience with winery owners than you do, Agnes. Owners’ principles are easily bent beneath the weight of budgets. You’d be surprised at how quickly the focus turns to case volume and profit margins.”
Christine hoped this was one time her father was wrong. He respected profit goals, just not at the expense of wine quality. If Brad got wind of what he considered mistreatment of his grapes and vines, he was on to a new property quicker than you could say You did what? A phrase her mother had shrieked too often, followed by days of tears and tension.
Her dad knew when someone was cutting corners or expanding too quickly, unable to uphold the promise of quality wine in the bottle. He knew before anything was confirmed, probably because he’d worked at so many different wineries his connections were tremendous. He was the one who’d told Christine that her boss had gone behind her back and disregarded their blending plan. He was the one who told Christine it was time to draw a line in the sand and leave the position as head winemaker at the prestigious Ippolito Cellars.
I knew I never should have hired an Alexander. Spiteful words from Cami Ippolito when Christine gave notice. Your family isn’t known for its loyalty.
But they were known for their high-quality standards. And Christine did have her dad to thank for that, no matter how extreme he was at times.
Blame in the wine industry was like red wine stains on your clothing—impossible to remove. Christine didn’t want to be the scapegoat for a disappointing wine she hadn’t created or approved, even if it meant leaving the employer she’d thought of as her friend in a bind.
Nana waited until Brad left to ask, “Did you burn a bridge with Cami, dear?”
“I blew up the bridge as efficiently as the one over the River Kwai.” Her grandmother would understand