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The winery was Mack’s priority. Every dollar went back into it. Although his wine was critically acclaimed as one of Australia’s best, Waterford was run on a shoestring. Mack refused to irrigate his vines to increase his grape crop, claiming it would water down his wine. He never did any of the marketing or publicity that would allow his boutique Shiraz to become an “investment” wine. He refused to open a cellar door to passersby to increase his trade.
Mack’s fans said it was because he was a purist, interested in nothing but making the perfect wine.
Mostly, Zoe reckoned, it was because the old man simply didn’t like people, and by keeping things small he didn’t have to bother with having employees or advisors.
Waterford’s Shiraz was sold by mailing list to a discerning group of loyal buyers who, Zoe was sure, had no doubt they were getting a bargain. They sold out every year.
And yet, the place was practically bankrupt.
“The income from each vintage just paid for the next one,” Stephen Carter had explained. “Mack had some savings, but those were eaten up by medical bills. There’s nothing left, and there are more than a few outstanding debts, including the mortgage on the property that your grandfather took out back when your grandmother was sick. And, for example, my bills with regard to his estate.” Stephen had had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Zoe, but once you sell and pay off the debts, there won’t be anything left over.”
Zoe ran a hand along the smooth surface of one of the oak barrels. “Oh, Mack.” She sighed, her voice echoing dully from the concrete floor and tin walls.
She grabbed a glass pipette and tasted each barrel carefully. As the ruby red liquid swirled around her mouth, she smiled in rueful amazement. She had no idea how her ailing grandfather had managed it, but he’d created yet another magnificent wine. A pang of family pride and professional jealousy rushed through her as she found Mack’s notebook and flicked through his meandering scribbles.
The wine needed to be racked off—the barrels emptied and cleaned before the wine was returned to them—and then bottled. It wasn’t impossible to do on her own, but it would be difficult, dirty and time-consuming.
It was a reminder of her dilemma.
There was no money to hire help, no money to pay for the bottling. The existing debts made further borrowing impossible. And Zoe had no nest egg of her own to reach into. She lived from paycheck to paycheck and was perfectly okay with that. As long as she had enough for food, shelter and an occasional bottle of good wine, she didn’t care. She never stayed anywhere long enough to put down the kind of roots that would require significant purchases.
She rested a hand on the smooth oak barrel, the wine flavor lingering in her mouth. Her only option was to sell immediately, but that meant breaking her promise to produce one last Waterford vintage for her grandfather.
The grandfather she’d barely tolerated during her teenage years, and barely spoken to since. What did it matter? Mack was dead. He would never know.
There would be no last Waterford vintage. It was just impossible.
Zoe sighed. Heading back to the kitchen to put on the kettle and make a cup of tea, she tried to rationalize the decision that for some reason sat uneasily within her.
It’s not your problem.
It’s not like Waterford means anything to you.
It’s not like Mack will know. And even if he did—she imagined him peering down at her from the clouds, that familiar disapproving frown etched on his face—why do you care?
Zoe sat on the back step of the farmhouse, her hands clasped around her mug of tea for warmth and comfort.
She shivered as a gust of wind whooshed through the yard, making the shed door bang and a tangle of litter rise in a dusty whirlwind before settling back over the unkempt ground.
Zoe drained the last of her tea, standing up and wrapping her cardigan tighter around her as she headed back inside the dilapidated house.
Decision made. She’d instruct Stephen Carter to sell up, pay out Waterford’s debts and give anything left over—however measly—to charity. Something to support teen mothers, just for the hell of it. And she would book a plane ticket back to California and leave all of this behind. In the past. Where it belonged.
* * *
ITWASANORMALDAY on the Lawson Estate, which meant that by midday Hugh had already been working for more than six hours.
He started the morning checking his stocks on the internet and talking with his trader in Sydney. At eight, Morris and the operational crew for the vineyards held their weekly meeting—this morning the hot topic was security, and how to stop enthusiastic and/or drunken visitors from wandering around the vines, potentially damaging them or, worse, introducing pests to the vulnerable plants.
Then his advertising agency had come to present a campaign for the new Lawson Estate sparkling rosé—a light and pretty wine they were targeting squarely at the female market. The hope was to have it out in time for the Melbourne Spring Racing Carnival, when the whole country gorged itself on celebratory bubbles. After that there’d been a distribution bungle to sort out, a complaint from one of their largest buyers—an airline—about lopsided labeling on the last shipment. And, just now, an intoxicated winery visitor angry about being refused service.
Hugh headed back to his office after escorting the staggering man out to the car park. The man’s friends had been embarrassed, and once Hugh had been sure that he wasn’t driving, he’d left them to sort it out.
Usually Hugh strode through the day with energy and confidence, seeing any challenge as a hurdle to be overcome with perseverance and charm.
But not today.
He’d yelled at the trader for missing a deal, dismissed the concerns of the operational staff with a wave of his hand and sent the ad agency back to the drawing board. He’d left the bottling company in little doubt as to his fury about the labeling mistake, and had barely managed to rein in his temper when dealing with the visitor. Drunk before noon from wine tasting—Hugh had trouble hiding his disgust for the guy.
He sank into his executive leather chair and let out a sigh. Someone had placed a steaming caffe latte on his desk and disappeared—apparently word about the boss’s foul mood had circulated fast.
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