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 the war-movie reference. There was no going back.
“You don’t have to change a career every time your father says so.” Nana began pulling out chicken and vegetables for dinner, setting ingredients on the kitchen’s pink Formica countertop. The kitchen also boasted a pink tile backsplash and whitewashed cabinets with a tinge of pink. Being in Nana’s kitchen was like being in a young girl’s dream house, polar opposite of the modern, masculine living room her grandfather had loved. “I don’t know how many times your mother and I have told you and your brother, but you don’t seem to want to listen. This is your life, not your father’s.”
“I wouldn’t make a career move just because Dad wants me to.” No, Christine took lots of convincing, collected her facts, and corroborated Dad’s theories. And then she leaped. “His career has been stellar. His reputation for quality unparalleled.” She could only dream of such greatness. She’d chosen to dream big here while saving the majority of her salary so that her next move would be to her own winery.
“Have you ever thought that for all his high-and-mighty principles that just once your father may have done something wrong? Or perhaps he could have stayed and made it right?” Nana pulled a big knife out of a butcher block. “Most people don’t run at the first sign of trouble. There’s your personal honor and then there’s loyalty. Honorable people stand by when things go haywire. Relationships are what make this life worth living, not your reputation.”
“He never ran from Mom.” Christine washed her hands, intending to help make dinner.
Nana shook her head. “Did you ever think that it was your mother who didn’t run?”
Christine had. But she didn’t like to.
Because what was she supposed to think of her dad if she did?
* * *
SLADE LOOKED AT the Death and Divorce House, trying to see it the way his girls did.
White peeling paint. Drapes closed across all the windows except the two upstairs. Lopsided
