My dad hovers behind her, looking anxious from the archway of the living room. “You didn’t text, and we were getting worried.”
I let out a breath of exasperation. “I forgot. I had some of their award-winning wine and got a little tipsy.”
“You want something to eat?” Mom points over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “There’s cherry pie.”
My stomach feels sour. “No, thanks.”
“Well? How did it go with our neighbor?” Dad asks.
They both look at me expectantly. I can’t tell them the truth. That he spit out our wine and insulted it.
I rub the back of my neck. “It wasn’t as helpful as I hoped. He didn’t share any wine-making secrets, and their marketing seems to exclusively rest on their reputation from all their awards,” I lie. Honestly, we never got that far in the conversation.
“We tried to win something in a few local competitions last year,” Dad says.
“Nothing,” Mom says. “I think the judges are biased toward previous years’ winners.”
“Ah.” What else can I say? That maybe our wine isn’t so good? “I’ll come up with something. Maybe a newly designed label to make the vineyard look like an old European estate. Sometimes perception makes all the difference.”
“I like our label,” Mom says.
My shoulders slump. I just feel so defeated by tonight, so damn tired. “I’ll think on it more. Good night.”
“You’re going to bed already? It’s not even nine.” My mom glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room. It’s an old family heirloom and oddly reminds me of the stuffy, pompous jerk across the road.
“Just need to relax and unwind,” I say and head upstairs. My only other idea is hard-core grassroots marketing. Showing up at every shop in the area to try to place our wine, calling every distributor and offering them a deal. We may lose some profit, but it could give us a foothold. Tomorrow. I’ll get started tomorrow.
The next morning I drive off in a van full of our wine for my in-person selling campaign. I’m wearing a flowing maxi dress in a light red and white block pattern that I hope says sophisticated and professional. I’ve got my list of potential customers that I’m eager to put check marks next to with each successful sale. Just because our wine hasn’t won any awards doesn’t mean it’s horse piss. Jeez.
Yet, time after depressing time, it’s a no. No one will even try the wine. They tell me there’s no shelf space, or they want me to pay for a display. I’m tempted to slip a few bottles onto the shelf when they’re not looking, but it’s not like we’d profit from it. The heavy pit in my stomach is growing bigger by the second, and I’m starting to feel a little desperate.
I drive home in the late afternoon, trying to psych myself up for pitching the wine to distributors in a long cold-calling session. My parents already tried the main distributors. I’ll hit up the little guys. Any niche I can get us into is a step in the right direction.
When I let myself into the house, the welcome scent of the twins’ famous oatmeal chocolate chunk cookies hits me. Yes, please. Exactly the sugar-filled comfort food I need before my long slog on the phone.
I head to the kitchen, eager to dive in. “Just what I needed…” I trail off at the shock of seeing Neli sitting on a stool at the island counter next to my mom. Neli looks relaxed and refreshed—the exact opposite of me at the moment—in a white peasant blouse and white capris. Mom’s in her usual T-shirt and jeans. They’re having tea. What the hell?
“Hi, honey,” Mom says. “Neli stopped by to see you, so I invited her to stay for tea. Your sisters made your favorite cookies.”
Mabel turns from the sink, where she’s washing dishes. “Mom said you needed a pick-me-up.”
Eliza nods, looking worried.
“I’m fine,” I say firmly, mostly for Neli’s benefit. I don’t want her to know how much last night rattled me. “But thank you for the cookies.” I take one from the large cooling rack and bite into warm gooey perfection. I close my eyes, giving myself this moment of pleasure before having to deal with Neli. I’m sure she hated our wine as much as Goth Man, but was too polite to say so. Maybe she came over to apologize for him, but I don’t want to hear it. Just thinking about his insulting manner makes me angry all over again. He’s already sucked all the positive energy out of me, and I won’t allow him to drain me dry.
I finish my cookie and take a seat at the island counter next to my mom.
“Neli was just saying how much she enjoyed our pinot noir,” Mom says.
I stare at Neli, disbelieving. What game is she playing? “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes, I hoped we might collaborate on a project,” Neli says cheerfully.
I stiffen. “Collaborate?” There’s no way I’m working on anything that involves the horrible man next door. I don’t know how Neli puts up with him. He’s insufferable, insulting, indecent! So many “in” words fit that inhumane man.
Metal cupcake pans hit the floor with a clatter. “Sorry!” Eliza chirps. “Just getting things ready for our new cinnamon bun cupcake recipe.”
“Maybe we should take this to the patio,” Mom suggests.
I shake my head. “Actually, that won’t be necessary. I’m not interested in collaborating. We’re going in another direction.” I stand. “Excuse me, I have some calls to make.” I walk out.
“Stella, what’s wrong?” my mom calls after me. “Don’t you even want to hear her idea for collaborating? She waited all this time to tell you.”
I keep walking, heading toward the stairs. “No, thank you.”
“Stella!”
“I’ve got work to do,” I say.
I’m halfway up the stairs when Neli appears in the front hall below. “Stella, wait. Can we take a walk?”
I grip the handrail tightly, trying to rein in my temper. I don’t want to lash out at Neli when I’m mad at him. “I’m really very busy.”
“Five minutes, okay? I think you’ll find it worth your while.”
I clench my teeth, pride and curiosity battling it out within my mind. “Okay, five minutes.”
I go downstairs and lead her through the front door. We take the brick path toward our flagstone patio, where we host tastings. It’s set back a ways from the vineyard. My sisters and I used to play in the grassy yard next to the patio, on a swing set that’s long gone.
I gesture for Neli to take one of the cushioned swivel chairs under a large patio umbrella. I deliberately choose the chair that will keep my back to the castle across the street. I know the reminder will just piss me off.
“First, let me just say your wine is not horse piss,” she says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Boz shouldn’t have said that. He’s going through something right now. Some massive, uh, life changes, and it’s made him a little loopy. We’re both very sorry about the way things ended last night. He asked me to come over today and make it right.”
“You did nothing wrong, Neli. There’s nothing to forgive. As for him, he can apologize for himself if he really means it.”