The relationship might have been based on ambition.
Currently, no one connected to the winery was a Fairfield. The Fairfield family had nothing to do with the wines, but that wasn’t evident from the vintage black-and-white family pictures on the walls of the tasting room. Fairfield Family Wines continued to present a carefully curated image of a cozy family winery with a long history on the Central Coast.
Fabrication? Yes. But the tourists didn’t seem to mind. They filled the tasting room and bought the monogrammed golf shirts with FFW on the pocket. They spilled out onto the oak-dotted lawn that lined the creek across from Nico’s wine caves and signed up for the wine club in droves, drawn to the glossy image that Fairfield presented to visitors.
Megan stared at the narrow creek that separated Nico’s vineyard from the Fairfield place, trying to imagine how she could cultivate as devoted a following for Nico’s winery, which was a real family enterprise, even if it didn’t have Silicon Valley money behind it.
Money.
Marketing.
Connections.
Humph.
Katherine and Toni were sitting at the bar, Katherine sipping wine and Toni munching on breadsticks, asking leading questions about the winery while Megan felt the energy in the room. All the wood and metal surrounding her buzzed with a faint, pulsing life. She had the urge to flip over a table or two, just to disrupt the quiet and understated class of the building.
Instead, she walked back to the bar and turned on her highest-watt smile and her strongest accent. “What kind of grapes do y’all plant?” she asked the young woman pouring their tasting. “Do they all come from different countries? We were at one winery that had mostly Italian wines” —she reached for her glass, which was filled with a ruby-red pinot noir— “but then there was this other one that had Spanish varieties and French ones and even some from Argentina! It was real interesting.”
“The Fairfield family has planted mainly French varietal wines at this winery,” the young woman said. “The soil and growing conditions of our appellation match very well with wines from the Burgundy region. The wines are grown and blended in the French style.”
“Have you heard of the Jura region?” Katherine’s voice was so soft the pourer had to lean forward when she spoke.
“I’m sorry, where?”
“Jura,” Katherine said. “It’s a smaller wine region in France. They have some interesting wines there.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” the young woman said. “Sounds cool though. Have you been to France?”
Megan quickly pegged her as either an intern or an apprentice. She wasn’t going to help them find the vines unless she’d happened to overhear something.
“I have been to France,” Katherine said. “Many times.”
“You’re so lucky,” the girl said. “I’m a student at Central Coast State, but I’m from Petaluma. I haven’t really been anywhere.”
Bingo. Apprentice.
“Don’t worry,” Katherine said. “You have time.”
Megan looked at the girl, remembering what it felt like to be that age, your life an amorphous fog of possibilities and opportunities. Would she go back? Not in a heartbeat. But it was fun to remember when the world had seemed so open and fresh.
“Do you have a winery tour?” Toni asked. “I’d love to look around even if I can’t drink. It’s such an interesting business.”
“We do have a winery tour,” the girl said. “They do three a day on the weekends, but just one in the afternoon on weekdays like this. If you want to hang around until three thirty, you’re welcome to join. I’m sure there’s still room.”
It was nearly three already, so Katherine and Toni decided they could wait for the tour. Megan felt restless. Something was itching at her senses.
“Mrs. Carpenter?”
The sound of her name from a strange voice nearly had Megan punching out. She turned and saw a sleek and polished woman in her midthirties walking toward her. Her hair was long, shiny, and dark brown with tasteful golden-brown highlights. She wore a subdued grey pantsuit with a shock of burgundy at the collar and a pair of heels that made Megan’s feet ache just looking at them.
“It’s Ms. Alston,” Megan said. “Or Alston-Carpenter.”
The woman held out her hand, and Megan shook it by force of habit. There was something about the woman that felt familiar, but Megan couldn’t place it.
“How do you do?” she asked. “I hope you don’t mind my interrupting your afternoon with your friends, but I’m Angela Calvo, the new owner of Fairfield Family Wines.”
Good God, it was the rumored fiancée herself! Megan hadn’t even heard gossip about what she looked like.
“It’s… it’s very nice to meet you.” Megan laughed a little. “This is unexpected. We were just about to take your wine tour.”
“You work with Dusi Vineyards, don’t you?”
“I do.” Awkward! “I’ve heard such good things about your tour though that I wanted to experience it myself.” Which was complete bullshit. She’d heard nothing about the Fairfield tour. “Checking out the competition, so to speak. I hope you don’t mind. We’re revamping our own tour later this year to include the addition of the wine caves, so I’m brainstorming ideas right now.”
“Of course.” Angela Calvo’s expression read as nothing but friendly. “I don’t see us as competition at all. We’re neighbors, Ms. Alston. You and anyone from Dusi Vineyards are always welcome here at Fairfield.”
Megan turned on her thousand-watt smile. “I feel the exact same way. I love what you’ve done with the tasting room.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that; especially coming from a professional like you.” The woman’s voice got softer. “I understand… you were involved in that horrible mess that Whit was a part of last year.” Her tone was conspiratorial. She put a hand over her heart. “I’d like to apologize personally for any trouble you or your family experienced because of Whit’s actions. I hope you can see past it, especially seeing as we’re neighbors, but I completely understand if there are still hard feelings.”
You could have pushed Megan over with a feather. “Ms. Calvo—”
“Please, call me Angela.”
“Of course, Angela.”
The woman was the textbook definition of disarming, with wide brown eyes and an earnest expression.
Megan continued, “As far as I know, you weren’t involved in any of that.” It was true. Drew had been suspicious of Miss Calvo and had questioned her extensively, even though from all accounts, she’d only been to Moonstone Cove twice in her life and that very briefly. “I don’t believe in expecting women to beg pardon for the bad actions of their significant others, so you have nothing to apologize for.”
Miss Calvo looked relieved. “That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”
“It’s not generous, it’s accurate.”
“Still, thank you.” Angela walked to the massive picture windows and gestured toward the creek. “How are the renovations for the new tasting room going? I’ve been waiting to take the tour until everything is complete. My winemaker met with Henry Durant a few months back and was able to take a tour of the caves. The pictures he took were amazing.”