I sleep restlessly that night, and I’m up at sunrise, feeling completely out of sorts. I dress quickly in a lavender maxi dress with my taupe ballet flats, deciding a walk will help clear my head. A few minutes later, I head out the front door and down our long driveway. I still can’t believe my parents kept something so important from me! The medieval castle across the road looms large as always. I glare at it, a stab of jealousy making my gut tighten. Their winery must be swimming in money. They’re constantly featured in all the top wine magazines.
But what makes their wines so special compared to ours? I stop on the road and stare up at the enormous dark castle. A light wind pushes my long hair in front of my face, and I smooth it back. We practically have the same soil. The sun and weather are identical. We grow the same varietals, and my dad has a degree in viniculture from Sonoma State. He even worked at a top-notch winery up in St. Helena before buying our place. He knows what he’s doing. The only explanation I can think of is that our neighbor’s grapes are simply better. Maybe they brought their plants over from Italy. Lots of wineries do that—pay big bucks to an established vineyard overseas for their vines.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I notice a tall man staring directly at me from a large window on the second floor of the castle. The vineyard manager is Neli, a petite red-haired woman. Is this the reclusive billionaire owner of the vineyard no one’s ever seen?
I squint. It kind of looks like he’s wearing a top hat. Do people still wear those? Eccentric all right. Just the kind of guy who would build a medieval castle in the middle of Napa Valley. It must be him. He may be a little eccentric, but there’s no denying he knows how to run a successful winery.
That’s it! I’m going over for a neighborly chat. Who knows how long he’ll be around before he jets off to whatever other properties he owns?
I blink, and he’s gone.
I square my shoulders and head back to my house, a new plan forming. I’ll bring some of the twins’ cupcakes as a neighborly offering. I need some out-of-the-box thinking to come up with a really good plan, and for that, I need to talk to an experienced successful colleague. So what if he spends all his time in hiding, making unusual wardrobe choices? That’s fine by me. It almost guarantees out-of-the-box thinking, right?
A short time later, plastic container of a half dozen dark chocolate cupcakes in hand, I march determinedly down our long driveway in the cool morning air. Just one positive step forward could start the momentum in the right direction for our vineyard. The alternative is too devastating to consider. If the winery fails, where would my parents go? How would they support themselves? And the twins’ dream of culinary school? Goodbye. I’m not even sure we could get them loans with my parents’ level of debt.
Still deep in thought, I cross the road. Even if the twins did manage to get loans, my parents would probably feel terrible they couldn’t do for my sisters what they did for me. Not that I asked them to. What a frigging mess.
Perched up on a sprawling hill, the castle looms in front of me, with its majestic grandeur and old-world-style wealth. This is definitely the place to gain some hint at how to turn things around. It’s obviously a successful venture for them.
I ignore the goosebumps rising on my arms as I hike up their cobblestone driveway and approach the drawbridge. I ignore the strange sensation that the air is cooler the closer I get to the castle. I am on a mission. I finally reach the large arched wooden double doors flanked by torches on either side—are those real torches?—and reach for the iron door knocker. I freeze and cautiously look around, ready to duck. I could’ve sworn I heard flapping wings nearby.
Nothing. Strange.
I turn back and knock twice, eager to meet my neighbor for the very first—and hopefully not last—time. I just know he’s got some pearls of wisdom to share. How could he not with such an award-winning successful winery?
CHAPTER FOUR
Boz
After sampling some of our new wines, I slide into my creaky wooden casket, ready to coffin down for the day. I am beat. There is much to learn about this new world that I have woken in. The changes to the winery production alone took me all night to comprehend. Machines now perform the tasks of twenty men, separating fruit from unwanted debris. Enormous steel vats now sit where there were once open wooden mash pits to crush the grapes and initiate fermentation. Neli says humans no longer wish to have “toe jam” with their wine.