and hunching her shoulders a little inside her short, faux-fur trimmed jacket. “We know. We had a bottle that almost made us rich. But turned out it had the wrong label on it.”
“Oh, right,” he remembered. “That artist, Mary Ellen—no, Emmy Marie—who stayed here one summer designed that label. We only did half a run with it, and it became a collector’s item.” A pleasantly reminiscent spark came into his eyes. “I was wild about that girl. Completely broke my heart in the end, of course.”
He was a wiry man with sun-darkened skin and work-roughened hands, thick platinum hair that fell to his collar, and shockingly blue eyes. But it was his easy charm, even more than his natural good looks, that most people remembered about him, and that was what made Lindsay laugh now.
“I’m sure you deserved it.”
“I’m sure I did, too. I was an incorrigible young upstart.” He glanced around. “She painted a mural for the tasting room, too. It was really something—twelve feet tall and fifteen feet wide, with trompe l’oeil columns framing a view of the vineyard. I remember if you looked carefully at the clouds, you could see Pegasus the winged horse there. She was really very talented. I don’t know why they painted over that mural.”
“She was Noah’s grandmother, you know,” Lindsay said. “At least according to Ida Mae.”
“Is that right?” He seemed mildly surprised. “I always wondered what happened to her.”
Bridget said, “Tasting room? There was a tasting room here?” She looked around, peering into the shadows for signs of what might once have been an elegant tasting room. “Where was it?”
He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Upstairs. What you all were using as a barn was Judge Blackwell’s tasting room. Or part of it was, anyway. He used to have big parties and fancy sit-down dinners out here every spring and fall for the blessing of the vines and the burning of the vines.”
“Oh, my.” Bridget’s eyes were beginning to light with the possibilities. “That sounds like fun.”
“Blessing?” Lindsay repeated. “Burning? What’s that?”
“It’s a vineyard tradition,” Dominic explained. “Every fall, the vine prunings have to be burned to make sure no diseases carry over to the next year’s crop, so in the early days, the farm laborers would gather around the bonfire and bring food and drink the off-cast vintage that the chateau owners would pass down to them. Eventually, the party started to look like so much fun, I guess, that the bosses joined in, and then the owners, and it was passed down through the generations. Same with the blessing of the vines in the spring, to ensure a good crop. Of course, that’s a little bit more on the subdued side.”
“We definitely have to do that,” Bridget said with a nod of her head. “Who knows? Maybe if we’d blessed the vines last year the hail wouldn’t have killed them.”
Lindsay looked skeptical. “I don’t think Baptists bless vines.”
Dominic said, “In most modern wineries, the blessing and the burning are events to draw a crowd. They have tastings, food pairings, vineyard tours, even hot air balloon rides and hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners among the vines prepared by top chefs. You know, to raise money and get exposure for your wine.”
“And bring people to your restaurant,” added Bridget. “It’s all a part of the process—everything supports everything else.”
“Exactly,” agreed Dominic. “Are you ladies going to add a restaurant to the plan?”
“Well, we have to find a place for it first.” Bridget, in an ivory corduroy jacket with pink calico trim and matching pink suede Uggs, picked her way carefully across the dusty concrete floor toward a row of chipped porcelain sinks, which she examined with a barely concealed expression of dismay. “I don’t think we can have it in the barn. That’s where we keep the ewes in lambing season, and Bambi and Rebel sleep there in the
“Oh, right,” he remembered. “That artist, Mary Ellen—no, Emmy Marie—who stayed here one summer designed that label. We only did half a run with it, and it became a collector’s item.” A pleasantly reminiscent spark came into his eyes. “I was wild about that girl. Completely broke my heart in the end, of course.”
He was a wiry man with sun-darkened skin and work-roughened hands, thick platinum hair that fell to his collar, and shockingly blue eyes. But it was his easy charm, even more than his natural good looks, that most people remembered about him, and that was what made Lindsay laugh now.
“I’m sure you deserved it.”
“I’m sure I did, too. I was an incorrigible young upstart.” He glanced around. “She painted a mural for the tasting room, too. It was really something—twelve feet tall and fifteen feet wide, with trompe l’oeil columns framing a view of the vineyard. I remember if you looked carefully at the clouds, you could see Pegasus the winged horse there. She was really very talented. I don’t know why they painted over that mural.”
“She was Noah’s grandmother, you know,” Lindsay said. “At least according to Ida Mae.”
“Is that right?” He seemed mildly surprised. “I always wondered what happened to her.”
Bridget said, “Tasting room? There was a tasting room here?” She looked around, peering into the shadows for signs of what might once have been an elegant tasting room. “Where was it?”
He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Upstairs. What you all were using as a barn was Judge Blackwell’s tasting room. Or part of it was, anyway. He used to have big parties and fancy sit-down dinners out here every spring and fall for the blessing of the vines and the burning of the vines.”
“Oh, my.” Bridget’s eyes were beginning to light with the possibilities. “That sounds like fun.”
“Blessing?” Lindsay repeated. “Burning? What’s that?”
“It’s a vineyard tradition,” Dominic explained. “Every fall, the vine prunings have to be burned to make sure no diseases carry over to the next year’s crop, so in the early days, the farm laborers would gather around the bonfire and bring food and drink the off-cast vintage that the chateau owners would pass down to them. Eventually, the party started to look like so much fun, I guess, that the bosses joined in, and then the owners, and it was passed down through the generations. Same with the blessing of the vines in the spring, to ensure a good crop. Of course, that’s a little bit more on the subdued side.”
“We definitely have to do that,” Bridget said with a nod of her head. “Who knows? Maybe if we’d blessed the vines last year the hail wouldn’t have killed them.”
Lindsay looked skeptical. “I don’t think Baptists bless vines.”
Dominic said, “In most modern wineries, the blessing and the burning are events to draw a crowd. They have tastings, food pairings, vineyard tours, even hot air balloon rides and hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners among the vines prepared by top chefs. You know, to raise money and get exposure for your wine.”
“And bring people to your restaurant,” added Bridget. “It’s all a part of the process—everything supports everything else.”
“Exactly,” agreed Dominic. “Are you ladies going to add a restaurant to the plan?”
“Well, we have to find a place for it first.” Bridget, in an ivory corduroy jacket with pink calico trim and matching pink suede Uggs, picked her way carefully across the dusty concrete floor toward a row of chipped porcelain sinks, which she examined with a barely concealed expression of dismay. “I don’t think we can have it in the barn. That’s where we keep the ewes in lambing season, and Bambi and Rebel sleep there in the
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