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Authors: Donna Ball
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winter, and it’s awfully close to the chicken coop.”
“Not very elegant,” agreed Lindsay.
Dominic chuckled a little. “Well, you have plenty of time to think about that. First you make the wine, eh?”
Lindsay smiled at him. “That sounded very French.”
His eyes took on a twinkle. “Put a Frenchman within twenty yards of a vine and his accent will return—even if he was born in the US.”
The overhead hatch at the far end of the cellar squeaked open and a square of light spilled down the shadowed stairs, followed by the sound of Cici’s footsteps. “The first thing we’re going to do,” she said as she descended, “is put a real door at the top of the stairs. Every time I come down here I feel like I’m a runaway on the Underground Railroad.”
She reached the others and announced, “Lori is bringing Mark’s parents for Sunday dinner.”
“But we have a hole in our roof!”
“Sunday? That’s only three days away!”
Cici looked at Dominic. “She said to ask you about something called petite mandrake from the Euro region.”
Dominic looked blank for a moment; then his expression cleared. “Of course. That’s a good idea. Jurançon varietals do very well here, and some of the petit mansengs have won awards. I think it would be well worthwhile to make them a part of your long-term plan.”
“Did the original vineyard have those petit whatevers?” Cici asked.
“No. The original vines were Bordeaux varietals—cabernets, shiraz, merlot.”
“Then that’s what we’re doing,” Cici said.
Dominic gave a slight lift of his eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Well, then,” he said. “Shall we talk about the plan?”
“I hope it includes replacing these sinks,” Bridget said dubiously, twisting a dry faucet open and closed. “They don’t look very sanitary.”
“Stainless steel would be better,” Dominic agreed. “But that’s another expense.” He glanced around until he found a towel, stiff with age, crumpled near the sinks, and used it to wipe off a tall table in the center of the room. He opened a folder there and invited them to join him. “Basically,” he said, passing around papers from the folder, “there are three different approaches to running a winery. The first is the way we talked about last year, by operating your own vineyard. Since you already have established vines, that certainly makes the most sense. But it’s also, as you’ve seen, a risky way to a slow profit.”
“And expensive,” added Lindsay with a sigh. “All those vines we lost last summer just about wiped out the profit we made from hosting that wedding.”
“There’s nothing cheap about owning a winery,” agreed Dominic. “Or,” he added with a wink toward Cici, “having a wedding. Congratulations on your daughter’s engagement, by the way.”
“Thanks,” she replied a little distractedly. She held one of the papers at arm’s length in order to better read it, frowning. “What is this—312 cases per acre?”
“That’s how much wine your vineyard will produce at maximum capacity,” he explained, “if everything goes right.”
“Which it never does,” Lindsay pointed out.
Bridget, who had the foresight to bring her glasses, finished examining the sheet much more quickly than the other two, and now did some rapid calculating in her head. “It says here 2000 cases the first year, 10,000 cases in five years.” She looked up at him over the rims of her readers. “We only have six acres in vines. We can’t even make 2000 cases, much less ten.”
He nodded. “The difficulty is that any winery with a production of less than 5000 gallons a year has very little chance of success, and you’ll come in just under that even if all goes well.”
“Wait a minute,” said Lindsay, looking up from her paper. “You said that the Blackwells didn’t run a small winery, but they had the same amount of acres we do, right? So what did they do?”
He smiled. “You don’t make money
“Not very elegant,” agreed Lindsay.
Dominic chuckled a little. “Well, you have plenty of time to think about that. First you make the wine, eh?”
Lindsay smiled at him. “That sounded very French.”
His eyes took on a twinkle. “Put a Frenchman within twenty yards of a vine and his accent will return—even if he was born in the US.”
The overhead hatch at the far end of the cellar squeaked open and a square of light spilled down the shadowed stairs, followed by the sound of Cici’s footsteps. “The first thing we’re going to do,” she said as she descended, “is put a real door at the top of the stairs. Every time I come down here I feel like I’m a runaway on the Underground Railroad.”
She reached the others and announced, “Lori is bringing Mark’s parents for Sunday dinner.”
“But we have a hole in our roof!”
“Sunday? That’s only three days away!”
Cici looked at Dominic. “She said to ask you about something called petite mandrake from the Euro region.”
Dominic looked blank for a moment; then his expression cleared. “Of course. That’s a good idea. Jurançon varietals do very well here, and some of the petit mansengs have won awards. I think it would be well worthwhile to make them a part of your long-term plan.”
“Did the original vineyard have those petit whatevers?” Cici asked.
“No. The original vines were Bordeaux varietals—cabernets, shiraz, merlot.”
“Then that’s what we’re doing,” Cici said.
Dominic gave a slight lift of his eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Well, then,” he said. “Shall we talk about the plan?”
“I hope it includes replacing these sinks,” Bridget said dubiously, twisting a dry faucet open and closed. “They don’t look very sanitary.”
“Stainless steel would be better,” Dominic agreed. “But that’s another expense.” He glanced around until he found a towel, stiff with age, crumpled near the sinks, and used it to wipe off a tall table in the center of the room. He opened a folder there and invited them to join him. “Basically,” he said, passing around papers from the folder, “there are three different approaches to running a winery. The first is the way we talked about last year, by operating your own vineyard. Since you already have established vines, that certainly makes the most sense. But it’s also, as you’ve seen, a risky way to a slow profit.”
“And expensive,” added Lindsay with a sigh. “All those vines we lost last summer just about wiped out the profit we made from hosting that wedding.”
“There’s nothing cheap about owning a winery,” agreed Dominic. “Or,” he added with a wink toward Cici, “having a wedding. Congratulations on your daughter’s engagement, by the way.”
“Thanks,” she replied a little distractedly. She held one of the papers at arm’s length in order to better read it, frowning. “What is this—312 cases per acre?”
“That’s how much wine your vineyard will produce at maximum capacity,” he explained, “if everything goes right.”
“Which it never does,” Lindsay pointed out.
Bridget, who had the foresight to bring her glasses, finished examining the sheet much more quickly than the other two, and now did some rapid calculating in her head. “It says here 2000 cases the first year, 10,000 cases in five years.” She looked up at him over the rims of her readers. “We only have six acres in vines. We can’t even make 2000 cases, much less ten.”
He nodded. “The difficulty is that any winery with a production of less than 5000 gallons a year has very little chance of success, and you’ll come in just under that even if all goes well.”
“Wait a minute,” said Lindsay, looking up from her paper. “You said that the Blackwells didn’t run a small winery, but they had the same amount of acres we do, right? So what did they do?”
He smiled. “You don’t make money
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