“Outside,” Thayle said, jumping back into the fray. She hadn’t been kidding, we were slammed. If it was this busy inside, I shuddered to think of what it must look like outside.
“Cosimo Grado,” a voice called as I was about to head outside.
I turned, saw him and reached out my hand. “Owen Smith. What the hell are you doing here?”
Owen’s family owned half of Kitchi Falls—a general store in town and one of the most popular local bars to start. The joke around here was that if the Smiths didn’t own it, they’d probably be buying it soon. It pissed some people off, but the way I saw it, his family had done the same thing as my own. They built a legacy through blood, sweat, and tears. If they reaped the rewards of their ancestors’ hard work, good for them. But I was surprised to see him standing in our tasting room in the middle of a Saturday afternoon.
“Birthday”—he nodded to his girlfriend. “She refuses to let me work. We’re wine touring this afternoon.”
“Nice,” I said. “Hang on.”
Edging my way to a display, I looked for a particular bottle. Grabbing it, I headed back to Owen and handed him the bottle. “Happy birthday.”
“How the hell do you remember? It must have been two years since I was here last?”
I remembered everyone’s favorite wines but didn’t say that. “Lucky guess. That one spent two years in French oak,” I said of the bottle of Sangiovese. “It’s at its peak, so don’t save it.”
“Save it? Are you kidding? I’ll be drinking it later.”
“Enjoy,” I told him, leaving my old friend and heading outside. Owen and I graduated high school together. As eldest sons taking over the family business, we had a lot in common. We even played football together. I played in college too, but after graduating, I took up golf. These days I was lucky to get to anything but the gym.
Jesus.
If I had thought it was busy inside, the deck was positively slammed. Most of the customers out here were sitting in Adirondack chairs, sipping wine and enjoying the view. But there were a handful of tasting tables too. One was already being manned, another was occupied by a group lingering after a tasting, and a third was mine for the next half hour.
Six women, not girls (thank you for clarifying, Thayle), stood around a picnic table, peering down at their tasting sheets. I counted at least three in cowboy boots, a trend this summer. By the end of May, I could tell what fashion trend I would be seeing a lot of over the summer. Last year, it was scarves. A fucking stupid idea in the summer. This year, cowboy boots.
I usually planted a smile on my face when it came to customers, but today I just wanted to get through the next hour until tastings were finished. As I approached, one of the women spotted me and, not so subtly, hit her friend on the arm. They both looked up, gaping. I didn’t have time to be flattered.
As I approached, the three with their backs to me began to turn around, prompted by the others to have a look. If they were impressed, which they clearly were, I’d love to introduce them to Marco, who didn’t just look like a model. He was one. At least, for a brief stint when he was younger. It was a constant source of entertainment for the whole family, who loved to tease him about it.
“Afternoon, ladies,” I said.
A round of hellos greeted me. I moved to the head of the long table so I could talk to the whole group. The only woman who hadn’t turned to look at me finally did glance up from her phone.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
She was smoking hot. Looked like . . . someone, but I couldn’t place it. Long brown hair, eyebrows that demanded you stare at her eyes, which was exactly why I turned away.
“Welcome to Grado Valley Vineyards. My name is Cosimo, and I’ll be your tasting attendant today. Where are you ladies from?”
I said the words as if I’d done so a million times because I had. When my friends had been messing around at the docks or cruising the ten blocks that made up Kitchi’s downtown, my siblings and I had been here, on the estate. Before we were old enough to serve wine, we pruned and fertilized vines, crushed and destemmed grapes, moved barrels, whatever needed to be done.
“All over,” the woman closest to me said. A beautiful blonde who was probably from the city.
“Some New York. Some Pennsylvania,” another chimed in.
Six out of ten on the drunk scale, my ass. These ladies were feeling good. But they weren’t sloppy. Just buzzing.
“Great,” I said. “Are we ready to get started? Did you pick out your wines yet?”
The barrage of questions began. I didn’t mind. Could answer them without really even listening. Wine education was a part of the job. So I patiently explained the difference between varietals and guided them toward making their decisions.
But there was one who apparently didn’t need my help. Not because the hot one knew her wines, most likely. But because she was on her phone. Again. I’d never understand why someone paid to come out here, with this view of Seneca Lake behind them, to stare at a small screen.
Beautiful, for sure. And also the exact kind of woman I couldn’t stand. But since it wasn’t good business to tell her it might be a better idea to give her real, live friends and their surroundings as much attention as her phone, I ignored her instead.
“Okay,” I said, gathering up their forms. “Let me have a look.”