Page 7 of Love You Truly

Dash

I’m in a hurry because I’m late. Shocker.

Being late is how I roll because I get distracted by things that interest me, and it leads to all kinds of trouble.

Case in point, a food photo popped up on my social media last night, which led me to three different grocery stores before I found one that sold frozen yuca that I needed to make a jerk chicken potpie.

It didn’t bother me at all that I needed to roll out my own pie crust and bake it for an hour. It was delicious when I scarfed down a slice at one in the morning before reading a quarter of a crime novel and remembering to water my indoor plants before crashing for six hours.

But now I’ve been running late all day. Skipped breakfast. Got to my office with my hair still wet. Caught hell from my overly punctual siblings because they had to wait for me to hear about who I’ve interviewed for new positions. We need to be the best, so it means we need to hire the best. Unfortunately, my short list was a bit too short for their liking.

It’s been a struggle to find the sommeliers, viticulturists, and cellar masters we desperately need. The town is growing and competition is fierce. I’m a people person, and I’ve never had trouble attracting the best talent for our family business, but times are changing.

All at a time when Buttercup Hill has been losing key employees to competitors with big open checkbooks.

One last meeting of the day before I can blow off steam with my buddies at our weekly meetup at a bar in Calistoga. I need it tonight more than ever.

Archer sounded annoyed when I texted him after the family meeting, asking if he and I could meet separately. If anyone can convey annoyance via text, it’s my older brother.

Me: Can we meet?

Archer: We just met an hour ago

Me: I know

I see bouncing dots on my phone. Then they stop. I wonder if Archer is going to respond at all. Maybe his non-answer is his answer. Then the dots return.

Archer: Fine. My office, 6

Me: 6 in the eve?

Archer: Ha. Yeah. Surprised you know there’s another 6 in the day

At least he knows me.

The guy gets up at the crack of dawn and pounds out six miles before the bluebirds are awake. It’s just the way he’s wired. We couldn’t be less alike in that way, but in other ways, I feel a kinship. We’re both misunderstood. As much as people see me as the dopey golden retriever heartbreaker, people see him as irritable and cold.

Mostly, I think Arch is just unhappy. Getting laid would be a step in the right direction, but he’d have to be a little less growly in order to make that happen. He’s tightly wound by nature, but he’s been much worse since the entire brunt of being a winemaker fell on his shoulders with our dad’s advancing Alzheimer’s disease. On top of that, Buttercup Hill, our family’s winery, is operating in crisis mode.

Part of it has nothing to do with me, and part of it…well…let’s just say I could have made better choices.

On the financial side, we’re in dire financial straits. Again.

Our father, who grew Buttercup Hill into the behemoth it is, took half a billion from company funds and gave it to Graham Garcia, a half brother we never knew about until about a month ago. He runs Duck Feather Vineyards, right next door to our property, and seems hell-bent on competing with us. As it is, he’s hired away several of our key viticulturists right when we need to figure out how to increase sales. That means my ass was already feeling very toasty against a fire that keeps getting bigger.

Then, a few days ago, I ran into a local grower, Julia Soltero, at my favorite dive bar, and we got into a long conversation about the pinot noir grapes they might be willing to sell to the right buyer. Us! Buttercup Hill! We’re the right buyer.

I saw an opportunity. I’m a people person, or at least that’s what I’ve been told my entire life, so I bought Julia another round of drinks. We talked pinot grapes and professional soccer and whatever the hell else she felt like discussing. I wanted to bring in a win.

Problem is that Julia is married to Martin Soltero, and he’s the jealous type. When word got back about us “huddled in a corner of the bar,” he flew into a rage, accused me of trying to put the moves on his wife, and any chance we had of buying pinot grapes flew out the window like a trapped sparrow sensing daylight.

So now I have two problems. We still need more fruit if we’re going to meet our growth targets and keep investors happy, and apparently, I’ve personally scared off any vineyard owner with a wife, girlfriend, or even a wandering eye. Saying my siblings are angry with me is an understatement.

Standing outside Archer’s office, I try to gauge his irritability by looking at him. He has a baseball cap on backward and his shoulders are riding up near his ears. Not a good sign. He stands over his desk, staring at the schematics of our property.

“Hey, man. You good?”

As usual, he doesn’t look up when I enter his office. He speaks more to the paper on the desk than to me, fanning his hands over it.

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