Page 16 of Twin Babies For The Grump

“Alright,Ithinkthat’severything,” I say, adjusting the big message that I’ve just pinned to the corkboard in the employee break room.

The break room is large, with a glass-top table and a mini fridge on the counter. It’s got AC but I don’t have it running right now, instead opting to turn on the large fan that’s hanging from the ceiling.

The message has been printed on a large piece of white poster board, in big black letters. I wanted it to be impossible to miss, even if the professional appearance of it suffers slightly as a result. I figure that doesn’t matter too much, considering that it’s been hung up alongside a slew of post-it notes and slips of papers that are very, very much out of date.

I hadn’t realized that the break room needed such a cleanup. I need to toss that on the never-ending list of work that needs to be done.

Adela leans over my shoulder, reading it silently. “I guess that’s one way to address everything. Do you think—”

“Nope, I’m not changing it. This is a seventh draft attempt, and I’m not happy with it but— Look, it is what it is. I printed it. It’s up,” I tell her, turning away from it. It was really hard to try and come up with a way to cover everything. Every time I tried to write the notice of Thomas’s funeral, I would start tearing up again.

“Alright, that’s fair enough,” Adela says.

“It’s more than fair. I took care of what needs to be taken care of, and everyone knows that they have the day off for Thomas’s funeral, if they want to go.”

“Paid?” Adela asks, a hopeful lilt in her voice.

“Paid.” I nod. The new boss hasn’t actually gotten here yet, so I made the executive decision on that one. I figure that some of the older folks wouldn’t want to miss out on a paycheck for it, and I didn’t want anyone to be bitter, feel regret down the line because they missed it, or get put into a hard spot financially because of this funeral.

“He would like that,” says Adela. “Thomas was always too good to us.”

I hope so. At this point, word has more than just spread that Thomas has passed on. Everyone in the company knows it. The news crews know it. I would say that half of Napa Valley knows it as a result. But it still felt like the proper thing to do was to make an official announcement.

We step out of the break room, into the large room containing the bulk of the shelves of the newer bottles of wine. It’s kept cool and dark, so I’ve got a jacket pulled on over my pink button-up blouse.

“Are you going to the funeral?” Adela asks.

“I wanted to, but Twenty called and wants to do a think piece that day,” I say, unable to stop myself from sounding miserable. “I can’t pass on it, or they’re going to talk about how the vineyard has closed up as a response, and we aren’t able to keep a professional public face, and… Ugh, you know how they are.”

Adela shakes her head. “They know what’s going on. That’s just… vulture behavior. Can’t you make someone else handle it?”

“No one else is going to know what to say. And it wouldn’t be right of me to tell someone that they have to stay and skip the funeral. Unless that’s an offer from you?” I ask.

Adela glances away.

“That’s what I thought,” I tell her, and then go on to explain, “They’re a big fan of Seymore Vineyard,” I point out. “That’s who they always back. The fact that they want to do an interview with us means that they’re either trying to make us look bad, or they think we have a better chance at winning than Seymore. Either way…”

I pause, both in thought and in steps. My gaze flicks through the shelving units, over the dark green frosted bottles. A small, sad smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“Entering this contest was the last thing that Thomas did for the company,” I say. “And you know how passionate he was about it. I just want to make sure that I do everything correctly. For him.”

“That’s really sweet, Tess. You know, I’ve been working here a long time. Thomas saw something special in you,” says Adela. “We’re glad to have you helping keep us up and running.”

“It’s a group effort,” I tell her, starting to walk again.

I follow Adela out into the west yard. It has a steep drop-off that overlooks the hillocks of the vineyard. Green and purple dot the land like a patchwork quilt, interspersed, on occasion, with a flash of brown from visible posts.

Adela says, “It might be a group effort—” We both pointedly ignore the fact that Sal is sitting and taking a break on one of the step systems nearby. “But even those need a good leader.”

“Speaking of leader, have you heard anything about Owen?” I ask.

Adela nods. “He should be here tomorrow.”

“Shit, really?”

“You’ll be able to breathe again.

We make our way down the dirt path, into the vineyard itself. I’ve got a clipboard in hand still, and as we approach one of the aisles, labeled with a letter and a number, I pull out the pen, tap the button to pop out the nib, and start jotting down notes on the health and pruning of the vines as we go.

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