Page 19 of Christmas Home

Like the wine, I kept my expectations low and figured it would be anything from velvet paint by numbers to amateurish art, but as I wandered over to the canvases, I saw how wrong I was. I’m not an art connoisseur, but my father considered quality artwork as investments. He and his friends fretted about it enough that I eventually learned what to look for, in case a piece of art came available.

These pieces were magnificent, with confident brush strokes that adorned the canvases with color, and shadow that contrasted beautifully with the light. I was mesmerized. I turned to see Corey had the same expression on his face. “These are stunning,” Corey exclaimed, and for a brief moment, I remembered my assistant had majored in art before coming to work for me.

Lance and Jake, along with the woman, Lia, were all smiling knowingly at us. “They are true works of art,” Lance said.

“Who’s the artist?” Corey asked, almost reverently.

“Matt Brinks. He’s becoming quite well-known,” Lance replied.

“I can see why,” I said.

“Well, let’s get to what you came for,” Lia said, leading us to a beautiful table in front of a window that showed both the wheel outside and what must be remnants of the original building before it was renovated.

She placed wine glasses in front of us, along with spit buckets and water. I’d been to enough wine tastings to know they took this seriously. In fact, even if the wine tasted horrible, the setup would make any French winery proud.

“I’m going to start you with our merlot,” she said, pouring each of us a glass. “You’ll notice our merlot is slightly different from what you might find on the West Coast. That’s the natural acidic soil.” I swirled my glass and sniffed, surprised to find the acceptable scents for a table merlot.

Lia was saying something about how the soils of Tennessee had once been an ancient sea, but the flavor burst forth enough to cause me to focus less on her and more on the taste. Perfect? No. Equal to the French or the Western U.S. wines? No. But I wouldn’t hesitate to put this on my table, even if I were entertaining.

Lia smiled at my surprised reaction and pulled out another bottle. “Pinot noir is the first grape we tried here at the winery,” she said as we all swished and prepared for the next tasting. Jake and Lance watched closely as we tipped the wine back, and the flavor flooded my pallet.

My eyes widened as I was overwhelmed by the taste. “This is delightful. This wasn’t raised in Tennessee. You’re pulling my leg,” I said, and Jake, Lance, and Lia all laughed.

“I grew up on Long Island. My father was a lead physician there, and he is the biggest wine snob I’ve ever met, yet even he can’t fault the wine here,” Lance said.

Both things shocked me. First, Lance was from Long Island. I hadn’t detected an accent on the drive here, or the other times I’d spent with him. His accent made me think he’d probably grown up here. Second, this wine was probably one of the best pinot noirs I’d tasted, and since it’s one of my favorite wines, I’ve tasted my fair share of them.

“It’s won more than a few awards, all of which are on display downstairs behind the official tasting area. I’ll let you peruse those on your own. No one likes a boastful host,” Lia said, chuckling.

She hesitated momentarily, then sighed. “I wasn’t going to try this one out on you. It’s a bit of an acquired taste, but we’ve been experimenting with one of our wild grapes here. It’s called muscadine, and normally it’s disgustingly sweet. Great for jelly, mind you, but not good for wine.”

She paused and shook her head. “I’ll just hush and let you taste it. Tell me honestly what you think.”

I was back to my original fear of tasting a disgustingly sweet wine when Lia poured each of us a glass. “We haven’t perfected it, but the blends are nice, and—” She gestured for us to sip. “—you will catch that intense bite of muskiness. That’s the muscadine. We want to capture that while avoiding the sweetness.”

I could tell where she was going with it. The bite was pleasant. The blend wasn’t bad either, but she was correct, it wasn’t quite right, at least not yet. “If you can figure this out, it’s going to become a favorite,” I said and took another sip, enjoying the different flavor profiles.

She smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Logan, our vintner, is fairly certain this year’s batch will yield the results we’re hoping for. Lots of people have tried to tame the Tennessee muscadine, but none have accomplished it…yet.”

“Invite us back!” Corey blurted, surprising me.

Lia smiled and nodded. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait at least another year, but you’re welcome to come test the new samples then. In the meantime, would you two enjoy coming for the harvest? If you’re here this fall, Logan and Matt host a huge harvest festival. It’s become quite the event.”

“Do they share their wine?” I asked, getting a chuckle from everyone except Corey, who was still looking wide-eyed at the wine we’d just tasted.

“We do, but it will cost you. If you’re willing to sit through Logan’s classes, you can actually help harvest the grapes.”

“But he’s becoming more and more of a stickler as time goes on,” Jake said, triggering a snicker from Lia.

“The man is a perfectionist when it comes to his grapes, but as you can taste, he’s extracting some amazing flavors out of them.”

“That he is!” I admitted before Lia left all three bottles open in front of us, pulled out a cheese tray from a refrigerator behind her, and set the tray on top of the bar. “Help yourself. This is Jake’s treat. Enjoy,” she said and went back downstairs.

“This wine is so much better than I would’ve dreamed. I honestly believed it was going to make me gag.”

Both Lance and Jake chuckled. “We knew exactly what you expected, but we enjoyed watching you discover it, just like we did.”

I poured myself another glass of the excellent pinot, and when Corey gestured toward his glass, I also poured him some. “I’d like to buy several bottles to take back to the condo,” I said, and Jake nodded.

---