Page 1 of Corkscrew You
ChapterOne
SHELBY
There’s a Porsche in my parking space. OK, so it’s not actually my parking space, it belongs to McRae Capital, but it’s the one JP said I should use when he asked me to meet with him today. I’m not even late. Cutting it fine, sure – but the space was promised to me, not some rude interloper with terrible taste in cars.
I mean it’s black, for one thing, and a basic spec. Why buy a Porsche that’s boring and sedate? If you’re going to show the world your thingy extension, then don’t be shy! Go for orange or lime green, with racing stripes and bling wheels and all the other trappings of inadequacy. Get a bumper sticker that saysMy Real One is Teensywhile you’re at it.
Sure, the owner could be a woman, but you just know it’s not, don’t you? You know it’s a guy with slicked-back hair, a custom-made suit that’s too shiny, and a tie that may as well have “rich douche” emblazoned all over it. No doubt that’s the chip on my currently flat-broke shoulder talking, but come on – the only fan of a man like that is the reflection that stares back at him in the mirror every morning.
Fig. No free spaces at all, and now Iamlate. JP’s great and he likes me, but this meeting’s too important to screw up. I need toslayit. I even dressed up. Put on my best boots and everything.
Too bad. I’m blocking Porsche guy in. Doubt he’ll rage around the office building looking for me – the Flora Valley Wines Dodge pick-up looks straight out ofSons of Anarchy. He won’t find out it’s being driven by a five-foot-four strawberry blonde until I hop back in the cab. And even then, who’s to say I don’t have a hulking, tattooed gang-brother riding shotgun?
Oops. Keep forgetting the Dodge has a big tow hitch. I set the brake, and jump down to check the damage to the Porsche’s hood. Hmm. Itmightbuff out. Any case, Tiny Johnson will no doubt have full-cover insurance. I don’t bother locking the Dodge. Idon’thave insurance, but no one round here’ll steal the late Billy Armstrong’s ride. They know my dad’s ghost would rise up and kick their butts into next week.
On the way up to JP’s office, I practice my spiel. I’ve edited out the part where I fall at his feet and kiss his shoes while grovelling my thanks for saying yes to buying Flora Valley Wines. JP’s firm was the last I pitched to because I’d heard he was a renowned hard man, with a reputation for biting off heads and spitting them out again half-chewed, like olive pits. But after being turned down by every venture capital firm in the entire universe, I was desperate. And not staunch desperate, either, but hyperventilating ugly-cry in the Dodge and occasionally in the elevator going down desperate.
Short story: when Dad died, Flora Valley Wines went to Mom, and she didn’t want it. Turned out, she hadn’t loved every minute of working fourteen-hour days for no pay, raising four kids, and living hand to mouth in the lean years. She lovedDadwith all her heart and would have done anything to help him achieve his dream, but now he was dead, and Mom wanted out. She wanted time to paint, which she’d never properly had before, in a small studio by the coast, with enough money to be comfortable in her golden years.
Not unreasonable, huh? You’d have to be a real Grinch to begrudge her. And, oh yes, Iwasthat Grinch. You see, Dad had told me that Flora Valley Wines was to be mine. Only he didn’t get around to putting that down in actual writing, and so with no will, by default everything he owned went to his wife, Lee, and not me, his daughter, Shelby.
My sisters and brothers were happy for Mom to sell up, which was fine for them because they all had jobs that paid real money, and besides, none of them enjoyed working in the vineyard, either. They won’t even buy grape jelly now. I was—Iam—the only one who truly cares about my dad’s business, his passion, his dream. He taught me how to make wine, and I’mgoodat it. For the five years before his death, Dad managed the business and I made the wine. We were a team. A somewhat chaotic, seat-of-the-pants team, I admit, but we weregettingthere. We weresoclose to turning it around.
That’s why I begged Mom and my grape-hating siblings to let me find an investor. Someone who’d keep the business going and let me stay on as manager and winemaker, to build it up, expand. They gave me six months, because they’re not actually horrible people and might even love me. They definitely feel sorry for me. They know I’ve given everything I have to the winery,allmy time and energy, to the point where my social life consists of an occasional drink with my two besties, and my bedmates have all been cats. It suits me fine. Cats are great. They’re natural-born foot-warmers.
And when they agreed, my siblings knew that either way, Mom would get her money. The only person set to lose out was me, but they all assured me I was young enough to bounce back. I didn’t argue because I don’t like conflict, plus I’m a natural optimist. Some might say unrealistic dreamer. Potato. Potahto.
And I didn’t argue because honestly, back then six months seemed an age. I’d nail this easily! Flora Valley Wines is agreatbusiness! All natural, biodynamic wines, made right here the old-fashioned way – hand-picked, and pressed by human feet, not a cold, soulless machine. What’s not to love?
After five months, one week and four days of hearing “No” (which took a while because they were usually laughing so hard that they couldn’t speak), the end was racing toward me like the cliff in my mom’s favourite movie,Thelma and Louise. Only I didnotwant to plummet to my death, taking the 2009 Pinot Noir with me. (Yes, I have a save-in-a-house-fire favourite vintage. Doesn’t everyone?)
So I approached McRae Capital and its hard-man CEO, JP McRae. He said yes. Then he had to say it again, because I was convinced that I hadn’t heard right. He said he’d been a long-time admirer of my dad and loved the Flora Valley ethos. He said he was nearing retirement and was ready to speculate on a worthwhile, if risky, investment. He said some other stuff, too, but I’d stopped listening owing to the fact that sheer relief was making my heart pound in my ears, and I possibly might have been chanting “Thankyouthankyouthankyou” under my breath.
That was last week, and today I’m meeting with him to go over the contract, work out the details. Assure him that I’m the right person to manage the business. That Idoknow how to take Flora Valley Wines into the future, or whatever it is they say in corporate-speak. Better learn all that jargon if I’m to add “Manager” to my business cards.
Better get some business cards, too.
OK, here’s JP’s door. Deep breath. Aannnnnd – knock!
“Shelby.”
There he is – JP McRae. Lean and Arctic foxy. Holding his hand out, smiling at me in such a warm, grandfatherly way that I almost fling my arms around his neck and hug him.
Good thing I havesomeself-control. For one, hugging is deeply unprofessional, unless you’re in the Mafia, and two, seems we’re not alone. There’s a guy with his back to us, staring out the office window. Youngish by the looks, tall, dark, broad-shouldered, in a fitted black shirt. Being extremelyrude at the moment by ignoring us, even if the viewispretty appealing. JP’s local office is in Martinburg and overlooks the town plaza with its cute pond and gazebo thingy. His main office is in San Francisco, but he’s only there a couple of days a week now. For which I give thanks. The Dodge is on its last legs. Regular trips to San Francisco could break it and force me to put a bullet through its grill.
Focus. JP is talking.
“Shelby, I’d like you to meet Nathan Durant. Nate, this is Shelby Armstrong, daughter of the famous Billy.”
Rude guy turns. Oh poop. He’s gorgeous. Blue eyes with long, dark lashes; whyisthat so sexy? Cheekbones! Holy knife edges, Batman, look at them! And thatmouth...
Focus, Shelby! He can see you gawking and that putshimon the front foot. Not that you have a clue yet why he’s here, but still. Professional is your word of the day. Managerial is your vibe.
“Good to meet you, Nathan.”
I stick out my hand because shaking hands is what managerial-type professionals do. Though if I’m to bestrictlyhonest, my real aim is to see him surprised. Years of grape pruning have given me a grip of iron. I’ve brought tears to the eyes of war veterans with forearms like silverback gorillas, and while it’s a petty wish, I know, I’d quite like to hear a small whimper escape rude-guy Nathan’s delicious mouth.
My wish is denied. He clasps my hand for a nanosecond and then drops it. Instead of replying, “Good to meet you, too,” all he does is nod. Once. Like he’s taken a vow of silence in some monastery for jerks.
