Page 20 of Corkscrew You
Oh, boy. I’m in a dinghy of ignorance adrift on a sea of jargon. And hating every minute of it.
“How can a wine provide an experience?” I ask, trying not to sound toosnippy. “It’s not a tour guide.”
“No, but thewineryis,” says Nathan. “We need to bring people here, and we need to take the winery to them.”
“Bring people here? You mean, like a tasting room?”
This doesn’t sound completely terrible, but I’m wary.
“I mean exactly that. Why did your father never set one up?”
“I think Mom objected.” I’m trying to remember. “She felt the winery intruded enough into our family life.”
“Well, we need one now,” says Nathan. “How doyoufeel about it?”
Good question. If I ignore everything else he said about Dad, I can give an honest answer.
“OK, I guess,” I say. “It’ll be … different.”
“We need a website, too. Can’t believe you’ve never had one.”
“Dad used to call, and send emails out,” I explain. “Thought it was more personal to talk to his customers directly.”
The customers wholovedhim.
“Not a bad tactic,” Nathan says. “But not efficient. And not broad reaching. Today’s wine consumers do alotof online shopping. Those we can’t get here in person, we want here virtually. Our website will need to work hard.”
I note the “we.” But it’s not enough to make me feel good about this conversation. He’s basically saying that everything Dad and I have done up till now, has been wrong. And though Idoknow we have to change, I resent his wholesale dismissal of our years of hard work.
“Hey.”
My thoughts must show on my face. Hopefully, not too plainly.
“This is not a criticism,” says Nathan.
OK, my thoughts have come across loud and clear.
“Nothing you’ve done will go to waste,” he tells me. “Flora Valley makes great wine, and that’s ultimately all that matters. If we take these initiatives, we can make it a great business, too.”
“We” again, and his expression and tone of voice are kind, sincere. I really believe he means it.
All Chiara’s advice about being matter-of-fact and focused on the work go out the window. For the first time, I feel someone else has my back, and the relief of that is so immense, I think I might cry.
‘Shit,” says Nathan. Because would you look at that – Iamcrying. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Youhaven’t—”
It comes out as a damp hiccup. I look around for a tissue box but the closest paper to hand is the stack of bills and though I’d happily blow my nose on them, Nathan might object.
A handkerchief appears in front of my face. It’s white and crisply ironed. Like I’ve only ever seen in movies.
“Blame my mother,” he says. “She slips one in my pants pocket every morning.”
My laugh turns into a sneeze, and the handkerchief is no longer crisp. I’m not sure how much snot is acceptable in a professional relationship but it’s too late now.
“Thanks,” I say. “For this,” I crush the handkerchief in my fist, “and for wanting this place to succeed. It means alot.”
I finally meet his gaze, and we offer each other a tentative smile. Nathan’s a little trapped behind the desk, but he reaches out to give my arm a reassuring pat. The instant we touch, there’s an electric flash of connection. At least there is for me. But maybe I’m over-sensitive all round this morning.
