Page 3 of Red Mountain Burning
2
Spring Berries
Otis’s words lingered through January and February in Brooks’s mind like a haunting melody. Was there any doubt that this mountain was his calling?
As the winds of March started to blow, the new vintage officially began. The hardworking men and women of the mountain had pruned all the vines, and the clippings lay dying around the trunks. Soon, there would be buds, and then flowers, and then baby grape clusters.
Brooks had been head winemaker at Lacoda since the musician Jake Forester had plucked him from Otis Till’s employment four years earlier. Brooks had assisted Jake in designing a gravity-flow winery that was cut three stories down into the earth, allowing them to use gravity as opposed to pumps to move the wine from one vessel to the next.
Brooks was currently in the cellar, thirty feet high at the top of a stack of barrels, having monkeyed up there as usual. He pulled out the bung and stuck his wine thief deep into the barrel of Minnesota wood. Drawing the thief out, he filled the crystal glass in his free hand.
Situating himself to a more comfortable lean, he looked down at the clean concrete floors and at the rows of barrels stacked high in the air, thinking back on the past vintage, the one that had brought him Adriana. For an orphan who had never had a girlfriend growing up, it was funny to think that two consecutive vintages had brought him the two loves of his life.
Abby and Adriana.
Abby had been his first love, and he’d asked for her hand in marriage. During their engagement, however, she’d admitted to cheating on him with Jake’s wife, Carmen Forester, on a drunken night earlier in their relationship. Having trust issues, Brooks wasn’t able to get past her infidelity and had ended their relationship. When he’d thought he’d never love again, Adriana had walked into his life.
He spun the stem in his hand, freeing the aromas, and stuck his nose into the glass. Oh God, how savory it was. A twinge of pencil lead overtaken with gamey notes, those savory qualities that might scare off someone with a less adventurous palate. Smoked meats and Gouda, mushrooms, earth—a wine that instantly transported you to a long wooden table with iron straps and an antique, wax-caked candelabra. A wine so dinner-worthy that it almost put a cut of lamb in front of you, begging a slow meal with the ones you love.
“Don’t get too lost in it,” someone said down below.
Jake Forester wore black jeans and a denim button-down. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his ink. Though he was fifteen years older than Brooks, people had often asked if the two of them were brothers. They both had dark hair and tattoos and dressed like bikers. But Brooks could list their differences for days. Having led a famous band for most of his life, Jake had a confidence that only a rock star could possess. He could walk onto a stage with 70,000 people and have them eating out of his hands after one note. His entrance into any room carried the same weight.
Brooks had flashes of that confidence, the kind that comes from being a well-known—dare he thinkfamous?—winemaker, but his past never stopped nipping at his heels. It hadn’t been easy to come back from growing up a runaway. Jake trusted everyone until that person did him wrong. Brooks trusted no one, even the ones he loved most. He couldn’t afford the scarring that came from being let down.
Brooks looked up to the man he was looking down on at the moment. His proximity to Jake Forester had saved him in many ways. Otis had taught Brooks the art of the vine. Jake had taught Brooks the art of life.
His boss put his hands on his waist and peered up at Brooks. “How are they tasting?”
“Like Red Mountain.” Brooks eased down one barrel at a time. He didn’t spill a drop from the glass as he plopped down onto the concrete next to Jake. “See for yourself.”
Jake spun the glass in circles and sniffed. The two men thought about wine differently too. Jake had found his love of wine by tasting all the greatest vintages. The great collectors of the world loved to open up their cellars to rock stars. Before he’d ever picked a grape, Jake had drunk the finest vintages of all the great houses in Europe. He’d drunk grand crus for breakfast. He’d flown into Barolo on a helicopter. He’d broken bread with Daganeau, Mondavi, and Gravner, to name only a few.
Brooks had cut his teeth on wine with a pair of shears and a shovel—by blade and dust. Though Otis had shared many wonderful bottles from his cellar in the eight years they’d worked together, Brooks’s education was rooted in the soil.
Tapping into his deep database of tasted wines, Jake thought for a moment and returned his eyes to Brooks. “Reminds me of ’04 Côte-Rôtie. Younger and fresher, of course.”
Brooks shook his head, not sure if he’d ever enjoyed an ’04.
Jake handed the glass back to Brooks. “I need to run something by you,” he said in a sobering, deeper tone.
It was fair warning that bad news was coming. Brooks found himself more like Otis these days, expecting the worst. “What is it?”
Jake looked both ways, making sure they were alone. “Carmen wants to come work for the winery.”
A bitter taste hit Brooks’s tongue, and it wasn’t the finish of the Red Mountain syrah. It took thirty seconds before he could even begin to process the news. Was Jake asking for Brooks’s approval or issuing a warning? What was Brooks supposed to say? Should he protest? Jake was his boss but also a friend. Brooks had never seen someone stand by his wife like Jake had for Carmen—even through the addiction, the rehab, the relapses. Speaking against the idea might get Brooks in trouble. Recognizing Jake’s devotion to his marriage, Brooks had to assume he’d already made up his mind.
“You’re not saying anything,” Jake said.
Brooks drew in a breath, still debating a reply. The fact was that it was a terrible idea. She would quite possibly ruin everything. “What’s she planning on doing?” he finally asked.
It wasn’t that Brooks hated Carmen. Even after the former supermodel had slept with Brooks’s fiancée and destroyed their engagement, he’d moved past it and forgiven her. He loved the rest of Carmen’s family too much to hold a grudge the rest of his life. But she was a storm chaser who loved and attracted toxic drama. Shealsohappened to be newly sober, which was nothing short of a recipe for disaster.
“I want her to run the front of the house. She won’t get in the way of what you do in the cellar. In fact, she’ll take some of the things you don’t want to manage off your plate. You’ll still be head winemaker and general manager, but she’ll run events, the tasting room, and the wine club. You don’t enjoy those parts anyway. Now you can focus even more on the vines and wines.”
Brooks’s head swam as the last bastion of his secure world crumbled. Amid all the shit that had fallen down around him, he’d found peace at Lacoda. If there was one thing Carmen was good at, it was yanking the rug out from under anything secure.
What do you say to a man who’s committed to his wife? A man who’s forgiven her a thousand more times than she deserved? A man who’s chosen his wife above all else?
