Page 17 of Tangled in Vines

Laughing softly, I gestured to them to follow me to the bar, and pulled a few bottles from the shelves. Scattered around the room were old, oversized barrels fashioned into the height of a bar stool to mimic the smaller bucket seat, also made from old barrels but padded.

“I’m sorry, my dad is not one to give our cutesy names. Most of our drinks are simply named Sullivan Cabernet 37 or Sullivan Cabernet 41,” I said while taking a few bottles from the shelves.

“Interesting,” Ben mumbled. “We met with Mister Vega yesterday, and the names of his mead match the taste to a T. I sipped his Shitkicker last night, and it goddamn delivered.”

My stomach swooped to my feet, and I barely held back a grumble. “Course he did.”

Hollister heard it, though, and smirked. “Do I hear some… rivalry?”

Damn it.

Turning back to them, I pasted on a smile. “What I mean is that, despite our differences, Vega is a brilliant man. He is a hundred and ten percent dedicated to his family’s business, and he eats, sleeps, and dreams mead. I am sure he would put that energy into branding as well.”

“Sounds like you don’t have as much… differences with him as he has with you,” Ben said.

“There was a time when we could have been friends. Sadly, it never happened,” I replied while opening the bottle and pouring our three glasses. “But bygones are bygones. I have for you a blend of Mars Grapes and Concord, with flavors of raspberry, red currant, sassafras, and a hint of mint, aged for five years in oak barrels. Please.”

We went on to check the wine’s appearance first, and then after that, I explained how to assess the taste of wine; they took a sip and discussed complexity and character, describing the notes, aftertaste, acidity, and smoothness.

“That’s good,” Trevor mentioned. “A rump steak would go wonderful with this.”

“Filet Mignon, too,” Evan added.

I poured out glasses of a palate cleanser, and they took it. “I am glad to hear that. This one is Syrah grape, with cranberry and lingonberry flavors, black pepper, and a twist of jalapeño. This is Sullivan Cabernet 12.”

“Whoo, doggy-dog,” Ben murmured. “That gets the motor running quickly.”

Trevor blinked. “I never knew wine would be sweet and spicy at the same time.”

I held back a grin. “There was a time my father decided to add unconventional spices to our wines; spices from India, Australia, Japan, you name it, Dad tried it.”

After another round of cleanser, I poured out the last red. “This is our Garnacha Grape, blended with black cherry, raspberry and bramble fruit, cinnamon, and is aged for seven years.”

“This is rich,” Hollister praised the wine, lifting the glass to the light to see through it. “I like it.”

“I agree,” Dalston nodded while squinting at the wine. “It’s full-bodied, rich, has a depth of taste, and will pair wonderfully with a lot of our products.”

“That’s good and all,” Ben stretched out a leg. “But I want to know more about this rivalry between you and Vega. It doesn’t seem like you have the same rivalry with the Clarkston’s.”

I corked the bottle and wiped a spilled droplet. “I wish I could give you the straight answers as the variations shift from decade to decade. Some say it started back in England before our families fled to Holland and came over to America. It is also possible that our families were two different serfs in England who were constantly at war with each other, and the hatred continued.

“Another version says the Vega’s were our servants back in the old country and were therefore obligated to come when the family fled persecution. When they came here, they broke away and hated us for the servitude they had to suffer from us for years—” I shrugged. “And a third version says one of our families had been given two different commissions from the Protestant church leaders. One was to keep the peace, and the other was never to mingle. Who knows which is which.”

Ben let out a whistle. “That is twisted.”

“I wish I had a time machine to go back and ask my great-great-granddaddy what happened,” I replied while lining up some bottles of white to share. “But until such a machine is made, we shall have to live in mystery.”

“I still think there was a—”

Elbowing Ewan, Ben huffed. “That theory still is a crackpot one with a side of malarkey.”

I quirked a brow, “What...is he talking about?”

“Ewan here thinks there was some forbidden romance going on, or went on,” Mr. Dalston said calmly while swirling his glass. “Some version of Romeo and Juliet.”

My brow shot up. “That’s… well, forgive me for saying it, but that’s insane on the face of it. None of our family members could be in the same room without storm clouds gathering over our heads and lightning flashing around us.”

“You never know,” Ewan grinned. “Hate and love are sides of the same coin.”

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