Page 3 of Geordie

That the generations to come will keep our memories, as our clan's motto demands:

Do not forget me after death.”

I'm thinking of abandoning my coffee for a walk. A stroll in the vineyard to conduct our meetings was a morning ritual with my cousin Lochlan when he was the manager at MacTavish Cellars and I was the winemaker.

I'm still considering a quick jaunt to clear my head when the phone rings. “MacTavish, Geordie speaking.”

“I'm glad you're there—”

“Connell,” not giving him time to continue, “it's a braw day. Why don't we discuss whatever you're calling about during a walk?”

“Sure, a walk sounds great,” his voice a wee bit distracted. “I just finished the crew meeting with three new hires.”

The joyous duties of the winemaker, that's one job I don't regret giving to Connell.

“The spout on one of the wine tanks is broken, wine is flooding everywhere!” a frantic voice shouts in the background. The phone thumps to the ground, our conversation forgotten. Connell's voice is distant while he talks to someone else. Feet scramble, equipment moves. “Jesus, hold it steady while I get the plug in,” Connell says to someone.

A voice answers him, but I can't tell which of our crew is talking.

Connell is my assistant winemaker. He's in the barrel room attending to an emergency; at least that's what it sounds like. He needs to come back on the line for me to know for sure. I stretch my neck a bit to get the tightness out; a massage later might be the answer to that irritation. I sip my coffee, wait, and notice how the sun illuminates the vines.

“That's done. Get everyone that's not with the vines to help mop up,” barking orders to the crew.

“Sorry, I'm back.” Connell breathes frustration into the receiver.

“Do you need me to come to lend a hand? I can be there in a few minutes. I just need to get my wellies on.”

“No need to get into your work boots; we have enough working. I didn't call to ask you to clean up.”

“Is the disaster averted?” I ask.

Someone shouts a question. He muffles the phone.

“Connell?”

“Yeah, Geordie, yeah, I'm here. I was calling about something else when one of the new crew broke the spout on the cab franc tank.”

“How bad is it?”

“We need to finish the cleanup before I can assess the damage. There's a problem. I'm scheduled to do a delivery to a new restaurant client. The customer is expecting me to drop off a few cases of wine around five tonight before their dinner service. I got hung up with the vines and I'm already running late; I'll never make it on time. I need to stay to manage the cleanup. Will you do the delivery? I would send a worker if it was an established client, but I promised to do the first delivery in case there are questions.”

With my cousin Lochlan helping his fiancée chase Olympic gold, I’ve assumed his manager duties at the California division of MacTavish Distilleries, headquartered in Edinburgh, Scotland. Spirits have been our business for a few hundred years, and we’ve built our reputation and fortune on our fine premium whiskey.

“Aye, I’ll do it. Send the information to my cell.” A relieved sigh comes through the phone as I end the call. Since I’ve become the temporary manager, it’s fallen on Connell to be the temporary winemaker. He’s taken his job seriously; I’m lucky to have his skill, especially in a crisis like this.

With my new duties, I’ve taken over Lochlan’s office as my working space. Easier to do the manager’s work here than in my old office near the barrel room, which is now occupied by Connell.

My cousin liked his privacy, so his office is in the far corner of the outer business building. From a dark mahogany desk and black leather chair, I look at the vines through a wide window. Lochlan ran MacTavish Cellars with serious efficiency. The space is stark except for one wall that’s a shrine to Kenzie, a story in pictures and mementos of their unusual courtship.

The tightness in my gut returns when I realize how much of a hole in my life my cousin’s leaving created. We were raised together in Scotland. When Lochlan was sent to America to open a winery and create the wine destination, Catriona, I came with him. We built the businesses together while I prevented him from ruining his life. I even improved his personality somewhat, although I haven’t weaned him from being a glass-half-empty laddie. He needed Kenzie with her guts and determination to love him, and he can’t imagine life without her. Now he has something to get up in the morning for besides the concerns of MacTavish Cellars.

My life is busier with the added duties, but I’m having a problem sustaining the same drive I had when we were working together. Lochlan was always my responsibility. A role I slipped into as a child. I didn’t know until now how much looking after him was part of who I am. Now that he’s gone, it’s just me.

I glance at my watch, the second hand sweeping the day away. There’s no time to change from jeans and my navy T-shirt with the MacTavish Cellars emblem on the pocket. I look official enough to deliver a few cases of wine.

The information comes through from Connell with instructions, tasting notes, and where to find the invoice. The wine order is for Dalliance, a new fusion restaurant in downtown San Pacitas. I read an article a few months back about the chef having worked in two Michelin-rated restaurants and how she's hoping to pull a few stars down from the sky for Dalliance.

I find a white loading zone on the busy street. The five o'clock traffic is bumper-to-bumper for a few blocks. Most of these vehicles will take the on-ramp to 101 about a half a mile down the road, which should ease congestion further down. This seems like a poor location for a restaurant. Other than foot traffic, how is Dalliance filling its restaurant with limited parking?

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