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Leading her back toward the entrance to the farmhouse, I launch into tour-speak, the throwaway two-minute introduction to the family winery that I know by heart. My father had all of us work as unpaid tour guides in our teenage years.
I think it was his way of indoctrinating us into the culture of the place he’d spent his entire life building while getting some free labor. Sounds like my father. For a moment, my mind drifts back to how he was in those days—before he became an overbearing tycoon who suffered no fools. And before the more recent days when those very qualities I hated began fading from sight, making me yearn for them just a little bit.
But I don’t tell Ruby any of this. Instead, I lead her back through the reception area, where guests queue up for tours and wine tasting.
“My grandfather founded the vineyard using a strain of grapes from a region in France wherehisgrandfather grew up and farmed his family’s land for his entire life. There’s still a small winery in the Loire Valley run by a distant cousin,” I tell her, leading us up the stairs where guests aren’t allowed.
At the top, a wide landing yields to hallways leading in three directions.
We follow the middle route, lit by skylights running the length of the building and taking us past windows that look out over the vineyards. The creeping vines fan out in neat rows as the yellow morning light dances on the pale edges of twisting leaves.
When we reach the doorway of my office, I point to a grey velvet button-tufted couch I never would have picked if anyone had consulted me about décor. Which is probably why no one consulted me.
I make the mistake of looking at my computer before we begin talking. “Dammit.” The outburst comes before I can restrain it.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just financial stuff. Numbers in the wrong columns?”
She laughs. “You mean losses instead of gains?”
“Something like that.” Exactly like that, but I shouldn’t be telling that to a complete stranger.
“Sounds stressful.”
“You have no idea, Ginger.” I shut my laptop. If I can’t see the red ink right in front of me, maybe I’ll stop sharing my business problems.
Ruby perches on the edge of the cushion, knees together. Glancing at her bare legs, I wonder why she chose to wear shorts to a job interview. Then again, she thought it was logical to show up at six in the morning, so I roll with it.
“Let me see your resume.” I swallow a yawn that’s a direct result of not finishing my coffee and sit behind my desk.
“I didn’t bring it. Dashiell has a copy.”
“Dash isn’t here.”
She gives me a look that reminds me of Fiona, who, at age seven, has already mastered a withering stare capable of melting steel. “I can see that. So, what? Do you want me to recite my career milestones for you?” She stands up and stretches as though getting ready for a thespian throwdown. “Would you like it to rhyme?”
Her ballsy sass would have no place in a normal interview, but I like it. I’m so used to people meekly saying yes to me and cowering under my glare. She doesn’t give a shit about any of it, and I find it refreshing. If completely confounding.
“Sure. In iambic pentameter.” My sarcasm flies unchecked because I know she can handle it.
“Are you always such a grump? Are you this way around your kid?”
“How’d you know I have a kid?”
Another withering look. “You thought I wanted to be your nanny, remember?”
“Right. As to your other questions, yes to the first, no to the second. I’m a very good dad.” I don’t know why it feels important that she believes me, but it does.
Her look has turned to skepticism. “Okay. Let’s not get off-topic. What incisive interview questions do you have for me?”
“Tell me about yourself. What qualifications do you have for the job you want?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Never said it wasn’t.”
Nodding slowly, she seems to be assessing whether she likes my questions well enough to answer them.
