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“It’s doable for this year. We’ll have to be creative. The tight schedule will allow Vacation Dream Homes to help promote the event before its season ends.” Wilson lifted a wine bottle, filled a glass, and shoved it across the wine barrel to me. His meaningful look told me to take the wine and shut up.
I declined the wine. I had to be clearheaded for the tax meeting.
“This year’s harvest is in about seven weeks.” I looked at the other four people, who’d lost their minds. A field trip to the dancehall might be required to reestablish a firm connection with reality. No bathrooms. No kitchen. No parking. Not to mention a million minor details like no glassware or furniture. Seven weeks wasn’t long enough to do it right.
“It’s a great branding opportunity. The grape stomps draw big crowds across the Texas wine country.” Rae’s eyes flashed with challenge as she stared at me.
“You said we need to market Blue Star products directly to consumers to increase profits. Here’s your chance to sign all the grape stompers up for farm subscription boxes.” Cami pointed at me.
“Oh my God, yes!” Rae grabbed Cami’s arm and squeezed. “This is what I was talking about in the marketing plan, the synergy of message. Blue Star is everything a consumer needs to bring a taste of the Hill Country home: wine, grass-fed free-range beef, honey, seasonal produce. All of it. Have you thoughtabout growing flowers? There is this farm on social media making a killing on direct-to-consumer flowers.”
“Flowers?” I rasped.
“Yes, can’t you imagine big fields of sunflowers next to the vines?” Rae glowed with zealous enthusiasm.
“It would be gorgeous,” Cami agreed excitedly.
I grabbed the glass of wine that I’d turned down moments ago and chugged half. It wouldn’t be gorgeous; it would be an agricultural nightmare. I’d need a new expert to deal with all the myriad of new pests and problems growing flowers would bring.
“That’s for the future. You’re driving Atley to drink. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize: seven weeks to The Stomp!” Wilson lifted his glass for a toast.
I didn’t want to be part of the commercialization of Blue Star, but as long as I was manager of the ranch, I had to get on board with the plan. An invisible knife sunk deep into my gut. I gritted my teeth and absorbed the inevitable pain.
I twisted my head right then left, cracking my neck like I was limbering up for a prize fight. “To the grape stomp.” I was the last to raise my glass and join the toast.
“To The Stomp!” Cami shouted with ten times more enthusiasm than I’d had.
I met Rae’s eyes under everyone’s glasses and gave her a sincere nod. She’d won. I would be her unwilling slave on this hellish mission.
I would hate most of what she was doing, but I’d never directly undermine her success. She’d trusted me with her body and now was trusting me with her future. I’d never pollute the memory of our night together by undermining her goals. Once she packed her seventeen suitcases and left Texas in her dust, I could convince Wilson to undo the most disruptive parts of her changes… hopefully.
“Vive la Blue Star!” Gabriel added.
I drained my glass. At least the tax meeting wasn’t until two this afternoon.
Chapter 8
Rae
A hush fell overThe Pub as we all waited for the final bar trivia question. It had been neck and neck all night between our Blue Star team and a team of local artists. They had pulled ahead after last round’s 17th-century art category. I suspected they had included the obscure questions in the category to keep the artists coming back week after week.
Thankfully, this round I’d redeemed myself with a strong showing in both state capitals and presidents. The mayor who asked me to call her Amaryllis,squee, held her own in the popular TV and space race categories.
“Edward Kemeys designed the lions that guard the entrance to the Art Institute in this city?” Sherman Phelps, The Pub’s owner and trivia MC, read in a booming voice laced with Texas twang.He looked the part of a small-town bar owner: silver-white hair, barrel chest, and wide friendly smile. I could see telling him my problems while I put back a few cocktails.
I chuckled and all eyes at our table turned in my direction. “I got this. Give me the answer sheet and the last cheese stick.”
Gabriel handed over the paper where he’d been writing our answers. In careful block printing, I wrote out CHICAGO and turned it for the others to read. I’d walked past The Art Institute lions more times than I could count over the years living downtown.
“Woo-hoo! I knew bringing you tonight was our lucky charm.” Cameron, who’d been a tremendous help in the Texas history category, refilled my beer from the pitcher on the table and pushed the basket with the coveted last fried cheese stick over to me.
“Come to momma.” I bit into the hard-earned cholesterol-laden appetizer with relish. Damn, why was fat so yummy and so fucking hot? I puffed hot cheese steam out of my parted lips and grabbed my beer.
“Easy there, girl, don’t they have fried cheese in the Midwest?” the mayor asked with a wink. I was pretty sure that was a Wisconsin cheese-head joke.
Touché, Amaryllis.
Once the cold beer had saved the skin on the roof of my mouth from blistering, I answered. “Better. We have fried cheese curds. They will change your life.”
