“She’s a complete wine snob, Dad.” I comb my fingers through my still-dripping hair, then blot it with the towel, weighing whether I shouldconfess I’ve put out feelers for a replacement. He’ddefinitelydisapprove, and do I want his opinion?
Hard no.
“It’s not snobbery to have standards for your wine, Zoe Nicoletta.”
“Standards are one thing, messing with how we make our best-selling wine is another.” My thoughts drift back to the one interaction we’ve had since the wine bar, when I happened to catch her doing some weird shit to (Wish They All Could Be) Georgia Girls. Dad always ensures that the finished product goes into the bottle crystal clear and free from any unpleasant particulate, but instead of following his directions, Laine was bottling up wine the color of cloudy gold.
“It strips the flavors if you over-filter, boss,” Laine explained in this tight, miserable tone when I confronted her about it.
“Not everybody likes a mouthful of sediment when they’re drinking wine, Laine,” I’d replied, and she’d heaved a sigh and started over. But what would’ve happened had I not decided to lightly stalk her progress through the bottling? An entire season’s worth of our bestseller would’ve been unrecognizable to our customers’ palate, the strange organic cousin that brings pickled beet kombucha to the church potluck and gets hurt when nobody tries it.
“So what if she’s shaking things up a bit? Bluebell Vineyards needs a fresh outlook in its wine offerings, Zoe. My heart hasn’t been in it for some time, and I’m ashamed to admit that it shows in our declining quality.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, willing my blood pressure to fall. I get that every day, Dad holds himself up against what Mom could do and finds his work pitiful in comparison. I understand that’s the baggage he carries to his work, his own personal impostor syndrome.
But it still completely pisses me off.
“Dad, I’ve got to go. Busy day and all.”
Dad exhales into the phone’s receiver. “Okay, Zoe Nicoletta. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too, Dad. So much.” I sniff, the tears prickling against my will. “Give my love to everyone, especially Nonna.”
“I will. Ciao, Zoe.”
After the call disconnects, I let my head fall back onto the couch. Despite the conversation leaving me sour, Dad sounded lighter than usual. Brighter, even. Maybe things with Nonna aren’t as bad as we initially suspected. Maybe she’ll make a full recovery, and Dad doesn’t want to jinx it by talking about it. Then Dad could come home, and this purgatory with Laine would finally end without it having to mean something terrible for Nonna. The thought is so comforting, I hold onto it for a little longer, letting myself imagine it into being.
Loud cursing erupts outside, followed by a crash of metal, and inexplicably,bleating. A barrage of frantic knocking sounds upon my cottage door. I open it to find Gloria who, still wearing her softball gear, is clutching a leash attached to a belligerent, bucking goat.
“What the hell’s going on?” I tie my bathrobe tightly around my waist, looking between Gloria fuming on my step and Maeve running up the path to my cottage, desperately trying to catch up.
“Zoe, you’ve gotta take this goat RIGHT NOW!” Gloria’s tanned face is tomato red, sweat beading all over. She thrusts the leash at my hands, which I stupidly take.
“What do you mean, take the goat?” My eyes widen as the goat does a double backkick andbaas aggressively at Gloria. “Take it where?”
“Good morning, Zoe!” Maeve wheezes, fully out of breath. “Turns out we’re in dire need of a foster for this here goat!”
An incredulous huff of laughter bursts from my mouth. “Cannotdo, my friend.”
“Temporarily?” Maeve pants. “For my marriage’s sake? Come on, Laine already agreed!”
“No, she didn’t!”
“You have to take ’im, Zoe!” Gloria yells like an angry umpire calling an out, right in my face. “He ate my best mitt!”
“Baby, I told you, I’ll get you a new one,” Maeve says, as much in the doghouse as the goat.
“That mitt was three hundred dollars, Maeve!” Gloria spits out. “Three hundred dollars!”
“Y’all know I love you, but I can’t take your goat. Where would I even put it?” I try to shove the leash at Maeve, but she’s grabbed Gloria’s arm and is dragging her backward. Panic bubbles in my chest. I don’t know the first thing about animals. I don’tdopets!
“You’ve got a barn! Goatslovebarns!” Maeve hisses something to Gloria, and they both break into a full run back to their truck. “Thanks, Zoe! We’ll get this goat out of your hair ASAP!”
“Don’t you leave me with this goat, Maeve Jenkins!” I holler, but the screech of tires drowns me out, and Maeve and Gloria disappear in a cloud of dust.
I stare at the goat.
It stares back. Worse, it has the audacity to remain my problem. “Goddammit, come on.” I slip on my tennis shoes and tromp down the rows of vines, still in my damn bathrobe because how could I possibly change? Bring the goat into the cottage? Leave it to wander in my vineyard? Not happening. The goat trots behind me willingly enough until he sees the tempting new leaves on the Chardonnay vines.
