I frown, mulling that over. “Why would the new reds be safe, but everything else not?”
Jamal shrugs. “The new red blends have been bottle-aging since late July, correct?” When Laine nods, he shrugs again. “The infestation must’ve occurred after that. Since it’s not in last season’s wines, either, this is a new problem. Did anything out of the ordinary happen since August? Any visitors to the winery that might’ve brought it in on their clothes?”
One second passes, two, andboom. The realization hits, its implications rippling outward in shock waves. My eyes widen.
“Rachel!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
While Laine and I drowsed on the tasting room floor, the security footage shows Rachel lumbering into the winery, knocking into everything, then leaning over an exposed tote of base wine with what must’ve been a contaminated stirring rod and swirling it ferociously until Laine and I walked in and unknowingly cut the Brett sabotage short. Not that it did us any good. Brett spreads so perniciously, all it would’ve taken was Rachel walking in with Brett on her clothes, and she’d probably have been able to affect most, if not all, of our base wines for next year. The direct contamination with the stirring rod just made it move on a faster schedule.
I don’t knowwhatto do about it. Call the cops for trespassing? Get on the phone with Kira and put together a devastating lawsuit of business sabotage? Hold her down while Laine pours a bottle of Georgia Vomit Girls down her throat? I alternate between a fury too big for my body and a crushing desolation thatanyonecould hate me this much.
The thing is, I’d started to think that maybe Rachel still cared about me. Shehadtried to warn me about Laine all summer. It seemed like she’d been watching out for me, in her own toxic way.
But the footage is unambiguous. She practically threw herself into that tote, which Jamal confirmed was ground zero as far as Brett goes. Its readings were the highest of all.
I lower myself onto the winery’s floor, propping my elbows on my knees, and breathe. Our entire season of base wines is both contaminatedand irreplaceable. When Laine realized something was wrong yesterday morning, Tristan spent the day calling every vineyard in the southeast to see if anyone has surplus base wine they’d be willing to sell, but it’s too far along in the season—everything’s been sold or slated for use. Our short-term looks even worse. We’d have to thoroughly decontaminate the winery before we host anything here, or else we could spread it to every vineyard in the area. That kind of effort takes weeks, months even. How can we gather that much manpower in just seven days?
Can we evenaffordto?
Every free dollar I had, I put into the showcase, not to mention all the money I already owe Teddy for the infrastructure improvements. We’d have to buy hazmat suits and industrial cleaning supplies, plus throw away every barrel we have and start over from nothing. A winery with no grapes, no barrels, no money, is a winery with nowine. No future.
I huff out a breath as I scrub my bleary eyes with the palms of my hands. The biggest problem I had five hours ago—how to ask Laine to stay—is theoneproblem I no longer have. Because what’s left to stay for now? Me and my wreck of a vineyard? My mother’s dreams, which I’ve treated like an inheritance at best and a sentence at worst, instead of seeing them for what they are: an excuse.
An excuse to hide from life by burying myself in work.
“Zoe?” Jamal places his hand on my shoulder, but even through his thick glove, I can feel his warmth. “What do you want to do?”
WhatdoI want to do? Give up and go to Oregon with Laine? She’s barely made eye contact with me since I got home and is currently slumped over my father’s worktable, but I have no doubt she’ll do anything I ask her to right now. For her, this is the Hayseed Vintner review all over again, only this time the failure’s been feeding on nuclear waste and has morphed into Failure-zilla, bigger and deadlier than ever.
This couldruinher.
The realization that Laine will carry this failure around for the rest of her life—whether here or in Oregon or somewhere else, letting it define her and keep her small—makes me lift my head.
I can’t let that happen. Iwon’t.
I’m Zoe fucking Brennan, and goddammit, I know how to lose. I know how to try and fail andkeeptrying and failing, until Iwin.
I stand up so fast that Jamal flinches.
“I want to get towork.”
I put out the bat signal to everyone I know, explaining the situation and what I need from them. Jamal, bless him, stays up with Laine and me into the wee hours of the morning, running scenarios for how we could fix this. We come up with one possible solution—an intense round of sterile filtration bookended with heavy sulfur treatments—and hold our breath as Laine pours us each a small tasting glass of the first batch it produces, sometime around three a.m.
“Okay, boss.” Laine tentatively passes me a glass, her bloodshot eyes filled with hope and fear in equal measure. “Bottoms up.”
Jamal watches nervously from behind his hood. This task is mine and Laine’s alone. I lift the glass first to my nose and …
“Nothing,” I announce, then sniff harder. “I smell nothing.”
Laine smells hers, too, and nods. “A light scent of the alcohol itself, maybe. Nothing else.”
We share a flutter of a smile. Not that that’sgood, per se. Wine should smell like wine. But my heart beats a little faster, fueled by relief that at least it no longer smells like Baahlzebub’s stall. I lift the glass again, this time to my lips, watching Laine mirror my actions.
Here goes nothing.
Laine gags before I do. I can’t even swallow it, choking it back out and into my glass. “Ohgod.”
