“How about a snack?”
“I’d love one,” I say. “My driver’s waiting for me though, so it has to be a quick one.”
Delores moves to the worktable and quickly scoops slices of cantaloupe, jicama, papaya, mango, and watermelon into plastic cups before spicing them with a generous dash of classic chili-lime salt. Then she pours a steaming cup of dark roast for us both and joins me across the intimate, round table.
“Cheers!” She clinks her cup of fruit against mine.
I pop a piece of cantaloupe into my mouth and moan at the blend of sweet and spicy. Talk about childhood memories. I have a mild out of body experience with the first few bites, then realize Delores is rapidly catching me up on all the local news and gossip that I’ve missed.
She’s an expert summarizer, and quickly rattles off three years’ worth of happenings. I try to keep up as she explains in her signature animated hand gestures and whispered, “who done it” tone about the new babies, the hookups, the breakups, whose kids went off to college. Divorces. Marriages.
“How’s Mama Alvarez?” I ask. She’s the matriarch of their family.
Mrs. Alvarez grins. “Retired, and still kicking. She had a hip replacement last year but she’s as spry as ever.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say.
“Oooh, and you heard, I’m sure, that Enzo Bellanti died.”
My sister texted me about it shortly after the news went public. I nod. “I heard.”
Mrs. Alvarez makes an exasperated sound and shakes her head. “You know, he was the one who loaned us the money to build the pavilion. At a reasonable rate, too. He knew we’d repay him someday.”
A chill whispers over my skin, as if a cool breeze suddenly touched me.
“A lotta folks in Napa owe the Bellantis favors like that,” she goes on. “Just like—”
Her voice trails off and the chill washes over me again. “Just like what?”
Delores sets her cup down, looking guilty. “I don’t want to gossip about your family, Frankie. But it’s no secret that your father owes a lot of people. Both local and out-of-town. You haven’t been home in so long, but…do you know what’s happening over there? Your father’s missed deliveries around town, and the place is rarely open to visitors or tour groups anymore. The Abbott Winery’s doors are all but closed.”
The papaya in my mouth might as well be a cold chunk of coal. I set down my fruit, take a careful swig of coffee, and paint on a smile. I know all about my father’s financial shortcomings, thanks to my sisters and their frantic, sometimes daily messages over what’s been going on. The Recession hit us hard back in ‘08, when us kids were too little to understand what was going on, and my family has been struggling to get out of the red ever since.
Now, it seems that our father has given up.
As for me, I think the Abbott Winery is simply going through a rebuilding stage. Going to Italy to learn how to grow and evolve a winery was just one tool in my repair kit to bail out the family business. I’d hoped to get a jump on things before gossip about our debts leaked, but it seems like I’m too late.
Who else knows?
Forcing another smile, I rise and smooth my hands down my thighs. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Alvarez. I really need to get going, though. I can’t wait to see my sisters.”
She envelops me in another generous hug, and I depart with the promise to be back soon. Once I’m back in the car, I instruct my dad’s driver to continue on to the winery.
Some of my joy at being home has diminished with the thought that my family’s business has deteriorated to the point that it’s becoming the whisper of the town. We finally turn onto the gravel road that cuts through the vineyards and leads to the house, and our property is both familiar and foreign to me. The vines are vibrant in their full summer growth, but they hang in overgrown clumps along their supports. Untrimmed, untended. My heart sinks as I spy bunches of grapes touching the ground here and there, left to lay and rot.
My throat goes tight as we reach the main winery compound. It’s the epicenter of our winery and should be bustling with visitors tasting our wines and socializing while tipsily nibbling from charcuterie boards and tapas plates.
But it’s empty. Completely empty.
Mrs. Alvarez warned me, but it’s still a shock.
I’d been so excited to see my sisters, but I push that aside now as desperation and disbelief pressurize inside my gut. I pay the driver, grab my bags, and rush up the stone path to the house. Some of the anxiety lessens as I notice how well the exterior of the house and grounds have been maintained. The lawn is tidy, flowers in full bloom.
But when I swing open the door and step inside, I notice immediately that the tulip-laden Dutch Golden Age painting that my family cherished for generations isn’t hanging in its coveted spot just inside the entry where guests couldn’t help but notice it.
Now, an off-color square covers the wall where the framed artwork protected the paint from sunlight and aging over so many years.
“Dad?” I call out, dropping my bags in the entry as I make my way through the house.
