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I took a deep breath. “Please, no one speak to him. Just document when Richard rings as this is something I need to follow up with work about.”
I’d put off returning a call from the university today. Rachel had texted again, saying the Dean had been stood down without pay and an acting Dean was about to be appointed. No doubt there was a huge mess at their end to deal with.
“And on the matter of the awards night, Dad, you were there. You know it wasn’t me who pulled off the video.”
“How do I know that? You were up on stage, and then that video started. It looked like you did it.”
“You don’t believe me.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Nothing I can say will convince you to trust your daughter. Whether it’s wombats, wine or toxic ex-boyfriends.”
“How do I know you are sensible and ready to take more responsibility for the winery when you are a—what is it called? Social media viral?” Angelo threw up his hands. “Point is, I don’t know how I can trust you with this business.”
I stood and grabbed my purse. “I’m done. With this conversation, with your lack of trust in me. I just … need to get out of here.”
I left by the cellar door where, thankfully, no customers were witness to our family meltdown. I sent a quick text to Anthea that I would not be at home for dinner.
Jumping into the ute, the local radio station blared with the opening bars of ‘Footloose’. I revved the engine, realising cutting loose is exactly what I need to do right now.
* * *
Tom
I entered the room as Rosie left. Angelo and Mama Z stood to greet me, their faces weary.
“I guess you heard some of that,” Angelo muttered, slowly taking his seat again.
He was in pain, maybe in his back, and from his old injury with his ankle. He had the mind of a spring chicken but not the body of one.
“I did. And I ran into Gianni out the back.”
Angelo sniffed but said nothing.
I sat in the office chair, the seat warm from someone before me. Rosie’s chair.
“Angelo, Rosie has singly managed the harvest and vintage since your broken ankle,” I said matter-of-factly. “She won awards for her wine. And she did that while researching wombats.”
Angelo huffed again but remained silent.
“Why can’t wildlife conservation and agriculture happen together?” I asked. “They go hand in hand, Angelo.”
Angelo crossed his arms, his face hard. “Are you saying I managed this place wrong?”
“You know I’m not, Angelo. I’m saying there’s always more to learn to manage agricultural businesses better. God, we know it at Turner’s Creek. Rosie and I are both looking at how we can make our family businesses viable for the future.”
“You two want the same things,” Mama Z blurted. “And you’re both hot-headed.”
Angelo narrowed his eyes at Mum, and the two had a brief stand-off in silence, and finally Angelo spoke.
“Wombats don’t sell wine. How could they sell wine?” He shrugged, shaking his head. “And you Thomas, coming in here and telling me you are thinking of the future of sheep when I know you have acres of vines yourself. The sheep farmer who grows grapes.”
I sat in silence. Angelo had helped me establish my vines back in high school for an assessment project and each year since I’d adding more.
We’d talked about many things together as the sun set on my hard work planting, pruning and watering the vines.
But to challenge Angelo in front of his wife and family was another matter. I was taking a gamble I wouldn’t be thrown out of here for overstepping.
“And then there’s Gianni with his firefighting and mountain climbing and rescue.” Angelo sighed. “He wants nothing to do with the tomato business or the winery. He wants to rescue people off mountains and fight fires.”
“So, it is bad I fight fires, too? Or just that I like growing grapes as well as running a sheep station?”
