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“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I enjoy washing dishes,” she snapped sarcastically.
Noah finally understood. “You’re waiting for the insurance money, right?”
“Right.” Sheila’s expression softened. “A dishwasher is the last thing we need right now. Emily and I use very few dishes, so it’s not exactly a hardship.”
“That kind of thinking will send you back to the nineteenth century,” he teased.
“That kind of thinking will keep me out of debt . . . at least for a little while.” Sheila’s eyes clouded with worry for an instant, but she bravely ignored her problems. The best way to solve them was to apprise Noah of the hopeless condition of the winery. She tossed the dish towel over the back of a chair and boldly reached for Noah’s hand. “I promised you a tour of the grounds.”
“I can think of better things to do,” he suggested huskily.
“Not on your life.” She pulled on his hand and attempted to ignore the laconic gleam in his eyes. “Now that I’ve got you on my territory, you’re going to see exactly what I’ve been talking about.” She led him to the front of the house. “Let’s start with public relations.”
“Public relations? For a winery?”
“Not just any winery, Noah. This is Cascade Valley, the Northwest’s finest. My father always ran the winery with the opinion that the public comes first. Anyone who was even the slightest bit interested in Cascade Valley has always been treated as if he were an important dignitary.” She led him down an asphalt path that led from the château toward the park grounds of the vast estate. Though the grass was overgrown, Noah could tell that in the past the grounds had been immaculately groomed. Stands of dark pine trees surrounded the long grass and the untrimmed shrubbery. The air was fragrant with the scent of pines and lilacs. A hazy moon gave an iridescent glow to the shadowy night.
“Sounds as if your father spent a lot of time and money humoring tourists.”
Sheila refused to be baited. “It paid off, too. Word of mouth was our first form of advertising.” Sheila glanced at Noah to interpret his reaction. Though it was dark, she could read the hardening of his gaze, feel the tensing of his hand over hers, sense the clenching of his teeth as his jaw tightened.
“What kind of tours did your father give?” Noah asked, pressing the issue.
“At first they were nothing out of the ordinary. One of the staff would just show the tourists around. But, as public interest grew, Dad had to hire a woman to pass out literature about the winery and give tours of the buildings every afternoon in the summer.” Sheila motioned her hand toward a small lake shimmering in the moonlight. “Dad had the duck pond built about six years ago. Then be added the gravel paths through the woods. Later he installed the picnic tables and the benches.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t give away bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, too,” Noah muttered caustically.
“You didn’t approve of my father, did you?” Sheila accused.
“I didn’t know him.”
“But you’re passing judgment.”
“Not on the man,” Noah pointed out. He took his hand away from Sheila’s and rubbed his chin. How could he explain to her that her father was an arsonist who had only wanted to get money from the insurance company to pay his debts? If Oliver Lindstrom had been a little more daring and a little less clumsy, it might have worked. “I’m only questioning some of his business practices. Public relations is usually sound, but not when it devours all of a company’s profits. What’s the point? If your father had paid less attention to putting on a show for anyone who happened to wander by and had more concern for his profits, maybe he never would have had to borrow money from Wilder Investments in the first place!”
Sheila felt the hairs on her neck prickle with anger. “The reason he borrowed the money had nothing to do with the tourists or the duck pond, Noah. That nearly paid for itself in the gift shop alone,” she argued. Indignation flashed in her eyes as she came to the defense of her father. “Dad took a survey of all the people who came here one summer and it proved him right; nearly seventy percent of the tourists bought more than one bottle of Cascade Valley a month.”
“What about the other thirty percent?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think those people, those who bought your product, were swayed because of a duck pond, or picnic tables?”
“No . . . but . . .”
“Of course not! Those people would probably have bought the wine without all of this . . . grandstanding. The money would have been better spent in production or research, even advertising. Sure, these grounds look impressive, but it’s the quality of the product that counts! Wouldn’t it be wiser to use this acreage for cultivation?”
“I don’t know if the soil is right . . .” she hedged.
“So check it out”
Her simmering anger began to boil. “I guess you don’t understand, Noah. We’re not only selling the best wine on the West Coast, we’re creating an image for the consuming public. We’re not competing with cheap muscatel. Our opposition is the finest European wine on the market. Every summer we provide samples of our product at a wine-tasting celebration and the public is invited. We introduce the newest varieties, invite a few celebrities and generally promote the image of Cascade Valley wines as sophisticated, yet reasonably priced.
“Sounds expensive.”
