One Foot in the Grape (5 page)

“I suppose. I just don't feel like an evening with the Martinellis.”

“It's only for a couple of hours. How bad can it be?”

Hayley looked at me. “You haven't spent much time with them, have you?”

“Why, what exactly am I in for?”

“Don't even try to explain it,” Connor said. “She'll just have to see it for herself.”

I
DIDN'T
ask Hayley about her date, but only because I didn't get a chance.

When we were on our way to Antonia's, Hayley looked over at me. “I know you want to ask, but I've only been out a couple of times with this guy. It's new, and I don't want to jinx it, you know? I just want to make sure it actually turns into something first.”

“I understand. I'm just curious.”

“I know.”

Connor didn't take his eyes off the road, but I saw his smile.

The ornate gates stood open when we arrived just before six. The Martinelli logo, a blue-and-gold shield with a silver falcon caught midflight, embellished the arches above the entrance. The road through the vineyards leads upward to the circular drive of the home, known as Martinelli Manor. We
passed the gardens, a formal design that showcased Antonia's roses. Built by Antonia's grandfather, the house is three stories in front. Circular turrets balance the corners of the structure. These were almost entirely concealed by ivy, now bronze and copper in the chill of an early fall. The roof, shingled in hand-chiseled slate, glowed in the setting sun. To the left of the house were the storage buildings, the fermentation building, the tasting room and the winery office. Antonia's grandfather had finished them in the same Italian renaissance style of the main house. All of the buildings featured stone and plaster exteriors topped with slate roofs. The overall effect was of a small village frozen in time.

“I never get over how beautiful this is,” I said.

Connor nodded. “It's impressive all right. Our entire operation would fit in the fermentation building alone.”

Hayley jumped out as soon as the truck stopped. “Marvin's in charge of the winery locations at the festival. I need to make sure he gave us the tent we were supposed to have.”

The location of each winery's exhibition tent was decided on a lottery basis. We had a great spot, center and on the main row.

“I've seen the map where we're going. Marvin wouldn't move us anywhere else.”

Hayley spoke over her shoulder. “I want to check anyway.” She walked down the path.

“Maybe if she didn't react, he wouldn't keep trying to bait her.”

Connor shook his head. “I think she's right. He's one of those people that needs to make trouble.”

I turned to look over the sweep of the valley below us,
bordered on two sides by the Santa Lucia Mountains. In the distance sat the Pacific, where the sun balanced on the horizon. At the bottom of the bluff, just below us, was the area where the festival took place.

“Well, you ready to enter the lion's den?” Connor asked.

I reached into my bag and grabbed the smaller camera I usually carried. “Let me take a couple shots of the house. The setting sun is perfect.”

Connor waited patiently while I snapped several of the winery and grounds. The final rays of sun tinted the slate roof a glowing bronze, while the ivy blazed in a brilliant golden hue.

“It's perfect, isn't it?” Chantal Martinelli sauntered up to where we stood, balancing both a martini glass and herself on four-inch red heels.

Chantal hadn't bothered, though, to actually glance at the sunset. She watched Connor. She looked stunning. As if long chestnut hair and enormous green eyes weren't enough, when she gets around an attractive man she seems to
swell
. She must have an air pump hidden somewhere in her demi-cups.

“Hello, Chantal,” Connor glanced at me. Amusement pulled at the corners of his mouth. “It's incredible. Your mother's done a terrific job with this place.”

Chantal gave an impatient shrug. Red silk rippled in the early evening breeze, and a heady whiff of Obsession perfume filled the air.

“She had a lot to begin with, you know. Most of the vineyards were established years before she inherited.”

I knew some of the history. Antonia's grandfather left
the winery to both sons and they fought over it. Antonia's father eventually bought his brother out.

“What's impressive is how Antonia has continued expansion of the winery. That's not an easy thing to do,” Connor said.

Chantal sniffed. “Lately it's been Stephen. My brother's dedicated to improving this place, but she'll never give him credit.”

I faced her. “Todd told me Stephen had gotten involved only recently. What improvements has he made?”

Chantal didn't bother to look at me, just finished off her martini and smiled at Connor. “My brother's updated the fermentation building, if you'd care to see it.”

“I'd like to take a quick look.” Connor turned toward the building.

“Penny, you can go keep my mother company. We'll be right back.” She tucked her hand into the curve of Connor's arm.

Connor stopped. “You should come take a look, Penny. See if there are any ideas you think we can use.” He was just being polite. We both knew he made all decisions concerning improvements. Maybe he wanted to avoid being alone with Chantal. That thought cheered me and I smiled at Chantal. She rolled her eyes and dropped her hold on Connor, but went ahead and opened the large double doors.

Fermentation has its own perfume, and either you like it or you don't. I love it. It smells like yeast and, depending on the type of wine, a mix of fruits. I smelled the apples and citrus from the Chardonnay, the blackberry and plum from the Cabernet and the reds. When yeast is added to the grapes most of the sugar in the grapes is converted into alcohol. The rest turns into carbon dioxide that escapes into the air and
carries the scent through the room until, in the older wooden buildings, the fragrance is captured by the walls.

The building has its own sounds too. You can put your ear to a barrel and listen to the grapes turning into wine. The juice bubbles from the center to the top, and it has always reminded me of the ocean captured in a shell.

“Stephen replaced our steel tanks and added a new destemming area.” Chantal laughed and pulled Connor down a side row. “I don't really know what all of that means. As you know I tend to just stick to consuming the family wine, not necessarily worrying about how it's made.”

“Yes, Chantal, we're all aware you're the happy beneficiary of your family's hard work,” I said.

Connor glanced over his shoulder at me but I refused to look at him. “Antonia told me about the destemmer. It's supposed to be state-of-the-art.”

Chantal glanced at the equipment. “What's it supposed to do?”

“It will keep more of the fruit whole and still destem the majority of the grapes.”

He inspected the equipment then turned back down the aisle. “I thought Antonia installed this a while back, before Stephen got so involved.”

Chantal stopped. “No, this was entirely Stephen's doing.” Connor shook his head but didn't pursue it.

Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc, in sixty-gallon oak barrels, rested in a dozen rows that ran down the center of the building. To the rear of the structure were the open-top tanks. The fifteen-hundred-, three-thousand- and six-thousand-gallon tanks were now made of enclosed stainless steel, but at
Martinelli they used both steel tanks and wooden barrels. We did the same. The time spent in oak barrels gave the wine a depth and flavor you couldn't achieve any other way.

We walked down the center aisle to the rear of the building. At its most active stage, fermentation generated considerable heat, and the room was warm and humid. Fans whirled in the background to keep the heat down and clear away the carbon dioxide.

Chantal stayed close to Connor. At the rear doors, she turned her back on me and again put her hand on Connor's arm. “Would you like to see the new crushers?”

Crushing is gently squeezing the grapes to break the skins and release the juice. In traditional winemaking, the fruit was crushed by trampling it barefoot. Now, the grapes are loaded into large metal containers, where blades and hooks move them through the machinery. There were two at Martinelli, one each for red and white wines, to avoid color problems.

“I think we should get back. Your mother's expecting us.” Right. Like I was going to hang around and let her ignore me any longer. Besides, Connor was too good for her. Maybe he didn't need my help, and at the moment he looked amused. It didn't matter. I'd seen the best of them act like idiots when women like Chantal set their sights on them. Better I save him from himself.

“Of course, we can't keep mother waiting, now, can we?” Chantal's face betrayed nothing as she settled in beside Connor, took his arm and led the way back out through the building. He tried to remove his arm from hers and Chantal tightened her grip. He couldn't very well pull away without it being obvious and causing a scene. As we walked up the front steps, his face reddened. I gave him a big smile.

We entered the main hall. Portraits of Martinelli ancestors lined walls plastered in cream, which glowed against polished parquet floors. Stone details framed the doors leading to separate rooms off the entry, and the entrance itself was bordered by grapevines carved in marble. Breathtaking crown molding and vaulted ceilings capped the space, with filtered light coming from the leaded windows flanking the entrance doors. Chantal entered the hall and set her empty glass on an antique Italian walnut console table. Right on the wood, without a coaster. I couldn't take it, and moved over to slide a copy of
Architectural Digest
under the dripping glass. Chantal didn't notice and walked farther into the space.

“Mother, Connor's here.” Chantal glanced over at me. “Penny too.”

A voice came from the room on the left. “In the library.”

As we entered, Chantal headed to the bar and Connor and I walked over to where Antonia sat, sliver-handled cane in hand.

“Good evening, Antonia,” Connor said. “We've been admiring the view of your vineyards. They're absolutely superb.”

“Thank you. I'm especially pleased with this year's crop. Provided we don't make any mistakes”—her voice faltered a bit—“we should have an outstanding vintage. Tell me, would you like to open a bottle of our 2000 Cabernet? I find it exceptional.”

“That sounds perfect. I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” Connor said.

Antonia smiled. “It's scarce. We didn't produce a lot, and over the years—Chantal, do you think you should have another?”

Chantal stood at the bar, her back toward her mother. She
didn't turn but raised the vodka bottle off the counter. The sound of ice cubes, slowly and deliberately dropped into a martini shaker, filled the room.

“Yes, Mother, I most definitely think I should.”

The splash of alcohol hitting the ice was broken by footsteps in the outer hall. Stephen Martinelli entered, followed by his wife, Veronica. It struck me once again how different he was from his mother. None of the vibrancy was passed along. With watery gray eyes, he even managed to miss the vibrant green eyes that were the Martinelli trademark.

He walked into the room and went directly to the bar, where Chantal added an olive to her drink. Gently, yet with surprising firmness, he removed the drink from her hand, tucked her arm in his and led her to the couch. I was surprised Chantal allowed this. She sank into the corner of the couch, kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her.

Veronica remained near the door. She stood in sharp contrast to Chantal, who watched her sister-in-law with a small, amused smile.

“Good evening, Mother.” Veronica fingered her pearls. “Can I get you anything?”

“You can have a seat. I'm not an invalid, for heaven's sake.”

“Of course not. I just thought . . .” Veronica looked around the room for a place to sit. Chantal saw her eye the sofa. She uncurled her legs and sprawled out, taking over the rest of the couch. Nice.

Veronica moved to a chair near the window. She perched on the edge and smoothed the pleats of her gray skirt.

I stood there, sized up the distance to the bar, and
wondered if I could slink over and grab the martini Chantal had left behind. I'd been here fifteen minutes and already the tension in the room had given me a headache.

“I've always wanted to see the famed Martinelli cellar,” Connor said to Antonia. “Care to show me?”

Antonia nodded and they walked toward the main hall. When they were near me, she paused. “Perhaps we can talk later? I'm curious if you've given any thought to our conversation yesterday.”

“No problem.”

Antonia raised her voice. “Veronica, please listen for the bell. I gave the servants the night off.”

“Yes, of course, Mother.”

Connor and Antonia continued through the main hall toward the wine cellar stairs.

Veronica tilted her head and continued to rattle her pearls. Stephen turned on the couch, eyebrow raised. Chantal even managed to focus on me.

“It's just more festival stuff,” I volunteered, to no one in particular.