Season of Change. Melinda Curtis

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      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHRISTINE HAD THE vineyards to walk and the morning sun was already hot, the air dry, her T-shirt damp with sweat.

      Slade and his partners had bought forty acres, which wasn’t even half a square mile. It was Christine’s job to familiarize herself with the soil, vines, and fruit. The property wasn’t large enough to justify hiring a full-time vineyard manager, full-time cellar manager, or full-time winemaker. She’d have to wear many hats and hire staff who could do the same.

      Christine used a notebook and a stubby pencil to record the slope of each row, how it drained toward the river, the angle of the sun and where it was blocked by trees in the early morning or late afternoon. She recorded which blocks and rows of vines were lusher, which seemed almost scrabbling to survive. She sifted dirt through her fingers and checked that the vines had the proper support.

      Grape clusters were developing nicely. She tried a bit of each fruit at different places in the vineyard. Most were tannic and promising in their complexity. The arid soil and growing conditions in Harmony Valley were influencing the taste of the grapes and would also influence the taste of the wine. Substance in the glass. Something Christine would be proud of. Something to finally prove without a doubt to her father and the world that she knew what she was doing.

      She snapped pictures of a few grape clusters with her cell phone. The grapes on the Cabernet Sauvignon vines were still green, but soon the heat would begin veraison, when the sugars increased during ripening, reducing the acidity in the fruit and turning them a deep purple.

      The vines were terribly overgrown. There was too much fruit, which meant as it ripened it wouldn’t be as flavorful. And the fruit was becoming heavy, dragging tendrils down to the ground, which made the grapes available for any passing snail to take a nibble. Tomorrow she’d need to get out here with hand clippers and twist ties and sunscreen. It’d be nice to have helpers. Maybe she could put together a crew like the one she’d seen in the sheriff’s office.

      Christine paused, staring out over the vineyard. Why not exactly like the one she’d seen in the sheriff’s office?

      She returned to the tasting room, where she’d left her laptop bag.

      The partners had installed a communications tower on Parish Hill, a granite-faced mountain to the east. The tower provided Harmony Valley with free Wi-Fi and cell-phone service. Otherwise, they’d be too far out, in too deep a valley to receive any signal.

      She called a few friends, putting feelers out for someone with diverse skill sets willing to relocate. She called some equipment suppliers on her cell phone and emailed a few more for bids. Slade had only collected ballpark estimates for equipment. They’d need companies to come out and measure their space, and provide a more detailed and precise bid, as well as timelines for installation. At this point, twelve or fewer weeks until harvest, she’d only approve purchases if they could guarantee delivery and setup.

      She also got in touch with someone she knew who built wine caves to ask some initial questions. She was willing to make compromises to find wine-storage solutions locally, but long-term, she wanted a state-of-the-art facility in Harmony Valley.

      She texted Slade: Who did you arrange to harvest the grapes?

      If this heat wave lasted through July and into August, as it was projected to, they’d need to harvest earlier, rather than later.

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