My mind trips over itself trying to process it, none of it making sense. How did I not put this all together? Charlie is the investor. That explains his mysterious visit last week. And now he’s going to be in my space, in my production room, several hours a week, watching everything I do and asking questions like he belongs there.
"You’re the investor." My voice is flat, controlled. Of all the people it could have been, it had to be him. The one person I’ve been trying to keep at a safe distance.
"I recognize a good investment when I see one." He steps further into the room, his gaze sweeping across the tanks and equipment. "I’ve already had the grand tour, but I have a feeling I barely scratched the surface."
"Tabitha's tour is the highlight reel. The real work isn't nearly as glamorous." I shake my head, still catching up. "I had no idea you were the investor. Isabelle didn't mention a name."
His expression turns serious so fast it knocks me off balance. "We wanted to keep the details quiet until everything was finalized. Business deals aren’t done until the ink’s dry."
His tone is straightforward. "I believe in this winery, Sunny. The wine is exceptional and has won plenty of awards, the land is right, and the operation just needs capital to reach its potential. That's why I invested."
He points over his shoulder. "The last time I sat at that bar, you talked about your Nebbiolo like it was a living thing. You said most people give up on it too soon." He pauses. "I'm not most people, and I don't give up on things that are worth the wait."
I open my mouth to fire back something sharp, but the sincerity in his voice stops me. He's not posturing. He's not trying to charm his way past my irritation. He's just standing there, telling me the truth and letting me do whatever I want with it.
"Fine." I uncross my arms and reach for a clean apron on the hook by the door. I toss it at him, and he catches it reflexively. "If you're here to learn, then you're here to work. That means you follow my instructions, you don't touch anything I haven't told you to touch, and you ask before you taste anything out of a tank."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And don't call me Sunshine."
"I'll take it under advisement." The grin is back.
I turn on my heel and lead him to the first row of fermentation tanks, launching into an explanation of the primary process without preamble. If he wants to learnwinemaking, I'm going to teach him, starting with the basics and working up from there.
Charlie listens. His attention isn't the polite, glazed-over kind that people offer when they're waiting for me to finish so they can move on to the fun stuff. He asks questions that are smarter than I expect, and when he doesn't understand something, he says so instead of nodding along and pretending.
"The temperature during fermentation actually changes the flavor?" he asks, leaning against a tank while I demonstrate how to pull a sample for testing. "It's not just about the grapes themselves or the strain of yeast?"
"The grapes are the starting point. They provide the sugar which the yeast feeds on, but everything that happens after harvest shapes the final wine. Temperature, timing, the yeast strain, even the vessel you ferment in." I pull the sample and hold the glass up to the light, examining the color. "A winemaker who ignores the process and just relies on good fruit will end up with a mediocre wine every time."
"So it's not unlike training a horse," he says. "You can start with the best bloodline in the country, but if the training is wrong, the horse will never reach its potential."
I consider that for a moment. "That's not a terrible analogy."
"High praise from you. I'm flattered."
"Don't be. 'Not terrible' is a long way from good."
He laughs, a warm, genuine sound that bounces off the steel tanks.
We work through the morning in a rhythm that's easier than I'd like to admit. Charlie is a quick study with steady hands and a willingness to do the unglamorous work without complaint. When I hand him a scrub brush and point him toward a tank that needs cleaning, he rolls up his sleeves and gets to it without a single comment about how this wasn't what he signed up for.
By eleven, it hits me that I’ve been enjoying this. There’s something about the way Charlie takes things in, curious and engaged without putting on a show, that makes me want to explain more than I usually would. I catch myself sharing details I tend to keep to myself, the small observations and hard-earned instincts that took years to build.
"You really love this," he says during a pause. He's standing beside me in the barrel room, close enough that I can smell his soap. "Your whole demeanor changes when you talk about wine."
The observation catches me off guard, and heat creeps up the back of my neck. Most people don't notice things like that, or if they do, they don't say it out loud.
"I do love it. This winery gave me a chance when I was twenty-four years old and had nothing but a degree and a lot of opinions. Isabelle believed in me before I'd really proven anything." I pause, surprised at myself for offering that much.
"That goes both ways. Isabelle knows what she has in you."
I glance at him, expecting to see that teasing grin. Instead, his expression is warm and entirely serious. The eye contact holds for a beat too long, and I look away first, reaching for my clipboard.
"Break time," I announce, heading for the tasting room.
We settle at the bar with glasses of water while Tabitha buzzes around preparing for the day's tastings. She shoots me countless meaningful looks in the space of five minutes, all of which I ignore with practiced determination.
