Page 20 of Wild Abandon

“What else?” His voice is surprised yet encouraging.

I lean forward again and take in hints of—

“Dark chocolate?”

Ed’s mouth is downturned. Not in sadness. It’s more of a huh kind of expression.

“Am I right?” I raise my eyebrows in question.

He clears his throat and then looks at his wine. “This particular vintage also has hints of blackberry and baking spices.”

I sniff my glass again and can now smell the spices, which is interesting. As for blackberry, I never found them to have much of a smell to begin with.

Moving forward, I have a taste. Ed’s brows are furrowed at the action.

After I swallow, I bow my head and apologize, “Sorry. I had to try it.”

With a grunt, he continues his lesson, “Now that you had a taste, take a few more sips. Try to pick out three flavors. Swirl it around your mouth. The tongue registers different tastes on various areas. Sweetness is toward the front, acidity makes your mouth water, and tannin dries you out.”

My mind has tobacco and baking spices on the brain, but that’s not what I’m tasting. “It almost tastes like plum. Am I right?”

I place the glass on the table and look back at Ed, who is looking back at me with a puzzled expression. I sit back and wait for an answer. He just nods his head and then kicks back the rest of his wine.

As I have nothing better to do, I polish off the rest of my glass as well. The label on the bottle says Ellie Creek Cabernet Sauvignon. “This wine is delicious.”

He nods again. “We made this vintage five years ago. Hand-sorted the grapes myself. Aged for twenty months in French oak.” His tone is a bit melancholy for someone who should be proud of his product.

“You make wine here? Was the bottle I had the other day yours, too?”

Ed scrunches his face at me. “That piece-of-crap wine? No. That was from Yellow Stockbridge Winery. They’re crooks over there. Make shit wine and sell it for too much. Even you knew it was junk.”

I grin, knowing that was the moment Ed decided to hire me.

He continues, “I couldn’t hire someone who likes the stuff.”

“I like your wine. Where do you make it?”

Ed’s face falls. His eyes drift to the bar top, and I have a feeling I asked the wrong question.

“We stopped making wine a few years back. I lease the land to another winery. They harvest the grapes and make their own.”

I didn’t realize the property had…property. “How large is your vineyard?”

“Twenty acres.”

I blink at him in amazement. This place must have really been something at one point. Twenty acres of growing grapes, harvesting the fruits, and then making barrels of wine every year. I don’t know a lot about wine, but I know this is a good bottle.

“Why did you stop making wine?” Ed doesn’t answer, so I ask the same question I asked yesterday, “What’s the plan? Naomi said you wanted someone to play music during wine tastings.”

“I never said I wanted to do wine tastings. She came here with her laptop and that quirky little kid. Before I knew it, she was redesigning my logo and telling me she had a new hire for me who plays the cello.” He raises his finger to me. “That is one pushy broad.”

Despite my manners, I laugh out loud in agreement with his description of Naomi and use of the term broad. From anyone else, I would have found it rude, but in his old-school curmudgeon tone, it’s endearing.

“She is, and I’m here. So, what are we going to do?”

My question surprises him, and if I’m honest, I’m surprising myself. I should be hauling ass up to Moet where my experience and music should be welcomed, and quite frankly, be a far better fit. Yet, for some reason, I feel comfortable here at Russet Ranch.

Without a word, Ed turns to his left and opens a door. He reaches a hand inside the closet and pulls out a mop. He makes his way around the bar and hands me the mop.