One
I arrange open bottles of wine behind the hard maple countertop from lightest to heaviest. A crisp white blend on the left, a jammy cabernet sauvignon on the right, and me, a cluster of nerves, right smack in the middle.
Today is the grand opening of my winery—I still can’t believe I’m saying that—my winery, Vino Valentine. The world will finally get to taste the fruits of my labor, which is equal parts exciting and panic-inducing.
Because this is really happening.
My crazy pipe dream is becoming a reality. Although, as I’m all too aware, my reality could very well turn into a nightmare.
“Parker, where would you like these?” my assistant, Anita, asks, brandishing two baskets full of palate-cleansing crackers.
Towering over me, her willowy frame is accentuated by wedge sandals, long blond hair pulled into a high ponytail, and a flowery tunic dress.
“One on each end of the tasting bar,” I answer.
Anita places them as directed and then returns to my side. She caught me in the back earlier hyperventilating into a paper bag that was meant for packaging goods. Ever since, she’s kept an extra-close eye on me. Which I appreciate. Really. Except sometimes a girl needs to have a meltdown in peace.
She pushes thick-framed glasses up her nose. “So, are you ready?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I bury my face in my hands and then peek through my fingers. “What if no one shows?”
True story, my parents couldn’t even fit my opening into their busy schedules, as they so kindly informed me this morning via text. And it’s a Saturday. Which begs the question, if my own mom can’t make time for me, what hope do I have for the general public?
“This is Colorado, the land of handcrafted concoctions; they’ll show,” Anita says with a confidence I wish I felt.
Colorado may not be the first place that comes to mind when people think of wine tasting, but it’s a burgeoning destination thanks to the high altitude and cooler climate, which give the fruit a more concentrated flavor.
She continues, “People are going to flock here like internet junkies to viral kitten videos. I mean, look at this place.”
I must admit, the cozy area is picturesque. Shiny blue letters on the storefront window gleam with the name Vino Valentine. The interior is arranged with oak-barrel tables, simple espresso folding chairs, and wine-bottle lanterns overhead. More baskets full of crackers and pillar candles—unscented so as not to interfere with the delicate aromas of the wine—dot the tables, and photographs of vineyards from around the world adorn the walls.
“Maybe you’re right,” I concede.
“Oh, I’m definitely right.” Anita’s eyes sparkle with such good humor they rival the polished glasses lining the open shelves above the tasting bar.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands together. “All that’s left to do is light the candles. You do that and I’ll get the door.”
Anita flits away with a lighter, the candles giving the space a warm ambience.
As I make my way toward the storefront, I tug at the delicate beaded necklace around my neck. As always, it makes me think of my late aunt Laura. I wish she were here to see her investment come to fruition. What I wouldn’t give for her steadfast support, to hear her tell me everything will work out as it’s supposed to. My chest aches for how badly I miss her. But instead of dwelling on my sadness, I focus on making her proud.
The sign on the door is made of varnished oak and features a design of clinking glasses. It’s heavy with importance as I flip it from CLOSED to OPEN.
And nothing happens.
There’s no great tilt to the universe, no angelic chorus overhead, no stampede to get trampled in.
There’s only me, unlatching the door and taking in my surroundings.
When I was deciding where to set up shop, I immediately landed on Boulder. It’s where my heart is. I love the majestic mountain backdrop, sprawling blue skies, and ever-present scent of pine trees. The distinct city vibe but with trailheads practically in my backyard.
My parents balked when I chose this location for my winery, but I saw potential in the industrial part of North Boulder. I leased space in a modern shopping center with white cement siding, charcoal awnings, and floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of light. The trendy café next door keeps me in caffeine, and across the street is a nursery with rows of shrubs laid out like a welcome mat to the rolling foothills.
With a sigh, I pad back to the tasting bar to wait for someone to show up. Please, I think, someone show up.
Then the bell over the door jingles.
I spin around as my first customer traipses through the door.
Of course, it’s my best friend, Sage.
A petite redhead with a penchant for fashion and nerd canon, Sage is dressed in sky-blue capris, a drapey silk shirt, and her prized Khaleesi dragon-claw necklace.
My face splits into a huge grin. “Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” She shoves her giant sunglasses on top of her head and looks around in awe. “You did it. You effin’ did it.”
My eyes swim with tears at the pride in her voice.
“I had no doubt, obviously,” she says. “But it’s even more amazing than you let on.”
Sage’s live-in boyfriend trails behind her like an anchor. Jason is unremarkable in every way—mousy-brown hair, pale freckled skin, and eyes that are a little too close together. I’ve never understood what Sage sees in him. Nonetheless, I’m glad he’s here. I tell him as much.
The bell jingles again and a group of college-age guys come through the door, followed by a chic couple who look vaguely familiar, and then my older brother, Liam, with a friend I’ve never met.
Liam envelops me in a giant bear hug, lifting me an inch off the ground.
“Set me down,” I say through clenched teeth, swatting at him. I smooth my pencil skirt after my feet are back on solid ground.
“Relax, Parker,” he says. “The party has arrived.” He takes a mock bow, clearly expecting me to fall over myself with gratitude.
I roll my eyes.
Anyone would peg us for siblings with our matching raven hair and blue-gray eyes. But our looks are where the similarities stop. What Liam lacks in ambition, he makes up for by having this weird sixth sense for where to find the next good time. Which I suppose bodes well for my opening.
I scan my suddenly bustling winery, nerves prickling.
The group of college-age guys commandeers a long table made of three oak barrels smooshed together, the couple settles in at a private two-top in the corner, Sage and Jason tuck in near the front window, and my brother and his friend pick a table center stage.
Just like that, I’m open for business.
Anita and I hop to. We pour tasters, talk through the winemaking process, and give pairing tips for different varietals. Wine bottles deplete and new ones are opened. Baskets of crackers are replenished, and glasses swapped out.
I feel myself easing into a groove, the butterflies that have filled my stomach for the last week finally subsiding. That is, until two things happen.
First, the couple, who are apparently chic only in appearance, begin to bicker. Loudly.
They raise their voices as accusations fly.
“Not my fault—” the woman cries, getting to her feet. Anger radiates off her, from her clenched fists to her narrowed eyes.
The man cuts her off, speaking in a continuous stream of angry French.
“Taste this,” she shouts as she raises her glass and, proof that real life is every bit as dramatic as a soap opera, throws the contents at the man.
Time seems to slow as every eye turns to them.
Drops of the Ski Lodge Cherry wine dribble down the man’s chiseled face, onto his cream-colored sweater, and all the way to my pristine hardwood floors.
That’s when the second thing happens: another customer walks through the door.
He has the stocky build of someone who enjoys a good meal, and is every inch the intimidating figure his reputation suggests. In slacks and a pressed collared shirt, he clutches a leather-bound tablet, his keen eye taking in every detail of my winery, lingering on each of my customers in turn.
I recognize him immediately based on his pictures from social media, news articles, and, more important, his popular food and wine blog.
Gaskel Brown, the most reputable critic in the Front Range, is in my winery. At the exact moment chaos descends.