A big sky, relentless sun, craggy mountains dusted with green. With an occasional sagebrush, tangled mesquite tree, and cactus thrown in. This was what the Old West was supposed to look like, Georgia thought, driving to Elgin that afternoon. She half-expected John Wayne to gallop up on horseback.
But as she got closer to Elgin, the terrain changed to rolling grasslands. Patches of green appeared more often, and the sand-colored soil turned dark. Exiting the highway onto a country road, she passed a green sign with three arrows pointing in different directions towards “Winery.” For an instant she thought she was in a Monty Python skit. Fortunately her GPS, which she’d programmed for the Grant Winery, indicated a left turn.
A few miles later, a giant chartreuse meadow opened up on one side of the road. Georgia slowed. Fields of grapevines, bathed by sunshine, stretched as far as she could see. The rows were spaced much farther apart than Midwest cornfields, which had sharply delineated rows of tilled dirt between them. Most of the grapevines were supported by trellises, but a few runners sprawled across the dirt.
Set back from the fields were two long narrow adobe buildings. She pulled into a gravel driveway in front of one. A sign said she’d arrived at the Lionel Grant Winery. Open 10 to 5. Tours welcome.
It was only three. She parked next to an old Woody station wagon and slid out of the Escort. A surprisingly loamy smell hit her nostrils—she’d been expecting the dusty smell of sun-fired dirt. It felt slightly cooler here, too.
The door to the closest building was open. She walked up and peered through the screen into a gift shop, stocked with cases of wine, a revolving greeting card rack, wheels of cheese, and stuffed lions, among other things.
She went in, letting the screen door slam. A woman was working at a computer behind a counter, her back to Georgia. She wheeled around. She was wearing jeans, a yellow t-shirt, and cowboy boots. Her salt and pepper hair was stiff, her face brown and leathery, but her smile was welcoming. “Howdy.”
Georgia nodded. “Hi.”
“What can I do you for? You here for a tour?”
Georgia considered it. She couldn’t admit she was there to spy on Lionel Grant, and she didn’t think he’d see her without an appointment. But she might pick up some useful information. “I don’t know much about wine-making. When’s the next one?”
The woman laughed and glanced at her watch. “Whenever you’re ready. We don’t get a lot of visitors on Mondays.”
Georgia glanced in the direction of the computer. “I don’t want to interrupt your work.”
The woman gave a dismissive wave. “The books can wait.” She stood up and wiped her hands on her jeans, although Georgia wasn’t sure how tapping keys on a computer made them dirty. “You ready? I’m Sarah. Sarah Byrne.”
“Georgia Davis.”
Sarah lifted up a section of counter and came to the front of the shop. “Well, I reckon if you don’t know anything, we’ll start at the beginning. In the fields.” She guided Georgia back outside, then closed and locked the door.
“What if someone else comes?”
“Probably won’t be no one. Like I said, around here Mondays are our Sunday. Even Mr. Grant’s gone.” She waved toward one of the fields of green, and they headed over.
“Mr. Grant is Lionel Grant?”
“Yup. Owns the place.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“He used to live in Stevens. Moved up here maybe ten years ago. He’s done real well.”
Georgia wasn’t surprised. By all accounts Lionel Grant was a man who got things done. She continued to pick around the edges. “I’m staying in Stevens. That’s where I heard about the winery. And Mr. Grant.”
Sarah stopped, turned around, and studied Georgia. She looked as if she might say something.
Georgia, playing it safe, changed the subject. “I was amazed how much the scenery changed as I got closer to Elgin.”
“Most folks are.” Sarah must have reconsidered. “You’re on a plateau that’s up about five thousand feet. So if you need to catch your breath, that’s why.”
She led Georgia to the edge of the field. From one angle, the vines seemed like a vast sea of yellow-green, quiet and serene. But moving closer she could make out a world of subtle stirrings that belied the calm. Leaves rustled, insects buzzed, and a light breeze hummed. In reality the field was in constant motion.
“It all starts here. We have acres of vines, just like this.”
“I imagine they need a lot of care.”
“Not as much as you’d think. We have an irrigation system, if we need it. But the soil is nearly identical to that of Burgundy, France.”
“Really?”
“Turns out the Arizona climate is pretty good for certain kinds of wine. There are over a dozen wineries out here.” Sarah leaned over and grabbed a handful of grapes. “We have several varietals.”
“Varietals?”
“Different kinds of grapes. We do pinot noir, syrah, and chardonnay. Of course, we’re small. What you’d call a boutique producer.”
“How much wine do you make?”
“Maybe about six thousand cases a year.” Sarah straightened up. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
“I never been to the Windy City.” She smiled. “Come over here.” She led Georgia over to a gleaming metal bin that looked like a giant laundry room sink. “After the grapes are picked and sorted and cleaned, they go into a hopper like this.”
“Who does the picking?” Georgia asked.
“Machines mostly. Sometimes we hire day laborers.”
“Mexicans?”
Sarah’s smile faded. “Mr. Grant doesn’t want to get in trouble with undocumented workers.” She paused. “Anyway, after the grapes are sorted and washed, they go into the crusher.” She showed Georgia several structures that looked like wide slides attached to more hoppers.
“I guess you don’t crush grapes with your feet any more.”
Sarah grimaced. “You really don’t know much, do you?”
She went on to explain how red wine differs from white, depending on the grapes and whether the juice stays in contact with the skins. Then they went inside the building where rows of stainless steel tanks flanked the walls.
“The juice from each grape and vintage goes into its own tank where it’s fermented. Sometimes we mix them if we’re doing a vintage blend. It all goes into oak barrels after that, and they’re aged for a while. Then bottled. Back there.” She gestured to another room. “Here. I’ll show you.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
But Sarah insisted. “Go ahead. Take a peek.”
Georgia peered into a dark, musty room filled with rows of wine bottles and wooden casks stacked on top of each other. “How long do you age the wine?”
“Depends. Six months or more. Sometimes it ferments for years. Till the content of the alcohol and the sugar is just right.”
“Would your wines be available in Chicago?”
Sarah shook her head. “Like I said, we’re tiny. Just local. We ship up to Tucson. Phoenix. Flagstaff.”
“How does the wine get there?”
“We have trucks. We drive ’em north. And south. Down to Bisbee and Douglas. Sierra Vista, too.”
“So you have a fleet?”
Sarah tilted her head back, as if she was trying to figure out why Georgia was asking. “Just four. But one of them is—well, not in operation.”
Georgia’s spine straightened. “It’s in the shop?”
Sarah frowned. “Not exactly.” She led Georgia back outside. “It was leased out.” She wiped her hands on her jeans again. “Well, that’s about it. Now we go back to the gift shop for a tasting.”
Georgia raised her good hand. “Oh, that’s okay.”
“No?”
“I—I’m not much of a drinker.” She smiled. “Tell me. Who leases the truck?”
Sarah’s eyes narrowed and she planted her hands on her hips. “Time for you to level with me. You’re no wine lover. You don’t even like the stuff. And you’re asking me questions that have nothing to do with making wine. So, who are you and why are you here?”
Shit. She’d been too obvious. Maintaining her cover, she replied smoothly. “I told you. I’m a tourist with some extra time, and I wanted to see the countryside.”
Sarah folded her arms. “You know, we get a lot of reporters up here. They pretend to be tourists. Want the ‘inside scoop’ on Mr. Grant. Why he left Stevens, why he’s producing wine, why he’s the way he is. You wouldn’t happen to be one of them now, would you?”
Georgia’s tension eased. A reporter she could deal with. “I’m not a reporter.”
“We also get a lot of competitors. Mr. Grant’s won awards for his pinot noir. Folks come around and play dumb, thinking they’re gonna find out his secrets. Maybe you’re one of them.”
Georgia met Sarah’s cool gaze with one of her own. “I’m not a reporter. And I’m not a spy. But I will get out of your hair. Thanks for the tour.” She headed for the door. Then she stopped. When she turned around, Sarah hadn’t moved. “Actually, I have a friend back in Chicago who loves wine. If you don’t mind, I’d like to buy a case of your Chardonnay.”