A few minutes later I was stepping inside the house, a grand stone estate built by my father, designed with plenty of vintage, old-world character. It had been a showplace in its day, but it needed as many fixes as the winemaking equipment. Fixes I had no way to finance.
"The pump's unfixable."
I gritted my teeth as Walter, the family butler, turned jack-of-all-trades around the place, greeted me. "So it seems."
"I've made a spreadsheet of all the equipment needing to be fixed, what requires replacement, and color-coded it according to priority." Great. Just what I needed—a visual aid of the hopelessness of my situation.
I paused in my rifling through the mail on the foyer console. "You're my secretary now, too, Walter?"
"Someone needs to be. Running this place is too big a job for one person, sir."
"Let me ask you this, Walter."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you come up with a list of ways I might pay for those color-coded items that need to be fixed or replaced?"
Walter shook his head. "No, sir, I don't have any ideas that you haven't already thought of. But I hope the list in and of itself is helpful."
"Not in the least, Walter," I said as I headed for the main staircase. "And I've told you a million times to dispense with 'sir.' You've known me since I was a baby." Not to mention that I hardly deserved the respectful title. Walter was worth three of me, and he surely knew it. Nevertheless, I also knew he would never let go of the professionalism. Walter Popplewell was from England and had been with our family for more than thirty years.
Walter cleared his throat. "And there's someone waiting to see you, sir."
I turned. "Who is it?"
"Someone," Walter cleared his throat again, "looking for a job, sir."
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Jesus. "Fine, let me get rid of him. What kind of idiot is trying to get a job here anyway?"
Walter swept his hand toward the kitchen where I heard his wife, my housekeeper, Charlotte, laughing with someone.
When I entered the kitchen, I saw a man sitting at the large, wooden table, a plate of cookies in front of him. When he saw me, he stood quickly, knocking the plate to the floor where it crashed onto the tile and splintered into a million pieces.
"Oh dear!" Charlotte exclaimed and rushed from where she was pouring a glass of milk at the counter. "Don't worry about that, Virgil. You just talk to Mr. Hawthorn and I'll clean that up. Not to worry a bit."
The man before me was large—at least six six—wearing khakis, a red and blue striped shirt, and a Giants’ baseball cap on his head. His round face was full of fear as he glanced between the shattered dish and me.
I walked toward him and held my hand out. "Grayson Hawthorn."
His eyes darted to my hand. He reached out hesitantly and shook it, and when his glance finally met mine, I could see in his guileless eyes he was mentally slow.
Good God.
"My name is Virgil Potter, sir, Hawthorn, Grayson, sir." He let go of my hand and looked down shyly, glanced over at Charlotte sweeping up the plate and cookies, winced slightly, and then looked back at me. "Like the wizard, sir, only I don't got a scar on my forehead. I do got a scar on my backside, though, where I got too close to our electric heater once when I was—"
"What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?"
"Oh, you don't got to call me mister, sir. Just Virgil."
"Okay, Virgil."
Charlotte gave me a sharp look from where she was kneeling on the floor. I looked back to Virgil, ignoring her.
Virgil hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other, glancing again at Charlotte, who looked up at him, smiled, and nodded. He took the baseball cap off his head quickly as if he'd suddenly remembered he was wearing it, and held it clutched in his big hands. "I was hoping, sir . . . that is . . . I need a job, sir . . . and I thought I might do something for you. I heard some people talking in town and saying you was going to have a heap of trouble keeping this winery running, and I thought I could help. And I would come for cheap, seeing as that I'm not as smart as some other people. But I'm a real hard worker. My mama told me so. And I could work for you."
I sighed. This was just exactly what I needed. I was barely scraping by with the staff I had now—far fewer than needed, but all I could afford—and the only ones who'd stayed. I could hardly take on one more. Much less one I'd have to supervise around the clock, no doubt. "Virgil," I started to let him down, but he interrupted me.
"See, sir, my mama, she can't clean houses no more on account of that her back is so bad. And if I don't work, we won't have enough money to get by. And I know I can do a good job. If someone would just give me a chance."