“We’re not selling,” Slade said before any figures could be mentioned. Best to avoid temptation.
Temptation happened anyway, higher than before.
He missed Christine’s arms around him.
It took another few minutes for Slade to convince the man that they weren’t accepting offers at this time.
The man told him he’d call back next week.
Slade returned to his friends and told them about the offer. “That was hard. The money covered the amount we’ve invested in the winery to date.”
Will frowned. “I didn’t believe you yesterday when you said we’d get more calls.”
“This won’t be the last one, either,” Slade said as his phone rang again. “See?”
It went on like that all morning, until Slade dragged an office chair out to the sidewalk to take the calls. It was eerie how just a mention of what the last offer was caused the caller to say something like, I’m authorized to up your last offer by 10 percent.
Slade’s hands started to sweat. What would his father say about him now?
Flynn came outside for some air and to stretch out his back. He stopped stretching when he looked at Slade. “The girls are happy now, but you’re not.”
“I’m not unhappy.” And it was true. Faith and Grace gave him great joy. There was a peaceful rhythm to Harmony Valley. Something always needed to be done, even if it wasn’t the cut-throat, competitive pace he’d once thrived on.
Flynn took off his baseball cap, ran his fingers through his short hair, and resettled the cap on his head. “Dude, you’ve been unhappy for a long time. I thought the twins or maybe Christine would finally snap you out of your funk, but they haven’t. You carry a weight on your shoulders. I don’t know what it is, but if you need to, you know, like, talk about it—”
“No!” He refused to tell Flynn, or Will for that matter, how he’d tried to commit suicide.
Flynn shook his head. “We’re your friends, man. You stood by me at my grandfather’s deathbed. I think whatever is bothering you would bother you a whole lot less if you talked about it.”
He’d look like a jerk if he didn’t acknowledge something was wrong. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled.
Flynn began stretching his back again. “Can you explain once more why these wine permits are so valuable?”
“Because they don’t give out many. The state and the county want to limit the amount of wine bottled here, as well as control and prohibit people from trucking in wine grown elsewhere, bottling it in Sonoma, and then calling it Sonoma wine when it really isn’t.”
“People do that?”
“They have. And wineries that produce, ferment, and bottle wine here don’t want their wine devalued or to have a bad reputation. So the permits have limits. If someone wants to bottle more wine, they have to apply for more permits.”
“We’re not selling. Grandpa Ed wouldn’t be happy.” Flynn shook his finger at Slade exactly as his Grandpa Ed used to do.
“Flynn, at some point, we have to look at this without emotion. At some point, we aren’t going to be able to say no.”