At noon, he took a break to check on progress in various parts of the gardens. Still, there was no sign of Jack. A couple of phone calls went unanswered. He decided that if Jack didn’t show up in the morning, he would drive over to his house and find out what was going on.
Seven o’clock on a Wednesday night at the White Swan in Coombe St Mary was just as busy as Saturday—or any other night, for that matter: three-deep at the bar, a surround-sound din of conversation and a minimum twenty-minute wait for the dining room. The quintessential horse brasses type pub, it had, hands down, the best food within fifty miles in any direction.
It was Jamie’s birthday and the dinner was on Kingston. He’d brought along a small gift: Mirabel Osler’s A Gentle Plea for Chaos, one of his favourite books, musings about the joys and trials of her garden. They’d had a glass of house white in the bar while waiting for the table and, now seated, were on a second, from the bottle of Sancerre that Kingston had just selected for their first course.
Their conversation was mostly about food and wine, which suited Kingston fine. He didn’t often get the chance these days to flex his epicurean muscles. He was quickly finding out, however, that there was more than just Dot’s talent at work in the kitchen at Wickersham; that Jamie probably had a great deal more influence than he’d given her credit for. ‘By no means a foodie,’ as she had put it, she credited her father—more so than her mother—as having the most influence on her when she was growing up. ‘He just loved to cook,’ she said with a wistful smile. ‘He was real easy to buy Christmas gifts for. Of course, growing up surrounded by grapevines and wineries in one of the world’s great wine-growing regions didn’t hurt either.’ Whether it was the wine or not, she seemed comfortable talking about her past.
Kingston placed his fork and spoon on the white china bowl in front of him and leaned back in his chair. ‘What did you do in California, Jamie? Your job, I mean?’
For a moment she said nothing, then broke into a smile. ‘I was a winemaker.’
It was if she already knew what his reaction would be. She waited, the teasing smile still on her lips. ‘You look surprised, Lawrence.’
‘Well—I am. A winemaker?’
‘That’s right.’ She was clearly enjoying watching Kingston fumbling for the right words. She saved him the trouble. ‘Did you know that in French there’s no word for winemaker? Nor is there in Spanish, Italian or German. The French use the word vigneron, which means wine grower.’
‘I’d never thought about that,’said Kingston, rubbing his chin. ‘Interesting.’
‘Most men think of it as being a male-dominated profession, which it still is in Europe. It used to be that way in California but nowadays more and more young women are graduating from U.C. Davis and Fresno each year, with degrees in enology and viticulture. Same thing happened in the restaurant business. Some of best chefs in the bay area now are women. Alice Waters of Chez Panisse is probably the most famous. As a matter of fact, she was invited to open a restaurant at the Louvre, in Paris. You can just imagine what the Frenchmen would have said about that.’
‘I must say I’m very impressed. I should’ve had you pick the wine.’
‘No, you made an excellent choice.’
‘So, where did you work? Would I recognize the name of the winery?’
‘I doubt it. It’s quite small. About twelve thousand cases a year. It’s called Hargrove. Near a small town called Glen Ellen.’
‘What varietals?’
‘Old Vines Zinfandel, Syrah and Merlot, mostly—but we’ve planted several acres of Carignane and Mourvedre and they’ll be ready in a couple of years.’
‘All reds.’
‘Yes. I want to start blending varietals, soon. If and when I go back, that is.’
‘The Rhone style varietals lend themselves to that, as I understand.’
‘They do. Sounds as if you know quite a lot about wine.’ He shrugged. ‘All learned by drinking it for many years, I’m afraid.’
‘The best way.’
‘I would imagine it’s a frightfully competitive business these days, with so many countries producing good wines.’
‘It is. And it can get expensive. We have a saying, that if you want to make ten million in the wine business, start with twenty.’
Kingston laughed. ‘Clever,’he said. ‘You’ve been holding out on me, then? You do know something about horticulture. That’s certainly part of winemaking.’
‘A very big part. Most people don’t think of winemaking as farming but that’s essentially what it is. The enology part comes later and, as you know, that’s got to be right, too. But it all starts out there in the vineyard. Agriculture pure and simple—well, not quite so simple as it looks.’