Рита Браун - Sour Puss

Rollie understood only money. He was a Poor man for all his wealth.

"You tell me what you want to do, Mr. Baines, and if you want to go ahead with surgery, I'll step aside for another vet or assist, if you choose. As I said, any of those folks are excellent. You can't find better."

"I'll have my secretary call you after Dr. Flynn has a look."

"Fine." Fair reached over and patted the colt.

The little fellow had a lovely eye.

"Heard BoomBoom's got a mule." Rollie smirked.

"Mules are good animals."

"Is she really going to train it? That's what Paul said." Chauntal was surprised.

"When did you see Paul?" Rollie grilled her, because Paul de Silva was handsome and sexy.

"When I went down to Tazio's to see how she was coming with the plans for your wine-press building."

This pleased him. "Ah, yes, they're an item." He turned to Fair. "She's easy to work with, and since she's at the beginning of her career, I'm getting good value for my money."

Fair thought the world of the young architect. "You made a wise choice."

This puffed up Rollie. His sandy hair, thinned a bit on top, retained its color. A bit weedy, he at least didn't sport a big potbellylike Hy Maudant. When he first made money, Rollie hired consultants to teach him how to dress, consultants to teach him what fork and knife to use. He'd mastered these intricacies.

As they walked outside the brick stable painted a soft peach with white trim, dark-green shutters on the windows of the office, the breeze ruffled Fair's thick hair.

Chauntal skipped along, slipping her arm through Rollie's. "Honey, show him your latest."

Rollie pointed down to the south side of the farm. "Merlot."

Arch could be seen walking along the straight rows of vines.

"Heard you planted them last November."

"Twenty acres of Merlot. Fifteen in Pinot Gris. And that's just the beginning."

"Arch will know just what to do," Fair noted.

"Veritas Vineyards wanted him, but I offered a partnership and that closed the deal. He's thirty-four, his best years ahead." Rollie smirked.

Fair bit his tongue, then replied, "Arch has a lot of hands-on knowledge and ambition. Those years in the Napa Valley gave him a lot of experience."

"Chauntal and I intend to make the best red wine in the state of Virginia. Great design on the label, too. 'Course, we're still in the creative stage." He pulled drawings out of his pocket. They were pretty.

Fair thought of Hy Maudant's white square label, with a gold fleur-de-lis underneath the simple logo "White Vineyards." He murmured about the colors.

"Dr. Haristeen, can we get you anything to drink, a sandwich perhaps? You've had a long morning, I'm sure."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Barnes. My next call is at St. James."

"Alicia Palmer." Rollie's eyes widened. "I've seen her, but I've never met her."

"She likes her solitude, her horses, and her Gordon setter, Max. She's a thinker." Fair wasn't one to gossip.

Before Rollie could open his mouth and put his foot in it regarding the legendary Alicia, Chauntal said, "Congratulations on your marriage." She'd heard that Harry and Arch once had an affair, but Chauntal would never mention this—not even to Rollie. Let him hear it, which he would eventually.She'd pretend surprise, which would please him. Then, too, the longer Rollie didn't know, the longer she had before he blurted out something inappropriate.

"I am a lucky devil." Fair's eyes twinkled.

As he drove down the long drive lined with blooming Bradford pears, he thought how lucky he really was, how exquisite spring could be in central Virginia, three months of color and coolness that finally surrendered to summer's warmth.

He also thought that Rollie Barnes would be eventually disappointed in Crozet. In their first year, the Barneses had succeeded in being invited to the big parties but had yet to be asked to the small, intimate gatherings, which were far more important. People liked Chauntal. They had more difficulty liking Rollie. At least his new interest in making wine aligned him with the great powers in the county.

Fair turned right on Route 810, headed down toward Crozet. St. James was a little closer to town.

7

Carter's Ridge, like a slender rib off a fish's spine, runs northeast-southwest from the Blue Ridge Mountains from which it has become detached over millennia. Eppes Creek slides into the north fork of the Hardware River near the northeast ridge of Carter's Ridge. The old bridge, washed out many times since Europeans arrived this far west in Virginia, was replaced with a trestle bridge a stone's throw east of that confluence. Route 20, a snaky, dangerous road, rolled over the bridge.

Turning left at Carter's Bridge, if one had originally been traveling south on Route 20, estates such as Red Mountain were hidden from view. One mile and a half down the road, the land opened and a beautiful valley impressed itself on the viewer. James Monroe had lived on this road at Ash Lawn, a simple, yellow, gracious Federal home at the end of a curving tree-lined drive. Morven, once home to Thoroughbreds and those who loved them, was also situated on the northern side of the road, as was Albemarle House, the center of Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard, established in 1999.

Professor Forland luxuriated in the lavish hospitality of Patricia Kluge and her husband, Bill Moses. During the days, chauffeured in Patricia's much-used Range Rover, he inspected her Chardonnay grapes along with the rows of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Cabernet Franc. He counseled her on using three shoots off the main stem even though two was safer.

"That third one is your insurance policy," he declared.

Given her legendary generosity, Patricia made certain that Professor Forland had an opportunity to visit other practitioners of the art. In her mind and in Bill's, it wasn't enough for her or for Felicia Rogan of Oakencroft to flourish; all should flourish. Throughout the week, she personally drove him to the vineyards of Hy Maudant, Rollie Barnes, and Arch Saunders. She also stopped at smaller places where a farmer nursed scarcely an acre under cultivation.

Patricia believed in the theory that you can give a man a fish or you can teach him to fish. She thought teaching someone to fish was by far the greater service.

The good professor made many a suggestion, and the recipients were suitably thrilled. None more than Toby Pittman.

Toby prided himself on the types of grapes he was growing. One, Barbera, a red from Italy's Piedmont region, did quite well in Virginia's Piedmont. Toby aggressively promoted the grape. Barboursville Vineyard also used Barbera. The Italians, according to Toby, pushed their grapes, and the Barbera was suffering a loss of quality. He asserted that he was doing a better job of it. When Professor Forland sampled one of Toby's casks, he agreed, with reservations.

"Be wary of too much spiciness, Toby." Professor Forland spat out the small tasting on the ground, as one was supposed to do; otherwise the small fellow would have been drunk as a skunk by the end of the day. "Now, mind you, my strongest suit is under the canopy," he alluded to his expertise being in the actual growing itself, "but I have an educated palate."

Toby waited while Patricia sampled his wine. "Medium-bodied, and I love the hint of tobacco flavor. You're an artist, Toby." Her smile dazzled him.

Patricia had that effect on men.

"As I said, mind the spiciness." Professor Forland then sampled Toby's newer type of grape, which was a Petit Verdot. "Mmm. Yes. I assume you'll be blending this with Cabernet Sauvignon when all is ready. Growing that, too, are you?"

"No. Tried. I don't like what I get. I buy from Dinny Ostermann when I can. He cultivates five acres of Cabernet Sauvignon over in Crozet. Just the right combination of sun, rain, and soil."