Crushed
by
Deborah Coonts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
GENRE:
Contemporary Romance
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BLURB:
In
Napa Valley, he who has the best grapes wins. And in the pursuit of
perfection, dreams and hearts can be crushed.
Sophia Stone is a widow on the brink of an empty nest, stuck in an unsatisfying job managing the vineyard for a mediocre Napa vintner. Faced with an uncertain future she wonders how do you choose between making a living and making a life? Between protecting your heart and sharing it? Five years ago, after her husband was killed in an accident, Sophia put her heart and dreams on ice to care for those around her. Now her home, her dreams, and her family’s legacy grapes are threatened by the greed of the new money moving into the Valley. Sophia has a choice—give up and let them take what is hers, or risk everything fighting a battle everyone says she can’t win.
Nico Treviani has one goal in life: make brilliant wine. A woman would be an unwanted distraction. So, while recognized as one of Napa’s premier vintners, Nico finds himself alone… until his brother’s death drops not one, but two women into his life—his thirteen-year-old twin nieces. In an instant, Nico gains a family and loses his best friend and partner in the winemaking business. Struggling to care for his nieces, Nico accepts a job as head winemaker for Avery Specter, one of the new-money crowd. And he learns the hard way that new money doesn’t stick to the old rules.
When Sophia Stone gets caught in the middle of Nico’s struggle to remain true to himself or sacrifice his convictions to make stellar wine, both Sophia and Nico are faced with a choice they never imagined. A choice that might extinguish the hope of a future neither expected.
Sophia Stone is a widow on the brink of an empty nest, stuck in an unsatisfying job managing the vineyard for a mediocre Napa vintner. Faced with an uncertain future she wonders how do you choose between making a living and making a life? Between protecting your heart and sharing it? Five years ago, after her husband was killed in an accident, Sophia put her heart and dreams on ice to care for those around her. Now her home, her dreams, and her family’s legacy grapes are threatened by the greed of the new money moving into the Valley. Sophia has a choice—give up and let them take what is hers, or risk everything fighting a battle everyone says she can’t win.
Nico Treviani has one goal in life: make brilliant wine. A woman would be an unwanted distraction. So, while recognized as one of Napa’s premier vintners, Nico finds himself alone… until his brother’s death drops not one, but two women into his life—his thirteen-year-old twin nieces. In an instant, Nico gains a family and loses his best friend and partner in the winemaking business. Struggling to care for his nieces, Nico accepts a job as head winemaker for Avery Specter, one of the new-money crowd. And he learns the hard way that new money doesn’t stick to the old rules.
When Sophia Stone gets caught in the middle of Nico’s struggle to remain true to himself or sacrifice his convictions to make stellar wine, both Sophia and Nico are faced with a choice they never imagined. A choice that might extinguish the hope of a future neither expected.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt:
Chapter
Two
Nico
Treviani’s mood stood in stark contrast to the collegial spirit of
the throng gathered at the annual meeting of the Napa Valley Vintners
Association. Housed in a LEED-certified, open and airy,
steel-and-glass building near the library in St. Helena, the Vintners
Association was Mecca to winemakers both experienced and novice—a
repository of their collective knowledge and a gathering place to
commiserate over the fickle affections of their shared mistress.
Wine.
Had he
had a choice, Nico would’ve done anything other than be a
winemaker, but choice was not an option—he’d been born to it, a
family heritage so strong that Nico suspected his blood was half
Cabernet. As his father’s first-born, he was handed the reins to
something that was less a business than a calling. On the other
hand, his brother, Paolo, had been given the option, and, fool that
he was, he chose wine. And the fool had died before he knew the
brilliance of the last Cab vintage they’d crafted together. 100
points. Liquid perfection. Not many wines reached those lofty
heights—not that it translated into much more than bragging rights,
which were a damn poor substitute for food on the table. Without his
own land, his own grapes, he was nothing more than the hired help.
Oh, he could buy grapes and custom crush, but that wouldn’t be the
same—he’d have no real control, and folks would take too keen an
interest in watching him work his magic … assuming he had any left
without his brother. No, he nee
ded his
own space far from prying eyes … and he needed very special grapes.
Their
mother had always said while you’d be hard-pressed to make a good
living out of winemaking, you could make a great life. Nico wasn’t
sure he agreed. And now that he had Paolo’s, children to house,
feed, clothe, chase down, and send to college, he was feeling the
pinch. How his brother had done it, he didn’t know. Especially
after his wife had fled to the city. Preferring a quiet,
sophisticated life, she’d turned her back on her family, her
children. Nico was sure that was one of the unforgivable sins, the
kind that ensured an eternity roasting on a spit over the open fires
of Hell. And if it wasn’t, when he got there he’d be sure to
figure a way to make it so.
As he
eased into the back of the large room and leaned against the wall,
Nico thought about the price a life of wine exacted. He recognized
the back of every head filling the rows in front of him as the
speaker droned on. He knew their histories almost as well as they
did. One guy was a recovering alcoholic—no longer able to risk
tasting his wine, he still made it, slaving over every nuance of the
process. One or two had hit a home run and now basked in the ability
to make limited batch estate wines that sold for upward of a grand a
bottle. Some scratched out an existence on the strength of their
wine clubs. Most turned large fortunes into small, proving the old
joke. And then there were a very few, like Nico, who had been born
to winemaking or grape growing, selling their skills to those who
could pay. Despite differing backgrounds, and differing futures,
wine glued them together.
Except
for Avery Specter, Nico’s current employer.
As if
thought could conjure flesh, Avery materialized in front of Nico, his
usual ruddy complexion flushed hotter than normal. With his eyes at
half-mast, his comb-over falling the wrong way in wisps of misplaced
hair, exposing his bald pate, he looked like exactly what he was: a
self-important prick who’d made a fortune in manufacturing, or
textiles, or running a hedge fund, or something, and had bought his
way into the wine business.
Specter
grabbed Nico by the arm and tugged him into the vestibule as he
hissed, “Have you read this report?” Stopping in the center of
the open area, Avery turned to face his winemaker and pressed a sheaf
of papers into his chest. “And before we get started, you need to
learn one thing, Treviani. You come when I call.”
Being
treated like a dog to be trained was enough to kick up Nico’s
simmer to a boil, so he wasn’t about to validate Specter’s
contemptuous attitude by making excuses … although he did have a
good one. He figured talking the sheriff out of turning his twin
thirteen-year-old nieces over to the Juvenile authorities would earn
him a get-out-of-jail-free card, but ego wouldn’t let him play it.
The psychologist said the girls were just acting out and they’d get
beyond it. Fine for him to say—he didn’t have to ride herd on
the heathens. Who knew two pint-sized females could bring a grown
man to the point of complete surrender? Nico snorted at his own
weakness.
“You
think this is funny?” Specter’s voice rose enough to turn heads
as the meeting broke up and Nico’s friends filtered out of the
meeting room. When Nico ignored the sheaf of papers, Specter pulled
them back and began rolling them into a tube, his agitation poorly
hidden.
“No,
sir.” Nico avoided making eye contact as he fought to get his
temper under control. “There’s a lot more to life than making
wine, Mr. Specter.”
“Not
while you’re on my payroll.”
Specter
had no children of his own, and that thought alone reassured Nico
that there was indeed a God. But it also made arguing with the man
futile. So he argued with himself. He had sold out. Lowered his
standards. And he couldn’t shake the feeling it was going to bite
him in the ass.
“You
wanted to talk to me about a report?” Nico asked even though he
knew all about it. Avery Specter might need a report to learn what
had been painfully obvious for years, but Nico didn’t. Hell, he
could’ve written the damn thing himself—he’d been saying as
much for a long time now to anyone who would listen. It didn’t
take some government expert to know the baby boomers were
transitioning to fixed incomes, their penchant for high-end wine
taking a hit along with their lifestyle. The next generation,
whatever they were referred to—the Millenials, the Me generation,
the Y generation? Nico couldn’t remember, but whoever they were,
they didn’t yet have the disposable incomes or the sophisticated
palates to support the high-end wine industry at the current levels.
Something had to give.
Wineries
had to reposition themselves.
Keeping
his eyes lowered, Nico managed to avoid the few stragglers just now
leaving the meeting room. It was bad enough being called to heel by
his boss, but having his colleagues witness it threw gasoline on the
embers of his foul mood. A few greeted him, and he nodded but didn’t
invite conversation so they didn’t stop. Out of the corner of his
eye, Nico caught the looks many flashed at Avery: contempt, thinly
veiled if they tried to hide it at all.
Avery
wasn’t stupid … anything but. His barely contained frustration
and worry pulsed from him like light from a dying star making his
hands shake as he unrolled then re-rolled the sheaf of papers into a
tighter tube. “Cult wines are coming under economic pressure and
there’s nothing we can do about it.” His reedy voice screeched
like notes played by a fourth-grade clarinetist.
Nico
crossed his arms and glowered at his boss. Cocking an eyebrow he
feigned interest.
Avery
didn’t wilt when he ran headlong into Nico’s scowl. “They say
that the number of Boomers, the population segment solely responsible
for the record profit of the cult wine industry, is shrinking.”
“Age
attrition. People die, Mr. Specter.” Nico’s voice was flat,
hard.
Avery’s
mouth pulled into a thin line. His backbone straightened. But at
six feet he was still several inches shorter than Nico, so he leaned
in closer and lowered his voice. “I like being talked down to
about as much as I like tardiness. You’re property bought and paid
for. You’d be wise not to jerk my chain.”
“And
you’d be wise to show a bit more respect. You need me, Mr.
Specter. Without a winemaker making wine’s damned difficult. And
you want high-priced juice, so you need a man with my CV—and, to my
knowledge, there is only one.”
Heels
firmly dug in, both men stared at each other. Neither wavered.
Finally,
Specter shrugged as his gaze slithered to the side, focusing over
Nico’s shoulder. “I know what people think of me around here.
You people think I haven’t paid my dues. I don’t have wine
running in my veins, filling my soul.” His derision leaked from
each word. “You think I’m the worst kind of blight since
phylloxera—a businessman thinking he can buy his way into making
great wine. And you know what?” He stepped back and slapped the
rolled-up report into Nico’s chest. “That’s exactly what I
am.” He shot Nico a grin. “Working pretty good so far, don’t
you think?”
Nico
grabbed the papers before they could unfurl like the white flag of
surrender in the heat of battle. A tic worked in his cheek as he
watched the bastard saunter away. Avery Specter didn’t deserve
much, he thought. Perhaps a grisly, lingering, painful death and a
pine box, but not much more than that.
Nico
felt someone step in next to him, but, wearing the blinders of pride,
he resisted looking to see who.
“He’s
wrong, you know. To me he’s more like Pierce’s disease. Kill a
vine in less than five years and no cure in sight. Phylloxera we got
under control.” Billy Rodrigues clearly had been eavesdropping, a
fact that would make Nico mad if Billy wasn’t his best friend.
At the
sound of Billy’s voice, Nico felt himself relax. “Quatro, you do
have a way with words. Let’s hope he and his friends don’t kill
the wine business.” Nico called Billy “Quatro” as did many
others, because he was William Xavier Rodrigues IV. His father was
Tres, same logic. Nico called him “Sir.”
Through
the years, he and Quatro had witnessed many of each other’s
indignities; one more wouldn’t matter. “But there is another
side to all of this. And maybe I’m justifying,” Nico said, his
temper dissipating. “God, I hate to give the guy any credit, but
without money it’s damn hard to make a truly great cult wine. When
you and me scratched our way up the ranks, making wine was like
voodoo, a bunch of wine drinkers relying on folklore and playing
around with a kid’s chemistry set. And the growers were nothing
more than hobby farmers. But now, with property values through the
roof, international distribution agreements, hundreds of wineries in
this valley alone, it’s big damn business. ” Nico shot his friend
a serious look minus the scowl he’d used for Specter.
“I
still can’t figure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
Quatro was thick and solid, his hair and skin different shades of
brown, his eyes black, and his smile pure mischief. He’d been
working the fields so long his hands were a mass of callouses
permanently stained from red dirt, and red grape skins, and scarred
by the brutal work. As if remembering his manners too late, Quatro
swept his sweat-stained broad-brimmed straw hat from his head then
raked his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. When he
was done, he set his hat back in place, low over his brow.
“Both.
More money to go around, but long-time residents are being priced
out of the game.” Nico stuck the tube of papers in his back
pocket. “All of us are in this together, the whole Valley. If we
don’t figure out how to distinguish ourselves, the economic
contraction is going to squeeze us all back into oenophilic
oblivion.”
“All
your awards—”
“Couldn’t
save the family vineyard or keep my brother from dying.” Nico
snarled as his brows snapped into a frown. The emotional tempest
dissipated as fast as it had arisen. He squeezed his friend’s
shoulder. “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
“You
made a 100-point wine from Beckstoffer grapes. And we all know they
are the best.”
“I
made the wine. My employer makes the money.” Nico didn’t voice
his fear that now, without his brother, his wine wouldn’t be as
good. They’d been a team. Was half really as good as the whole?
And, his worst fear, could he even make wine without his brother?
“What I need is something new, something better than Beckstoffer.”
Nico raised his hand before Quatro could get a word in. “Not
better, that was the wrong term. Just different, but not too far a
reach for the discerning but limited American palate. Something
amazing that we can produce at a reasonable price point.”
“Amazing
yet accessible. The Holy Grail. Well, if anybody can do it, you
can. But God knows where you’re going to find those grapes. And I
know you’re a Cab guy, but, if I were you, I’d be thinking about
something white or rosé.”
“Yeah,
short or no aging, quick to market. I got an MBA in the family who’s
been singing that song for years. We just haven’t found the
grapes.”
“I’m
pretty sure if you start making wine on the side, Mr. Specter will
have no problem dragging you into court. As I recall his lawyers
spent a lot of time crafting your non-compete. He’s got you tied
up pretty good.”
“Given
time and conviction all knots can be loosened.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR
Bio and Links:
My
mother tells me I was born in Texas a very long time ago, but I’m
not so sure—my mother can’t be trusted. She’ll also tell you I
was a born storyteller. That I believe—I have the detention
notices and bad-conduct reports to prove it. However, the path from
minor hyperbolist, or as I prefer to think of my former self, Grand
Master of the Art of Self-Prevarication, to the author of the New
York Times Notable Crime Novel and double Rita ™ finalist, Wanna
Get Lucky?, the book that launched the bestselling series, was a bit
tortured.
Someone
once told me I lived a peripatetic life—yes, I had to look it up.
And he was right. I’ve been everything from a mom, business owner,
accountant, wife, pilot, flight instructor, lawyer …worse, a tax
lawyer… to a writer. The three personas I’ve kept suit me the
best: mom, flight instructor, and writer. And the other personas I’ve
tried on then shrugged out of and discarded like an itchy coat were
great grist for the story mill.
Chasing
stories keeps me busy and out of jail…for the most part.
Researching in Vegas can be a bit… sketchy.
Prodded
by the next adventure and the police, I keep moving. Right now I have
a house in Texas, but that will change soon. I lived in Vegas for 15
years—the longest I’d stayed anywhere. And I get back there
often. But other places, too, are calling.
Someone
asked me the other day where I lived. The question stopped me cold.
Finally I said, “On Southwest Airlines, third row, window seat,
either side.” Always in search of a story. And the adventure would
be perfect if they could just stock a split of nice Champagne.
www.deborahcoonts.com
https://www.facebook.com/deborahcoonts/
https://twitter.com/DeborahCoonts
http://www.amazon.com/Crushed-Heart-Napa-Book-1-ebook/dp/B01AIMM17E/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1454958792&sr=1-1&keywords=crushed+coonts
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