Sour Grapes

campaign. We’re partners in everything. She’s my perfect complement.”
    “How nice to hear a husband speak so well of his wife. That’s rare these days.”
    “Wives like Catherine are rare. Let me tell you a story, Ms. Reid... about grapevines... and about a true partnership.”
    He led her to the end of a row and pointed to a vine that was clearly illuminated in the moonlight. “This vine is a product of grafting. The roots are from vines that are native to America. The rest of the plant is a European variety.
    “You see, until the mid 1800s there were grapevines here in the Americas, and others in Europe. The American vines were sturdy, hardy, but the European vines yielded the best wine. Then someone transported some vines from America to Europe, and, unfortunately, a nasty little bug along with them. The result was an infestation that destroyed most of Europe’s vineyards by attacking the roots of their vines.
    “But some bright person... or maybe his bright wife... got the idea of grafting the European vines onto the resistant American roots. The results were so spectacular that the practice continued, long after the European vineyards were out of danger. It was the perfect partnership, like my wife and me.”
    Savannah considered his story and his metaphor. She looked out across the vista of hills and valleys filled with fog and felt the cool, moist breezes on her face, and she wondered how he could cherish any partnership that would take him away from this magic place.
    “So, which are you, the vine that produces wonderful fruit or the sturdy root?” she asked.
    “I’m definitely the root. These are my roots, all around you. From the olive trees that I played in as a kid, to the rosebushes my grandmother Rosa planted, to the wine you drank at lunch... this ground gave birth to it all. We’re dirt people, we Villas.”
    “And Catherine Whitestone?”
    “She’s the reason why the winery has grown by leaps and bounds these past ten years. It’s her marketing genius that expanded the complex, built the guest lodge and put in the pool, added gourmet meals to the tasting-room menu. Really, before she arrived, all we did here was make wine.”
    “And that wasn’t enough?”
    He looked a bit confused . but only for a moment. “No. After all, a person should always try to better himself in life, don’t you think?”
    “Not necessarily.” She shrugged. “I mean, if you’re already happy doing what you’re doing—and you seem very happy raising your grapes and making your wines—you’re luckier than most. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s a good life that doesn’t need to be improved...just enjoyed.”
    He smiled, but it was a bittersweet expression. “I don’t think my wife would agree with you.”
    That’s okay. I don’t think many ambitious people would.”
    Suddenly, Savannah realized that she liked Anthony Villa much more than she liked his wife. And when she thought back on what Atlanta had said about him— “kinda sexy for an old silver-haired fart”—she realized that she agreed with her younger sister. There was, indeed, something sexy about this earthy but intelligent man who felt passionate about his wife—whether she deserved it or not—his land, his wine, and his heritage. And he did look very good in a sweatshirt aöd jeans by moonlight.
    Savannah decided then and there, it was time to leave the vineyard. Just turn around and walk away, girl, she told herself. And make it snappy.
    “I’ve got to get back,” she said. “Thank you for the history lesson... and for reaffirming my faith in happy marriages.”
    “Anytime, Ms. Reid. Anytime you suffer from insomnia, I’ll probably be out here somewhere. And I’d love to tell you what the ancient Greeks and Romans thought of wine.”
    She didn’t reply, just gave him a dismissive wave as she made a speedy retreat
    No, she wouldn’t be returning for any more wine lessons in the moonlight with Anthony Villa. She was a well-trained, so-called decent Southern girl, and Granny Reid had told her more than once, “Savannah, darlin’, if you ever feel yourself takin’ a likin’ to a married man... you just turn tail and run... run... run! ‘Cause ain’t no good gonna come of it. Only a heap o’ tears and sorrow.”
    “Don’t you worry, Gran,” she whispered into the moonlit night as she increased her stride to a jog. “My tail is turned, and I’m a-runnin’.”

Chapter

17

    B reakfast, in all of its