It was near the end of the week before things slowed down enough for Brett to visit the Curlew Creek Winery. While Tony’s wife wasn’t out of the hospital yet, she was now good enough that Tony felt like he could go back to the routine – or maybe he was bored hanging around the hospital and felt desperate enough to risk the wrath of leaving her and help with the milking. Either way, it meant the same to Brett.

Maybe it was just as well. One cow, with the ear tag of “649” had developed a particular dislike for Brett, and the feeling soon was mutual. Sooner or later that Holstein was going to lash out with a hoof when he wasn’t ready for it, and that could hurt. Brett was just as happy to let Tony take the brunt of 649’s balkiness, because it wouldn’t take much bad luck to put either him or Tony in the hospital bed next to his wife. Brett figured it was time to get out while he was still standing on both feet.

As soon as Brett got home that evening, he called the Ammermans to let them know he was free the next day. “No problem with that,” Marty told him. “We’re usually not too busy around this place on the weekdays this time of year.”

“All right, I’ll be there sometime in the morning.”

Brett didn’t set the alarm on his clock – it was too good a chance to sleep in. Sleep in he did, until around six-thirty, when he got a call from Gloria, the principal over in Salem. “Sarah Napolski has another dentist appointment,” she announced. “You did so well with her class the first of the week I thought you might like to do it again.”

“Sorry, no can do,” he replied trying to keep his relief out of his voice. “I’m already tied up for the day.” It was seventy-five bucks out the window, less deductions, but given a choice between having to deal with those fifth-grade vampires from the underworld and 649, he’d rather have dealt with the cow.

“Maybe another time,” Gloria replied.

“Yeah, keep me in mind,” he said. Not all fifth graders were as bad as that class, not by a long ways, so it was a good idea to keep the door open for the future. “Sorry on this one.”

Brett hung up the phone hoping that Sarah Napolski would have a good, enjoyable day at the dentist. Six-thirty was still awful damn early as far as he was concerned, but it beat the living hell out of three-thirty, when he’d have to be up and running if he was milking for Ed. He gave some thought to rolling back over and trying to get another couple hours, to catch up if nothing more, but realized his body clock was adjusted enough now that he was wide awake.

Still, the house was quiet at that hour. In the years since his parents had given up dairy farming, they’d gotten to the point of realizing that it wasn’t all that much fun to have to get up before the sun every morning, so they were still asleep and hopefully enjoying it. Might as well get up and get moving, he thought. A couple hours over to the winery, maybe with a stop for a good breakfast in a diner along the way, and the time ought to work out all right.

As quietly as he could to avoid waking his parents, Brett did his morning stuff in the bathroom, then pulled on what he thought of as teaching clothes – white shirt and brown cardigan, along with slacks. The sun was just showing signs of coming up when he went out to his minivan, scraped a thin morning frost off the window, and got on the road, taking his time on the drive – deer did a lot of moving around at this hour.

Most people would have considered a minivan a strange vehicle for a single guy his age to be driving, but there was a reason: Brett had it set up as a sort of mini-motor home, with a bunk, refrigerator, camp stove, and even a porta-potty. He did a lot of traveling to get to places where he was working when he was in his actor mode, and motels were expensive. He could usually find a back row of a truck stop, the parking lot of a theater, or even one of the homes of the local actors to park it overnight. So long as it wasn’t too cold it worked out all right, even if it was a bit on the primitive side.

Reasoning that he wanted to let the sun get up somewhat higher, he soon found a place named “Grumpy’s Diner” that looked like a good prospect for breakfast. It seemed to fit his mood; he was still a little grumpy at the fifth-grade hyperactive gargoyles who had indirectly booted him out of a sound sleep. A little to his surprise, the one waitress on duty was a cute little squirt who was the epitome of cheerfulness, calling everyone in the place “honey,” “lover,” and things like that. It was awful hard to be grumpy with someone like her running around; he even hung on for a couple extra coffee refills to let watching her perk him up a bit more.

It was hard to get back on the road after that. Even though the waitress had sported a conspicuous wedding ring, it wasn’t difficult to have fantasies about someone like her. They were pleasant fantasies.

Brett had never gotten married, or even close to it. In the past there had been opportunities that might have panned out into something if he’d been willing to push it. He hadn’t; he’d realized quite early on that there was no point in having to subject a wife, and maybe a family, to the uncertainties of his being a part-time actor, part-time substitute teacher, and part-time substitute milker. It would take a really extraordinary woman to want to put up with that, and so far, he hadn’t met one who he thought could – which didn’t mean he wouldn’t like to, and maybe sooner than later. But still, that argued for giving up most if not all of his acting career hopes, and he wasn’t quite ready to pay the price.

On the other hand, there were advantages to being mobile and fancy-free, he thought as the miles passed. While he may have been single, he had hardly been celibate; in getting around to various theaters and production companies he’d run across several young women, most of them pretty good looking at that, who had been ready for some post-show fun with no strings attached. Some of that fun had even been in the back of the minivan; he had occasionally been surprised at what could be done in the confines of the narrow bunk. Theater and acting in general had a reputation for having a lot of gays involved; after participating as long as he had he was of the opinion that while there was some truth to the stereotype, it was certainly not universal. To the degree that it was correct, it just improved the odds for him with most of the women hanging around.

There were a couple of those episodes that made for fine memories as he drove down the highway on the brightening morning, and they made the miles go quickly even though his attention wasn’t totally on his reminiscences. He’d been over in this direction before, although after a while the directions he’d been given led him off onto a road new to him. It wasn’t bad country, even picturesque, though everything was still April-bleak with still-brown grass and naked trees showing the fuzz of buds through the window of his van. Get some green out, say in a month or so, and this would be really pretty, he thought.

Marty Ammerman had given him good directions, and Brett had printed out a map he’d gotten on-line to firm them up. He’d never quite had the money to put a GPS navigation system in the van, though there had been times when it would have been useful, even though it seemed a bit like cheating to him; it sounded like they made it too easy.

Before long he knew he was getting close, and he started paying attention to the map. Several miles farther on the two-lane state highway he saw a sign, not a billboard, not a small one either, saying “Curlew Creek Winery,” and in smaller letters “Fine Wines for the Discerning Taste.” There was an arrow pointing to one side, with the words, “Tasting Room, 4-1/2 miles.”

That ought to simplify things, he thought as he slowed to make the turn. In a moment, he was headed down the county road, which was reasonably well paved, though narrower than the state highway. In a couple miles there was another sign that turned him down a side road; this was narrower still, twisty, and the pavement not in quite as good shape. At one point there was a surprisingly sharp turn that led directly into a steep, curvy downhill. Yeah, he thought, they are a little off the beaten path, but I’ll bet this is pretty country in the summer.

The road continued on, winding around a bit more, then dipping down to cross a narrow bridge, then rose a bit. Brett could look ahead and see another sign, the same size as the one out on the highway, saying “Curlew Creek Winery.” He’d already slowed down quite a bit, so it only took a dab on the brakes to allow him to make the turn into the driveway.

His first glimpse of the building was interesting. It was a large, rambling old mill, mostly fieldstone, though there were two or three weathered-plank additions, probably built after the initial construction. Just in view around the corner of the building was a dam overflowing with the spring high water of the creek; a waterwheel turned lazily. The area was largely open in front of the mill, though there was a woods filled with still-naked trees behind it. Up the hill there were rows upon rows of leafless grapevines hanging on their fences, whatever they were called. Trellises, the word coming to mind.

Although Brett had seen the winery’s web page, there hadn’t been a picture showing the picturesque scene of the old mill, but whatever he expected a winery to look like, this did a good job of filling the bill. At one side of the mill, near the waterwheel, there was a sign, “Tasting Room.”

There were no cars in what appeared to be a parking lot, so he parked the van near the tasting room door, then got out and stretched, taking in the scene a little more thoroughly. Not bad, he thought, get some leaves on, and this place could be out of a picture book.

The glass door to the tasting room was unlocked, so he went right in. The place wasn’t quite what he had expected; it was fully finished on the inside, some barn siding, and some tasteful wallpaper. There were racks of wine bottles, of course, but also some art objects on the wall and some tables and chairs set around the room. A series of large but old-style windows overlooked the dam and the pond behind it; over a background of some light New-Age music playing from some hidden speakers he could hear the faint whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the waterwheel turning.

“Good morning,” a slender, smartly-dressed fiftyish woman said; she had long blonde hair in an elaborate hairdo, wearing a complicated necklace and several rings. “Are you interested in some wine today?”

“Only marginally,” he replied. “I’m Brett Wickwire. Are you Samantha Ammerman?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Wickwire!” she replied brightly. “Marty and I have so been looking forward to meeting you! We’re so happy you were able to come so soon. Diane has told us a lot about you!”

“I hope some of it has been good.”

“Oh yes,” she gushed. “She said you were the best person she could think of to help us out with what we’ve been discussing with her. Let me go get Marty. He’s doing something down in the cellar. I’ll be back in a moment. Make yourself comfortable while you wait.”

“I’ll look around,” he said as she turned to head for a door at the back of the room. I’ve been sitting for a while, I need to stand up for a bit.”

“Suit yourself,” she replied as she disappeared. “I’ll be right back.” He could hear the click-click-click of her high heels as she walked off.

The view of the pond, the dam, and the waterwheel drew his attention for a few moments – it was pretty now, but again he could see it would be spectacular when the leaves were on – and then turned his attention to some of the bottles of wine on display. He was mostly impressed with the size of their price tags; the lowest tag he saw was $15.95 and there were much more expensive bottles to be seen. It was clear that the Ammermans weren’t in the business of giving wine away cheaply.

In only a moment he heard the tapping of her high heels returning; he glanced up to see she had a clean-cut, solid-looking man with her, about her age and going gray a little around the temples. He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a light jacket with the Curlew Creek Wineries logo on it.

“Mr. Wickwire,” she said, “this is my husband Marty.”

“Good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “Please, call me Brett.”

“It’s very good to see you, too,” Marty replied. “We weren’t expecting you quite this soon.”

“We just run on different clocks. With the hours I’ve been keeping, this feels like almost noon to me.”

“Believe me, I know how that works and I’m glad to be done with it,” Marty smiled genially. “But Samantha and I are still getting our eyes open at this hour. I know we deal in wine here, but would you be interested in a cup of coffee?”

“Talked me into it.”

“I’ll get you some,” Samantha said. “How do you like it?”

“Black, please.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” she promised. “It’s only in the office.”

“Bring me one, too, would you please, honey?” Marty said, then turned to Brett. “We might as well grab a seat. So how do you like our little place?”

“Seems pretty nice. I was just admiring the view out of the window. I didn’t really have an idea of what a winery should look like, but if they’re supposed to look like this, well, I’m impressed.”

“Do you know much about wine?”

“Not at all,” Brett admitted. “To the extent that I drink, which is not much, I’m mostly a beer drinker, and then cheap beer at that. About all I know about wine is that it comes in bottles and it comes in two types.”

“Red and white, you mean?”

“No, I mean screw-top and cork,” Brett said with a smile.

“Actually, there’s a third type, box,” Marty laughed, “but we’re definitely in the cork wine business here. I’ll have to admit that a few years ago I didn’t know much more about wines than you do, but I’m getting moderately competent with the business.”

Brett shook his head. “I always thought that the wine business was something you grew up with, sort of like dairy farming.”

“When I was your age, I thought pretty much the same thing. Just for the sake of giving you a little background, I was a banker up until a few years ago. It isn’t worth going into the details, but the bank I was working for got bought out in a takeover and I was left on the outside. I was senior enough that I was left with a nice golden parachute, but I could see that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life playing golf. Samantha and I thought we could use an active, interesting semi-retirement, and she got the idea that a winery would be a business worth looking at. It didn’t take much for her to talk me into it.”

“I thought we would do well to get outside the city,” Samantha said as she returned, managing to carry three mugs of coffee – the coffee mugs had the Curlew Creek logo, too. “Something rural and relaxing, with a touch of elegance seemed to have potential.”

“I’ll admit that I liked the idea of being something of a gentleman farmer,” Marty smirked. “But since we knew Diane, it was clear that a dairy farm wasn’t exactly what we were looking for.”

“You sure made the right decision on that,” Brett grinned. “I know you’ve talked to Diane, so you’ll know why I say that.”

“She told us the same thing, too,” Samantha nodded. “It just didn’t appear to be the kind of retirement that would appeal to us.”

“I still had my contacts in the banking industry” Marty continued, “and it didn’t take much time or effort to find this place. The owners had bought the business from the founder, but they didn’t have any real financial reserve. They were in trouble, so they were happy to have someone come along to get them out from under. So here we are. We’ve been able to make a modest success at it.”

“I find that impressive, considering that you didn’t know much about wine and winemaking.”

“Quite honestly, Samantha and I were at about the same level as you said you are when we bought the place.”

“Perhaps not quite,” she broke in. “We did know a considerable amount about wines from a consumer standpoint. I mean, what we liked, what we didn’t, what was a good value, and what was too ambitiously priced. But I have to admit that about all I really knew about wine was that it usually was made from grapes, but not always.”

“On top of that, we didn’t have any idea of what the process involved, or many of the other ins and outs of the business,” Marty went on.

“I find it impressive that you’ve done so well with it,” Brett said. “I mean, like I said, while I don’t know much about wines or making them, I do know quite a bit about the dairy business. I was brought up on a dairy farm, and it’s considerably more complicated than most people would think.”

“That’s something we learned from Diane,” Samantha replied. “From having been her roommate for four years, I at least learned there was more to it than met the eye.”

“Actually, from what I know now, I suspect that there’s even more to the wine business than there is to dairy farming,” Marty grinned, “although the hours involved have got to be a little more comfortable.”

“It still strikes me as a lot to learn,” Brett nodded with understanding. He could see that there had to be some complexities along the way. “How did you do it?”

“The simple answer to that is we were smart enough to find someone who knew what he was doing and put him in charge of it,” Marty said. “He’s been in the business all his life, and he’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know. Over a period of a few years I’ve gotten to the point where if something happened to him, I could probably take over and fake it, but I’d only do it long enough to find someone to replace him. Chuck is semi-retired and only works when he’s needed, which is how he wants it. He knows winemaking backwards and forwards, while Samantha and I mostly deal with the merchandising and marketing along with other odds and ends as needed. There’s a lot to that, too, but at least they’re fields we’re more familiar with.”

Brett took a sip of his coffee. “That makes sense,” he said. “It seems to me you could get into trouble very easily without that kind of knowledge available.”

“Absolutely,” Marty said. “And it was a lesson I’d learned long before getting into the wine business ever came up. Look, sometimes as a banker I’d have to repossess a potentially good business that was failing because the management didn’t know what they were doing. If I could find a good manager, put him into the place and make it profitable again, we stood to make good money on the resale, where if we’d just shut it down we’d have taken a bath. That’s pretty much what’s happened here.”

“It sounds like it’s worked for you.”

“It has,” Marty said. He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, then held it in mid-air. “Which leads us to this idea about a dinner theater. Samantha and I have enjoyed some pretty good plays over the years, but there our knowledge ends. What we really know about the theater is about what you say you know about wine. We don’t know if this idea holds water, what the ins and outs have to be, or how to go about it. That’s why we wanted to talk to you.”

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