On a green hill bathed in sunshine, a very blond man sitting still on a chestnut horse suddenly raised his seldom used crop and struck his own boot with it. His fair, sculptured face drew in on itself.
“Damn!” he said to no one.
Below the hill, acres of grapevines rolled over the land, healthy, well kept. As he look out over his realm, his face softened, even glowed. How he loved the vines and the winery they served.
They were his, these marvelous vines, and the winery too. He was Adrian Graf, owner—hands-on owner—of Mia Sophia Winery & Vineyards, one of the most successful of the local boutique wineries in Sonoma County, California.
Times were not good for most businesses, for most people, really, in this new year of 2010. Mia Sophia was not hurting badly, and Graf was confident that his winery could ride out the world economic crisis. He was happy.
And then, just yesterday, he got what its purveyors assumed would be good news: a huge wine conglomerate made an offer to buy Mia Sophia, an offer so generous that it had to be considered.
Graf didn’t want to consider it; he was content; but there were others about whom he had to think. First among those was his wife, Sydney. If one man can feel both a thrill at the very thought of his lovely wife and despair of her in the same instant, then Adrian Graf was the proof.
Sydney Hallas, his wife of twenty-three years, was stunning, brilliant, and endlessly intriguing. She was also ambitious; that was the rub. Sydney would leap at the offer; Sydney would not consider—would not countenance his considering—not accepting the offer.
They would be wealthy beyond imagination. They would be free to do whatever entered their minds without even thinking about expense. Sydney would love it.
He understood. She had been poor as a child. Abandoned by her mother, she had been raised by her father, a good man who worked only to see that Sydney had every advantage. He believed in education; he spent all his money to send Sydney to top schools, from grade school on. She was an excellent student; but he had no extra money to provide her with the accoutrements her classmates considered important. It was no wonder she valued wealth.
He supposed that he might feel the same way, in her shoes. And, until now, it was no problem. He loved being able to provide her all the things she enjoyed. But this was too much; this meant giving up his life—the life he loved. Were he alone, he would refuse the offer. Probably. He hates to think it, but Syd is the problem, the conflict: she'll want it so much; more than that, she'll expect him to leap at the offer. Adrian loves his wife. He's proud of her, he loves to make her happy. But the price of making her happy this time will be his giving up what he loves most about his life: his work, his family heritage.
“C’mon, Bucky,” he said to his horse, “let’s have one fine ride on this fine day, and leave our troubles ‘til later.” Taking a deep breath and letting it go and with it the moment’s worries, he clicked his tongue to his teeth and Bucephalus set off at a nice easy lope. Up and down the gently rising vineyards, taking the wider lanes between vines, enjoying the sun, and the blue sky, and the earthy smell of grapes and growing.
And so man and horse do, letting troubles go, feeling the soft beauty of the day. But before long Adrian feels the sense of dread returning, constricting his breathing, tensing his face, almost nauseating. He knows he has to deal with it. He has to deal with it.
***
He and Bucky have gone beyond the vineyards into a small woods. Adrian pulled Bucky up beside a gentle spring-fed stream. The sound of the water soothed the man. What if he just declines the offer and never tells, well, anyone. Why not? Of course, Lew knows; but Lew doesn't care, not about the money; he's already fixed for life. Just say no, let it go. The thought felt like a reprieve.
He dismounted, made a cup of his hands and drank of the clear, sweet water. Bucephalus noticed and drank too. It was a moment of peace and joy. And then the moment passed.
It won't work. He remounted his horse. He can't decline the offer and expect it to stay a secret. The PD would report on it, especially if the offer were then made to another winery. Others would talk. And even if not, his conscience wouldn't let him keep the possibility from his wife.
No, there was no easy out. He turned Bucky back toward the house. He’d have to tell Syd. And once he had, then, face it, Adrian, he said to himself, he’d have to accept the damned offer.
Well, he was sixty years old, other people thrilled at the idea of retirement at sixty, freedom is how they saw it; no financial worries, time to do all sorts of things they’d dreamed of. What things? he thought. What do I dream of? I've been living my dream.
***
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