In the kitchen, I find my sisters working on their latest recipe. The space is so inviting and cheerful, with honey wood cabinets, a huge center island, and a double-basin farm sink at a window that overlooks the backyard. The scent of warm cinnamon fills the air, and my stomach growls.
My sisters have their long hair up in high ponytails. We three girls resemble our Italian mother’s side with our dark brown hair and eyes, our petite frames, and light olive skin. I’m five feet four, and the twins are an inch shorter. Cute as buttons. Mabel wears an apron with a lemon pattern over her T-shirt and shorts. Eliza sticks with her peppermint-candy-striped apron year-round.
Mabel turns to Eliza. “What do you think about adding—”
“—pureed strawberry,” Eliza says.
“Just for the filling,” Mabel says.
“Yes!” Eliza exclaims, heading to the refrigerator.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” Mabel says cheerily. “We’re working on a dark chocolate cupcake recipe.”
Eliza lifts the strawberry container in a little wave. “Less than two weeks until the bake-off.”
“I know. It’s all I hear about around here.” I help myself to a glass of water. “Any chance you made breakfast before the cupcakes?”
Mabel waves toward her twin. “Eliza made cinnamon rolls, but Dad took them out for the staff.”
“You snooze, you lose,” Eliza says with a grin from the sink, where she’s washing the strawberries.
I cross to her. “Guess I’ll just steal a few strawberries.”
“Back away from the strawberries,” Eliza says, lifting the colander and setting it on the counter away from me.
“Just one,” I coax.
“Ha! I was kidding before,” Eliza says. “I saved a cinnamon roll for you. It’s on the dining room table.”
I beam. “You’re now officially my favorite sister.”
Eliza sticks her tongue out at Mabel.
Mabel arches her brows. “Eliza is my favorite sister.”
“Oh! Direct hit!” I stagger and pull the pretend knife from my back. Mabel smiles and goes back to measuring ingredients for cupcake batter. The food processor whirs a moment later, and they’re back in action.
I take a seat at our glossy cherrywood dining room table and devour the cinnamon roll. Nothing like fresh baked…anything, really. I’m going to have to be careful not to gain a hundred pounds sampling everything they make. My sisters are eager for the state bake-off because the prize is full tuition to culinary school. One of them will use that money to go, while my parents cover the other. Mabel wants to focus on cuisine and Eliza on baking. Their ultimate goal is to open a top-rated restaurant. It would be cool if they did that here at the vineyard, but we’ll see where they end up. They’re both trying to get into different culinary schools. Mabel in New York and Eliza in France.
My dad appears unexpectedly in the dining room just as I get up from the table. Normally he’s tending the vines or in the cellar. His dark brown hair is parted to the side, his round cheeks clean-shaven. He’s wearing a faded chambray button-down shirt, khakis, and his beat-up work boots. “Finally, you’re up,” he says.
“It’s not that late,” I say. “You’re just an early bird.”
“Get up with the sun this time of year.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I thought I’d sit in on your meeting with Mom today.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” I head through the kitchen and outside to Mom’s office in the cottage out back as Dad follows. The space was originally an in-law unit, which my parents used to rent out, but then the twins came along, so it became the office.
It’s unusual for Dad to want to leave his post overseeing the production of the wine, but hey. It’s his vineyard. Mom’s too. When they’re ready to retire, they’ll hand it over to me and my sisters (if they’re interested). Until then, Mom and Dad are my bosses. I don’t mind working for my parents. I know they value my contribution. They were thrilled that I wanted to work here. Of course I did! The winery means everything to me. It’s my namesake, my legacy.
I enter the cottage, and my mom swivels in her black mesh office chair. “Morning, sweetheart.” Her dark brown hair is back in its usual bun, no makeup. She favors T-shirts, jeans, and a beige cardigan that’s probably as old as I am.
“Morning.” I stop to give our old dog Sadie a scratch behind her big floppy ears. She lifts her soulful bloodhound eyes to me for a moment before resting her head on her drool-covered paws. “No, don’t get up,” I murmur. She’s about ten years old and deaf, but she can still sniff out a rabbit from a mile away.
I straighten to find my dad is already seated in the wooden chair across from the desk. I take the other chair. The cottage is sparsely decorated. Just a long wooden desk with chairs and a few art prints on the white walls. The highlight is a large window with a view of the vineyard.
“So should we start?” Mom asks.
“Oh! I should’ve brought a notepad and pen.” I pull my phone out of the deep pocket in my dress. “I’ll jot down anything important in my notes app.”
I look up at the silence to find my parents exchanging a look. “What?”
“Let’s not write this stuff down,” Dad says.
“It’s of a delicate nature,” Mom says.
“Oh, okay.” I look from one to the other, confused. “Is it marketing related? Do you have a new idea for bringing in business?”
“In a way,” Mom says. “I’m hoping you can help with that.”
“We’ve done everything we can think of,” Dad says with a note of worry that has me sitting up straighter. “Wine club, online sales, the tastings.”
Mom shakes her head sadly. “Wine club was a good idea, but only a few people were willing to commit to a monthly membership.”
A sense of dread fills me at their tight expressions.
“And tastings are seasonal,” Dad adds.
“You said online sales did better than you thought,” I say. “Right?”
“At Christmas they were good,” Mom says.
“It’s just become a very crowded, competitive market,” Dad says. “There’s so many new wineries coming on the scene, and it’s harder to get distribution in stores.”
My gut tightens. I remember them talking about how the wineries from Latin America were taking over shelf space in the stores. I didn’t realize this was what they meant. “Okay, I’ll come up with a plan. Something that shines a new light on Stellariva wines.” My mind is already cranking with ideas that won’t cost too much, when Mom drops the bombshell.
“Here’s the reality, honey,” she says. “We’re nearly broke. I’m not sure we can keep the winery going much longer.”
I suck in air.
“And sending the twins to culinary school next year is looking iffy,” Dad says.
My stomach knots into a sickly mess.
My mom opens her laptop. “I’ll show you the numbers.”
A few moments later, I take the offered laptop and stare cold hard reality in the face. They’re not just nearly broke. They’re also in debt. I can’t believe they kept this from me. They knew I planned on joining them in the family business.