An attractive woman in her fifties with shoulder-length mahogany hair comes from behind the counter, extending her hand to Presley. “I’m Lucy Jordan. Welcome to the team!”
There it is again. The team. Presley loves the way everyone refers to the staff as one working unit. “Thank you. Your cellar is impressive.”
“Lucy designed it herself,” Stella says proudly.
“With a lot of help from Stella.” Behind black frame glasses, laugh lines crinkle at the corners of Lucy’s brown eyes. Presley’s people reader kicks into action. There’s something special about this woman. Yet she’s sending off a mysterious vibe as well. Is she struggling with inner demons? If so, she’s doing a stellar job of not letting it show.
Stella glances at her watch. “Oops. I’m due at another meeting. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Presley, full steam ahead with the plans for homecoming. I’ll email the list of brides to you by the end of the day. And check with Cecily as soon as you can. We have a few small parties booked for parents’ weekend on Friday and Saturday nights.”
“I’m on it.” Presley gives Stella a thumbs-up, and waits for her to leave before asking Lucy, “When are you hosting your first tasting?”
“On Friday night, for college parents on a first-come, first-served basis.”
Presley asks, “Would you like for me to arrange a charcuterie board with cheeses and meats that pair well with your wines?”
“I’ve already spoken to Cecily about it,” Lucy says. “You’re knowledgeable about wine. I guess that’s a given in your industry.”
“My mother was a connoisseur. We went to a lot of tastings together.” Presley learned what not to do from her mother. One tastes wine to savor the aromas and flavors. One doesn’t drink wine to get drunk.
“Was? Is your mother . . .”
“Dead? Yes, she passed away two months ago.” Presley changes the subject. She’s not in the mood to talk about her mother’s death. “Stella mentioned you worked at French Laundry. How did you end up back in Hope Springs? I hope I’m not being too personal.”
“Not at all. Mine is the age-old story. I married my high school sweetheart. Grant, my now ex-husband, loves Hope Springs. He refused to live anywhere else. To be with him, I had to move back to Virginia. Around that same time, the sommelier here, at the inn, passed away, and I took his job. After my son was born five years later, I was a stay-at-home mom. Billy Jameson was managing the inn back then. His health had begun to decline, and he was letting things slip. He chose not to hire anyone to replace me.”
“So, you and the inn are starting over together.”
Lucy nods. “In terms of networking. But I never stopped studying wine. I’ve traveled a lot and received several important certifications. I feel as though I’ve been given a golden opportunity.”
Presley smiles at her. “We have that in common.” She removes a bottle of bordeaux from a shelf. She recognizes the label from her mother’s cellar, a vintage worth over a thousand dollars. “Where did all these wines come from?”
“Believe it or not, a lot of them were already here. They were well-preserved, and we have some exquisite vintages in stock like the one you’re holding.”
“Does the wine shop have a name?”
“Hope Springs Cellars,” Lucy says. “Our program isn’t just about our restaurant’s wine list, although Jameson’s plays an important role in our overall success. I want our guests to enjoy a delicious bottle of wine at dinner and purchase a case to take home with them. The opportunities for tastings and wine education with our in-house guests will be limitless, and on slow nights, I’d like to host wine dinners for the locals.”
The women talk for nearly an hour, discussing ways to grow the cellar’s reputation. Presley finds Lucy’s passion for wine infectious, and has faith that she will put Hope Springs Cellars on the map as one of the best in the state if not the country. As she talks, her face comes alive and her eyes twinkle. She is vibrant and intelligent, yet she also has a gentle way about her. Their guests will enjoy working with her to plan the wines for their events.
13
Stella
In a leap of faith, Jack insists on putting both our names on the manor house title. His gesture, meant with the best intentions, makes me nervous when we haven’t even set a date for our wedding. I’d feel better if he’d let me invest in the property, but when I offer my meager savings, he refuses to take it. I’m overjoyed at the prospect of one day living in my ancestral home. After he receives the official documents on Wednesday morning, Jack and I spend that afternoon picking out paint colors and going over the kitchen designs one last time before committing to the contractor.
When Jack returns to work, I stay behind to explore the yard. I’m delighted to discover my father’s name etched in the trunk of an old maple tree at the back of the property. I sit on the ground at the base of that tree, imagining the time he spent here as a child. While I never knew Billy, never got to call him Daddy, oddly enough, I feel my connection to him getting stronger every day. Now that I’ll be spending more time in the house where he grew up, he’ll never be far from my mind.
The familiar fear of an uncertain future comes rushing back. What if the inn doesn’t make it? What will happen to my career? There are no other hotels of that caliber in Hope Springs. Returning to New York is out of the question. I could never leave Brian and Opal, Jack and Jazz. Maybe I could get a job in Charlottesville. I could suffer through the hour commute twice a day for a while, but it wouldn’t be practical once we start our family. I’ve grown professionally these past
