Page 16 of Playing Dirty
And all of it surrounded by vineyards rolling out toward the hills in long, even rows, the far ends still disappearing into the fog. It is the very definition of peaceful.Mostly, anyway.
Because drifting up the path from the equipment shed come two voices I could identify blindfolded from a hundred yards. I find myself fighting a smile as I make my way toward the manor. My fellow early birds are at it already.
"—and I am telling you, the west edge of that block gets the afternoon shade off the treeline. It is the perfect spot, Diane. The climbing roses need to be against that wall."
"And I am tellingyou, I asked you for roses at my row ends three weeks ago. If you've got roses to plant, you plant those first."
"I will get to your row ends?—"
"Those roses are my early warning system, José. They catch the mildew before it ever reaches my vines. That is a function. Your wall is—donotwave your hand at me, this is science."
"It is also science that the wall is hideous, Diane. Bare gray stone, the first thing every guest sees from the terrace. Beauty is a function too?—"
I round the end of the row and find them squared off by the shed, Diane with her long silver braid and her arms crossed, José looking tan and equally stubborn. He's got a rolled-up landscaping sketch in one hand like a lawyer about to present evidence, and both of them seem to be secretly thriving on the friction, if the glint in their eyes is any indication.
Neither of them is actually mad, though they'd sooner die than admit it. They've each been here over a decade, and they've never once agreed on what to do with a single square foot of the place.
Diane, our ever-practical winemaker, would happily pave over every flowerbed if it meant another inch of soil for her precious vines, and she thinks José's are pure vanity. Meanwhile José, our head gardener, would prioritize his elaborate floral gardens any day and finds her approach entirely uncultured. Yet despite the constant friction and the daily bickering, they remain inexplicably tethered to one another.
And right between them, sprawled in a patch of early sun on an overturned wine crate, Diane's beagle, Alfie, is flopped on his back with José's little black cat, Luna, curled against his ribs.Both fast asleep while their owners bicker. Like I said, we all know the routine.
"Good morning," I say as I walk up. "Should I come back when the case goes to the jury?"
"Margot." Diane brightens immediately. "Perfect.Youhave sense. Tell this man he cannot put climbing roses on the west wall of my east block."
"Morning, Margot. Will you tell this woman," José says, unrolling his landscaping sketch with a dramatic flourish, "that our guests capture far more photographs of my roses than they ever do of her precious vines? This bare stone wall is an absolute eyesore and an embarrassment to the entire estate."
He thrusts the drawing toward me pointedly. It's admittedly a very beautiful colored pencil rendering, the kind of detailed work he produces whenever he's struck by a new vision for the grounds. I offer an appreciative hum as I study the vibrant petals he's imagined.
"It's a working wall, you stubborn man!” Diane exclaims, her silver braid swinging as she gestures wildly. “My sprayer rig turns along that wall twice a week. You want me to thread a two-ton machine past your climbing roses?"
"It is a hideous wall, Diane. If you had your way, the entire estate would be one vast, utilitarian wasteland dedicated solely to the production of wine."
"We're a damnvineyard," she fires back.
"We are also one of the most beautiful destination properties in the valley, and the two have to coexist. Your roses will arrive next week, once I've completed my botanical vision."
She flings her hands toward the sky, and the two of them look to me expectantly, José waving his sketch for emphasis.
"I'm not touching this one," I say, crouching down by the crate, because Alfie has seen me and his tail has started thumping against the wood. "Hi, handsome. Yes. Good morning to you too."
I reach down and give his belly a proper scratch, and the thumping doubles. Luna cracks open her green eyes, sizes me up, and apparently decides she'll allow some affection, tilting her chin up so I can get to her favorite spot under her jaw.
"Look at that," José says, smiling as he abandons the argument to admire the animals, as one should. "Luna lets nobody but you touch her face, Margot. Well, apart from me of course."
And Diane. But I keep that one to myself in the name of peacekeeping.
"That's because Margot doesn't approach her like a grabby child at a petting zoo," Diane remarks. "The cat has a healthy respect forcompetence."
"On that we agree."
"Careful," I say, standing and brushing off my knees. "You two just agreed. That's twice this month."
They both look faintly alarmed by the accusation of harmony.
"Actually, Diane, I'm glad I caught you," I say quickly, before hostilities can resume. "The meal train for Rosa. I've extended it because her parents very sadly can't get here from Mexico for the delivery and she's devastated about it. So, are you both okay taking two slots? I'm building the calendar this week."
"Oh yes, of course, sweet Rosa. I'll take the slot right after she comes home with the baby," Diane says, her expression softening at the name.
