personality of it, the way each bottle told a story of its maker, of the land it came from, of the soil in which the grapes grew. Nothing was more mysterious, more romantic, than a good bottle of wine as far as Dorian was concerned, and people either got that or they didn’t.
Her last girlfriend didn’t.
The woman she was dating now—it was much too early in the relationship to call her a girlfriend—didn’t either.
Letting out a tired breath, Dorian turned away from the front of the darkened store. On the way past the shelves, she slid down a bottle of the Pinot Noir she’d sent home with Geri Scott, and took it with her to the door in the back corner of the store. The door was painted the same color as the wall and if you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably miss it. Behind it was a narrow flight of stairs that led up to the surprisingly roomy apartment that Dorian called home.
“Hi, Spike,” she said affectionately to the white cat that wound itself around her ankles, meowing plaintively, telling her in cat-speak that it was well past his dinner time. She jotted a quick note to herself to remember to take the bottle of Pinot into account when tallying inventory in the morning, and left it on the round bistro table tucked into the corner of the small kitchen. Yes, she loved wine, but she was not so irresponsible that she just helped herself to the store’s inventory without docking herself for it. Her father would have laughed at her being such a stickler, but she was determined. If her business was going to go under, it wasn’t going to be because the owner was helping herself to the goods and not keeping track.
The open windows in the living room let in a wonderfully tepid evening breeze, carrying with it the smell of autumn and the sound of the people on the street below, and for a short moment, her brain began to calculate sales if only two of every ten people came in and bought a bottle of wine. Quickly, she shook the thoughts free. Before they could make her crazy, which they would. And had in the past. Yes, she could stay open later. In fact, she used to stay open until 9:00 every weeknight as well as Saturdays, but not without consequence: complete and utter exhaustion on her part.
No, it was infinitely smarter for her to close early a couple of nights a week. Not as profitable, but smarter, at least until she could afford to hire back the two assistants she had to lay off three months ago. Or hire people like them, as she was reasonably sure they weren’t sitting at home twiddling their thumbs and waiting for her call. She hated having to let them go. They were good workers, friends, one of them having been with her father for ten years prior to Dorian’s taking over the shop. But financially, she just couldn’t justify keeping them on. It broke her heart and the guilt still ate at her if she dwelled too long. She did what she had to do to keep the business alive. And it sucked.
Dorian made short work of the cork in the Pinot and poured herself a glass. She swirled it around, watched the rich crimson leave legs on the glass, catch the light, and throw it back. Her dad used to tell her that the simple act of watching wine in a decent wine glass would calm his nerves and ease his soul. Dorian would laugh at him, tell him he’d obviously consumed too much of his product…until the day of his funeral.
It was the first time in her life she’d felt the weight of utter devastation.
It was also the first time she’d actually, honestly understood her father’s connection to wine. She’d survived the day—she still wasn’t quite sure how—and once alone, she’d opened a bottle of his favorite Zin. As she poured it into one of his crystal glasses, she felt as if somebody was also pouring peace into her aching heart. It sounded so incredibly corny that she’d never shared it with anybody. Ever. But that didn’t keep it from being true. Since that moment, she’d felt as if, somehow, her
Her last girlfriend didn’t.
The woman she was dating now—it was much too early in the relationship to call her a girlfriend—didn’t either.
Letting out a tired breath, Dorian turned away from the front of the darkened store. On the way past the shelves, she slid down a bottle of the Pinot Noir she’d sent home with Geri Scott, and took it with her to the door in the back corner of the store. The door was painted the same color as the wall and if you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably miss it. Behind it was a narrow flight of stairs that led up to the surprisingly roomy apartment that Dorian called home.
“Hi, Spike,” she said affectionately to the white cat that wound itself around her ankles, meowing plaintively, telling her in cat-speak that it was well past his dinner time. She jotted a quick note to herself to remember to take the bottle of Pinot into account when tallying inventory in the morning, and left it on the round bistro table tucked into the corner of the small kitchen. Yes, she loved wine, but she was not so irresponsible that she just helped herself to the store’s inventory without docking herself for it. Her father would have laughed at her being such a stickler, but she was determined. If her business was going to go under, it wasn’t going to be because the owner was helping herself to the goods and not keeping track.
The open windows in the living room let in a wonderfully tepid evening breeze, carrying with it the smell of autumn and the sound of the people on the street below, and for a short moment, her brain began to calculate sales if only two of every ten people came in and bought a bottle of wine. Quickly, she shook the thoughts free. Before they could make her crazy, which they would. And had in the past. Yes, she could stay open later. In fact, she used to stay open until 9:00 every weeknight as well as Saturdays, but not without consequence: complete and utter exhaustion on her part.
No, it was infinitely smarter for her to close early a couple of nights a week. Not as profitable, but smarter, at least until she could afford to hire back the two assistants she had to lay off three months ago. Or hire people like them, as she was reasonably sure they weren’t sitting at home twiddling their thumbs and waiting for her call. She hated having to let them go. They were good workers, friends, one of them having been with her father for ten years prior to Dorian’s taking over the shop. But financially, she just couldn’t justify keeping them on. It broke her heart and the guilt still ate at her if she dwelled too long. She did what she had to do to keep the business alive. And it sucked.
Dorian made short work of the cork in the Pinot and poured herself a glass. She swirled it around, watched the rich crimson leave legs on the glass, catch the light, and throw it back. Her dad used to tell her that the simple act of watching wine in a decent wine glass would calm his nerves and ease his soul. Dorian would laugh at him, tell him he’d obviously consumed too much of his product…until the day of his funeral.
It was the first time in her life she’d felt the weight of utter devastation.
It was also the first time she’d actually, honestly understood her father’s connection to wine. She’d survived the day—she still wasn’t quite sure how—and once alone, she’d opened a bottle of his favorite Zin. As she poured it into one of his crystal glasses, she felt as if somebody was also pouring peace into her aching heart. It sounded so incredibly corny that she’d never shared it with anybody. Ever. But that didn’t keep it from being true. Since that moment, she’d felt as if, somehow, her
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