AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Christ on a cracker,” his father muttered under his breath, and Mum swatted at him.
“Don’t blaspheme over breakfast, William.” She turned her attention back to Ambrose. “So did you find the cheese board? Should there be a little sign telling people there’s a cheese board? We don’t want the guests to miss it.”
“We found it this morning,” Ambrose said with a wicked grin. “We got sort of, um, distracted by the gift basket last night.” Dad choked on a forkful of eggs as Ambrose continued blithely, “Have you thought of adding anchor bolts and restraints to the bed, Fi? Maybe a few more sex toys, a nice paddle perhaps? I’ll bet people on their honeymoon would like something a bit spicy like that. I know I would.”
“Do you think so?” Mum asked while Liam debated whether he could fit under the table with John Phillip and stay there till this conversation was over.
“Sure,” Ambrose agreed easily. “If you want, I’ll show you some good websites to order what you need, and the ones to avoid.”
“You seem to be quite the expert,” Mum said, looking uncertainly from Liam to Ambrose and back again.
Ambrose gave another grin. “Nah, just an enthusiastic amateur.”
Dad’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it hastily backwards. “Perhaps we could discuss it when we’re not having breakfast,” he said gruffly. Liam had never seen his dad so red in the face, apart from during the talk he’d given Liam at fifteen that had mainly consisted of him impressing on Liam the importance of using contraception if he ever met a nice girl and things went that far. That particular talk had turned out to be unnecessary, but in fairness to his dad, neither of them had known that at the time.
“Righto,” Grandad Billy said, rubbing his hands together. His eyes sparkled. “Reticulation. Let’s go, boys.”
“What’s reticulation?” Ambrose asked.
“Oh, for when you want things to reticulate,” Grandad Billy said. “Are you wearing comfortable shoes? We’ve got a bit of a hike. Bring a brolly!”
Ambrose snagged another piece of bacon before leaving the kitchen.
“Good,” Grandad Billy said. “You’ll need that. Bit of lining on the stomach, right?”
Ambrose’s eyes grew wide as he and Liam followed Grandad Billy out of the house. “We’re not doing reticulation, are we?”
“I very much doubt it,” Liam agreed.
Riley joined them and walked with them as far as the side of the house, then she headed around the back to feed the chickens. John Phillip followed her halfway down the long driveway, before he changed his mind and loped back to follow Grandad and Liam and Ambrose as they headed for the vineyard.
“Now then,” Grandad said as they reached the first of the vines. “What do you know about dirt?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Ambrose said cheerfully, his nose wrinkling as it started to rain again.
Liam opened his umbrella and stepped closer so they could share.
“It’s good soil here,” Grandad said, squatting down to dig his fingers into the first. “Red clay.”
“That’s what Liam said last night,” Ambrose said, and Liam felt a tiny thrill that Ambrose had remembered.
“The soil’s good,” Grandad said, his eyes twinkling. “But the proof’s in the finished product!” He leapt to his feet again and pointed in the direction of the sheds. “To the wine!”
He headed off down the slope of the hill, his coat flapping wildly behind him.
Ambrose was drunk, and he seemed surprised about it. He kept peering at the glass in his hand and muttering, “I’m hammered?” like it was a question, and not the inevitable result of Grandad pouring glass after glass of red down his throat.
The tasting room in the shed was large and airy, and mercifully free of customers. On holidays and for corporate events, the place could be transformed with decorators and caterers, but mostly wine tastings were small affairs for whoever dropped by. One of the Connellys talked people through it and maybe offered a charcuterie board as well. Grandad hadn’t bothered with any of the trappings. He’d just lined up a bunch of bottles and glasses, popped the cork off the first one, and now, forty-five minutes later, Ambrose was wrecked. They had tasting glasses, dainty little things that held barely a mouthful, but Grandad Billy tended to ignore those. And because of course Ambrose was the one who’d joked about ‘spitters are quitters’, he’d emptied every full-sized glass Grandad had set in front of him.
Liam, who was still sitting on his first glass of shiraz and managing to dodge Grandad’s continued attempts to refill it, wondered if he’d have to wheel the pair of them back to the house in a barrow. Ambrose, very possibly, but Grandad wasn’t yet at the sea-shanty stage of things, so he could probably still walk.
“Nonsense,” Grandad said, sloshing more wine into Ambrose’s glass. “You’ve barely a shine on. Try some of this one.”
“Who…?” Ambrose blinked dozily. “Who comes up with the words?”
“What?” Grandad asked. “The names?”
“No, the words.” Ambrose attempted to swirl the contents of his glass and slopped it all down his hand. He licked it off. “This wine is heavy and verdant and has hints of…of tin, and scaffolding and cow. Words like that. But not that, because nobody has cow wine.” He wrinkled his nose. “Does anyone have cow wine?” His eyes widened. “Ooh. You know how people make hard lemonade? Could you make hard milk?”
