9- Boston

“I think she’s ready,” I told my mother as I swapped the Cunning Ham polo for my work shirt in the back on Thursday evening after El had left for the night. “She might be the most overpaid tasting room host in all of Napa, but at least she’s well trained.”

Mom turned from where she was finishing up some paperwork on the standing desk in the corner of the back office. “She’s not overpaid,” she said, her chin lifting. “As soon as we have enough inventory, she’s going to be out selling. And you know she’ll be great at that. This gives her time to get to know the wine first, and the family behind it.”

I crossed to where Mom stood and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not arguing. I’m glad we’re paying her well.” And Mom was right, llllqwe were investing in the winery’s future. Though this year we had only small inventories of each wine, made from grapes we’d sourced from nearby vineyards with surplus, Lincoln—who had studied viticulture—said the vines were in better shape than we’d tho