Chapter 3
"Superior Court of the State of California, County of Sacramento," Dan Hobbs read, his voice carrying evenly through the tasting room. "In the matter of the estate of Martha Anne Pryor. Case number 4-1-2-7-V."
Loretta's glass was halfway to her lips. She set it down slowly.
"That's Martha's estate," she said. "Why are we reading that?"
Hobbs did not look up. "Because this is the document that governs the ownership of Larkspur Vineyard."
"I know what governs Larkspur," Loretta said, a little too bright. "The family's management share. Martha and I — "
"Ms. Pryor-Keene," Hobbs said, and there was something in the set of his shoulders that made her stop, "the court has been petitioned to settle the ownership of this property. The order was granted on March fourteenth. I'm reading it now, per the instruction of the court and the terms of the will."
He turned the page slightly, the crease running through the middle of the paper, and continued.
"The court finds that the decedent, Martha Anne Pryor, passed on March fifth, leaving a will duly executed and witnessed, devising all real property at Larkspur Vineyard, assessed parcel number 72-148-903, together with the improvements thereon, the crush pad, the tasting room, the outbuildings, and the residence known as the sharp-roof house, to a single named heir."
Behind Loretta, the license on the wall caught the morning light. Priscilla Vance was staring at it now, openly, her reading glasses on.
"The grantee," Hobbs read, "is Amos Thomas Pryor, sole heir of the estate of Martha Anne Pryor."
The room went still.
It was not the stillness of surprise, not exactly. It was the stillness of a room where everyone knew something had just changed and nobody was sure they had heard it right.
The man in the polo shirt — the one who had laughed at the crush pad — looked from Hobbs to Amos to Loretta and back again, his mouth slightly open.
The woman from Davis, who had bought two cases of the Barbera in September, set her glass down on the barrel head with a small, deliberate click.
"Amos Pryor," Loretta repeated. "You're telling me that Martha left the vineyard to — "
"To Amos Thomas Pryor," Hobbs said. "Sole heir."
Loretta laughed. It was a bright, practiced sound, the same laugh she had used at the crush pad, the same laugh she had been using for years whenever anything threatened to settle on her. "That's a joke. Martha and I — we had an understanding. The management share — "
"The word 'management,'" Hobbs said, "appears nowhere in this document. The word 'share' appears nowhere in this document."
Loretta's smile had not yet faded. It was frozen on her face, a fixed thing, her hand still wrapped around her glass.
"The management share is a family arrangement," she said. "Martha and I agreed — every holiday, every harvest, she and I talked about it. I've been coming to Larkspur for decades — "
"You've been coming to Larkspur for Christmases," Priscilla Vance said quietly.
Loretta turned to her. "Excuse me?"
"You've been coming here for Christmases," Priscilla repeated. "And Easter. And I recall you were at her funeral." She paused, and her voice was level when she continued. "But I've been a member of this club for eleven years, Loretta. I've been here for every crush, every release, every spring prune and every pick. And in eleven years, I have never seen you with pruners in your hand, or on your knees in a row, or carrying a bucket of grapes into the crush."
"That's not — " Loretta started.
"And I have never," Priscilla said, "seen you alone on this property. Not once. Every time I've been here, you've been in a group. You've been at the table. You've been pouring the wine. But I've never seen you do the work."
The room was silent. Somewhere outside, a bird called, and the sound seemed to echo.
Loretta's face was changing. The fixed smile was cracking at the edges, and beneath it, something else was coming up — the thing that Amos had seen at the crush pad, the thing she showed when she thought nobody was watching.
"This doesn't change anything," she said, and her voice was sharp now, cutting. "Amos may have a piece of paper, but the management share is real. I've told people for years — I've told the family — "
"You've told," Amos said.
The room turned to him. He had not moved from his place at the end of the table. His work jacket was still on, the folded envelope still in the inner pocket, his hand resting flat on it.
"You've told people for years," he repeated, his voice low and steady. "What did you tell them?"
Loretta's chin lifted. "I told them the truth. That I helped manage Larkspur."
"Did you?"
"I — " She wavered. "I advised. I gave Martha my thoughts. I helped with the — with the events, the club, the — "
"Which events?" Priscilla asked. "Which clubs?"
"I'm not going to be quizzed by — "
"You hosted the December tasting," Priscilla said. "I was there. Martha was alive. She poured the wine herself. You sat in the armchair by the window and told everyone about your management share. And I remember," she said, "because I was there — Martha looked at you, and she didn't say anything at all."
Loretta's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Hobbs cleared his throat. "Ms. Pryor-Keene, I have the original will and the probate order here. The court has determined that Larkspur Vineyard passes to Mr. Pryor in full. There is no other document — no trust instrument, no management agreement, no partnership filing — that references any interest for you in this property."
"I don't need a document," Loretta said, but her voice was thinner now. "There are family agreements. Verbal. Always has been."
Hobbs shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, but verbal agreements don't survive a court order. And they don't survive the licensing."
He gestured, slightly, toward the wall behind her.
"The winery license on that wall," he said, "is the business registration for Larkspur Vineyard. It lists the licensed operator. It lists the owner."
Loretta did not turn around.
"Read it," Hobbs said.
"I don't need to read it. I know what it says."
"Then you know," Hobbs said quietly, "that the license has carried a single name since the spring. The same name as the grantee line in this order. I would have thought you'd read it, Ms. Pryor-Keene. It's been on that wall since March fourteenth, and you've sat in this room a dozen times since then."
Loretta's eyes went to the wall. For a long moment, she refused. Then, slowly, her head began to turn, and the frame swam into her vision.
Amos watched her.
He watched the crease appear between her brows, the way her mouth tightened, the way her hand went still on her glass.
He watched her read the name.
He had carried that order in his jacket for six months. He had knelt on the crush pad in front of her, had watched the loppers skid across concrete, had listened to her laugh at the wine club and heard what she said about the place that had been his grandfather's and his great-aunt's and was now, on paper, his.
He had said — nothing.
He was not saying nothing now.
"The management share," he said, and his voice was level, giving back nothing of what was inside him, "exists in nothing but your own telling."
Loretta's face had gone pale beneath the freckles.
"Martha," she said, and her voice cracked. "Martha — Martha and I — "
"I was there," Amos said. "At the reading of the will. You weren't."
The room held its breath.
"She named me sole heir," he said. "She wrote it down, signed it, had it witnessed, and filed it with the court. And then she died, and the court stamped it, and I carried it in my jacket through the whole spring and summer and into this crush, because she asked me to."
He reached into his inner pocket, and the folded order came out, creased along lines that had been there since March.
"I'm done carrying it," he said, and laid the paper flat on the barrel head beside Hobbs's folder.
Loretta's eyes were fixed on it. Not on him. On the paper.
"That doesn't — " she started.
"It does," Priscilla Vance said, and her voice was final. "It does, Loretta."
The room was silent. The morning light found the window over the crush pad and laid a long band across the floor. Somewhere in the fields, a bottle of wine sat in the shade, waiting.
Loretta Pryor-Keene stood up, slowly, and set her tasting glass on the barrel head. It was empty. She had not drunk from it once.
She looked at the license one more time. Then she looked at Amos, standing at the end of the table in his work jacket, and for the first time in thirty years, she did not know what to say.
She walked out of the tasting room, through the crush pad, and down between the vine rows without looking back.
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