D is for Drunk by Rebecca Cantrell

castle. Sofia was used to seeing mansions. Lots of people in the business had ridiculously lavish houses, it was why she loved her tiny blue trailer so much, but this castle was opulent even by those standards—oak laid in elaborate patterns, a smattering of marble floors and marble wainscoting, gilded everything, and rich fabrics. It felt more like a museum than a house.
    She had the urge to escape to a clean white room with nothing except maybe a white yoga mat. She couldn’t imagine living in this kind of a place. Each individual item was beautiful, but the overall effect was suffocating.
    She marveled at the giant kitchen. Emily would have loved it—a giant stove, countertops practically big enough to pitch a tent, a refrigerator big enough to climb in, and two full-time cooks hustling around dressed all in white. And no leaky faucets.
    She lost count of the numbers of bedrooms and bathrooms. Each gold-plated bathroom fixture was immaculate and well-maintained. Either one of the Grigoryan’s was a pathological neat freak, or they had meticulous staff. She doubted they would tolerate a leak for more than five seconds without ripping out the offending faucet and replacing it.
    Maybe a disgruntled staff member had put the poop in the car and was siphoning off the water. “Do you have many staff here at the vineyards?”
    “Staffs?” Milena twisted the giant diamond ring on her finger.
    “People who work for you. Employees.”
    “A few. We have a housekeeper, two day maids, and a cook for the house, plus extras for events. A woman in the tasting room. Two who work full-time in the vineyard, plus many who come and go for harvest and planting.”
    That was a few?
    “Have you had any problems with any of them?” Aidan asked.
    “I see what you think, but no. We have had the same employees for years, and nothing had changed in the last few months.” Milena shook her head decisively and her curls bounced. “Shall we go out to the vineyard, Aidan?”
    Sofia didn’t expect to be asked. Milena had acted as if she wasn’t there the entire time.
    “Sofia and I would like that,” Aidan said. “Both of us.”

                                                                                                                                                                     

    CHAPTER 10
    M  ilena led the way down the marble staircase, under a crystal chandelier sparkling as if it had been washed five minutes before, through the giant doors, and out onto the driveway. There was no lawn to speak of. The entire top of the mountain had been covered with the building, the pool, and paving stones. The pavers gleamed in the sun as if they, too, had been freshly washed. Maybe that’s what was using up all their water—cleaning.
    “There are the vines. We have two lots, twenty acres, and we have planted about ten acres. The rest is for the house, the buildings, and resting soil.” Milena adjusted her hat to shade her freckled face. “Armenians are the oldest winemakers in the world. Our Armenian grapes come from an ungrafted Armenian variety, Areni Noir , that has been in our land for more than six thousand years.”
    “Wow,” Sofia said.
    “When you drink our wines, you are drinking history,” Milena said. “Something old and rare. Herodotus and Strabo praised our wines long before the birth of Christ.”
    She wondered if they’d actually get to taste any. They’d been on a water tour, which was a lot less interesting than a wine tour. Toilets and faucets didn’t have the appeal of reds and whites.
    “We have only a hundred Areni Noir vines, but we are expanding. We also grow other more common grapes with six hundred vines of Pinot Noir ; three thousand of Cabernet ; two thousand Syrah ; two thousand Merlot ; and a few other varietals in smaller