"Two days each week." Jolyon waggled the pencil in hand, tapping its end against the papers carpeted kitchen table. He and Alistair looked over the brochure mock-ups, the options for pictures to be added to them, and the examples from other places in the area to see what would best present Rumors Mill. "I was thinking the hours from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon? We could offer light snacks throughout the day in the final room of the tour."

"Four is too late, Jolly," Arcelia tutted from where she was working on the midday meal. "I need to have this place clear and not worrying about feeding strangers when preparing the evening meal. Particularly at harvest time."

"That's the other issue." Alistair rubbed at his chin, twisting the flesh. "Harvest time, we won't be wanting to deal with tours at all."

"We can keep it seasonal. Who wants to tour a winery in the winter anyway? So, we need to state when we are open to tours in the year as well." He began to write on the nearest paper to hand, and then stopped. "Hard to be specific with the differing calendars. I would hate people to travel down this far south of the city and we aren't open."

"That is their business to find out." Alistair sat back and crossed his arms. "The library and several other businesses have materials for people to convert to the most used calendar systems. State what you want."

Jolyon had felt some excitement at the prospect of tours when Koy brought up the subject. There would be more income for one, and the other would be promotion of the wine itself. The task to create a brochure was becoming more troublesome than he anticipated. "We'll use the most common. Last week of April through the last week of September, shall we?"

Receiving no alterations to the suggestion, he wrote it down, plus added, "From ten until three." Glancing up he caught the smile of Arcelia turning to put away a pot.

"Now then," Alistair sighed, "what to say to get people to visit."

"Should we mention we don't use magic of any means? I don't want to offend, but I also pride myself on using older, traditional methods. Then again, magic might be considered the older, traditional method in some places. But I just feel that nature should takes its course with the vines, of course some magic is of nature."

"Do you need us for this conversation, Jolly?" Alistair interrupted with a grin.

With a laugh and running his hands through his hair, Jolly answered, "Yes, but not that part of it. Sorry. Right then. What to say?"

They worked further on the brochure and eventually settled on something simple, no wider than three fingers and the length of a child's forearm. Double sided with the picture used for the harvest party on the front, name of the winery, location, proprietor, and the season and hours. The back held the enticing information of the look of the land, the mill and creek, what grapes are grown, and what the tour would entail including sampling of wines at the end and light refreshments. The cost was at the bottom, and was set at what Arcelia felt was too low, but Jolly and Alistair agreed that the price of a glass of wine plus half more would be likely to encourage more patronage and avoid any loss of income.

Dinner came by that hour and the table was cleared of papers to be finalized to take to a printer the next day. Nerves crept up in Jolly along his back and settled as tension in his shoulders. He wondered what he was doing sometimes, where he had gone, and who he had become. Was he really a vintner or just a crackpot professor playing at a hobby? Tours would bring people here and show him out as being the fool he was.

Dinner was waiting.

---

The picture to be used on the brochure:
http://i448.photobucket.com/albums/qq203/bt_mek/General%20Renders/harvestparty.png

Jolyon sat on the back patio overlooking the vineyard. In the cooling days, he spent a portion of his morning hours sipping tea with his breakfast of toast and perhaps an egg, and he watched sunlight catch the breeze fluttering leaves of the vines.

The harvest, for all the reclamation they had done, would be the same size as last year. The spring and early summer weather had not done the vines as much good as he desired. If it had been last year, he would have been brooding. But this year he had tours, the two weddings being held, and the excavation all to bolster their revenue.

The excavation did not actually add to their revenue, he admitted with a twisting pout. At least it did not yet, but once he had written the papers in conjunction with them and had those published, well, then it would.

And the book. He kept thinking of the book. With all he had studied, observed, experienced in the past few years of living in Rhydin, the temptation was there to write it all out.

The fear and doubt were there as well. It clung to his shoulders, hissing paranoias and planting its selfish seeds of failure. No, he was not ready yet. He was not sure if he even should. What would it do to the world to have its delicate, intriguing webs of dystopia splayed out in dry ink and paper?

A bird sang a trilling note in the cypress above his head. He squinted up at its performance, the rays of sunlight flickering through neighboring branches to strike upon scarlet and black feathers. "Yes, I know. Time to go." And he set aside his tea, standing, and went to make his goodbyes to wife and household before setting off once again to dirty hands and clothes in the dirty squares of the excavation site.

"It's time." Alistair stood at the doorway to Jolyon's study.

Papers clustered around Jolly's feet where he crouched on the floor. Serena would chide him for the array, but it was his own method of organization. Whatever had happened to the shipment, the strange allegations of misconduct, he would find it. He had to. "Blast." Turning a page, hoping to find the answer on the next one when he had not the two times before.

"Jolly," Alistair spoke again and knocked thick knuckles against the door frame.

"Yes?" Jolly blinked up from the papers, squinting at the burning of his eyes.

"It's time."

It was time. The words struck away the weight of the search like the beating of a dusty rug. "It turned brown?"

"Two days ago. Didn't want to trouble with you until it turned back." Alistair's smile was full of joy and pride. "We did it."

The laugh escaped with a thrilled gasp. "We did it! Hurrah --show me!" Jolly scrambled to his feet and matched stride for stride the older man's eager step.

"The clarity, Jolly, you won't believe it. We're going to bottle the finest white this winery has ever seen."

All the promises he had made in the fall to the restaurants would be fulfilled. It would be a grand year for Rumors Mill with the reserves from the second year being released, the Barbaresco, and the new chardonnay.

In the basement, Alistair moved to the table where a glass of white wine rested still. He offered it to Jolly. A worrisome thrill crept along his skin as Jolly lifted the glass to inhale the bouquet. The notes of fruit and wood were delicate and evocative. It was promising, and still there was the sip. Would he be struck by an overpowering blast or would there be harmony?

It was beauty in a bottle. The wine drifted its complexity without bluster, but in a tantalizing, light dance. Jolyon smiled to Alistair, and then he could not contain his delight. Setting aside the glass, he hugged the man. "We did it, Alistair!" Thumping each other on the back, they looked over the racks of wines and the barrels awaiting bottling.

Jolyon felt the dark tug of the error needling at his thoughts. The moment was brief in its brightness. He could lose it all. Some error at the excavation and this joy, this triumph of the winery at last after so many years would crash around him.

A fever of research came over him. His wife had seen it before, Alistair and Arcelia as well. There would be nothing to dissuade him, nothing to keep from pushing his body to the brink, until he found the answer.

He would not lose it all now.