I clamber into the truck and drive up the lake toward Bartoletti Vineyard, humming softly to myself. An old Russian lullaby our father used to sing.
The Bartolettis have a sprawling, successful operation. Much more so than ours on both counts. Their grapes win awards; people drive across the whole Finger Lakes region to taste their wines. They make a particularly good Riesling, one with a flavor profile I have always coveted and was never able to approximate. They have a slick tasting room with huge antique beams, expensive-looking lighting, an entire wall of temperature-controlled wine storage behind clean glass doors. “Emerging artists” vie for space on the wall to display their uninteresting acrylics. Tourists flock. Affluent locals buy the Bartolettis’ sparkling wine for their children’s weddings.
As a young, enthusiastic vintner, my father had endeared himself to the Bartoletti patriarch, charmed the matriarch, and gotten himself invited over for bacchanalian feasts where he soaked up as much booze, information, and cannoli as he could from Seneca Lake’s wine tycoons. Mr. Bartoletti had always kind of scared the shit out of me. He was a tall, swarthy Italian, now probably in his seventies but still imposing. When we were younger, Zelda convinced me that Mr. Bartoletti was part of the Mafia, that he ruled the underworld of Watkins Glen with an iron fist. This hadn’t seemed at all fanciful at the time.
I pull into the drive and park by the tasting room. The vineyard is busy, it seems; the parking lot is mostly full. I bypass the tasting room and head straight for Mr. Bartoletti’s office, in front of which is the sign in Zelda’s photo. I’m sure that he’s in his office, working. My father had desperately wanted there to be some secret to running a wildly successful vineyard, some occult practice that would guarantee a brilliant harvest, like plucking grapes under the full moon or debauching virgins in the fecund fields. But Mr. Bartoletti’s secret was much less glamorous. The man worked with a maniacal, dedicated fervor.
I knock on his office door and hear only a grunt. Interpreting that as an invitation to enter, I poke my head into the office. Bartoletti doesn’t look up immediately, but when he does, his face turns scarlet.
“Zelda Antipova. You have some gall to show up in this office,” he says, visibly seething. “I knew you probably weren’t dead. Seemed a tad convenient, given your predicament.”
“Sorry, Mr. Bartoletti, it’s, um, Ava. Antipova. Zelda’s twin.” Bartoletti’s scowl barely falters.
“Oh. It seemed unlikely your goddamn sister would show her face in here. So, is she dead after all?”
“Looks that way,” I say, annoyed. He grunts and makes a show of going back to his paperwork.
“We’ll see if it sticks,” he grumbles.
“We’re hoping for the best,” I say ambiguously. He almost smiles but settles for a harrumph. “Can I ask, though, what did you mean, her ‘predicament’?”
He looks up at me, assessing. “She managed to keep it a secret?”
“I’ve been away, overseas. I’ve just come home to tie up loose ends, and I found a mention of you in some office paperwork—”
“Just a mention?” he spits. “Your goddamn sister owes me a hundred thousand dollars. Or a tractor. An expensive one.”
My eyes widen. “What do you mean? She…borrowed it from you?”
“She came here desperate last season. A bunch of equipment had crapped out on her, and she was struggling to keep Silenus afloat. I know she got a raw deal, with both your parents out of the picture. How is your father, by the way?” He forces a deeply unpleasant smile.
“Fine,” I lie.
“I should have known, after he left the way he did, that your whole family couldn’t be trusted. Hucksters. But Zelda just seemed so upset and…well, sincere, damnit. I went against my judgment and sold her the tractor. To be neighborly. She had only ten grand to give me, on a tractor worth over a hundred.” He snorts and shakes his head, clearly disbelieving how easily he had been had. “We worked out a payment plan that we both thought was reasonable. But the first payment was due months ago, and you can guess how much I’ve received.” He leans back in his chair, eyeing me. I focus on not squirming. “You really do look a lot like her.”
“Funny thing about identical twins.”
He smiles joylessly. “Any chance you’re here to settle her debts?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll go home and look at the books. Like I said, I just got here. And my mother isn’t exactly on top of things over at Silenus,” I add, hoping to appeal to any shred of compassion he has left. “Looks like you guys are doing well over here.”
“Hard work and solid accounting. Not too difficult. Something your father never quite believed,” he says.
“Well, Marlon’s ambitions sometimes outstrip his resources,” I say.
Bartoletti laughs for the first time. “That’s the truth. Any chance he’ll be stopping by to settle up some outstanding business?”
“Unlikely, but I’m happy to tell him you’d like to see him.” I don’t even want to know what Marlon left unresolved with this man. I don’t ask.
“Listen, dear,” he says, softening. “I’m sorry about your family’s business. But Silenus is folding. Zelda knew it—she was just too stubborn to face facts. I’ve let the debt slide a little, hoping she could pull it together with this season, but…” He shrugs. “I’m going to have to collect soon.”
Something deep in my stomach squeezes. Money. Dealing with it always makes me feel this way. Like my father, I prefer for it just to appear, and keep appearing, without ever having to peek at checking account balances or scribble out a budget. My mother was the only one in the family with an inclination to pinch pennies. Coincidentally, she was the only one with money.
“I understand, Mr. Bartoletti. If you could just give us some more time to get everything in order…I have a funeral to organize, and everything in the vineyard is a bit up in the air.”
“How long do you think you’ll need?”
“As long as you can give us?” I ask, hoping I sound charming and young, rather than pathetic. But I’ll settle for pathetic if it gets me what I need.
“I’ll give you a month. Then we’ll have to treat the whole thing more seriously. This business, it isn’t a game or a hobby. Something your family has never seemed to understand.” He returns to his paperwork, and just like that, I am dismissed from his presence. As I reach for the doorknob, he calls after me.
“Oh, and I’m sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t sound sincere. I scuttle back out the door, murmuring a deferential thank-you as I shut it behind myself.
“Zelda, what have you gotten us into?” I whisper, my head reeling. I climb into the truck and sit behind the wheel, wondering where to go next. Then I realize I already know. My father has taught me a few things: Where there’s debt, there’s almost always more. I turn the ignition and drive down Route 414, back toward Watkins Glen, and the bank.