At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [47]
“That’s minus the broker’s fee, of course,” Derrick said.
“Well,” Lindsay admitted, “thousands would have been better. But that’s still not bad for a bottle of wine.” She passed the envelope to Bridget.
“That you didn’t even pay for,” Ida Mae pointed out.
Bridget said, “That’s right, Ida Mae. If it hadn’t been for your generous Christmas gift, we wouldn’t have this money at all.” She tucked the check into her pocket. “I’ll get this to the bank first thing Monday. Thank you, Derrick. It will be put to good use.”
Paul looked confused. “You’re certainly taking this awfully well. I know you were expecting a lot more—we all were. Aren’t you disappointed?”
“Of course we are,” Cici said, picking up her spoon. “We’re just not surprised.”
“We know you too well,” Lindsay said. “You gave yourselves away with the expensive presents.”
“I felt bad,” Derrick said. “I should never have gotten your hopes up.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bridget said. “We knew it was never a sure thing.”
Lori dug into her cobbler with the enthusiasm of one who has never had to worry about calories a day in her life. “I don’t get it. How can one bottle sell for eight thousand dollars and another just like it sell for two fifty?”
“Actually,” Derrick said, relaxing a little as he picked up his spoon, “that was the problem. They weren’t exactly alike.” He tasted the cobbler. “Exquisite. What is that flavor?”
“Amaretto,” Bridget said, pleased. “It is nice, isn’t it?”
Ida Mae sniffed. “Plain old vanilla flavoring was always good enough for me.”
Cici said, “What was different about this bottle?”
“The label,” Paul supplied, tasting the cobbler. “Marvelous, Bridge. Forget manufacturing jam. You should open a bakery.”
“Apparently,” Derrick continued, “the first bottle—the one that sold for so much—was rare because it had a label that was discontinued in midrun. The new label—the one your bottle has—was picked up that same year and continued all the way till 1986, when the winery shut down. Clearly, not so rare.”
“Do you mean it was the label that was valuable, not the wine?”
“In a way. That’s the way it is with collectibles. The rarer the item, the more valuable, and when the wine is gone, the collector will still have a piece of art in the label.”
Cici turned to Ida Mae. “Ida Mae . . .”
The older woman’s brows drew together. “I told you, I don’t have no more wine.”
“I was going to ask,” Cici said patiently, “why the winery closed down.”
“How should I know? Weren’t none of my business, anyhow. Long as I got my paycheck, what did I care? Ya’ll want me to put on another pot?”
Bridget said, “Yes, thank you. We’ll take our coffee into the living room.”
“And now,” Paul said, scraping the last bit of cobbler from the bottom of his dish, “if we’ve covered the subject of the wine . . .” He looked around the table. “Who’s going to tell me why your sheep are wearing sweaters?”
Derrick ’s footsteps clacked on the stone floor of the dairy as he walked around, hands clasped behind his back, gazing appreciatively at the space. Occasionally he would stop at one of the paintings that was hung to dry, or study a charcoal sketch thoughtfully before moving on. Noah, with his earphones in place, pretended disinterest as he leaned against the doorway, but his eyes narrowed whenever Derrick stopped before one of his pieces.
Finally, Derrick completed the circuit of the room. He stopped a few feet in front of Noah and simply waited until Noah, scowling, finally removed his earphones.
“Thank you for showing me the studio,” he said. “You’re very lucky to have a place like this in which to work.”
Noah shrugged. “I guess.” And then he added, casually, “So how good does a person have to be to get you to sell his stuff?”
Derrick tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “Good is a relative term, Noah. “
“Oh yeah? Then who decides what’s good?”
“If you are in the business of selling works of art, the market does.”
“You mean whoever’s got the money.”
“More or less.”
“Then what use are you?”
“I often ask myself the same thing.