The Silveroak Shadow
“Vinegar? What are you talking about?”
Dad wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel draped around his neck, then sat down on an empty plastic crate used for harvesting grapes next to the storage shed.
“John Anderson already sold off all the grapes that were worth anything. We can’t just throw the rest away, can we?”
“That’s why I was planning to sell them off cheap.”
In truth, the fastest way to secure even a little bit of cash was to sell the lot to a low-end winery that dealt in bulk, bottom-shelf swill. It was a shame to turn high-quality Cabernet Sauvignon into cheap plonk, but it was the most practical way to help cover the principal and interest on our loans. It was the path of least resistance.
But I didn’t want to just dump these grapes for pennies.
“You said the previous owner tried to make wine and failed, right?”
“Hmm... that’s what I heard. Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about making wine?”
Dad looked genuinely horrified.
“Why are you so surprised? We’re growing top-tier Cabernet Sauvignon. Isn’t it stranger *not* to try and make wine out of it? That’s exactly why John Anderson attempted it in the first place.”
Dad had already told me that the winemaking equipment was sitting in a corner of the farm.
“He gave up because it wasn’t easy! He wasted all the materials and failed time and time again. That’s why the farm went bankrupt in the first place!”
“I know. But trust me. The profit margin from selling raw grapes to a winery is nothing compared to making and selling the wine ourselves. We’re talking five to twenty times the profit!”
“But...”
“And! I’m not saying we should make wine right now. I’m saying we should make vinegar. Those grapes aren’t good enough for wine anyway.”
I pointed at the crate of grapes, and Dad finally calmed down. He probably figured that even if we sold the low-quality grapes, it wouldn't amount to much anyway.
“Vinegar? Not wine, but vinegar?”
“Yes. Vinegar is perfectly doable even with lower-quality grapes.”
“Do you even know how to make vinegar?”
Under Dad’s skeptical gaze, I struck a pose of exaggerated confidence.
“Of course! Do you really think I’d suggest it without knowing how?”
“Then how...?”
Before Dad could finish his question, a voice drifted in from outside.
“Hey! Is anyone there?”
Our family stepped outside to find a white man in his fifties, wearing a cowboy hat, standing there.
“Who are you?”
When Dad asked, the man flashed a smirk.
“Oh, nice to meet you. I’m Elowen Pike. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Is this your family? And this is your son?”
“Yes... that’s right.”
I’ve always hated how these Americans love to force pointless small talk the moment they meet someone, pretending to be friendly when they won’t even remember your face next time.
“He’s a handsome lad. Looks young, but already farming? Helping your parents out?”
“That’s right.”
“Splendid.”
He turned his gaze back to Dad and asked, “I heard the farm changed owners. Do you know where the owner is?”
So, that was his real purpose.
“I am the owner.”
“You? Oh... I see.”
He looked surprised that an Asian man was the owner, then gave an awkward laugh. “I heard the farm was in poor condition. What made you decide to take it over?”
It was a sensitive and blunt question, and Dad’s expression hardened.
“It was priced well, and I believe we can turn it around. Is there a problem?”
Dad had known basic English before immigrating, and he’d learned it desperately after arriving. He clearly caught the condescending tone in the man’s voice, so his reply was sharp.
“No problem at all. Just concerned, that’s all. A farm this size... do you have any experience?”
“I’m the one who used to work on this farm.”
At that moment, one corner of Elowen Pike’s mouth curled up. A clear sneer. He’d likely figured out that a mere immigrant farmer had bought the place with government assistance.
“Ah... I see. Understood. Best of luck.”
After Elowen said that and flicked his cowboy hat in an annoying way, turning to leave, I shouted out.
“By the way, where are you from?”
He turned slowly, scanned our family, and gave a faint, smug smile.
“Silveroak. That’s my home.”
“Ah!”
Silveroak Hills Vineyards.
It was the largest single grape-producing area in Napa Valley, located in the most prime spot. It spanned 50 acres, and the wine they produced was famous for being the most highly regarded in all of California. They were, for all intents and purposes, the top dogs of the local vineyard scene.
We watched blankly as he strutted away, shoulders puffed up.
“Doesn't he seem like a jerk?”
Mom, always quick to read the room, didn't need to be fluent in English to know the guy was bad news.
“Yeah. A real jerk.”
Dad turned to me and asked, “Why would that guy come here all of a sudden?”
I watched the car driving away and said, “Elowen must have known Redwood Vineyard was struggling. Even if the farm was suffering from pests, he probably thought that with enough experience and skill, it could be saved. He must have been shocked that we swooped in and bought it first.”
I didn’t remember who had bought Redwood Vineyard in my previous life. By the time I quit being an accountant and returned to my parents, they had started working at an orange farm, so I hadn't been privy to the details of Napa Valley’s affairs.
Even so, I had a near-certain feeling about why he’d shown up.
“Then if we had been a little late, we wouldn't have been able to buy the farm?”
Seeing Dad’s shocked expression, I said triumphantly, “That’s why I told you we had to buy it quickly! If we’d waited even a few more days, that guy would’ve snatched it up.”
“Ah...”
“Maybe...”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe the pest infestation at Redwood Vineyard was his doing.”
My parents jumped in surprise.
“What?”
“Isn't that a bit of a stretch? You’re being excessive.”
“Haha... you’re both so pure, what am I going to do with you? Think about it. Napa Valley as a whole has been suffering from pests this year, but have you heard a single word about powdery mildew spreading at Silveroak?”
Honestly, I didn’t know if they had it or not. But it seemed my parents didn’t know either.
Seeing them shake their heads, I took the opportunity to raise my voice. “Then what else could it be? Isn't it obvious he wanted to ruin a competitor so he could swoop in and buy the place for a song?”
“Is it even possible to spread pests on purpose?”
“Of course. If you secretly plant or hide infected branches or seedlings among healthy trees, the infection spreads easily.”
When I first had the thought, I thought I was being as dramatic as Mom, but the more I spoke, the more plausible it sounded. It felt like I was writing a story as I went.
‘Wait? This actually makes sense. What a total bastard!’
I didn’t say that part out loud, though. I just shrugged and ducked back into the shed.
“Anyway, as you just saw, we can’t afford to let our guard down. If we don’t increase the farm’s profit margins, we never know when that jerk might try to buy us out.”
“Hmm... you’re right.”
You might say, “If you don’t like it, don’t sell,” but when you’re in a situation where you have to pay back the principal and interest on a loan every month, if the farm’s future looks bleak, you have no choice but to accept an offer from someone trying to buy you out. People have to survive, after all.
“You said the previous owner, John Anderson, tried to make wine? There’s equipment inside, right?”
Dad sat back down on the old crate. “It’s not just that. The wine made by John Anderson’s father was actually very highly rated. The equipment isn’t new, but it’s good. But John, who liked to play around, never learned how to use it properly. The grapes were good, but the wine that came out wasn’t, so he couldn’t get the value recognized and couldn’t make a profit.”
“Ah... I see. When I first bought the farm, the thing I was happiest about was the winemaking equipment. Because the equipment used to make wine and the equipment used to make vinegar are very similar.”
My parents’ eyes widened at the good news.
“Really?”
“They’re made similarly?”
It was a natural reaction, as neither of them knew how wine or vinegar was made.
“Yes. Especially the initial process of extracting the juice and the primary alcoholic fermentation—they’re almost identical. The only difference is that for wine, you go straight to aging and bottling after alcoholic fermentation, while for vinegar, you add an acetic acid fermentation process.”
“Oh my! When did our son learn all that?”
Mom stroked my shoulder, looking proud.
“Our son has always been a hard worker.”
I wasn’t usually like this, but seeing my parents—who had passed away in my previous life—brought out an affectionate, playful tone I hadn't been able to express when I was younger.
“So, my first goal is to make vinegar with those grapes and supply it to department stores. You understand, right?”
“Will it go well?”
“Just follow my lead.”
“Alright. Then I’ll go clean the winemaking equipment with Dad.”
“No. You need to call a professional to check if anything is broken and fix whatever needs fixing.”
“Is that so? Oh, our son is so meticulous. Whose son is he? Ho ho ho!”
With that, my parents took a short break before heading back up to harvest more grapes.
Left alone, I closed the shed and thought about Elowen, who had just left.
‘I don’t think he’s just going to give up...’
I decided to start by gathering information on Silveroak.