The winery car park was swirling with rubbish when April Lacey pulled up on a blustery summer’s day, and she groaned, wondering how many early-morning tourists had driven into Lacewing Estate, taken one look around the tired, litter- strewn entrance and headed straight back out.
Tugging on the handbrake, she jumped down from her Hilux ute and reinstated the fallen sandwich board before chasing after the windblown litter.
A gust of terra rossa soil followed April inside, settling on the polished concrete floor.
‘What a gale,’ said Fran Lacey, emerging from the barrel room. ‘Strong enough to blow the milk from a teacup. Thought you’d be halfway to Adelaide by now.’ Fran plucked a navy- and-orange brochure from the pile April had brought in, casting an appraising eye over the gold embossing and thick card.
Even covered in dust, next door’s brochures looked expensive…
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