Cultivated fields fell away from the grounds of the house. “What do they grow here?” said Dave.

“Grapes.”

“I don’t want to be a farmer.”

“You’d be a landlord. Thirty acres are rented out.”

They went inside. The place was barely furnished with ill-assorted tables and chairs. There were no beds. “Does anyone live here?” Dave asked.

“No. For a few weeks every fall the grape pickers use it as a dormitory.”

“And if I move in . . .”

“The farmer will find other accommodation for his seasonal workers.”

Dave looked around. The place was ramshackle and derelict, but beautiful. The woodwork seemed solid. The main house had high ceilings and an elegant staircase. “I can’t wait for Beep to see it,” he said.

The main bedroom had the same spectacular view over the valley. He pictured himself and Beep getting up in the morning and looking out together, making coffee, and having breakfast with two or three barefoot children. It was perfect.

There was space for half a dozen guest rooms. The large detached barn, currently full of agricultural machinery, was the right size for a recording studio.

Dave wanted to buy it immediately. He told himself not to get enthusiastic too soon. He said: “What’s the asking price?”

“Sixty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Two thousand dollars an acre is about the market price for a producing vineyard,” Morty said. “They’ll throw in the house for free.”

“Plus it wants a lot of work.”

“You said it. Central heating, electrical rewiring, insulation, new bathrooms . . . You could spend almost as much again fixing it up.”

“Say a hundred thousand dollars, not including recording equipment.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

Dave grinned. “Fortunately, I can afford it.”

“You certainly can.”

When they went outside, a pickup truck was parking. The man who got out had broad shoulders and a weathered face. He looked Mexican but he spoke without an accent. “I’m Danny Medina, the farmer here,” he said. He wiped his hands on his dungarees before shaking.

“I’m thinking of buying the place,” Dave said.

“Good. It will be nice to have a neighbor.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Medina?”

“I have a cottage at the other end of the vineyard, just out of sight over the lip of the ridge. Are you European?”

“Yes, British.”

“Europeans usually like wine.”

“Do you make wine here?”

“A little. We sell most of the grapes. Americans don’t like wine, except for Italian Americans, and they import it. Most people prefer cocktails or beer. But our wine is good.”

“White or red?”

“Red. Would you like a couple of bottles to try?”

“Sure.”

Danny reached into the cab of the pickup, pulled out two bottles, and handed them to Dave.

Dave looked at the label. “Daisy Farm Red?” he said.

Morty said: “That’s the name of the place, didn’t I tell you? Daisy Farm.”

“Daisy is my mother’s name.”

Danny said: “Maybe it’s an omen.” He climbed back into the vehicle. “Good luck!”