BY LATE MORNING, HOPE HAD worked through no less than two hundred emails, returned a dozen phone calls, and gave the team assistant, Jeannie, a lengthy to-do list ranging in priorities. She started to update her end-of-the-year calendar when her boss paraded into her office bearing a bottle of champagne and two long-stemmed glasses.
“I hear it’s time to celebrate.” Samantha flashed a smile. Not just a regular job well done smile. The warm, fuzzy, forged kind of smile that made Hope instinctively want to cover her jugular with the palm of her hand. “Congratulations on closing the Giovanni deal.”
Samantha Simpson was the lead wine buyer at Boxco, well-known as one of the best in the industry, and for making global wines more accessible. Her fine features, perfect posture, and serene presence could fool anyone into thinking she was a polished, refined woman. However, Hope and most of the team knew better. Or at least the smart ones. Hidden behind the shimmering pink lipstick was a set of razor-sharp teeth. Their boss was a piranha.
“Thank you, but it’s a little too early in the day for me.”
Samantha ambled toward a small console displaying a collection from Hope’s favorite wines. Taking a napkin from the drawer, she gripped the bottle and twisted, catching the first gush of pale effervescence in the glass with precision.
“Suit yourself,” she said, filling the flute. Samantha batted her perfectly applied lashes, sauntering back to Hope. Lifting a cheek, she half sat on the corner of the desk. “I knew you’d get your way.”
Ahh . . . and there it was . . . a slight aspersion disguised as a compliment. Peering over the top of her computer screen, Hope forced the edges of her mouth to bow upward. She eased back in her chair, resting both wrists on her desk.
“You know damn well Castello Giovanni deserved the contract,” Hope insisted confidently. “Especially after receiving the Tuscan Super Award.”
A few weeks earlier, their team had come to a split decision as to which vineyard would be selected to take the last spot on the shelf. It was a highly subjective process and the tasters didn’t always agree. Most of the time the ten buyers could narrow down the selection, based on taste and price point. However, occasionally they couldn’t reach an amicable decision and an all-out wine war would commence in the back rooms of Boxco. Wine buyers were nothing if not passionate about their vino. Out of the twelve remaining vineyards bidding for Boxco’s business, they’d narrowed it down to two and both were being considered for the Super Tuscan Award. Hope never showed favoritism because of the man behind the label, only to the wine itself, but Giovanni Vineyard deserved to get the contract, so she suggested they wait to see which vineyard would receive the coveted award.
“I couldn’t agree more. It’ll be the perfect fit for our wine enthusiasts.”
“The Giovanni’s were thrilled. It’s a great opportunity for them.”
“I’m sure they’re ecstatic. It’s a two-million-dollar contract.”
“It’s a win-win. Our customers are going to love it.”
“I’m so glad I found them. Thanks for closing the deal. Job well done, Hope.” Her snide smirk deepened behind the rim of her glass as she took a sip of champagne. She smoothed the flat of her hand along the side of her head, flattening any stray dark hairs pulled loose from her distinctive posh ponytail. “But, I think I could’ve closed it for 1.8 million.”
Blood rushed through her veins bringing quick heat to her face. Hope’s jaw clamped tight, forcing her mouth to stay shut. Her boss had never stepped foot on the Giovanni estate, preferring to keep her travels to France, claiming they were still the dominating force in the winemaking world. Samantha’s feeble attempt to take any amount of credit for the deal or insinuating she could’ve done a better job was complete bullshit.
And both of them knew it.
Hope had a gift for seeking out the best wines and for dealing with her boss’s theatrics. Occasionally, Samantha turned the ugliest shade of avocado green. At forty-two, she prided herself on being independently single and the very best at everything she touched. She couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else shining in the spotlight. If Samantha felt threatened by a team member, she flashed her brightest smile right before burying the underling in long hours, harsh criticism, and a near-impossible travel schedule.
Samantha’s antics were carefully crafted, delivered with precision, and beyond shameful. Once, during a team meeting, she thought a team member, Kelli, was talking to her husband on her cell phone, so she snatched the phone right out of her hand and dumped it in a glass of wine. As it turned out, it was the principal of her son’s elementary school calling to inform her that he’d broken his arm on the playground and it required Kelli’s immediate attention. A month later Kelli found herself transferred to the toy department. Samantha touted it as a promotion, but everyone knew it wasn’t.
When Hope started working for Boxco in beer, wine, and spirits, she identified her boss’s narcissistic ways within the first few months. She’d grown up with a master manipulator, her mother, and became an expert at countering the attacks. Samantha wanted to be best friends and made it a habit of knowing every detail about her team. No subject was too private. Most of Hope’s co-workers fell head first into the trap only to realize months or even years later that Samantha would use those personal details against them. However, Hope’s personal life was off limits. Over the years, she’d survived the endless prying disguised as friendly curiosity, disclosing very little of her life to her co-workers.
Unfortunately, the mystery only encouraged Samantha, but no matter how hard she pried, there would be no sharing of childhood memories. No divulging intimate details of her love life. No disclosing of family secrets. Those were ugly memories Hope preferred not to acknowledge herself let alone share with co-workers.
Samantha remained eerily calm, appearing un-phased by Hope’s lack of reaction. She knew there would be no debate, it was simply Samantha’s trivial attempt at keeping Hope in her rightful place . . . beneath her.
The air conditioning kicked on, fanning Hope’s face with much-needed cool air. Ignoring the dig, she continued in an even tone, “It’s a fair price.”
Not bothering to respond, Samantha’s head bobbled back and forth in a ho-hum sort of way taking another indulgent sip of champagne. “I sent out the schedule of events for the end-of-the-year quarter.”
“I’m looking at it right now.” Hope waved a hand at the open computer.
“I made some revisions, so make sure you note the changes. I want you with me in Napa for the holiday event.”
Hope tapped her computer with the pad of her index finger, scrolling forward to the month of November. “What about the tasting event in Madrid?”
“I’m sending Carl and Julie.”
“Really? I thought we agreed that I would go. I’ve got a great rapport with most of the attending vineyards in that region. I’d be happy to make the trip to Spain.” Hope hid the disappointment in her tone, but couldn’t mask the confusion notched between her brows. Scanning over November’s schedule, the change became crystal clear seeing Carl and Julie’s names filling the boxes of the fourth week. Thanksgiving. She’s making them travel over the holiday. Jealous bitch! It was becoming a Boxco tradition to make happy couples pay for their blissfulness. Julie had tied the knot earlier in the year, and Carl and his wife had their first child over the summer.
Easing away from the desk, Samantha wagged a finger back and forth. Her perfectly penciled brow pushed upward, giving a firm indication her decision was final. “They can handle Madrid. I want you in Napa with me.”
There was no point in pushing the issue. It would only make things worse for Carl and Julie. Besides, Hope hadn’t spent Thanksgiving with her sister in three years. With any luck, her sister Faith and brother-in-law Riley would join her in Napa for the holiday. She’d bring it up when they met for dinner.
Hope conceded, “Napa it is.”
Walking into Ray’s Boathouse, she spotted her younger sister sitting
at a waterfront table, gazing out at the breathtaking view of the Puget Sound and Olympic Mountains. She looked happy and relaxed as the colors of the setting sun, vibrant oranges and reds, danced in the waves of her light golden hair.
Faith had sounded a bit frazzled when she called two weeks earlier inviting her to dinner, emphasizing it was important. Hope’s heart filled with warmth, anticipating this might be an indication of good news.
“Great choice for dinner,” Hope said, dragging the palm of her hand over Faith’s petite shoulder.
“Hey.” Faith pushed away from the table, lifting from her seat, wrapping Hope in a big hug. “It’s one of Riley’s favorite restaurants. The seared salmon is to die for.”
Standing a good six inches taller, Hope pressed a kiss to her temple. Easing out of Faith’s arms, she inspected her little sister from head to toe, noting the slim-fitting little black dress she wore showed no changes to her form.
“You look gorgeous.” Hope smiled, relaxing into the seat across the table.
“Thanks, you too.”
“Where’s Riley?”
Faith pointed toward the sleek, glass-enclosed bar at the other end of the restaurant. “He’s getting us a drink. How was Italy?”
Peering through the thick-cut glass, a small pang of sadness knocked at her heart watching the bartender set two drinks on the bar in front of Riley, squashing her hopes that they’d asked her to dinner to celebrate a new arrival, the baby her sister had always wanted.
Growing up, the only thing Faith ever wanted was a normal family. She dreamed of a brick house with a white picket fence, three kids, two dogs, and a prince charming to love her endlessly. When Faith was five, she found a dollhouse that a neighbor had discarded to the curb. She dragged it up the stairs to the little apartment they lived in and colored the pink plastic walls with red crayons. Faith cried uncontrollably when their mother insisted she throw it away, spouting ‘We don’t bring home another person’s trash’. Miss Susan, the spry, elderly woman who lived below them, secretly allowed Faith to keep the dollhouse in her apartment.
Miss Susan wasn’t an affectionate woman, but her bright blue eyes were always kind, peering out behind a swoop of white hair that fell over her eyes like a snowdrift left behind after a fresh Colorado blizzard. She kept a special box full of lacy handkerchiefs, cross stitch needles and thread of every color, and an assortment of leftovers. That’s what Miss Susan called the little items of discarded whatnots, buttons, Popsicle sticks, even toilet paper rolls and tissue boxes, they used to adorn the dollhouse. They spent afternoons together making dolls from worn out socks and homemade apple pie for their afternoon tea parties. Hope owned one doll, clothed in a tattered mint-green and white-striped dress. Black scuffs marked its plastic skin from Faith dragging it by one foot every time she went up and down the stairway leading to their apartment. The doll’s name was Lucy, but Faith called it Sissy. Her little sister glued strands of golden thread to its head and used marker to color its eyes blue to look just like Hope. When Faith started kindergarten, she stuffed the doll in her backpack every morning and took Sissy to school. After school, the bus dropped Faith at the apartment complex and she’d stay at Miss Susan’s apartment. She’d prop Sissy in a chair made from scraps of cardboard, acting as the mommy, making all the sock dolls play nicely until Hope got home from school.
Starting at a very young age, Hope took on the responsibility of raising her little sister. Their mother was never home, claiming she worked three jobs to put food on the table. Hope never understood that because there was never much to eat in the apartment. Thankfully, Miss Susan had a horrible habit of making too much food for one person, sending them home with casserole surprise and half an apple pie almost every night. Miss Susan never said much, only ‘Your mother thinks you girls are like weeds; she can just give you a little water and let you grow wild.’ Hope learned later that at least one of their mother’s winter jobs consisted of hanging out at a posh bar near the ski slopes hoping to reel in her next husband.
As fortune would have it, Faith found her very own real-life prince charming all decked out in firefighters’ gear when a neighboring apartment caught fire. Though they didn’t live in a red brick house, they owned a beautiful home with a garden and two dogs, but that’s where their fairytale ended and the disappointment began.
Faith and Riley had been trying to get pregnant for years, but after six miscarriages, their efforts to conceive and carry a child had been unsuccessful so far.
“Spill the good stuff before Riley gets back.” Her sister’s sweet laugher brought Hope back to the conversation.
“The good stuff?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you just get back from Tuscany?”
“I did. Closed the deal I’ve been working on.” She flipped two thumbs up. “It was a great trip.”
“Didn’t you spend the week with your rebound man?” Faith’s sea-green eyes sparkled, drooling with curiosity. The sun-kissed glow on her skin and faint dusting of freckles across her nose and cheekbones made her look much younger than her twenty-nine years.
“Rebound man? You mean Antonio?”
“Yeah, you know . . . the sexy Italian you always talk about.”
“Why do you call him the rebound man?” Her eyes narrowed with curiosity as an impish grin pulled at her lips. “I’m never on the rebound.”
“Even I know the answer to that.” Riley’s husky voice entered the discussion from over her shoulder. “She calls him the rebound man because every time you come home from Italy, you’re bragging about spending a weekend in bed with the Italian, reaping the rewards of his failed relationships.”
“What? That’s not true.”
Her sister’s head bobbled up and down adamantly. “Yes it is. He’s either just broken up with a girlfriend, or broken off an engagement, or had his heart broken. Some sad story that seems to work sexual wonders on you every time.”
Thinking back, Hope privately acknowledged they were right. Quiet laughter shook her shoulders. “Well . . . I don’t brag.”
“Ummm, yes you do.” Faith’s eyes bulged. “I mean, it may not be bragging to you, but if I had sex—”
“I think I’ll head back to the bar. What would you like to drink, Hope?” Riley interrupted, setting a glass of chardonnay in front of Faith.
“Pick a nice cab for me.”
“Don’t be sharing all your sex-capades with my wife,” he advised, bending to place a kiss to his wife’s cheek. He murmured teasingly, “The last thing I need is my woman getting any more passionate than she already is.”
Faith buried her face in the crook of his neck, but Hope still heard the muffled groan of what sounded like a promise for later that evening. He paused beside Hope, leaning in to give her a hug hello before making his way back to the bar.
“I can’t believe you told him about Antonio.”
Faith shrugged, laughing as she insisted with an insignificant wave of the hand, “Na, nothing shocks him anymore. After eight years, he’s numb to all of our girl talk. He’s used to us. Plus, you should hear the stories I get to listen to about the firefighters. Some of them might even make you blush.”
“Doubtful, dear sister. I’ve dated a few firefighters and nothing would surprise me.” Hope’s tone turned dreamy recalling the magnificent Tuscan sunrises and sunsets she enjoyed snuggled between the sheets. “Antonio is always . . . wickedly wonderful.”
“Oh come on. Share the love.” Faith provoked in a sensual drawl. “I need some fresh ideas.”
“Bullshit. You have no problem mixing things up in the bedroom with Riley. You two are still ridiculously hot together.” Their chemistry was off the charts since the moment they laid eyes on each other through a thick plume of dark smoke. Faith had run into the smoke-filled apartment to rescue a young, neighbor boy’s cat. Riley saved Faith and the family pet, bragging later that his CPR skills landed him a promotion and a wife.
“I haven’t given him a heart attack yet,” Faith chided, e
yeing the rear view of her husband as he strolled toward the bar. Her gaze softened bringing a solemn glaze to her eyes. “Our therapist says we need to mix things up in the bedroom, so it doesn’t feel like a chore.”
Following her sister’s gaze, Hope glanced over her shoulder at Riley’s brawny shoulders, cut waist and dark hair. The quintessential alpha man.
“I get the feeling doing him isn’t much of a chore for you,” she snickered. Noticing a shift in her sister’s consciousness, Hope reached across the sleek, teakwood table, clasping her hand. “How are things going in the baby making department? I thought maybe we were celebrating.”
Hope hated diving straight into the subject of childbearing, tearing at her sister’s already open wound, but it was inevitable. Years ago, she made the mistake of skirting around the subject, saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it will happen when the time is right.’ She was trying to be positive, but her sister lashed out at her, responding, Don’t you dare say the same stupid shit everyone else tells me. Everything doesn’t happen for a reason and life isn’t a parade of roses . . . and we both fucking know it. I need you to be genuine with me. After that, Hope refused to speculate, keeping a positive yet realistic dialog. She learned to keep quiet and let Faith lead their conversations, allowing her to vent and fully disclose her deepest feelings without judgement and without spinning hopes and dreams into happily ever after fairytales.
They locked eyes, each forcing a soft, knowing, facade of a smile. Grief and sadness contorted her little sister’s features, barely moving her head indicating no.
“I wish we were celebrating my second trimester, but no. No celebration.”
A stinging sensation gathered behind Hope’s eyes watching her sister’s nose twitch and wiggle fighting back tears. “I’m so sorry, Faith. When you called, I thought it sounded important.”
“It is. We’ve finally—”
The waiter approached the table and presented them with menus. Riley returned just in time to hear him ramble off the fresh catch of the day specials.
The Italian Page 2