by Mary Blayney
I waved it off while simultaneously tucking it away deep inside. “It’s nothing, couldn’t be easier.”
I turned to the door in time to see Harry dart past the opening. I whirled back to Prin. “Did you see that?”
She looked alarmed. “See what?”
I felt immediately bad for scaring her. “Nothing. Just, I thought I saw something run past the door – a cat or something. Nothing to worry about.”
Her face cleared. “Oh, does the inn have a cat?”
“Uh. No.”
She frowned, but her eyes were amused. “Then I can see why you’d be surprised. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks. And I’ll see to that mattress.” Roger, I’m sure, would be thrilled to be helpful in Prin’s bedroom.
“Thank you so much, Kim.” She closed the door softly behind me. In my face, actually, if we’re going to be precise, but it felt gentle, not rude.
I hoped she was still here by the time she needed that extra mattress, that Cooper hadn’t convinced Hazel to rethink her decision and fire her.
I smelled the smoke again and found Harry two doors down, leaning against a table holding a fern, the cigarette limp in the fingers of one hand, his other hand tucked into his belt.
“Harry,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“That’s Jerry to you, missy.”
I glanced at Prin’s door, then moved closer to the fairy and lowered my voice. “You told me before it was Harry.”
“No, I didn’t. I said Jerry. You must have misheard me.”
I exhaled. I couldn’t believe it: a fairy was trying to gaslight me. It seemed redundant, somehow.
I turned on my heel and headed down the hall. “Hey girly! Did you answer Cooper? Did you tell him the truth?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I called back, not caring. I was unfailingly polite to people. It actually pained me to be rude. But I did not have to be nice to a figment of my own imagination. Especially one that wasn’t nice to me. (And wasn’t it just like me to invent something that wasn’t even nice to me?)
I rounded the corner at the top of the steps and nearly ran into Cooper, who was coming up.
“Oh, Kim, good. I’m glad I found you.”
Something about him looking up at me with those pale blue eyes set my stomach aflutter and I pressed my fingernails hard into my palms to settle myself.
“Here I am.”
“I’m just going to talk to Ms. Bella.” His face scrunched up. “Is she really called Princessa?”
Heart sinking, I said, “Uh, yeah. I mean, no, it’s Principessa. But she said to call her Prin.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the curls bouncing back onto his brow immediately. He shook his head, lips pressed together unhappily, dimples grim. “I don’t know what my mother was thinking. It just seems so odd, for her to hire the woman so suddenly. Tell me honestly, what do you think of her?”
“Your mother?” I stalled. I knew he wanted me to say I thought it was nuts too. And in a way it was. Totally unlike Hazel to act so swiftly. But I knew why she did it. I had the same feeling about Prin.
“No. Ms. Bella.” He looked at me like I’d lost my mind too, then he rose the last two steps and towered over me like usual.
I could smell the soap he used. And the fresh cotton scent of his shirt. I wondered what it would be like to bury my face in it.
“Tell me the truth. The good, the bad and the ugly,” he said, obviously hoping for the bad and ugly.
Or maybe not. Maybe he wanted to hear something good – maybe he didn’t want to think his mother was crazy. Heck, if anybody here was crazy it was me. I was, after all, not just seeing but talking to fairies.
I took a deep breath, opened my mouth to speak, but he continued.
“I mean, she must have put some kind of heavy duty sales pitch on my mother, right? Is she a smooth talker or something? Slick? I hate that salesman–type wine person. Is she pushy?”
“Coop, who could be pushier than your mother?” I snorted, then caught myself. I never said anything like that about Hazel; I usually just laughed when he said it.
He looked startled for a moment, then guffawed. “Ain’t that the truth. So what did she do, this Prin?”
I shrugged, not wanting to confirm that I thought she was great too. After all, he was going to fall for her anyway; why should I help him along? Wasn’t I allowed to act according to my own best interests? Not that I stood a chance anyway.
Then I remembered what Harry – uh, Jerry – had said to me. Next time lover–boy asks what you think, tell him, and tell him honestly.
Setting aside the whole ‘lover–boy’ thing, Jerry seemed to have predicted this situation.
I bit my lip and glanced up at him through my lashes to find him studying me. I flushed hot, then cleared my throat. Looking down at my clasped hands, one thumbnail scratching the other, I admitted, “I liked her too, Coop. I actually think she’s perfect for the job.” I inhaled, knowing he would take my words to heart. “And I’m pretty sure you’re going to like her too.”
“Really?” He looked genuinely bewildered. “You got all that from one meeting?”
“Two.” I sighed. “You’ll see.”
I glanced behind me at the empty hallway, wondered briefly where Jerry was hiding, then gestured toward room eleven. “She’s in, if you want to talk to her. I think she’s unpacking.”
“Room eleven.” He said it as if speaking to himself, gazing down the hall. He shifted his attention back to me. “Can you believe it?”
I gave him a sympathetic look.
Running his hand through his hair again, he headed down the hall, his footfalls heavy, body language screaming doubt.
I watched him until he reached her door and raised a hand, then I noticed Jerry standing stiff as a suit of armor against the wall, next to a table leg. My breath caught at the sight of him, startled again by his unrealistic size and utterly realistic disgustingness. I stared for a moment until I saw his eyes shift to mine. He gave a yellow–toothed grin, raised his brows toward Cooper then made an offensive sexual gesture with one hand.
I huffed indignantly and descended the stairs.
Chapter Four
A few days later Hazel, Cooper, me, Roger and Prin were to get together to taste some of the wines entered in the competition. Hazel liked to do this to group the wines according to style, so that some didn’t get run over just because they were tasted next to another with more oak or fruit or some other quality that, while perfectly acceptable in a pinot, would overwhelm a lighter style.
Roger wasn’t there to taste officially – he’s more of a beer guy, though he will taste the wines he’s serving at the bar to make sure the bottle’s not corked – but to manage the blind taste. I wasn’t sure, but I suspected this was something of a test for Prin, to determine what her palate was like, and if she knew what she was talking about when it came to tasting wines without knowing their provenance. Clearly she knew wine – and wine people – from an academic standpoint, but being able to discern between styles and regions, especially within a single varietal, was much more difficult.
Not that it was a requirement for her job. If she could manage a restaurant and handle the organization of the Vineyard Inn’s signature pinot competition, she’d work out just fine. But I, and I think Hazel, suspected she was capable of more. God only knew what Roger thought.
We met in the Barrel Room, where Cooper and I had shared our one and only kiss. It’s one of our cozier tasting rooms, set in a grotto–like space with a curved plaster ceiling, French oak barrels full of actual aging wine from the nearby Christen Vail winery stacked against one wall, and empty oak barrels with thick glass tabletops on them for setting up the wines and glasses. The room was dark and intimate, with wrought–iron gates capable of being closed and locked, though they rarely were, and wall sconces that produced a warm ambient light. At the request of some of our wealthier regulars, we could serve dinner for up to eight people
in this room.
I was the last to arrive, due to a late afternoon accounting test at the community college, so I was frazzled and flustered to find them waiting for me.
I hadn’t had a chance to ask Cooper what he’d thought of Prin after his interview with her, but the fact that she was still here said all there was to say. In fact I hadn’t seen him for a couple days, as I’d been studying and then had to run out first thing this morning and was gone all day. But the fact that he was standing next to her at the tasting table – sharing what looked like a hearty laugh, in fact – when I walked in seemed to indicate he’d gotten the same good impression of her we all had.
Dammit.
No. No, I wasn’t completely unhappy about it. Part of me was gratified that I hadn’t fallen under some weird kind of spell that nobody else could fathom, but the rest of me noted with dismay that I had been right from the first moment I saw Prin: that she was absolutely perfect for him. They simply looked perfect together. Cooper was tall and lanky, with a curly mop of dark hair that accented his arrestingly blue eyes. And Prin was tall – but not too tall – with elegant curves and an upright carriage that made the seal–sleek waterfall of her hair seem particularly long and rich. It also accentuated the creaminess of her skin and the inky darkness of her exotically–tilted eyes.
I know. I sound like I have a girl–crush. It’s just that if I were in charge of Cooper’s happiness, she was exactly the kind of woman I would have choosen for him. And not just because of her looks.
“Okay! Now we can begin.” Hazel clapped her hands together once and the bangles on her wrists chimed.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” I said breathlessly, looking first at Hazel, who appeared tense, and then Cooper, who smiled at me.
“It’s all right,” Hazel said. “We’ve only been here about fifteen minutes.”
Knowing as I did how she hated to be kept waiting, this made me feel awful. She knew just how long it had been.
“How did your test go?” Prin’s voice was soft, but it carried in the small chamber. I looked at her gratefully, glad that Hazel was made aware that I was not late because of some non–vital activity.
Under the warmth of her gentle gaze, I took a deep breath and admitted, “I’m not sure. I think I did all right. There weren’t any surprises, but there were some areas I wasn’t as familiar with as I should have been.”
Cooper’s lips quirked and an eyebrow shot up. “Come off it, O’Shea, when was the last time you tanked a test? Any kind of test?”
I looked down as I set my backpack on the floor near the wall, pleased he remembered my good grades. “It’s a constant vigil, Coop.” I laughed.
Hazel poured half–inch drams of the first of today’s pinots into each of the five glasses from a decanter. The color was bright red – a young wine – and I could smell the cherry the moment I picked up the glass. Cooper had his nose in the bulb and Prin twirled hers, gazing through it to the wrought–iron chandelier lights above the table. Roger’s glass was halfway to his mouth but his eyes were slanted toward Prin. Hazel swished the liquid around in her mouth, her eyes half closed, then sucked in some air, making a gurgling sound.
Wine tasting is rich with caricaturing elements.
I spun my glass, lifted it toward the light and watched the legs drip down the inner sides. High alcohol, which you could smell in addition to the cherry. I sipped.
“Cherry,” Prin said.
Nobody answered. It didn’t need to be said, pinots almost always had cherry notes and this one could blow you away with it.
“Comes off as sweet, in a way,” Cooper mused.
I nodded, gratified we’d once again picked up on the same thing. “Brown sugar.”
He grinned at me and shook his head. We shared a palate, Coop and me.
“It’s central,” Prin said. She narrowed her cat’s eyes at the glass. “I think perhaps Santa Rita Hills, sunny side of the slope.”
Cooper laughed. “How far up?”
She shot him a good–natured smirk. “Not far. I would bet this is the Blenheim.”
“Really?” Coop took another sip. “They don’t usually have this much fruit. And it’s young, they like to age in oak.”
She shrugged. “New style for them, maybe, but it’s balanced.”
I glanced at Roger, whose eyes were still on Prin but now he was smiling.
“What are you looking so pleased about, Roger?” Hazel looked up from her notes to ask.
“She’s right. It is the Blenheim.”
Roger would know, since he was the one who’d decanted the wines and kept track of which was which.
Coop turned astonished eyes on her. “No shit. That’s amazing. I’ve never in my life been able to identify a vineyard in a blind taste.” He turned bemused eyes to me. “I’m not even sure Kimmy has, have you?”
“Never.” I was swirling the glass mindlessly in my hand. I recognized the last nail in my coffin. The one thing I had that Cooper always admired was my ability to find things in wine that he couldn’t. But I couldn’t match what Prin had just done.
“What about the next one?” Cooper asked, pouring the rest of his Blenheim into the spit bucket and reaching for the second decanter. We all followed suit, dumping our wine. When you’re tasting ten wines in a row, you can’t drink it all and remain effective, but you have to have enough in your glass to smell it properly. We pushed our glasses toward where he was pouring.
I pulled my tasting notes sheet toward me and uncapped the Bic. The Blenheim was in, I’d thought so even before Prin revealed the winery. It was classic pinot done well, even if I preferred a bolder style. I wrote down ‘brown sugar’, ‘young’, ‘my life is over.’
Two more times during the tasting Prin identified the winery, and three times the micro–region. Hazel admonished Roger after the second winery to keep it to himself, we were supposed to be tasting blind, but he revealed her accuracy at the end. Thankfully, she was not boastful about it. In fact she acted as if it were no big deal at all. This made her all the more likable, even if I did despair of ever being able to match her.
Afterwards we went our separate ways, and I went to my bungalow in the back corner of the property to drop my school books and change my clothes. I felt just the slightest bit tipsy after drinking all that wine. I’d started taking several more sips per taste than were absolutely necessary after Prin identified her second winery. Then I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
What in the world was I going to do if Prin and Cooper got together? How would it feel, living here without the promise of a private flirt with Cooper – even if he didn’t think of it that way? Granted, I’d lived here twenty–two years without Cooper around, but that had been growing–up time. It had been a childhood home then, and I’d lived in the resident section of the hacienda – the main building of the inn. Once my parents sold the place I’d moved into the bungalow. I’d kind of come with the place, as a reference for what made the place tick.
At first Cooper and Hazel couldn’t ask me enough questions. I’m sure they would have been just fine without me here, but I do think I made it easier for them to transition the place without upsetting any of the regular guests or restaurant patrons, of which there were many. I think I represent the face of the Vineyard Inn to the old–timers, and both Cooper and Hazel know how important that is when a place changes hands.
But now Hazel was firmly in charge and my job, assistant manager, has become one of implementing her ideas and changes more than illuminating how things had always been done. She did still rely on me for some things, though, the retail wine store being the biggest one. I was taking accounting at the community college on her recommendation. She said it would make me a more effective store manager and that I could take that skill anywhere, into any retail environment I wanted to, in the future.
Which clearly meant she saw me moving on someday. Certainly she didn’t see me as staying on and moving up within the Vineyard Inn’s hierarc
hy, mostly because the only place to go was Coop’s position, or her own, both of which were co–owners – or Prin’s new position as restaurant manager/sommelier. And it was only in the deepest, darkest, most secret regions of my heart that I knew my aspirations were to be the wife of the owner, and therefore an owner myself.
#
A couple nights later, after we’d tasted, categorized and set up the last of the wine entries, I was alone in my room, contemplating my future. If Cooper ended up with Prin, as seemed increasingly likely, what would I do with myself? I couldn’t continue living here, watching him date Prin, fall in love with Prin, marry Prin. How could I watch her take not just the man I loved, but the place I loved as well? I’d never known anything but the Vineyard Inn – was I to become as stagnant as one of the copper garden sculptures? Staying on eternally, growing green with age and envy, watching another woman live the life I had wanted for myself?
When I was a child, maybe seven or eight years old, my parents left me at the racetrack. We’d gone to Del Mar for the day, and after they’d packed up all our stuff, they were so involved in their own conversation, talking about the day and their goals and the future, that they completely forgot about me – running around trackside picking up dozens of colorful losing tickets from the ground.
I loved the sturdy feel of the tickets, the way the horses’ names were printed on them, the tangible vestiges of the excitement of the pounding hooves, screaming crowds, impassioned bettors. Part of me felt as if I’d won just by having a fat stack of them in my hand, not caring that all the races had finished, and the sweaty jockeys and lathered horses had gone back to wherever it was that they lived when they weren’t thrilling the masses.
It wasn’t until the place had sufficiently emptied out that I noticed my parents were nowhere in sight. A few older men loitered about, looking dispiritedly at their racing forms or nodding drunkenly on the green benches near the beer vendors. The friendly, exciting place was suddenly alien to me – the sunshine disappearing behind long shadows and the cheerful crush of people dwindling to a motley crew of down–on–their–luck race junkies.