Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs

by Sharon Hamilton

  “No, my husband is coming in to talk to you too.”

  “Gotcha.” He walked through the kitchen and stood at the slider overlooking the vineyard. “Old man Santos was a character. I knew his grandkids growing up,” he said.

  Amy came up next to him. “It’s a nice little piece of Heaven. We got forty-six acres, all planted, but needing work.”

  “Should be pretty good stock. He was careful what he put in. Although tastes have changed. I’ll bet it’s mostly reds, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gotta have whites to make any money at this. Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc to start. They’re good filler, and you will save on all those oak barrels. You don’t have to wait as long to drink it. The stock is good enough for grafting. I’ll bet Santos’ reds work out better ten years from now, right?”

  “That’s what Nick said. We have some cases that are about that age and the Pinot blend he made was awesome.”

  Lizzie was impressed he knew what he was talking about.

  “Can I visit the patient?” he asked with his handsome grin.

  Amy blushed. Lizzie knew this was probably the reaction any of the ladies would have to him. She wasn’t shocked when she heard Amy ask him, “So, is there a Mrs. Reynoso?”

  “Just my mother, ma’am. But she’s working on it, believe me.”

  Lizzie had to leave for Zapparelli’s, and left the two of them walking down between the rows, kicking dirt and talking like two old friends. The air was bright and fresh. The sky blue and clear. Everything was colorful, growing, and perfect with the world.

  The drive to Marco Zapparelli winery was long, only because of how she had to snake over, down the Frog Haven gravel road, then two hundred yards on the county road, then up through the huge arching gates that looked more like the entrance to Dracula’s castle. The parking lot was nearly half full. Several tour busses parked in the designated lot for limos and tour companies, drivers standing by their vehicles, smoking and comparing notes. Amy had told her there was no winery tour per se, just the giant showroom and world class restaurant overlooking the valley floor below. The wine was excellent, but the showroom was spectacular.

  She was given instructions to the second floor meeting room. She opened one of two doors made from old oak barrels, and entered into a large room with a huge round conference table in the center. Chairs also constructed of wine barrels surrounded it. She was alone.

  A young woman wearing a navy business suit and name badge pushed herself through the heavy doors which had swung shut. She carried a sheaf of papers and a metal clipboard close to her chest. Startled, she took off her glasses and studied Lizzie carefully.

  “I’m here for the meeting.”

  “Of course you are.” She smiled and changed her efficient demeanor to one of gushing hospitality. “Allison Boyd. I’m the director of community relations here at Zapparelli. And you are?”

  Lizzie shook her hand. “I’m Lizzie Reeder—I mean Daniels. I’m working on the winery project next door.” She decided to just put it out there in case that was an issue going forward.

  “Oh! I have to admit, when I heard about the purchase, I was surprised it wasn’t one of Marco’s deals. However did you pull that one off?”

  “Our realtor is a good friend. She found it.”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure she never gets a reservation at the restaurant,” she said with her pen poised on her pile of papers. Then she dropped her hand and gushed, “Just kidding!”

  Lizzie knew this woman was halfway telling the truth. Experience told her when women joked about having power to do something, it was a veiled threat to be taken seriously by the listener. True to her boss’ methods for dealing with the public and his own staff, intimidation and confidence probably worked well in her favor. She was comfortable in this kind of environment, whereas Lizzie was not.

  She was searching for something to say when several others entered the conference room. Allison shook hands as the door sentry, checking names off the list.

  Mr. Zapparelli was last to arrive. “Thank you all for coming today on such short notice. We have a lot to do to prepare and little time to do it.”

  He described the schedule of events, the children’s groups he’d invited, some of the schools and why. He also mentioned he had only about twenty minutes to spare with them all, before he was needed for an important meeting. Important was the operative word in that description. Looking around the room, she saw a couple of raised eyebrows.

  He glanced down at the clipboard containing the list of his guests, his finger riding over the names. He tapped the top of the list and continued with his description of the events and his vision for it.

  “I’m expecting at least three hundred people, half of them will be children, by design.” He held up the flier Amy showed her back at Haven. “You can all have as many copies of these as you wish. You can tell your sponsors someone will get an honorary Wine Club membership and a year’s supply of new releases valued at over five hundred dollars.” He checked his nails, then continued. “They have to display this poster conspicuously, and we’ll choose from all those who do.”

  He ran down what choral songs he’d sanctioned. He showed a map of the event, locating two raised platforms for performers and for the presentation of awards. Coffee, tea and wine would be poured, and he made it a point to say that if other wineries wanted also to be sponsors, they could provide part of the food or underwrite other expenses, but absolutely no wine.

  There were only a few questions from the assembled group. A new meeting was set for the following week, and Allison passed out a written narrative of the work to be done in each category. She was about to adjourn the meeting, giving Zapparelli an extra five minutes between meetings, when he interrupted her.

  “Can I talk to Lizzie Daniels for a couple of minutes please?”

  Lizzie stood as the others left the room. Zapparelli motioned for her to walk down the hallway to his private office and closed the door behind her.

  “So tell me about your winery project.”

  Lizzie was wary of telling him anything. She wished Amy were at her side, or one of the SEAL investors.

  “Not much to tell yet. We’re just getting started.”

  “So you are a banker by trade or large investor?”

  “No, Mr. Zapparelli. I was a part-time school teacher. My husband is military—you met us a couple of months ago. It was our honeymoon weekend.”

  “Ah. Sorry. I don’t remember. But you live here in Sonoma County?”

  “Um, no, I live in San Diego presently. But I plan to come up here often.”

  He double checked his clipboard and frowned. “I’m not quite sure why you were put on the finance committee. I just assumed you were a financier or investor.”

  “Nope. Just ordinary folks.”

  “Who are buying land I want.” He didn’t hide his eagerness. “Let me ask you how much it would cost me to take over your position.”

  “Position?”

  “Your stake in the winery. If I were to buy out your position, how much would that cost me? And before you answer, Mrs. Daniels, you should always know the answer to that question. A person who doesn’t know this is gambling with her future.”

  Lizzie was challenged by the flamboyant director. Although not used to it, sparring with him was fun, in a way. She was aware he wanted more details, and she also knew she wasn’t going to give them to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Zapparelli,” she said as she began to stand, “But—”

  “Oh, sit. Don’t be stupid.”

  Lizzie remained standing. “The winery isn’t for sale. Perhaps you’ve gotten some flawed information.”

  She saw that comment caused his right eye to twitch. He didn’t like sitting, looking up at her. Before he could stand as well, she sat back down.

  Now the real conversation will begin. No more sparring.

  She swallowed hard. Her armpits were soaking wet. She tried to look casual, crossing
her legs and swinging her foot in the air. Her hands were folded on her thigh, and she remembered to lean forward so that she wouldn’t show fear.

  Zapparelli’s words were slower and measured. “Perhaps I didn’t express myself properly, and for that I apologize.”

  Lizzie knew it was eating a hole in his gut to even say that.

  He continued. “I’ve had my eye on that property for some time. Mr. Santos and I started out being friends, but I’m sorry to say it degenerated into something else. Somehow I missed the news of his passing, or perhaps I would be making plans for that property.”

  “Perhaps. I have no idea.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “We asked.” Before he could erupt, she added, “Our friend, Devon Dunn is a local realtor and knew we were looking.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, there are several couples, some retired pensioners, a doctor—a whole collection of owners. More like a collective.” She avoided telling him anyone with law enforcement was involved, based on Amy’s comment about the man’s youth in San Francisco.

  “And what besides good wine brings you all together?”

  Lizzie didn’t want to tell him, but she knew she had to. She knew he didn’t think they were qualified. “My husband and most of the investors are active or former Navy SEALs.”

  “Wow.” His expression showed a trace of adoration before he covered it up.

  “Who brings the experience, then, or do they now teach viticulture at the Naval Academy as a backup career?”

  She would have bolted from the room if it wasn’t important to find out more about the man, his knowledge of the industry they were trying to break into. If he was going to become an enemy, there was that saying about keeping your enemies closer. She thought it was excellent advice.

  So she let him think she was offended by looking down at her lap absentmindedly. “We’re learning more and more every day. Our guys work hard and put themselves in stressful situations every day. Somehow, running a winery doesn’t seem that hard, I guess.”

  Now Zapparelli was perusing her slowly, his eyes thoughtful. It wasn’t a sexual look. It was something else.

  Respect?

  Chapter 21

  ‡

  The flight into Djibouti was bumpy as hell. They’d overnighted in Italy and then left at dawn again for Africa. It was impossible to talk during the transport, but when they were shown to their barracks Kyle called a quick meeting.

  “We’re boarding the USS Cape St. George when she comes into port tomorrow to await further orders. We’re after a militant Kenyan leader, Hassan Farah, who is known to be in Mogadishu supporting cells to go after UN Peacekeeping forces. As you know, the UN forces are assisting the Somali Special Forces command, as well as local Mogadishu government militia in attempting to keep the peace. Elections will be held this winter, and Hassan and his group are trying to destabilize the region.”

  Jameson read determination on the faces of Kyle’s squad. No one moved or said a word. It was like at church. Stopping a civil war during an election in an unstable country rife with warring factions was a tall order. Theirs was only one part of that, but probably an important one.

  Once the briefing was over he asked for and was granted permission to call Lizzie since the lines were considered secure in this location. Communication capability was on an almost hourly basis, since at any time power could be cut, sometimes affecting the internet.

  He dialed her computer, knowing it was one o’clock in the morning. Her disheveled face was a thing of beauty, though her eyes glowed green and the blonde strands of her hair whited out the picture.

  “God, you look good.”

  “So do you. Doing all the Boy Scout stuff?”

  “None of the fun stuff yet, but soon.”

  “Okay, well wear clean boxers.” She giggled that little tinkly laugh that drove him crazy.

  “Honey, it hurts to hear that laugh. Makes me want to do inappropriate things.”

  “Well, let me help it, then.” She kissed the screen, her lips making a nice spot on the center of his image. “Just imagine what those lips can do for you.”

  “You mean talk?” He was teasing her about talking too much during sex.

  “You like it when I talk dirty, Jameson.”

  “Don’t do it, Lizzie.” He leaned closer to her image and whispered, “But I have a pretty good imagination, honey. But don’t say a word.”

  “How about a long lonely moan.”

  Whispering again, “Not too loud or someone’s gonna think we lost another goat.”

  “So now you’re saying I sound like a goat in heat?”

  “No, baby. You sound like the woman I’m coming home to. God I wish it was tomorrow.”

  “So you getting lots of sun? Enjoying the sights?”

  “Nah. It’s pretty much a shithole over here. Hot as hell. But I got those nice scented moist towelettes, you know, the lavender ones you use for removing makeup?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I stole your last package. Not sure if you noticed. Sorry honey.”

  “Nope didn’t notice. Haven’t been wearing much makeup lately.”

  “Me neither,” he said. After a pause, he felt the need to fill the space with something, some words. “Just wanted to let you know I might be out of communication for a few.”

  “Oh, so you’re dating that brunette again? The one in the tub with all the candles? Tell her I’ll whop her ass when I see her next.”

  “Oh baby, you know I wouldn’t do that. But she does have a red-haired sister. At least she looks like a red-head. We’re taking bets…”

  It was a slice of normal, having the few minutes to joke with Lizzie. She told him about the work at the winery, the meeting with Zapparelli and the committee she was working on.

  “You be careful, Lizzie. No walking around to bars at night in Healdsburg, even though you’re trying to find donors for the event. Things are never as safe as they seem.”

  “I know. But I love listening to you nagging me.”

  “We got an extra advisory about telling our families not to mention where we are. No specifics, no addresses or towns. I’m sticking to that.”

  “Well, shoot, you’re the one who said Healdsburg.”

  “That I did. Sorry, darlin’.”

  The lull came just before they had to sign off. He was going to try to call during the early morning next time so he could speak to “Ms. Capital,” which was the nickname they made up for Charlotte.

  Jameson stared at the black screen when the call was ended prematurely. He’d warned her about this, and not to try to call him back, that it would be impossible. They’d said everything they needed to say anyway. It was just too short.

  The Cape St. George came in a day late. The twelve of them were sharing guest officer’s quarters, except with three to a room it wasn’t deluxe. But it did stay as cold as an iceberg, and Jameson knew he’d get some sleep as long as he didn’t wake up in a puddle of his own sweat. Bundling up was an easy problem to fix.

  They were transported to the mainland at midnight, everyone having a good clean repel with no mishaps. The rendezvous was located, and they split up into three teams of four. Although this would make their footprint wider, it was considered preferable for hiding from hostile eyes. And, it would be easier to lay cover for each other in case they hit a hornet’s nest.

  Fredo was in communication with the ship’s Com, since she was staying off shore nearly twenty miles to avoid local contact. Earlier in the year, the St. George had been the victim of a plan by pirates to raid the ship, until the unfortunate pirates figured out in the light of day that they’d picked a fight with the wrong dog. They were able to capture a dozen or so and deliver them to an interrogation facility run by the African Union south of Mogadishu.

  “Here I thought our elections were fucked up,” T.J. Talbot was telling Coop. “I sure as hell hope we’re outa here in December. Hundreds of people die, they risk their lives t
o go vote in Somalia.”

  “Makes a little protest now and then not seem so bad,” added Armando.

  Jameson agreed. “We’re never satisfied, are we?”

  Fredo leaned forward to look at him eye-to-eye. “What was the biggest crowd you ever played for, Jameson?”

  “I think around five thousand. Maybe more.”

  “No football stadiums?” Coop asked.

  “Nope. Didn’t get there.”

  “That was a pretty big one in Nashville, right? Was that your five thousand?” asked Kyle.

  “I believe so. And it might have been bigger too. Crazy. Big venues like that, there are people all over the place, back stage too.”

  “I hear you knocked them dead, Jameson,” Rory said.

  Before Jameson could answer, Jones inserted, “You wear your Elvis costume?”

  Several guys chuckled.

  “Don’t knock Elvis. I still love listening to his music,” said Kyle. “I wouldn’t wear the shirts, but I love his voice.”

  “You wear rhinestones for that concert, Jameson?” Fredo wanted to know.

  “Nope, that’s not for me. I’d be just as happy in a tee shirt. But I wore my lucky shirt—that’s the one I met Lizzie in some years back—kinda fits snug with these shoulders that grew on me.” Jameson flexed his biceps.

  “Not much chance you’ll get smaller. You’d best get yourself another shirt,” said Kyle.

  “Then I’ll go shirtless. That’s my lucky shirt.”

  “I got my lucky boxers,” shouted T.J. He stood up and showed the waistband of his red, white and blue American flag shorts. Several others followed suit. Everyone showed theirs. Jameson had a navy blue with yellow stars boxers on today. Fredo remained seated.

  “Come on Fredo,” Coop needled him. “You gotta show yours.”

  “No.”

  Jameson soon found out this was a serious violation of the group trust. As if on cue, three guys grabbed him, unzipped his sand camo pants as Coop pulled them down just below Fredo’s butt.