by Nadia Gordon
“What’s with the hair?” Wade said to Rivka between bites.
“What d’you mean?”
“It’s different.”
“I wanted to try something new.”
“What do you call that, pigtails?”
“Very sexy,” said Monty, “in a hula hoops and popsicles sort of way.”
“Don’t perv out on me, Lenstrom.”
“Rivka puts the hair in mujer,” said Wade, grinning and shoveling gnocchi in his mouth.
“Are you guys still doing that?” said Sunny. “I don’t get it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Wade. “We have more important issues to discuss, such as the agenda for tomorrow. Are you coming?”
“Where?” said Sunny.
“Infineon Raceway.”
“You mean Sears Point? Only if somebody holds a gun to my head. You know I loathe that place.”
“This is different. This isn’t Nascar, it’s vintage Ferraris and Maseratis. They’re works of art. There won’t be any hooligans.”
“Just overage hooligans with money.”
“Right. Chavez and I are going as Texas high rollers so we can schmooze our way into the VIP area. They always have a VIP area at these events. That’s where they keep the free food and booze.”
“That explains the upper lip. It seems to be some kind of epidemic around here.”
“Tux Robinson never goes anywhere without his mustache and his woman.”
“I’m wearing the bra with the built-in silicon boobs,” said Rivka, “the trashiest pair of Lucite heels you’ve ever laid eyes on, and a cubic zirconia the size of a gumball.”
“You’re both insane,” said Sunny. “What if you run into somebody you know?”
“I don’t know anybody other than you guys, and Chavez is a shape-shifter. Nobody will recognize her once she’s all tarted up, as long as she doesn’t let the birds out,” said Wade, referring to Rivka’s tattoos.
“Covered. I’m wearing three-quarter sleeves,” said Rivka. “Sun, you could come along as my best friend, Loretta, recently divorced and fabulously wealthy, but amusingly inclined to dress like a ten-dollar ho.”
“Is there some object to this outing that I’m missing?” said Sunny.
“Threefold,” said Rivka. “One, I get to wear the bra with the built-in boobs. Two, if we work it with expertise, we get a fancy lunch for free. Three, we mix and mingle with a crowd more exotic than Wade’s mustache and more elusive than the Tibetan snow leopard. It’s an anthropological adventure, like visiting Machu Picchu or joining a cult.”
“Hang on, it’s all coming back to me. These are the tickets Ted the fish guy gave us,” said Sunny.
“Exactly. You should come. What else are you doing tomorrow?”
“Whatever it is, it’s not going to involve a racetrack. That place is antithetical to my tree-hugger values. It’s a noisy, ugly, crowded, sprawling swath of pollution-emitting pavement that does nothing but blight the land with cars and clog up the highway every time they have an event. I’d rather spend the day having the hair removed from my private parts.”
“Ouch. I think you’re being a little harsh,” said Monty. “Unless that hair removal thing is more fun that it sounds.”
“I can’t argue with you,” said Wade. “It’s an eyesore. But, frankly, there comes a time in a man’s life when he’ll shake hands with the devil himself if it means he can wear a mustache and fake a Texas accent for the afternoon.”
“How did Ted the fish guy get tickets anyway?” said Sunny. “It doesn’t seem like his scene.”
“His daughter is dating one of the guys from the Ferrari dealership in Marin,” said Rivka. “That’s our secondary mission, to check this guy out. Ted thinks his intentions are less than honorable.”
“He cares enough to kiss up to the father,” said Wade. “That’s a good sign.”
“Lenstrom, are you in on this nonsense?” said Sunny.
“You know I can’t grow a mustache,” said Monty, “and I’d look stupid in one of those bras. Besides, I have to work at the wine shop. Bill is trapped in some god-forsaken cabin in the Idaho wilderness for a week. He calls it a vacation.”
“You’ll see,” said Wade. “The whine of those engines clears the cobwebs out of your head like nothing else. You get a contact high just seeing the cars go that fast.”
“Maybe, but I’m not dressing up. I’ll be your sane local friend entertaining you for the weekend.”
They sat around the living room after dinner sampling the collection of port and Armagnac that Sunny put out on the coffee table. Wade stretched out on the couch. “Lenstrom, it’s now or never. Five more minutes and I won’t make it up from this couch until morning.”
“Let’s roll.”
Rivka followed soon after. “You should come with us,” she said, lingering by the door. “It’ll be fun, and you know you could use a change of scene to liven things up. It’s been dull around here this week. We’ll meet new people. New kinds of people. People who think food is something you eat, not something you do for a living.”
“It just doesn’t sound like my scene.”
“That’s the point. Haven’t you had enough of your scene? We’re leaving at eleven. Call me if you change your mind.”
Sunny finished cleaning up and putting the dishes away. It was still early by Friday-night standards and for once she felt like getting dressed up and going out. She would call Andre at eleven and see when he would be done working. Maybe they could drive into San Francisco and hit a late-night dance club. She paced the house, looking for something to do. Everything was picked up and none of the more involved projects waiting for her attention appealed to her. She turned on her laptop and searched for the racetrack’s Web site. Maybe she should go, she thought. Rivka was right. She could use a change of scene, and she had nothing else planned for the day other than to drop her knives off for sharpening, not exactly the highlight of a weekend. The front banner on the racetrack’s site proclaimed the imminent arrival of the Ferrari Challenge. She scrolled down the schedule of events. Races, lunch, the unveiling of the latest Ferrari and Maserati models. She studied the event description, attempting to divine what her Saturday would be like based on the adjectives they’d used. When they said “exciting,” did they mean, “hot, loud, and boring”? Was “exotic” and “well-organized” euphemistic for “of interest only to the deeply committed aficionado of sports cars”? The list of sponsors was a hodgepodge of Fortune 500 companies and local businesses that catered to the wealthy. Among the makers of cell phones and PCs were some of the valley’s most expensive hotels, restaurants, florists, and wineries. The Vedana Vineyards logo was near the bottom of the page where she almost didn’t notice it.
She called Rivka. “I’m coming, but I’m not dressing up like Loretta.”
“Suit yourself. But wear something a little upscale so we don’t have to ditch you when we go VIP.”
16
Ferrari red was everywhere. Rows of vintage roadsters in a dozen shades of lipstick red were parked across the lawn between the concessions and the racetrack, where men in Ferrari red shirts could mill between them, peering in at the dashboards. Red moving vans lined the raceway with pit crews dressed in red uniforms lingering nearby. Rivka picked her way down the gravel road from the ledge where non-Ferraris and Maseratis were made to park.
“When we find the people in charge, you do the talking,” said Rivka. “It’s going to take all my concentration not to fall down in these shoes.”
“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” said Wade. “I’ve got you covered.” He turned to Sunny. “Do you think the bolo tie is too much?”
“Yes, but I also think the mustache, Western suit, rodeo belt buckle, and accent are too much.”
“It looks good, doesn’t it,” he said, grinning. “Is that a new dress?”
“So old it’s new. I found it in a trunk at Catelina’s house a few months ago. She wore it to her sister’s wedding in 1955.”
“Very Audrey Hepburn. How old is Catelina these days?”
“Eighty-something. And she can still chop onions faster than me.”
They strolled through the vintage cars, then headed for the main attraction, the tent where the new models were on display. Wade showed a healthy interest in the Maserati Quattroporte and let the salesman talk him into sitting in the Ferrari 612 Scaglietti.
“My palms are moist,” he said, when he came back. “That car makes me feel like a cheerleader on her first date.”
“I thought you were acting,” said Sunny. “I was going to be impressed.”
“You want to see acting, watch me work this crowd. See that guy over there? He’s the man in charge.”
“How do you know?” said Rivka.
“See how he’s looking around, watching for new arrivals, seeing if everybody has what they need? He looks like the bride’s mom at a garden wedding. I’m going over and warm him up, then you come by and give him the silicon treatment. We’ll see if we can earn our pasture.”
Sunny and Rivka watched Wade walk up to the man and introduce himself. A few minutes later they were laughing and the boss was slapping Wade on the back like an old friend. He patted down his jacket pockets and handed Wade his business card. Wade waved them over.
“Salvio, I want you to meet my beautiful wife, Rachael,” said Tux, “and our charming hostess here in Napa, Ms. Sonya McCoskey.”
They made quick work of the small talk and Rivka closed the deal, inquiring demurely whether there was anywhere out of the sun that they could have a nice glass of wine.
“Please, you must be my guests for lunch,” said Salvio. “Enjoy yourselves. You see this white tent in the middle? It’s there. I have to walk around. For me, it’s all business today, meeting the people. But you go and eat, drink some wine, relax. Show them my card if you have any difficulty.” New arrivals distracted him momentarily, and he turned back to them with an expedient air. “Tonight we will make a dinner at the winery Niebaum-Coppola. You know it? You go there, seven o’clock. Tell them you are with Salvio. We make a good time.” He pumped Wade’s hand and gave Sunny and Rivka each a breezy kiss, then hailed the new arrivals and glided away.
“I think your kiss was more sincere than mine,” said Sunny.
Rivka adjusted the display of bronze cleavage that was the centerpiece of an outfit engineered to stop traffic. “I don’t claim to understand the power, I just deploy it as needed.” She turned to Wade. “What did you say to him? That guy was ready to take you home to mama.”
“I dropped a few choice details about the collection of Testa Rossas from the sixties I keep out in the horse stables back in Houston.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to lie?” said Sunny.
“Not while I’m in costume. Everything I’ve said is genuine Tux.”
They dropped Salvio’s name at the entrance to the hospitality tent and entered a place where, ironically, everything was free because they were assumed to be rich. The tables were draped in white. An epic floral display stood on the center table, with smaller versions dotted around the room. Along the left edge of the tent ran a continuous table loaded with salads, antipasto, pastas, and main courses. In back was dessert, cheeses, fruit, and coffee. On the right, several local and Italian wineries were offering tastings.
Sunny filled her plate and left it at the table while she went to meet the people pouring Vedana wines. They introduced themselves as Ové and Daniela Obermeier. Ové was the winemaker at Vedana. Unless Daniela was Ové’s sister, Monty Lenstrom had been wrong about him being a single playboy type, or at least about him being single. He was tall and blond with a nose that started in the middle of his forehead and descended straight down to two generous nostrils. It was an ancient nose, the same that had been worn by Norse seamen, warriors, and woodcutters for centuries. He had a crooked slice of a smile and an endearing gap between his front teeth, one of which showed a slender gray fissure. Sunny decided he was handsome without being attractive. He poured her a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and explained its virtues. As he did so, he let his blue eyes roam over her with promiscuous liberty. She swirled the wine and tasted. Daniela stood by with a second bottle at the ready. Daniela Obermeier was younger and, pouring the second wine, said she handled publicity and tastings for Vedana. If Ové was fifty, Daniela was in her mid- or early thirties. She wore her brown hair down, her eyes made up, and a diamond pendant around her neck, sitting in the V of her red silk blouse.
Sunny chose her favorite and requested two more glasses for the table. “Are the owners here?”
“They’re not,” said Ové, hesitating.
“But they’ll be at the Niebaum-Coppola dinner tonight,” said Sunny.
He smiled. “Exactly. I can introduce you then.”
“I look forward to it.”
She went back to the table, where Wade was listening to a little gray-haired man swimming in an enormous red Ferrari shirt detail the attributes of the vintage race car he took around to these sorts of events. The man’s wife was looking to Rivka for support in her trials. “We compromise,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “We go to three races each summer, and in September he takes me to Europe. That’s been our arrangement for fifteen years.”
Rivka took the glass Sunny handed her. “Well?”
“Mission accomplished.”
The grandstand overlooking the racetrack faced a postcard view of the wine country’s green hills and distant mountains. A feathery breeze brushed their cheeks. On the track, vintage Ferraris with white and black numbers on their doors rolled into place, arranging themselves for the start. Some were cherry red, curvy, and voluptuous. Others were leaner, with longer lines and paint jobs the color of cinnamon Tic Tacs.
“Listen to those engines!” said Wade. “So deep and pretty. Close your eyes. It’s like the thunder of horses running.”
Rivka leaned back and crossed her legs in her high, clear sandals. She looked over her sunglasses at Sunny. “Glad you came?”
“Definitely. I stand corrected, it’s kind of nice out here.”
The announcer delivered the final pronouncements and the engines roared into action. A dozen roadsters accelerated toward the opening curve. They watched until the pack disappeared into the turns at the western end of the racetrack.
“Did anybody spot the guy dating Ted the fish guy’s daughter?” said Sunny.
“I looked, but not very hard,” said Rivka. “All I know is he’s a salesman and his name is Luciano.”
“It shouldn’t be that hard,” said Wade. “They don’t have that many salesmen. I want to have another look at that Maserati before we leave anyway. We can figure out which guy is Luciano and give him the once-over.”
“You looking to buy?” said Rivka.
“You never know,” said Wade, stroking his mustache. “I could use a new car. I’d only have to sell one acre of Skord Mountain and that baby could be mine.”
“Wait, I’m having a vision,” said Sunny. “It’s raining. I am wrapping a chain around the bumper of your hundred-thousand-dollar sedan so I can pull it out of the cascading, rutted mud slick known as Skord Mountain in winter.”
“Good point. I might as well sell the whole homestead and move to town. Then I can afford the coupe as well, and a garage to keep them in.”
“I never thought of it that way,” said Rivka. “You would be pretty nicely set up if you sold Skord Mountain.”
“So, the old man is looking a little better now, is he?” said Wade. “You girls think you’re dealing with a country bumpkin, but I’m a diamond in the rough, baby. I’ve got potential. This particular rustic behind happens to be sitting on a grape-flavored, dust-covered, poison oak and rattlesnake-infested gold mine.”
They fell silent while they watched the race cars round the eastern turn and head toward the straightaway in front of the grandstand. The thrilling, high-pitched whir of the engines going full throttle slingshotted past.
“Oh, how
I love that sound,” said Wade. “Makes my heart go pitter-pat.” He watched the cars accelerate out of sight. “If you think about it, a car has a certain significance in our lives. It’s your vehicle for experiencing the world. Like your body.”
“The rationalization process has begun,” said Rivka. “He’s going to talk himself into a second mortgage for a fancy sports
car.”
“As long as it has high clearance and four-wheel drive,” said Sunny.
“The automobile is a statement to the world about who we are,” said Wade.
“That’s true of every possession,” said Sunny. “If Rivka chooses to wear clear plastic sandals that are impossible to walk in but sexy to look at, it says that being sexy is more important to her at that moment than being comfortable.”
“Cars say more than shoes,” said Wade. “You change shoes all the time, but most people only drive one car.”
“But some people don’t care what car they drive.”
“And that would be evident by the car they drive.”
“Okay, what profound statement about my character does my car make?” said Sunny.
“That you are sentimental, resistant to change, and attached to familiar textures and sensations,” said Wade. “You like that truck because its windows roll down manually and the upholstery is scratchy. Of course, that wouldn’t be evident to everyone. I know you better than most. But anyone could tell by your car that history is more important to you than money.”
Sunny watched the cars come around the backside of the track and head into the hairpin. “I am not resistant to change,” she said. “I just like things the way they are.”
They watched the rest of the race and the next two after, then Wade slapped his hands on his thighs. “Let’s go find our boy Luciano.”
In the new car tent, Wade worked the sales group while Rivka and Sunny stood in line for espressos. Sunny dropped a lump of sugar in the tiny paper cup and stirred, watching the crowd. She recognized Dean Blodger before he turned around, and sucked in her breath. “Guess who’s here,” she murmured to Rivka. “Our friend the harbormaster.”