“What on earth would you do with it? Where would you put it?”
“I could find a place at my family’s winery.”
“Aren’t you all tied up being a lawyer?”
There was that. Interesting. She never felt this enthusiastic sitting at her desk at Witmer, Robinson and Scott.
Slowly, she traversed the room’s corners, imagining how she would transform it if it were hers. A table over here, cupboards for lab equipment over there . . .
“Hmmm?”
“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”
Savvy pulled a face. “Sorry! Just thinking.”
“You’re quite serious about this, aren’t you?”
“We’ll see.” She shrugged. “I’ve been told I have a ‘nose.’ ”
“Tell you what. You can have the still. Do anything you want with it. Why not keep it here? Easier than you and me taking it apart and hauling it out to your car, getting ourselves and your seats all dirty. Lord knows, there’s a ton of raw material to work with here. More than one person could ever process.”
Savvy’s eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets. “Are you serious?”
Anne’s eyebrows went up under the brim of her hat. “Like I said earlier, Lucas and I didn’t move here for the lavender.
“Besides, I’m going to be traveling a lot this summer. The project I was telling you about? I’m collaborating on another book—that’s who I was online with when you came.”
“Another book?” Savvy asked, impressed.
Anne waved away Savvy’s admiration. “Nothing you’d be interested in. Merely a dry, clinical piece about personalities. That’s my area of expertise. Now, I know what you’re thinking—these things can all be done on the computer nowadays—but there’s something to be said for a good, old-fashioned meeting in the flesh. Spreading out all your papers, comparing notes. I’ve taken an apartment on the Stanford campus, to be closer to my writing partner for a few days out of the week.
“So why don’t you simply come up here and work, whenever the spirit moves you? Easier than dismantling this old thing and lugging it down to where you’ll also have to transport raw material, anyway.”
“What about your husband?”
“What about him?”
“He won’t mind me poking around the property?”
“Pfft. Lucas won’t even notice you’re here. He’s getting ready for a show. Totally self-sufficient, holed up in his studio. Painting was always his dream . . . though I can’t imagine why we thought we had to live all the way out here in Timbuktu to write and paint. Could have stayed in Cupertino, where the sun shines two hundred sixty-five days a year, all the sidewalks have curb cuts to accommodate his chair, and there’s a decent restaurant on every corner.”
“He seems happy enough,” Savvy said.
“Hmph. Usually. Last winter got to him a little.”
“How does this sound?” asked Savvy. “Let me give you some money for the still. At least a token amount—before you see how nice it looks when I polish it up and you change your mind,” she ribbed, “and I’ll take you up on your offer to keep it here, until I think of something better.”
Anne thrust out her hand. “Deal. If you ever come to your senses, feel free to either take it with you or simply walk away, no harm done.”
Waving a hand in front of her face, Anne headed for the door. “This dust is killing me. Poke around here as long as you like. I have research to do.” She took another step, then halted. “And Savvy, there’s something else. I feel I owe you an apology,” she said from the doorway.
“What on earth for?”
“The first time you called me on the phone? When you said you were one of the St. Pierres, I was expecting this pampered heiress . . . a self-centered socialite. Just look at you, though . . .”
Savvy’s hand automatically flew to the elastic band she’d hastily stretched through her hair, lowering her gaze to the roomy flowered cotton dress she’d borrowed from Char, all the way down to her rubber boots. She must look a fright.
“Grounded as they come. And me, with my doctorate and all my books . . .” She exited, chiding herself as she walked away. “You’d think I’d know better than to believe in stereotypes. . . .”
As Savvy wove through the crowd of shoppers at the farmers’ market, listening to the vendors hawking their wares—“Here, try a piece of our Taleggio. It’s a semi-soft, washed-rind cheese”—admiring the stalls with their artfully staged breads and pyramids of free-range eggs and, of course, fruits and veggies. The sun warming her back made dancing shadows of the pedestrian’s legs on the macadam. Best of all, she’d just bought her very own copper still! Her heart felt ready to burst with well-being.
While Savvy imagined the scent of her personal blends of essential oils, the actual aromas of the market—sweet, yeasty, pungent—swirled along on the air currents like tangible things.
And all the while, snippets of last night kept coming back to her, each one inciting a secret smile. Esteban, kissing her in ways she’d never even imagined only a few weeks ago. Those panties she’d agonized over at the department store, discarded like a candy bar wrapper. The way his touch had made her feel as if she were endlessly freefalling, only to find herself landing safely in his strong arms....
Bump!
Something knocked Savvy out of her reverie. A small boy raced by, dipping and dodging between the shoppers.
“Sorry!”
The exuberance on his freckled face instantly replaced her annoyance with a smile. Another scamp whizzed after the first one in a merry chase. Within seconds, both kids had disappeared into the throng, leaving Savvy more thrown off at the sight of her hand lying protectively across her tummy than at having been jostled.
The distillery and the market weren’t the only reasons today was such a big day for Savvy. This day marked two months since she’d bled.
One trip to the pharmacy and she’d know for sure. So why hadn’t she taken the test?
At first, she’d put it off because she was afraid it would come back positive. But as the days and weeks went by, something in her heart grew along with her belly. It had started out as acceptance, and turned into hope. Now, she was scared to take that test for fear it would come out negative.
There it was, the sign heralding MORALES FARM.
Strangely, with all those people milling about, the stall was unmanned. Savvy stood in front of it, her brow furrowed. Where was Mrs. Morales? Where were Esteban and his father? It was a busy time for them all to be taking a break. They were apt to miss some good sales.
The pie vendor at the counter next to the Moraleses’ called over to her. “If you want to buy something from their stall, I can help you.”
Savvy drifted over and waited until the customer in front of her paid for her pies.
“Where are the Moraleses?” asked Savvy.
“They took Mr. Morales to Queen of the Valley in an ambulance. Mrs. Morales rode along. I told her I’d keep an eye out for her customers, close up for her at the end of the day if she’s not back . . .”
Savvy had pulled her phone out of her bag before she even realized it and was punching in Esteban’s number.
It rang and rang.
She started sprinting back in the direction from which she’d come. Now every pedestrian was just an obstacle in her path.
When she got to her car, she threw her phone onto the passenger seat unanswered, and headed toward the hospital.
Chapter 30
The sharp odor of disinfectant burned in Savvy’s throat. She glanced around at the people sitting calmly throughout the lobby, amazed that she was the only one who seemed to be affected.
She found Mrs. Morales perched on the edge of a vinyl seat in the waiting room of the ER, shredding a tissue.
Breathlessly, Savvy sat down beside her and took her outstretched hand. “How is your husband?”
“They still do the tests,” she said.
Savvy searched her
face for more.
“It’s his heart.”
“Oh, no.”
Mrs. Morales stifled a sob. “It’s that old feud between Geraldo and your papa.”
Savvy angled her head. “What?” With a sinking feeling, she half rose, skimming the room. “Where’s Esteban?”
“He—Esteban is very angry.”
She was confused. Angry? Because his father had a heart attack? “What happened?”
“He—” She bent her head and held her tissue to her nose until she composed herself. “I don’t know how to tell you this. He heard a rumor that your papa is the one who buys our property.”
“That’s not true! Who told him that?”
“I don’t know. Some boys at the market. Troublemakers. It doesn’t matter.”
“Where is he?”
“He went outside to get some air, calm down.”
“Which way?”
The sadness on Mrs. Morales’s face gave way to apprehension. “Maybe you should wait a little . . .”
“Which way?”
Reluctantly, she pointed toward a door with her chin.
A carbon copy of the David was easy to spot, even in a parking lot the size of the hospital’s. Savvy joggled up to him and put a hand on his arm. “Esteban. Tell me what happened.”
He stopped pacing and gave her a look she’d never forget.
“How about you tell me what happened,” he ground out. “The truth, this time.”
“I don’t know what you heard, but Papa had nothing to do with buying your land. You saw the agreement. . . .”
“I saw Napa Terroir Investments. I saw the name Don Smith. What I didn’t see—what was kept hidden from me and my father—was the name Xavier St. Pierre!”
Savvy shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“You aren’t the only one with connections, you know!” He jerked his arm away. “I have friends in this valley, too.”
She wanted to ask who’d been feeding him his information, but a budding dread told her it didn’t matter. Something her boss had said when he’d assigned her this case came back to her.
“One of the partners is an old friend of mine. We’ll work it so that you get a nice commission.”
Papa.
Esteban’s pacing skidded to a halt. “You lied to me. Made fools out of me and my family, in front of the whole town. Faked an interest in my diving, my lavender, suckered me into selling our family home, just so you could pass your first—big . . .” He hunted for the right words. “Career test!” he spat out finally.
He closed the space between them until his face towered over her. Never had he looked larger than he did at that moment.
“Let me tell you something. I never once drew my fist at a man, until you came into my life.”
Savvy could almost feel the heat from the fire in his eyes.
“In the past two weeks I almost decked two men.” He leaned in even further, forcing her head backward. “Are you that good, or am I that stupid?”
She had to make him understand. “Esteban, I never—”
“You never cared for me! It’s true what they say about the St. Pierres. They’ll do anything—step on anyone—to get what they want.
“Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you about Padre’s counteroffer? About wanting to turn our property into a lavender farm, when everyone else was scoffing at my idea? Our Plan Familiar?”
“I—I’m sorry—I wasn’t—”
“You expect me to believe you weren’t in on it? That you didn’t know? You’re a fucking lawyer!”
He whirled away, running his hand through his hair, then just as quickly whipped back around.
“You probably weren’t even a virgin that day on the beach! Mierda—it wouldn’t surprise me if you faked that blood! It was all just part of your scheme!”
His face was so close to hers now she could see the fleck of spittle clinging to the corner of his mouth.
The earth was spinning faster, faster, out of control.
Her own father had used her for his gain, destroying Esteban’s love and respect for her in the process. Could no one, nothing, be depended on?
She’d heard of people’s lives passing before their eyes. Now that was happening to her. Everything she thought she knew was wrong. Everything she’d spent her life doing was worthless.
Her powerlessness when Maman died and Papa divided her from her sisters . . . years (not to mention entire lines of letters on the Snellen eye chart) lost to mind-numbing study in her desperation to regain her self-confidence, a sense of control . . . ridiculous fantasies of developing her “nose” . . .
Past, present, and future swirled together, snaking and twisting their way down some vast vortex. The parking lot beneath her feet swayed, sending her hands spreading for balance. She hoped Esteban was too distracted to notice. She had to get out of there before she collapsed on the pavement. If anything could make this worse, it would be diverting to her the attention that belonged to Mr. Morales.
Esteban’s mouth was moving again. She struggled to understand the words on his lips. “I want out of that sales agreement.” He pointed at her for emphasis. “I’ll hire my own lawyer and sue you to get out of it if I have to.”
He started backing up, as if she were toxic. “And stay away from my family, you hear? You’ve already done enough damage—counselor.”
The world was disintegrating around her, leaving her lost . . . adrift. Somehow, she staggered back to her car.
Her hands knew what to do with the ignition button, to grasp the wheel at ten and two, but her mind spun like a pinwheel in a tornado. She forced deep breaths, trying to calm down enough to drive without getting in an accident, adding to her string of casualties.
Jeanne was at the front door wearing a concerned expression when Savvy arrived, alerted by the electronic tone that sounded whenever a car pulled onto the drive.
“Ah, mademoiselle, I have been talking to Maria.”
Savvy burst out bawling. “Everything is so messed up.” Her sobs echoed throughout the spacious marble foyer.
“I know. I know.” Jeanne stroked Savvy’s hair and let her weep.
“It’s Papa again. Just when things were going so well, he has to screw everything up.”
“Shhh . . .”
“And now”—sniff—“now Esteban thinks I was in on it the whole time.... He didn’t believe me when I said I was as surprised as he was....” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Where is everyone?” she hiccupped.
“Char went somewhere with Ryder. Meri is staying in the city for the weekend. It’s only you and me.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“Did you forget? He went to Los Angeles.”
With everything that had happened, she had forgotten. Papa often flew to L.A. during this slow time of year.
She clenched her jaw. “I need to talk to him.”
After visiting the hospital early Sunday morning, Esteban accompanied Madre to Mass. While she kneeled in prayer, Esteban sat on the stone-hard pew, gazing up at the stained-glass windows in the apse of St. Apollinaris. “Thank you for not letting him die,” he prayed—just in case He’d had anything to do with it.
The doctor had confirmed what he already knew. The shock that Esteban had unwittingly sold their family farm to his worst enemy had triggered a severe spasm of Padre’s right coronary artery. The good news was he didn’t need surgery. The bad—his farming days were over. The less stress he had, mentally and physically, the longer he might live.
It seemed like a good sign when Padre had asked him to elevate the head of his bed earlier, when they’d entered his hospital room. Madre had guided the straw from his big Styrofoam cup of water to his mouth.
“How you doing, Papi?”
Lying there sucking obediently on his straw, he’d looked shockingly old. You could tell they had him all drugged up.
When Madre had forced as much liquid into him as he could take without bursting, he lay back on his
pillow, licking his dry lips.
“Envidia.”
“What’s that, Papi?”
“Envidia,” he rasped. “Those matóns at the market. They were jealous. Of you, with your high-class chula. Of all of us, for getting such a price for our land. Much more than it’s worth.”
Madre eyed Esteban uneasily.
“Are you saying I didn’t deserve Savvy?”
“No!” said Madre, with a reassuring palm on Esteban’s arm. “That’s not what he means. Not what envidia means.”
“Then what?”
Padre blinked and nodded to Madre, as if to say, You tell him. I’m too tired.
“Ahem.” Madre cleared her throat and turned to Esteban. “How do I explain to you? It’s not spoken of so much, here.... I haven’t heard of it since we left the Michoacán.”
She looked to Padre for the right words, but his eyes had closed. “It’s not that you are evil when something unexpectedly good happens to you. It’s when certain people—could be anyone—see that you have more than they do. They become jealous. Give you the evil eye, which in turn gives you bad luck. To balance the scales, so to speak.”
Esteban turned to Papa, incredulous. “You think you had a heart attack because people envied you?”
Padre opened his eyes, but they had a faraway look. He seemed to be looking only within.
Esteban had already concluded Padre was on some heavy-duty meds. He went to the bedside. “Don’t worry, Papi. I’m going to get our land back.”
“Now, now, let’s not talk of that today,” said Madre, fussing with the sheets, rearranging the things on his tray. “All your padre needs to think about now is getting better.”
But Esteban had to think about it. If he didn’t, who would?
Chapter 31
“You going to Mass?” Char’s voice filtered through Savvy’s Yclosed bedroom door.
“No.” She drew the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes, wishing she could forget yesterday had ever happened. If she hadn’t been able to sleep all night though, how could she now, with the sun streaming through her floor-to-ceiling windows?
A Taste of Sauvignon Page 17