She sighed, threw back the covers, splashed her face with cold water, and went downstairs. Knowing she’d find Jeanne at the breakfast table, surrounded by the papers, a tiny cup of espresso, and a large croissant, was something she looked forward to most Sunday mornings. Yet not even that comforted her this morning.
There Jeanne sat, as expected. Up at five, to early Mass, and back already.
“Come and sit down.” She patted the seat next to her. “Let me look at you.” Jeanne cupped Savvy’s chin. “I know what you need.”
Jeanne’s coddling wasn’t helping today. If Savvy were feeling better, she might have reached for the front page of the Chronicle to check out the headlines, even though she usually got her news online. Not today.
Behind her, Savvy heard the clink of china, the beep of the microwave.
Soon Jeanne was back with a mug of cocoa and a plate of—shortbread?
Savvy frowned, studying the flecks of purple in the shortbread. “What’s that?”
“An old French remedy for women in your . . . who feel like you do this morning. An aide for the digestion.”
Her stomach rumbled. Cautiously, she nibbled off a corner.
Jeanne picked up the paper where she’d left off. “No Mass today?”
Savvy shook her head. She managed to down a rectangle of shortbread and a few sips of cocoa before something on the back of the paper caught her eye: US DIVORCE RATE CLIMBS TO NEW HIGH.
“Did you happen to mention to Char that I want to talk to her about her prenup?” she asked halfheartedly.
Jeanne sipped her espresso. “Why are you concerned with your sister’s life, mademoiselle, when you are so busy with problems of your own?”
Savvy looked up with determination. “I’ll never be too busy for my sisters.” Besides, thinking about Char’s life was a welcome distraction this morning.
Jeanne slid on her readers to scrutinize some small type. “Very admirable. But just now, it seems that Chardonnay and Merlot have all of their—how do you say it? Ducks in a line.”
“Row. Ducks in a row,” said Savvy glumly. Shortbread dunked in cocoa was pretty good. Even better than Oreos and milk.
“You are the one who appears to be in need of some assistance.”
Savvy ignored that. “So did you talk to her?”
Jeanne took off her readers, folded her arms on the table, and studied Savvy. “Have you spoken to Esteban since yesterday?”
Savvy shook her head. “He hates me.” Though she’d thought there were no tears left in her, one surprised her by squeezing out, sliding down her cheek.
“Ah, chére.” Jeanne patted her hand. “Trust me. That man does not hate you.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Au contraire. In fact, I have never seen a man more in love than Esteban Morales. Why else does it pain him so much, to believe you are cognizant of what your papa does?”
Savvy’s eyes went to Jeanne’s. “Why is Papa like that?”
Jeanne slid out of her chair and went around the table to slide her arm around her. She stroked a hand down Savvy’s hair, tucking it back over her shoulder. “Your papa, he is what is he is, and he does what he does. That, you will never change. The question is, what are you going to do?”
Savvy rubbed her sore eyes gently and sniffed. Jeanne drew a tissue from a box on the counter and put it in her hand.
“Thanks. I have an idea,” she said, honking into the tissue.
“Aha. It’s as I thought. You were always the smart one.”
There were still details to be figured out. “I’m sorry. I know you mean well, but I’m not ready to talk about it.”
“Of course, of course. Why be hasty? You have all the time in—” She caught her tongue. “Well”—she busied herself gathering up the newspapers into a neat pile—“you have some time. Enough, I’m sure, to conceive of a good plan.”
Her hand hesitated over Savvy’s empty plate. “Fini?”
Savvy looked up at her with gratitude. “Finished.”
“Feel a little better now?”
She nodded, rose, and put her arms around Jeanne.
Jeanne took hold of Savvy’s shoulders. “Listen to me. It is commendable to want to take care of your sisters, but they are grown women now, aren’t they?”
“But—”
“They are not afraid to ask for your help when they need it. Hmm?”
Savvy stiffened. Looking out for her sisters had been her passion project since she was twelve. Nobody could tell her Char and Meri didn’t need her. She had the evidence in their very own handwriting.
“Chardonnay should be the one to tell you this, not me. However, you know how she shies from any sort of controversy. Since she is having such trouble finding time to discuss it with you, I’m thinking perhaps she does not want a premarital agreement.”
“What?”
“You have such strong feelings about this. Is it any surprise? You—our resident lawyer—whose own parents had a troubled relationship? Who doesn’t even know what a healthy marriage looks like? And while we are all very proud of what you’ve accomplished, you have been so determined to protect your sisters, I think sometimes you cannot hear their opinions. You may not have accepted it yet, but soon, your sisters will be gone, starting their new lives with their husbands.
“It’s time for you to concentrate on what you want, Sauvignon. What you really want—in your heart. Do you understand?”
After another quick squeeze, Jeanne released Savvy and went to the sink to wash up the breakfast dishes.
Back in her room, Savvy pulled out the yellowed letters she’d carried around in her bag for the past fourteen years.
She sat down on her bed and unfolded one of them.
Dear Savvy, How are you? I am fine. I hate it here. I don’t have any friends. I miss you. I miss Char and my friends. I miss Jeanne and Papa. I can’t wait to go home. Will you figure out a way we could all go back home again? Love, Merlot
Beneath the block printing was a sketch of three girls holding hands. Two brunettes and a blonde, lined up like Matryoshka dolls in descending order of height. The eyes were oversized and expressive, colored in with brown, green, and blue pencils. Meri had drawn big fat alligator tear rolling down the face of the shortest girl. At age eight, she was already expressing herself through art.
Tenderly, Savvy set the fragile paper aside.
Char’s note was next.
TOP SECRET. Dear Savvy, Do you have a phone? We aren’t supposed to use the one here in the hall, but everyone does anyways after Mrs. K goes to sleep. She’d written out the number. Please, please call me. I miss you. Love, Chardonnay. P.S. Don’t forget to call!
Savvy sighed. The very day she’d received that letter, she’d forced herself to stay up ’til midnight, then tiptoed into her own hallway, letting the phone at Char’s school ring and ring until an angry adult had answered.
“Who is this? Don’t call this number! This phone is only for emergencies!” Click.
Apparently, the girls who successfully used the phone in Char’s hallway were making outgoing calls, not receiving them. Poor Char hadn’t thought that through.
The last letter was another one from Char.
Dear Savvy, Why don’t you call me? I listen for the phone every night, but it never rings. Did you get my letter? I want to go home. This isn’t like my old school. Please, do something. I miss you so much. Please call . . .
She refolded the letters along their fragile creases. Automatically, she started to return them to her purse, then stopped.
After all this time, whenever she imagined Char and Meri, she still saw those drawings of Matryoshka dolls in her mind.
She tried to picture her sisters as they were now, all grown up. Char with her children’s foundation, engaged to a man whose drive to do good matched her own—a man who’d only started accepting acting gigs to support his family, after his father died. To meet Ryder, you’d never guess he was now one of the biggest actors in Holl
ywood.
And Meri, whose jewelry line was really taking off, thanks to her collaboration with the delicious Mark Newman. Talk about a match made in heaven.
Maybe Jeanne was right. Maybe her sisters were doing fine . . . without her.
She pulled open her lingerie drawer and slid the letters into a corner, where they joined a small packet of other cards and photos, tied up in a ribbon.
While the drawer was hanging open it was impossible to miss the single pair of white panties perched atop the sea of beige. She smoothed the fine lace between her thumb and forefinger, remembering a night in a secluded school parking lot. Were those panties nothing but a memento of the past now too?
Chapter 32
Esteban tore the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign next to his family’s market stall out of the ground. Because they’d be back. Next week, and every week after that.
He jerked together the canvas-covered legs of the portable market canopy, impatient to finish cleaning up so he could get to the work that needed doing back home. The canvas felt even heavier than usual this morning, soaked with dew from sitting out overnight. Thankfully, their neighbors at the next stall had crated up all the Moraleses’ unsold produce and taken what money was in the till home with them for Esteban to pick up later.
He loaded the unsold food back into the truck. They’d lost a lot of money by having to leave right in the middle of one of the busiest market days of the year. He should be calculating their loss. But all he could think about was Savvy.
He pictured her the day they’d met. So poised behind those black frames. Big contrast between her then, and the way she’d become so flustered in the greenhouse when he’d hidden her glasses. He’d only teased her a minute, but there was no faking that kind of terror. Come to think of it, she’d looked just as scared in the hospital parking lot yesterday. . . .
Angrily, he brushed away any hint of sympathy he might feel for her.
Shane and his gang were right. How had he ever believed there was any way in hell he could be with Sauvignon St. Pierre in the first place?
He grunted as he heaved the heavy canopy into the truck bed, trying awkwardly to maneuver it to where it wouldn’t crush everything else.
She was the devil’s daughter. Sizzling hot, smart, rich . . . and totally out of his league.
Resting a hand on the edge of the truck bed, he peered around at the deserted stalls. A cumulous cloud passed over the sun, bringing with it a sense of cold, hard reality.
He’d been deluding himself. Trying to grow lavender in clay? Believing for one second that the son of an immigrant truck farmer could be enough for a wine heiress?
He got into the truck, his face hot. He’d been such an idiot. No wonder people had laughed at him.
All that was over now. That was someone else. A man who hadn’t yet had his heart ripped out of his chest. Hadn’t seen his father collapse onto the pavement in front of half the town, heard his mother’s screams. With all that had happened since yesterday, Esteban almost didn’t recognize that man anymore.
Jeanne was layering turkey and cheese on a sliced baguette. “I am taking Maria a little lunch. She’s spending long hours at the hospital. Maybe you would like to come?”
“I’d love to, after the way I dashed out of the ER yesterday. But I can’t. Esteban has banned me from seeing his family.”
“Esteban won’t be there. He went to the market to collect all their things.”
Savvy took a shaky breath, considering. She was dying to see Mrs. Morales.
“Maria asked about you.”
“Really?”
Jeanne nodded, smearing her special sauce along the sandwiches. “You would prefer to wander around this big house alone all afternoon?”
“I’m going to the office.”
Jeanne scowled. “Today—Sunday?”
“There won’t be any distractions there today. No bosses, no phone calls. I need to do some research without anyone looking over my shoulder.”
“You could stop at the hospital on the way. It will do both you and Maria good.”
When they arrived, Maria Morales stood to welcome them to the cardiac floor’s reception room with kisses and hugs.
“He is sleeping,” she said softly, as if her husband could hear them.
“Good. You can have a bite while he rests,” said Jeanne, handing her a brown bag and a to-go cup of coffee.
“You are so wonderful,” said Mrs. Morales, “but I don’t think I can eat right now. Would you mind . . . ?”
“Of course! Eat it whenever you like. I made enough for Esteban, also. What are the doctors saying?”
Hooded black eyes darted between Jeanne and Savvy. “The doctor says Geraldo can’t work anymore.” She wrung her hands. “Esteban says his padre can retire and he will do all the work himself. But that’s not possible. It’s too much for one man alone, even a man as strong as my son. And we can’t afford to hire outside help.”
“It seems Esteban is making these decisions very quickly. Why not wait a bit, see how Geraldo progresses?
“You know how stubborn he can be. Just like his father.” She shook her head. “Such a shame. His lavender plants were finally growing. . . .”
Savvy shrank with remorse and regret.
Mrs. Morales reached for Savvy’s hands, layering them between her own. “Don’t feel bad,” she said. “I always try to encourage Esteban, but it’s hard to watch his disappointment these last months, when the rains keep coming and coming. In the end, it’s probably for the best that he gives up on his lavender. He does everything he can to fix it, but it’s just not the right kind of soil where we live.
“And another thing,” she said, squeezing her hands again. “I know you would not lie on purpose. I believe you when you say you didn’t know your papa was behind the offers from the beginning.”
At least someone did. “Honestly, Mrs. Morales, I feel terrible. I should have known, but I didn’t. I would never have believed Papa could stoop so low.”
Mrs. Morales took a seat, Jeanne and Savvy flanking her. “Between you and me, I was getting a little excited about those houses at Verdant Acres,” she said wistfully. “Fireplaces . . . laundry rooms right off the master bedroom. One whole room, just for the laundry. And the walk-in showers! But then, I think about how much I would miss my chicas . . .”
“What will be, will be,” said Jeanne soothingly. “For now, you should concentrate on getting your husband better.”
“Yes, but then there’s the doctor bill, and the hospital.... I can’t begin to imagine what they will be like. . . .”
An RN carrying a tablet strode briskly down the hall toward the nurse’s station.
“There is Sophia, Geraldo’s nurse,” said Mrs. Morales, rising again, looking after her anxiously. “She’s very kind. Explained to me everything when Geraldo was transferred here from the ER. She promised to keep me updated. Maybe she has some news.” She kept her eye on the nurses’ station, as if hoping for good news could make it materialize.
“I’m going now,” Savvy said. “If there’s anything I can do for you or Mr. Morales, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Don’t work late,” Jeanne said. “You must start taking better care of yourself.”
If anyone spotted Savvy going into the office looking the way she did that Sunday afternoon, with the circles under her eyes, sagging ponytail, and boots still dusty from the ranch, he’d think some stranger was breaking in and call the cops, especially if he saw the way she propped her boots on her desk and swiveled back and forth while she pondered her next move.
She looked down at the file labeled NTI/MORALES. Even if all the pieces of that real estate transaction had fallen neatly into place, she would’ve needed a little hand-holding from one of the partners at closing. After all, Savvy was what was called a “baby lawyer.” An apprentice. But now? A transaction this complicated was way, way out of her realm.
What was the best outcome for everyone concerned?
She looked down at her hands spanning her flat tummy.
And then she put down her feet, opened her laptop, and started to open tabs.
Cardiac prognoses.
Real estate sales agreements.
Every possible version of legal partnerships. General, limited, LLC, and so on.
For the answers to questions she couldn’t find online, she got up and went down the hall to the firm’s law library.
She had no idea how many hours she’d spent plowing through the heavy law books and trolling the net before she finally looked up and noticed it was growing dark and she was so hungry she could eat her keyboard.
Monday morning, Esteban hurled the last of the limp Rathmell Ranch lavender plants into the wheelbarrow with the others. Then he wheeled them over to the compost pile. Compost was all they were good for.
He returned to the freshly turned soil and stared blankly down at it. It was still early in the season. Made way more sense to plant that bed in something they could actually make money off of. What had been planted in that spot last year? Right now, he couldn’t remember.
Earlier that morning, while Madre was at the hospital, he’d canceled the Realtor appointment for her, rather than put her through the embarrassment of explaining what had happened. Then he’d called up the HR guy at the utility company to tell him he wouldn’t be taking that lineman job, after all.
And that was it. Now the only thing left was to finish where Padre had left off with the Plan Familiar . . . growing only what thrived on their patch of earth. It wouldn’t be easy doing the work of two men, but he was strong. And even if growing vegetables wasn’t Esteban’s dream, it put food in their mouths and a little money in the bank. Families like the Moraleses didn’t have the luxury of chasing rainbows. They’d be fine. He could do this.
He turned and trudged back to the barn to see what seed Padre might have stored up that he could sow right away, before the season got any later.
A Taste of Sauvignon Page 18