A Taste of Merlot (3 page)

M
ark cursed all privacy laws and bureaucratic BS. What kind of college refused to give out information on one of its students when doing so was for the student's own benefit? It wasn't like he was asking for a Social Security number. A name, that's all he needed. Didn't the Gates powers-that-be get that their students' successes rubbed off on them?

His skipped his phone across the desk like a stone, and it landed with an unsatisfying
thud
on the plush carpet of his tenth-floor office overlooking San Francisco Bay.

He'd spent all summer seeking a new collection for his family's chain of high-end jewelry stores. Every place he'd traveled, whether on business or for pleasure, every time he'd been online, every competitor's shop he'd spied on. But nothing had compared to that Gilty bracelet.

What was it about the piece? He could describe it using all the correct artistic terms. But that meant nothing; it had to be seen to be appreciated.

He'd been trying to reach someone at Gates College of Art and Design's main number since he'd spotted the piece at their student show in June. The first time he'd called, he'd been told the professor he needed to speak to was already gone for the semester break. Mark had clearly identified himself as a buyer from Harrington's. Tried to sweet-talk the receptionist into understanding that all he wanted to do was help Gilty advance in her career, but nothing he said would budge her. She was sorry, but she was not permitted to release personal information of any student.

Now, when he'd finally gotten through to Gilty's returning jewelry prof only to hear that the student in question was no longer enrolled in the school, Labor Day had come and gone.

His long-simmering frustration had boiled over, leading him to shout questions at the person on the other end of the phone. The answer had been a click and a dial tone. No surprise, there. After all his stalking, they had him pegged as a nut job.

Greaaaat.
How was he going to find the artist now? San Francisco was one of the biggest cities in the country. The woman—could be a man, but the design had Mark convinced it was a female—could simply melt into the West Coast art underground.

He rose from his desk and rambled over to the wrap-around windows to retrieve his phone and gaze out at the multicolored palette of the Bay, hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. Business was flat. The whole industry was flat. What he needed, yesterday, was a fresh new line—something so irresistible it would have people reaching for their platinum American Express cards again.

It wasn't that he was getting any outside pressure—yet. This quest was totally personal. But, for Mark, self-imposed pressure was the worst. He'd show Aunt Gloria and Dick, her doom-and-gloom CFO, that he had a good eye
and
a head for business.

Their never-ending razzing over his pulling As in his design classes and only B-pluses in business back in college was getting a little old. But that was nothing compared to just last spring, when Keltoi, the vendor he'd put so much stock in, had failed to perform. It was the first big chance Gloria had given him, and he'd blown it. In a meeting that still made Mark wince when he remembered it, Dick had outright accused Mark of relying on his aesthetic instincts instead of standard business practices—and though it killed him to admit it, Dick was right. Mark had been so sure that Keltoi's merchandise would be a hit, he hadn't taken their less-than-stellar sales history into account.

Mark knew damn well that if he were any other employee, that incident would've had him put on probation with the company. Hell, if not for the obligation Gloria felt to her late sister, he would never have gotten this job to begin with. Was he beyond being fired? Probably, if it were only up to Gloria. But Mark had a feeling there was nothing Dick would like more than to get Mark out of the way so that he could exert more influence over his aunt.

Now, because of Gloria's generosity, Mark had been given a second chance for next spring. If he brought a fantastic product to the table from a company with a solid track record, she'd have to fund it. Because even in a bear economy, people somehow always found the money for that must-have item.

But as much as he'd avoided dwelling on it, time was running short. He'd already spent most of his spring budget. The final market of the season was back in New York at the Javits Center, one week from today. He'd cut back his orders with his regular suppliers, waiting to find the creator of that bracelet. If he didn't find her by then, he'd have no choice but to shop other vendors.

The line he sought had to be youthful, yet sophisticated. Original, but not outrageous. Not cheap—Harrington's didn't do cheap. The price point should be a hair out of reach for the young urban professional; high enough to give her pause, but within the realm of possibility. And he knew exactly what it would look like: a whole line based on the Gates Purchase Prize winner.

Mind swimming with merchandising plans, he returned to his desk and picked up the eight-by-ten photo of the bracelet in its protective sheath. The new line would work for dress or casual, young or old. He wanted that bracelet topping the Christmas list of every chic woman he'd seen walking through Union Square that summer. And it would be available exclusively at his stores.

Exhaling his frustration, he sat back down and typed Gilty into his search bar.

Right.
Who was he kidding? He'd told himself he was through with his Gilty obsession so many times it was sick. That was usually right before he started making excuses for why Gilty wasn't on the Internet:
Artists were a breed apart. Some of them were obstinately anti-technology, others so poor they couldn't afford computers. And some were still experimenting with their Web pages, their logos, their whatevers.
Artists were known perfectionists. Who knew? Maybe Gilty wasn't even called Gilty anymore. Mark had already spent uncounted hours scrolling image-only pages, in case the elusive artist had changed her tag to some other moniker. But he'd never come across anything quite like that bracelet.

And then:
Bam.

There it was, in exquisite detail on his oversized desktop screen. His back muscles clenched. Holding his breath, he zipped down the page, tearing his vision away from all the other photos of related rings and necklaces—difficult as that was—seeking that magic word:
contact.

He scooted forward, eyes glued to the screen. She must've launched the site only very recently. Her font was Arial, her wallpaper pink granite. And the rest of the motifs—well, one element couldn't be separated from another. The entire page possessed an incredible harmony. The site was undoubtedly the creation of the bracelet artist.

Mark jumped up, snatched his phone, and punched her location into his GPS, twice messing up the address in his haste. Vallejo. Georgia Street. He'd been there before, taken that route on one of his many jaunts up to the wine country. A fuzzy impression of struggling galleries and one-of-a-kind shops came to mind. The directions said he could be there in forty minutes.

Frantically, he scooped up his sweater and keys, but suddenly his characteristic caution had his hand freezing around his key chain. He could call first. What the hell was he doing? It wasn't like him to jump in the car and run up to Vallejo on the basis of a website. The Web was notoriously untrustworthy; and Gilty Artisanal Jewelry hadn't listed specific studio hours. But the town wasn't that far away, and Mark was antsy to get out of the office. Even if Gilty herself wasn't in, it'd be worth it to finally touch something concrete, if only the facade of her building . . . to peer into the window of the artist whose name he was going to make a household word.

T
he exterior sign over the double doors of the renovated brick building said G
EORGIA
S
TREET
A
RT
G
ALLERY
A
ND
C
O
-O
P
. Its glass storefront resembled the black-and-white photos Mark had seen of old-time department stores that had once lined every Main Street in every small town in America. Except instead of mannequins posing in the windows, there were paintings on easels, ceramics on shelves, and mixed media crammed into every square inch of space in between.

The main floor space was now set up as a gallery. Mark picked up a couple of flyers advertising an upcoming exhibit and a local arts tour until the beat of muffled music drew him into a long hallway.

He wandered into the labyrinth of individual work spaces. The owner must've thrown them together in a hurry. There was still drywall dust lying in the corners. Some of them had open doors or interior windows through which he saw painters wiping brushes or standing at easels, critically eyeing their canvasses between strokes. A ceramicist in a denim apron paused from trimming his pot to nod hello. Where there were no windows, sporadic tappings and grindings piqued his curiosity. Was Gilty behind one of those doors, mere feet away from where he walked?

The row of studios continued in a squared-off U formation. Following the turn, halfway down, he spotted it: the G
ILTY
A
RTISANAL
J
EWELRY
sign.

He hastened toward it, excitement building in his blood. He could see the frame of an interior window—that was the good news. The bad news was, he couldn't see behind the glass. The lights were off, the door closed. He rattled the doorknob. Locked.

Yet, like some frustrated mystic, he couldn't help cupping his hands to press his nose against the glass, peering into its darkness as if it held the key to his future.

“I thought I heard footsteps.”

Startled, he glanced up to see a smiling dark-haired woman propped against a doorframe, farther down the hall.

“Know when she'll be back?” he asked with a nod toward the sign.

The woman slowly straightened to her full height, which wasn't saying much. “Come down here so we can talk better,” she said, disappearing—no,
slithering
—into her studio.

Despite a leery feeling in his gut, Mark followed.

Just inside the door, a plate of aromatic cookies tempted him. He hesitated, mouth watering. Swallowing saliva, he tore his eyes away from the plate, back to the woman standing over her workbench on the other side of the room.

She came to him. “Spicy Mexican Chocolate. My
tata's
recipe.” She lifted the plate and swept it under his nose. “Try one.”

He held up a hand to wave it away, but the fragrant combination of sharp and sweet was irresistible, and he found himself reaching for one.

After design, food was Mark's second favorite thing. And fall was his favorite time of year, because during every 'Niners home game, he and the guys competed to come up with the best sausage and pepper sandwich or chili or clam recipe. Lucky for him, he still had a halfway decent metabolism. Not that it mattered today, since he hadn't taken time out from work to eat lunch. He was running on empty.

He took a bite. “What is that . . . that sort of pungent taste?”

She grinned, obviously pleased. “Cayenne.”

Yes
.

“Take another.”

While he chewed, she set down the plate, picked up a silver chain, and swung its pendant hypnotically between the fingers of her outstretched hands.

“What do you think?” she asked with a conjuring voice. She brought the necklace higher to make up for their considerable difference in height. Now it dangled right in front of her wolflike smile—straight, white, with pointed canines.

Mark found himself brushing the crumbs from his fingers, lifting the center of the piece.

“Interesting.”

She let drop the ends, and he brought the pendant closer. It had an amorphous, skull-like shape.

“Silver clay. It starts out soft, a mixture of metal and binder. I mold it, fire it, and voila.”

He nodded with familiarity. “Isn't shrinkage a problem?”

She tilted her head. “Used to be. Not so much anymore, with the second and third generations.”

“What I like best is, it retains all the marks of the maker.” Her hand brushed his as she flipped the piece over. “See? Each piece has a fragment of my actual fingerprint embedded in it. She smiled up into his eyes. “I'm Rainn.”

Frowning, Mark lowered his hand, the pendant forgotten.

“I know you. You were at the Gates reception. I gave you my card.”

Rainn retrieved her necklace from his hand. “I'm a graduate now,” she said proudly.

“I was trying to find out the name of the jeweler behind the Gilty tag.”

Rainn laid the necklace carefully on her workbench and picked up a ring. She reached for Mark's hand and laid it his palm.

“How about this one? It's from the same collection. I call it
Día de los Muertos
.”

Mark picked up the ring, turning it over. Not bad. Not bad at all. Would definitely appeal to the younger customer.

“I'm working on a coordinating bracelet and another necklace with the skull motif repeated at regular intervals. I've already lined up a subcontractor to help with production.” Again with the carnivorous smile, the gypsy-dark eyes boring into his.

“They teach you that at Gates—if you stay there long enough.”

She was very petite yet well built, with that long raven hair and those coal-black eyes. He glanced back at the door, with the uneasy feeling that he'd stepped into the web of a beautiful spider.

Clearing his throat, he admitted, “You might have something. The scale's a tad off. The customer for this kind of design wants to be noticed, so I'd like to see it bigger. But you'll have to keep a lid on the price point. Won't be easy.”

He placed the ring on her workbench, turned, and walked purposefully to the exit. “Did you say if you knew when the owner of Gilty would be back?”

“I didn't. And I don't.” She gave a nonchalant shrug, still with that hypnotic smile.

He raised a hand in farewell and backed out of the room. “Thanks anyway. Good luck with your line.”

On his way out of the building, Mark wedged the corner of another business card into the crack of Gilty's door so that it protruded at an obvious angle.

Just before he turned the corner, some sixth sense made him look back. Rainn was still there, propped against her door frame like before. She waggled her fingers.

“Thanks for the feedback,” she called.

That card would be history before he even made it to his car. Mark knew it as sure as he'd ever known anything.

Enough of this messing around. The second he got back into his car, he got out his phone and punched in Gilty's number.

 

Meri sat stiffly in the wooden chair at the coffeehouse a few miles from home, her favorite skim milk cappuccino refreshingly cool in her hand. She drew on her straw, savoring the drink's sweetness. Afternoon coffee was a college habit she'd yet to break. Skim caps were what had fueled all those late nights in the studio over the past three years.

Ugh.
College was the last thing she wanted to think about today. She pushed thoughts of Gates out of her mind. A new studio meant a brand-new start, with none of the old mean girls, the painful feelings of inadequacy.

She exhaled with intention, breathing out the old to make way for the new, then softened her spine, extended her legs, and crossed her ankles.
That was better.
She started sifting through the handful of brochures she'd scooped up from the counter at the gallery. There was one for the upcoming Art Walk; she wanted to be sure her studio was open to the public for that. She fanned through the rest, discarding some, coming back to
Georgia Street Art Gallery and Co-op: Guide to Artists
to skim the list of tenants and their media with an eye out for other jewelers. Discovering a kindred spirit would be almost too good to be true. Most of the co-op tenants would be 2-D people. Potter's wheels, kilns, metal-working tools—even before electricity was tacked on—cost a lot more than paint and canvas.

All at once, her torso sprang forward and she choked, spurting coffee onto the brochure and table.

How long had her phone been vibrating?

“Hello?” she coughed, still mopping her chin with a paper napkin.

“Hi. This is Mark Newman. Is this Gilty Artisanal Jewelry?”

“Yes.”

“Is this she? Are you Gilty?”

Gilty was her line. Nobody actually
called
her that.

And his name didn't ring a bell, either.

“Yes,” she said warily.

“Finally,”
the male voice uttered, with what sounded like profound relief. “Do you know how long I've been trying to find you?”

“Uh, no?” she replied, mindlessly gathering her papers into a pile.

“I was at your studio today around three-thirty, hoping to catch you in.”

“Really?” Who even knew she
had
a studio—outside of family and her Realtor?

“I've seen your work, and I'd like to meet with you. To discuss your potential.”

Meri had sold a few things to friends and over the net, but this was the first time anyone had ever uttered the words “your potential.” Never a teacher, or even a professor. Certainly not Papa.

Almost as an after-thought, he added: “I'm a buyer for Harrington's.”

“Harrington's Jewelers. You've heard of it?”

A little laugh escaped from her. “Everyone's heard of Harrington's.”

As far back as she could remember, the Harrington's Jewelers catalog had been coming to the house. With its thick glossy paper and stunning photography, it was too special to throw away lightly. A long time ago, Papa had gifted Maman with jewels from the beautiful showroom in San Francisco. The full-carat diamond studs Papa had bought for Meri and her sisters on their sixteenth birthdays had come from that store. So had their graduation pearls. Come to think of it, hadn't she just seen one of their billboards today, on the drive down from Napa?

And suddenly Meri realized: This was not a
bad
call. This was one of those rare
good
calls. She'd become so bogged down in negativity over the past few months, she had almost stopped expecting good things to happen. The poise that had been instilled in her during eight years of boarding school was the sole thing that kept her from leaping up and down.

“And you are . . . ?”

“Pardon?”

Mark Newman chuckled and the sound was warm and welcoming to her ears. “Did your parents name you Gilty, or is there another alias you go by?”

Her tongue froze, even as her mind galloped ahead.

“Hello?”

“Meri. Meri Peterson.”
Where had that come from?

“Well, Meri Peterson, would you like to meet tomorrow morning?”

“Okay. Sure. Where? What time?” He sounded so smooth and polished, and she sounded so amateurish.

“I'll come to your studio. Say, ten?”

“Actually, no! I mean, yes, ten is all right. But not at my studio.” Meri bit her lip. Not there, where they might bump into Rainn! Meri needed time to process the fact that they'd be working out of the same building, and what effect that might have on . . .
everything
.

“I'm willing to come to wherever is most convenient for you. But the sooner the better. Timing is an issue.”

Meri racked her brain with growing alarm. She needed time to think. She couldn't have him come to the house. That would defeat the whole purpose of the atelier, the smokescreen Gilty brand name. But she was still new to Vallejo. The only thing that came to mind was a diner a few blocks away from the co-op.

“There's a diner off Route 80. I think it's called Somer's Point.”

“I know the one. Went past it earlier today. White stucco, neon sign on the front?”

“That's it.”

“Works for me. See you tomorrow. And Meri . . . do you happen to have a copy of the bracelet that won the Purchase Prize?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Great. And other samples, as well as sketches of your latest designs?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you sure I can't come to your studio? Make it a lot easier on you.”

“No!”

His silence begged more of an explanation.

“It's better this way. Trust me.”

To that there was only silence.

Then: “I'm looking forward to meeting you, Meri Peterson.”

Meri hung up to realize she'd somehow exited the coffee shop and had been pacing the parking lot while she talked.

She climbed into her car to find herself too shaken to drive and sat there in a state of paralysis while her mind raced to the staccato beat of her heart, trying to reconcile today's awful news with the awesome.