A Taste of Merlot (6 page)

What
had
gotten into her?

She fell across her king-sized comforter. The past twenty-four hours had been a roller coaster ride. She'd managed to fight back her tears while in the kitchen—barely. She swiped angrily at the water now pooling under her eyes.

Blame it on her long-standing resentment of public scrutiny. The children in those old pictures were strangers now. Those little girls had grown up. They'd had new experiences that had molded them, just as surely as Maman's abandonment and Papa's exiling them had. Relationships. Education. Trying to figure out how to stake their unique claims in the world, like anyone else.

But there was more to Meri's flare-up than simple annoyance over her and her sisters' lack of privacy. There were more recent events that haunted her. And since she'd never shared what had happened back at school with a single soul, not even her sisters, she had to face those demons alone.

M
ark double-checked his stack of purchase orders before presenting them to Aunt Gloria for her signature. The whole time he was writing them out, he was thinking about more than Meri's designs. He couldn't get that long, lean body of hers out of his head. Except when he was thinking about her sea-glass eyes or her luminous skin.

Unfortunately, the attraction seemed to be mutual. That was going to make working together even dicier, since he could never act on his feelings. First of all, there were still four months left in the year he'd vowed to stay single, following his annulment. Second, he kept hearing Gloria's voice in his ear:
It's as easy to fall in love with a rich woman as it is a poor one.
Made perfect sense. How was it he'd never heard it
before
he married Brandi? Meri Peterson clearly did not fall into the category of “rich woman.” If she was like most art students, she was probably in hock up to her neck for tuition and supplies. Raw metals and precious gemstones didn't come cheap.

He cringed. He sounded, even to himself, like some cold-blooded, holier-than-thou hot shot. Meri Peterson was intelligent. She'd look amazing in rags. And being middle class didn't diminish her talent one iota.

But the truth was, he'd taken a blind chance on love—or what he'd thought was love—before, and where had that landed him? Handing over his ass in an out-of-court settlement. It was only thanks to a sharp-eyed lawyer that Brandi hadn't got her hands on his entire inheritance and his share in the stores.

But if Meri found out that Mark was a member of the Harrington family, he'd be right back in the same boat. He'd learned his lesson. Once it was discovered you had money, you were a sitting duck.

Luckily, Mark was a Harrington through his mother's side. Having gotten the name Newman from his father, he could hide his connection to the Harrington fortune, at least for a while.

He checked his watch. The workday was almost over, and he was determined to see his aunt before she left for the evening. He picked up his POs, strode down the hall, and rapped on her door.

From within, Mark heard scurrying, accompanied by low voices. He bent an ear to the door. “Aunt Gloria?”

Not again.
Today wasn't the first time he'd caught his aunt and her CFO fooling around during work hours. He blew out a breath, looked to the ceiling, and passed the next ten seconds rocking back and forth on his heels.

The latch release clicked and the door swung open.

“Mark,” Dick greeted him tersely, straightening his tie with a triumphant glare. Then, cocky as an old rooster, he sauntered down the hall in the opposite direction from where Mark had come, back to his own coop.

“Yes?” asked Gloria, from behind her desk. Her cheeks were flushed and she was applying garnet lipstick, checking her reflection in Grandma's old gold compact. Mark tried to see her face as critically as she did. Despite some tastefully done cosmetic surgery, the fine lines on his aunt's neck and the prominent trail of veins on the back of her hands betrayed her age.

When was she going to start trusting him again, give him more responsibility? The company's fiftieth anniversary was coming up next year, and she'd been there for at least thirty of them.

“I was about to call it a day. Dick's taking me to dinner.”

“I'm glad I caught you,” said Mark. “I have some POs that need signed. Tonight, if possible.”

She pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and blotted her lips. “Mark, you know I like to take my time signing orders. It's not something you can simply slide under my nose at five o'clock.”

Mark gritted his teeth. Before being promoted to buyer, he'd been an assistant buyer for three years and, before that, paid his dues in the San Francisco flagship store, working in every department from customer service to department manager—thanks to Gloria strapping a rocket to his back. But as Gloria giveth, Gloria taketh away.

“I know. I sent it to you electronically, but I printed it too so we could go over it together. I've been working on these all afternoon. I finally found a hot new line. But we gotta move fast to get the goods in for the spring season.”

Gloria slid her reading glasses on. “Yes, I do know. I've been wondering how long you intended to put off your buying. Very well, let me see them. Who is the vendor?”

“It's called Gilty Artisanal Jewelry, and it's going to be a sensation. Here, let me pull it up for you.” He reached in between Gloria and her keyboard and brought up Gilty's prize-winning bracelet on her big screen to give her the full impact. She tilted her head back and studied the screen.

Mark held his breath and waited.

“All right.” She lowered her chin and peered at him from over her readers. “Start talking. What's their history? Their price point? Who retails them now?”

“No one.”

She looked at him askance.

He appreciated her experience, but why couldn't she be more flexible? More receptive to new ideas?

“What I mean is, she's brand new. Right out of Gates. Now, I know what you're thinking, but this bracelet”—he tapped the screen—“won their Purchase Prize. We're going to be the ones who discover her. Harrington's is going to put her on the map.”

Gloria removed her readers, folded them, and laid them on her desk.

“I see. Well then. First of all, the word ‘artisanal' scares me. Who's ‘Gilty' got working for her?”

She needed some kind of assurance that the goods would be produced, delivered. No goods, no sales.

“Nobody, yet . . .”

Gloria's arched brows said he should know better than to bring her a substantial order with a vendor that was completely untried. “Are you joking? Do I need to remind you what happened last spring?”

“. . . but I'm looking into that for her. I've got calls in to West Coast Jewelry Artisans and our connections in Bali. When they see the quality of the designs, they'll be jumping at the chance to partner with her.”

“Assuming they're not already committed for spring, at this late date,” said Gloria, taking another gander at the screen. She commandeered the mouse, scrolling through more of Gilty's designs with a practiced eye. After she'd had her fill, she rocked back in her ergonomic leather chair.

“Mark, I'm surprised at you, frankly. You walk in here at five o'clock, expecting me to sign off on four purchase orders totaling a sixth of your spring budget. Meanwhile, for the past two months, FireForged has been hounding me with e-mails, wanting more display space. Gold N Ice, too. They did all right for us last year, given the bear business climate. But this vendor can't even be properly called a vendor yet. She's just a . . . a”—Gloria's bejeweled hand made air circles as she searched for the right word—“a fledgling artist.”

How could he make her believe what he knew in his heart?
“Why don't I take you to meet her, to see her samples up close? Once you see them, talk to her, I know you'll be sold. Will you give me that much?”

Dick stuck his head in the door. “Almost ready?”

Gloria lifted a finger. “Fifteen seconds. Meet you in the lobby.”

He disappeared again.

“I don't know why I'm agreeing to this. I'll meet with her. But it'd better be soon.” She tapped on her big, old-fashioned desk calendar with a manicured nail. “If you don't have that money spent by the end of New York, I'm going to have to spend it for you. You've got a week.”

“Thanks, Aunt Gloria.” Mark took what felt like his first inhalation since he'd entered her office.

“And you have to get a commitment out of either West Coast Artisans or Bali. Without them, there's no sense in signing anything.” She rose stiffly from her chair and he knew he was dismissed.

W
hen Mark pulled up to the arts co-op the next morning, Gloria gave him a skeptical look.

“I hope driving all the way to Vallejo is worth my while, Mark. Dick and I have an appointment at the travel agency this afternoon for our trip to the islands.”

She waited for him to scoot around to open her door.

But to his surprise, once they were inside the co-op, Gloria actually seemed intrigued. She took her time browsing the workshops, even peppering the artists with questions.

“I'm finding all of this is very interesting,” she said, raising his meager hopes. “I can see what the attraction is for you. Sometimes it's nice to get back to the source.”

Mark's relief was palpable. By the time they reached Meri's atelier, Gloria would be primed and receptive.

But when they rounded the corner into Meri's passage, who was out in the hall inspecting her own window but Rainn.
Is the woman psychic?

She looked up at the sound of Gloria's heels on the hardwood, and for a split second Mark froze. Quickly, he took Gloria's arm, guiding her toward Meri's door. But too late.

“Well, hello again.” Rainn's hips led as she sashayed toward them, grinning savagely. This time Mark had no trouble discerning whether he was attracted or repelled.

“What a coincidence. Today's my day off, but I came in to work on my window. I was just wishing for someone to give me some advice on my display.” She eyed Gloria's designer suit. “Preferably a woman . . . one with good taste.”

How did Rainn know the exact words that would have Gloria shaking free of him, drawing her down the hall? And what could he do but follow?

Inside her atelier, Rainn gave Gloria the same pitch she'd given Mark mere days ago—with one glaring addition. She had the audacity to ask Gloria her opinion of burnish setting a tiny black obsidian—“a stone used since ancient times for arrowheads and spears”—in the back of all of her pieces.

Mark was aghast. But Rainn's charm was working its magic on Gloria. He could tell by his aunt's body language and the string of questions she asked Rainn that she was getting ideas.

The meeting with Meri didn't go half as well.

Gloria entered Gilty's atelier still excited about Rainn's dramatic skull necklace. Rainn had taken Mark's earlier advice and made it larger.

It took a bit more sophisticated eye to appreciate Meri's designs. Gloria had that eye, but she was wary that not everyone did.

Thankfully, his aunt was a professional. She'd been noncommittal with both potential vendors until she could talk it over with Mark privately. At least that was something.

“I'm afraid Meri's simply too inexperienced, darling,” said Gloria on the drive back to San Francisco. “Her designs are promising, I'll grant you that. Now this other designer—Rainn—is right on trend for our ‘new adult' customer, with her gothic-inspired pieces.”

“Those motifs have already been around for a couple of years. They don't have much life left in them,” countered Mark.

“I beg your pardon? Biomorphic shapes will never go out of style. Look at Elsa Peretti. And metal clay lends itself to mass manufacturing, which means lower price points. All the designer has to do is create the original mold. Plus, you'll get more product per wholesale dollar.”

Mark bristled.
Rainn Gonzales was no Elsa Peretti.
“But Meri's designs are beyond trendy. They're destined to be classics—well worth the higher price point.” He had to make her see that. His intuition told him if he could get Gilty's pieces inside his door, they'd be runaway bestsellers. How could he force someone to accept what he knew in his bones?

“Doesn't it bother you that Rainn stole her idea of embedding gemstones into the backs of her pieces from Meri?”

“Don't be silly, Mark. The Indians have been espousing that hocus-pocus for ages.”

“But not Rainn! When I was down here two days ago, she didn't mention a word about burnish set gems—until she figured out how zoned in I was on buying Gilty. She studied Meri's work and decided to appropriate her idea, to win points with us.”

“Why are you taking such a hard line on this?” Gloria scolded, tugging on the hem on her skirt with annoyed distraction. “You know as well as I, artists copy one another all the time. It's what artists
do.
”

Suddenly Mark felt trapped, confined in his vehicle with his intractable aunt for the next half hour. And then he was immediately sunk with guilt. Gloria's generosity was the sole reason that he was an executive with the privately held company at all.

When Granddad died, he'd left two children and three grandchildren. Mark's mother, Melanie, and Gloria each got thirty-three percent of his fortune, and the grandchildren split the remaining third. When Melanie passed away, everything she had had gone to Mark, bumping his shares to a total of forty-four percent.

Mark's cousins couldn't care less about the company. Malcolm was a ski bum in Aspen and Gena a contented stay-at-home mom. They were living high on the hog, thanks to Gloria's shrewd buy-out, leaving her with controlling interest of fifty-six percent ownership.

Feeling warm, Mark hit the button that slid open the sunroof, ran his fingers through his hair, and exhaled. How was he supposed to tell Meri that everything he'd promised her was bull? He'd been so sure of himself. But as majority shareholder, Gloria held all the cards.

Mark wondered how much longer he'd have to wait until Gloria was ready to hang it up. Would the company still be viable, the way she and Dick were mishandling it?

“I grant you, sleuthing out art school graduates was genius. Particularly Gates. Obviously, they're doing something right over there. We'll have to add that tactic to our permanent arsenal, going forward.”

Nice try, Aunt Gloria.
But a paltry compliment wasn't going to sway him from the matter at hand. He forced his voice to remain steady. “Do you trust my judgment or not? Are you going to sign my orders?”

His aunt sighed. “I told you darling, the girl is just too green. Meri Peterson is a nobody. We can't afford to put a sixth of our eggs in her basket. You know how important next year's sales are to the business. Didn't last year teach you anything?”

“But Rainn's no more experienced than Meri.”

“Not quite. Rainn is a year older than Meri Peterson. You heard what she said. The marketing instruction in the final year of her program made all the difference. It's how she figured out that she needed to farm out her production. And that's precisely what this other girl—this Gilty, or whatever her name is—missed by quitting school early.”

At his silence, she conceded an inch. “I'll tell you what. We'll run it by Dick when we get back, get a third perspective.”

When? Between their office quickies and trips to the travel agency?
She and Dick—mostly, Dick—had been hinting that if the holiday season wasn't strong, they might think about selling the company and buying a home in the islands. Mark suspected that was exactly what Dick was secretly hoping for. But sell it to whom?

“And Mark, would you please close the sunroof? It's mussing my hair.”