A Taste of Sauvignon (13 page)

“I
n fifty yards, turn right,”
said the GPS.

“Here?” Esteban wondered aloud at an unmarked dirt road leading straight up through hills resembling humpback whales.

He pulled the truck off Napa Road and shifted into second to make it up the steep grade.

At the open gate, Savvy peered behind them through the truck's back window. “Wow,” she breathed.

He twisted around to see the late afternoon sun reflected off a puddle of blue. “That's the bay!”

Their eyes met, sealing the moment in time.

“Look at the house,” she cried when the square, Tuscan-style stucco with the orange tile roof came into view.

A woman in jeans with long silver hair came out to greet them. Savvy introduced Esteban.

“I think I recognize you,” she said to him with a wry smile.

“From the lavender store?”

“Among other places.” At Savvy's puzzled expression, she added, “I spend a lot of time on the computer.”

Anne led them behind the house where there were olive groves and a swath of land that had been tilled, once upon a time. “All my husband and I were looking for was a quiet place to write and paint. We got quiet, all right. Sometimes during the day the only sounds are the cattle lowing at the next ranch. At night, you can hear the coyotes howling up on the ridge. But after a couple of years we started feeling guilty about leaving those fat olives hanging there, begging to be picked. So now we hire someone to harvest them and send them out to be pressed. The lavender has completely gotten away from us, even though we did nothing to encourage it. It's never been touched by chemicals, as far as we know.”

Esteban thrust his hands in his pockets and eyeballed the tangled field of last year's crop that had long gone to seed. “How many acres you got here?”

“Eight.” She half laughed. “We're from Cupertino. Eight acres sounded manageable when we first bought the place. What did we know?”

He crouched to scoop up a handful of crumbly soil, letting it sift through his fingers.

“ ‘Sandy loam.' So says the guy from the UC Cooperative Extension.” She shrugged.

What I'd give for dirt like this
, he thought.

“We're right on the Sonoma–Napa line. We've got dry, hot summers and cold winters. Our fruit trees love it.”

“And you?” Savvy asked.

Her lips curled in a crooked smile. “Some days it's a little more extreme than what we signed up for. We're used to living in a city. It can be a little isolated out here.

“Want to look at the distillery?” She turned toward an outbuilding, Savvy close on her heels.

Esteban seemed rooted to the ground. “Okay if I wander around some? I see you've got a peach orchard.”

“Plums, too,” said Anne. “There's nothing like fresh plum jam.”

But the orchards weren't what interested him most. He walked into the middle of the rough field of Hidcote, the species and variety that had made up the bundles Savvy had bought at the shop in Napa, and inhaled the sweet, clean air
.

A half hour later, he saw the women exit the distillery from where he stood atop the highest ridge, looking down on the roof of the farmhouse where a glass conservatory off the back opened up to a kitchen garden and a three-car garage.

“How's the view?” Savvy waved and called to him. There was a lighthearted quality to her voice. She must have liked what she'd seen of the still.

“Primo.” He breathed in the southern wind, taking one last look at the undulating landscape beneath a dusky blue sky, memorizing the scene. Blinking low in the west of the celestial sphere were the three stars of Orion's belt, the winter constellation, almost gone now that spring was here.

“You can see five counties from up there,” shouted Anne.

He turned in a slow circle. Starting in the east, there was Napa, followed by Solano to the southeast. Directly south, the bay water broke up the land mass. On its other shore was Marin. Sonoma fell to the west, and Lake, in the north.

Like Savvy said:
Wow.

 

Fortified with Madre's baked eggs and chorizo, Esteban carried his coffee mug out to the greenhouse bright and early Friday, squinting against the rising sun. Madre was getting ready for eight o'clock Mass. Padre had just left for the diner to have breakfast with his
amigos
.

Last night's dreams of Savvy still swirled in Esteban's head. From the back of his Chevy, he loaded up the first wheelbarrow full of Rathmell Ranch lavender. Anne had offered to let him dig up as many plants as he wanted after he'd told her about his struggle to grow the herb. She'd even shown him where to find some discarded plastic pots in her barn.

He'd considered building a whole new raised bed, but that didn't make sense. If he was going to do this, he needed to go all the way, and he couldn't make a raised bed to cover all five acres. All lavender liked well-drained, slightly alkaline soil, and there was no place on his property like that. He'd have to settle for amending what soil he did have. It could work.

Savvy had saved his life.

She'd given him something worth more than all the land in the world—her virginity
.
Him, Esteban Morales. In the month since, there hadn't been an hour that didn't fill him with awe.

He wanted to give her the respect due a queen.

He wheeled his young plants and supplies into an open area with full sun and good air circulation, his eye on the sky. The waxing crescent moon was in Scorpio, a water sign. No better time for planting.

He set down the wheelbarrow and measured the pH of the clay. Six-point-five. Some lime mixed in with the bone meal and composted manure might bring it up to neutral. He started to work on a bed, spading in his customized mixture as he went.

Before long, he heard footsteps and turned to see Madre wearing a skirt, her cloth purse slung over her shoulder.

“I'm leaving now. Are you sure you don't want to come?”

“This is my church.” He indicated his surroundings with his chin. “The earth. The trees.” He grunted, booting the spade into the dense ground. “The sky.”

“You haven't been to Mass in a long while,” Madre lamented.

He scooped out another shovelful of dirt. “And not a single day goes by when I'm not thankful for what we have. This land has never failed to provide for us yet.”

Why should he invent sins purely to have something to confess to the priest? He had never intentionally hurt a single living thing: plant, animal, or human. Just minded his business, respected his parents, and worked each day until he couldn't work any more.

“And who do you think made all those things?”

Huffing with his efforts, he gulped the last of his coffee, tossed his mug onto the ground, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he watched her stomp off to her car, shaking her head.

Besides, he couldn't go to church right now. Not when his thoughts were full of Sauvignon St. Pierre, naked on a rocky, windswept beach.

She'd been totally pure until he'd left his mark on her. Maybe he was
too
earthy. He found himself wanting to mate with her in every sense of the word. Build a home with her. Plant his seed in her. Slay a mastodon and drag it home for her to eat . . .

Working and dreaming made the hours slip by.

“Welcome to your new home,” he whispered to each plant as he firmed down the soil around it. “Settle in good now, you hear?”

Then he stood back and looked at his handiwork, knowing deep down that if these robust specimens didn't take root here, no lavender ever would.

S
avvy was tempted to leave work early—again. Maybe because it was Friday. Or was it spring fever? After the oppressive winter, the weather was finally gorgeous. From her office window, daffodils teased her, nodding their heads in the grass along the border of the office park.

While the firm's partners hadn't exactly broadcast that they were blowing off the rest of the day to play golf, the white belts and khakis they'd worn to work had made any pronouncement superfluous. Mid-morning, the men had simply vanished.

For about five seconds, Savvy wondered if she should feel snubbed at not having been invited to tag along. Really though, why bother? She was the only female lawyer in the firm. The next youngest had at least twenty years on her. Not only that, she'd sucked at every sport she'd ever tried. Okay, she could swim, but it wasn't pretty.

With the partners gone, the whole suite seemed to take on a more relaxed air. Maybe she could use this time to finally make some headway with the other women, as soon as she tied up some loose ends. She proofread the document she'd just typed and sent it to the printer in another room.

On her way to retrieve her copies, the sound of feminine chatter coming from the break room buoyed her hopes. She made a detour in time to see Karen popping another K-Cup in the Keurig, and Sylvia waiting her turn.

“Guess it's just us girls this afternoon,” Savvy said, pasting on her best Miss Congeniality smile.

Midsentence, Karen's mouth clamped shut. Sylvia's eyes filled with resentment.

All righty, then.
There were at least two people who wouldn't miss her if she bugged out early.

She tried to look at the bright side. At least the assistants weren't pretending to like her, and then dissing her to her back. This way, she knew for certain that anything and everything she did would be duly reported.

She grabbed a handful of hard candy from a dish. All she'd put in her stomach that day was that disgusting kale drink.

Back at her desk, she found herself watching the clock. Peering out the window yet again at the clouds drifting by, she worried her lower lip, considering. She was salaried, not hourly. It wasn't like she needed permission. But cutting out early two days in a row was no way for a junior associate to make an impression.

Still, it
was
Friday.

She called Esteban on her way home, and he asked her to go out later. While they talked, she thought about her last conversation with her boss, racking her brain to figure out some way she could make Esteban's father see that that offer on his land was a boon, not something to be dismissed out of hand. She still didn't get the Moraleses' reaction. Most people would jump at the chance to painlessly unload a property that only afforded a meager living, in exchange for never having to worry about work or money again.

As she pulled into Domaine St. Pierre, she realized she was starving—and tired. Maybe it was a good thing she'd gone home early after all. It was all she could do to haul her bagful of work up the steps and into the house.

She entered the kitchen to the smell of fish baking.

“Salut,”
sang Jeanne. “You are never the first one home from work. You are surprising me every day,
ma petite chou,”
she said from over at the island, where she tossed a green salad.

Normally Savvy found it touching when Jeanne called her “my little cabbage.” But today, the endearment was overshadowed by the way the island was swirling around like a kaleidoscope. The awful kale drink tasted even worse going down the second time, mixed with hard candy. Her knees felt like jelly. At the sound of her steadying hand smacking down on the edge of the breakfast table, Jeanne looked up.

Savvy's fingers curled over the table edge as stars danced before her eyes.

In a flash, the cook was at her side, one hand on her back, the other supporting her elbow.

“Mon Dieu.
Sit
.
Sit down.”

Savvy dropped into a chair with a
thunk
, her black satchel falling over on the kitchen tile, documents streaming out of it.

“Are you ill?” Jeanne's face was the picture of concern as she bent over Savvy, cupping her cheeks.

“No. I don't know. I felt dizzy, all of a sudden.”

“Stay there. I will get you a drink.”

“I forgot to eat today. That's all.”

Thirty-one days since Salt Point. Forty-five since her last period.
She didn't need a clear head to figure those numbers. She recalculated them daily. No—
hourly.

“You look like a ghost,” Jeanne said, standing over her to ensure she drank the full glass of water she brought. “I told you before, you work too hard. Go upstairs and lie down, and I will bring you something.”

It wasn't in Savvy to argue. As she dragged herself out of the room and across the foyer to the stairs, she heard Jeanne muttering a scolding in French. “I heard that,” she called out over her shoulder.

She awoke sometime later to answer her phone, still in her work clothes, the bedroom in shadow. A silver tray of tea and toast sat on the bedside table.

“What time do you want me to pick you up?” asked Esteban, when she answered.

“What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes. “I can't remember the last time I fell asleep during the daytime.”

“Seven-thirty.”

With an effort, she hoisted herself up on an elbow. “Um . . .” The thought of eating anything other than toast made her stomach somersault.

Jeanne walked briskly into the bedroom with a cup and saucer. Did she have a mom-cam, with that timing?

“You are not to even
think
of going out,” Jeanne said, loud enough to be overheard by whomever was on the phone.

Warily, Savvy watched Jeanne fuss . . . replacing the untouched cold tea with the hot cup, motioning to get Savvy to roll over so she could turn down the duvet. Not since Savvy had had that bad stomach flu back when she was six had she seen Jeanne act this way.
Ugh.
The thought of that made her stomach flip again.

“Who's that?” asked Esteban through the phone.

Like a beached whale, Savvy let Jeanne roll her back over, sighing as the duvet was pulled up and tucked in around her. She had to admit, it felt good to be mothered occasionally, even if she
was
full grown.

“That would be Jeanne . . .” was all she dared say within the tyrant's hearing.

“Esteban?” Jeanne asked Savvy pointedly.

When Savvy glared at her like the madwoman she was, Jeanne took the phone.

“Here is Jeanne,
mon chér.
Mademoiselle Sauvignon is too tired to come out tonight. I am very sorry, but there it is. Give your mother my regards. Good-bye.” With that, she matter-of-factly handed the phone back and left the room.

Savvy tucked another pillow behind her head and chatted with him for a few more minutes, the tea settling her stomach enough to make her not-sick claim sound almost convincing. Esteban told her he'd be busy all day tomorrow getting ready for the opening of the Napa farmers' market the following weekend, but he wanted to take her hiking on Sunday, if the weather held.

“Bye,” she cooed finally, the phone wedged between her ear and her pillow.

“Bye.”

“Don't have fun without me,” she pouted.

“Not a chance,” replied her gentle giant.

So. Sunday it would be. She had 'til then to figure out how to make him see the obvious advantages of accepting NTI's offer, and then get him to convince his dad of same.

 

Esteban turned from his gray-green shrubs tucked into their new earthen beds to see Tomas's pickup coming up the lane, followed by a hand waving out the window of the latest-model Jeep Wrangler.

“
¿Que pasa,
my friend?” said Tomas. He slammed his door and strode up the lane to meet him.

They shook hands, Esteban clapping Tomas's arm for good measure. “Not much. Just checking on the lavender.”

“Still? How long you going to keep beating your head against the wall, man?”

Esteban's hopes were up this morning. “Got some exceptional plants from a place over on the county line. I feel good about it this time.”

Tomas shook his head. “I hope the parentals appreciate what kinda son they got.”

How could Esteban make people like Tomas and Savvy understand that what drove him to farm was more than merely a desire to be a good son? His passion to put his own stamp on the property he'd someday inherit? To make it his own?

“What's going on with you two?” Esteban said, changing the subject.

“George and I just came from the dealership. I gave him a ride to pick up his new toy. He had to stop and show it off to you.”

“Hey there, E!”

They sauntered down to where their mutual friend had jumped out of his Jeep. George grinned and slapped a proud palm down on its hood.

“She's a beauty,” said Esteban, slowly circling the vehicle.

“Four-wheel drive, V6, AT tires, seven-speaker sound system . . .”

“Sweet. Making journeyman's paying off, I see.”

George's chest puffed out a little. “Not doing too bad.” He gestured toward the vegetable gardens. “You ever get tired of playing Old MacDonald here, let me know. I'll hook you up,” he said, teasing him the way only an old friend could get away with.

It wasn't the first time George had offered to get him a job at the utility company. Esteban had always dismissed the idea out of hand. Still, he had to admit it was decent of George to offer. “Four-year apprenticeship, is it?” he asked, to show his appreciation.

George shrugged. “Gotta start somewhere. For no college, pay's pretty damn good, even for an apprentice. I started at thirty-four an hour, and now I'm making forty-two.”

“They have to pay you good. Wouldn't catch me climbing those poles, grabbing those high-voltage wires,” put in Tomas.

George said, “We can always use a hard worker like you, E. One word from me, you're in like Flynn.”

“Thanks. I'll keep it in mind.” It was his stock response.

“What's going on this weekend?” George asked.

“Getting ready for the market. Opening day is only two weeks away.”

Tomas raised his chin in acknowledgment. “Long couple of weeks for your family, eh?”

“Lot of work, but it's all good. First day's always special. Big crowds, music, and special events for the kids.” It had always been one of his favorite times of year.

“It's a great event for the community.” After Napa Valley Community College Tomas had gone on to the police academy before getting his job as a deputy sheriff for the county.

George tossed his head toward his new vehicle. “I'm taking her out tomorrow to see how she does off-road. Tomas said he's riding along. Want to come?”

Esteban grimaced. “Man, sounds great, but I already made plans for Sunday.”

“Work?”

Sheepishly, Esteban shook his head. “Not this time.”

George slid him a sideways look. “Hey. That true what I heard?”

“What'd you hear?”

“You were at Bodega with one of the St. Pierre sisters last week?”

Esteban couldn't restrain his shit-eating grin. “Could be.”

George smacked Esteban a high-five that turned into a rugged, congratulatory handclasp. “You fucking kidding me?” He looked at Tomas. “How do you like that? Dude hits the big time without telling us.”

“How long's that been going on?” asked Tomas with a look in his eye that made Esteban vaguely uncomfortable. As if Tomas had just pulled him over for speeding and was debating whether or not to search his vehicle.

Esteban shrugged. “Not long.”

His friends sized him up, digesting the surprising news.

“That's . . . cool,” said Tomas.

“All right, well, if you're sure you can't go with us, we'll do it again another time. I'm out of here.”

“See you tomorrow,” said Tomas.

“You've heard about Xavier St. Pierre,” said Tomas as they watched George drive away with still more honks and waves. “The whole valley has. It's like they say: the rich are different than us.”

Esteban looked down for a second before meeting Tomas's eyes. “Guess I'll find out.”

“Guess you will,” Tomas replied as he headed to his truck. “Take care, buddy,” he added, opening his door. “I hope you know what you're getting into.”