A Taste of Sauvignon (17 page)

T
he 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 . . .”

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.

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.

“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?

“Y
ou 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?

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.

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.

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 Hollywood.

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?