A Taste of Sauvignon (19 page)

She began to stalk him. “Of all the things you've ever done,” she said, struggling to maintain her composure. “Forcing me to bail you out of jail . . . running around with women younger than Meri, for God's sake.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Not coming home for Christmas last year after you
promised
us. . . . Do I have to go on?”

His cocky smile wavered.

“This is the
worst.”
He flinched when she poked his chest. “Everyone in this valley knew you were behind that land grab except me. How is that? How does that even
happen
?” She stabbed him again, harder.

He inched backward as she trailed him around the lab.

“Do you know what you've done?”

His hand went down on the edge of a sink to steady himself, sending a glass pipette crashing brittle-y to the floor.

Savvy barely blinked. “Your sleazy underhandedness has cost you this deal. And it's cost me the man I love!”

“Ah!” He brightened. “You
did
sleep with Esteban Morales!”

Savvy steamed. “Yes! I slept with him! And I'll admit, my motives were selfish, in the beginning. Then I got to know Esteban and his family. I've never met more noble, self-effacing people than the Moraleses. They live for each other, not only themselves. Imagine that, Papa!”

“It is possible to sleep with a man without falling in love with him.”

“Don't give me your damn French platitudes!” She swung away, sickened by the sight of him. “You really don't get it, do you? I fell in love with Esteban because of his goodness, not to get something out of him. Leave it to you to twist things around!”

Gingerly, he approached her back. “
Chèrie
. Esteban Morales is a poor truck farmer. He is no one to become distraught over.”

Savvy pressed her lips together, her self-control unraveling like a pulled sweater.

“He is nothing but an immigrant.”

She whirled around. “Seriously? Esteban speaks better English than you do, even though you were born here!”

“Calm down,
ma chère
. We will fix this.”

“Uh, no.
We
won't fix this.
I
will fix it. And I'm going to tell you how.

“
Vraiment?”
He lifted a brow.

“Yes, really. You're going to do exactly what I tell you to do.”

His confident smirk faded. “Or what?”

“I'll tell you what,” she snarled. “Now, sit down.”

 

That's what the text said. Not
I need to talk to you, I need to see you
, or any variation of that. Just
I need you
.

Cristo.
Why now?

Padre was back home where he belonged. He was a couch jockey nowadays, not toiling next to Esteban in the garden. Madre hovered over him like a hyperactive honeybee. At least that kept her off Esteban's case about how hard he was pushing himself.

Padre's mood was surprisingly chipper. Esteban could hardly believe how accepting he was of his diagnosis. The day he'd come home from the hospital, he'd given his son an awkward one-armed hug and told him how proud he was of him. Maybe having a heart attack had done something to the wiring in his brain.

Esteban had too much on his mind already to wonder what had gotten into Padre.

George had given Esteban some flak about reneging on the lineman job after he'd put himself out there for him. Esteban didn't blame him, but what else could he do? He was needed here, at home.

Bottom line, though, was that as hard as the St. Pierres had tried to screw up everyone's lives, they'd failed. All that was in the past. Now all the Morales family felt was relief that Padre was out of danger. They were settling into their new normal: Padre guarding his fragile health, Madre caring for him, and Esteban only coming in from the fields to eat and sleep. Doing what any son would do for his family.

The last thing he needed right now was a cryptic text from a wine heiress. He deleted her words, rejecting the pounding of his heart. But the second he shoved his phone back in his jeans it pinged again.

 

 

The next morning he found himself driving up the steep grade to the ranch, kicking himself all the way.

Dios
, though, it was gorgeous up here. That, he couldn't deny.

There was Savvy's black Mercedes, sitting at the top of the hill.

He parked his Chevy and set out for the distillery, betting he'd find her there. But before he'd gotten far, his peripheral vision caught a figure standing like a sunflower in thigh-high Hidcote with her back to him.

Out there in that deserted field, the high altitude breeze rippled the folds of a pale pink dress around narrow hips. A feminine hand smoothed back loose strands of long chestnut hair. When he got to within thirty feet of her, she slowly turned, somehow sensing his silent presence. Gone were the ugly glasses. Her naked gaze pierced him like an arrow, taking his breath away.

His legs got a mind of their own, carrying him forward until they were close enough to talk.

“You came.”

He'd been right before. No one could compare with Savvy.

Still, a man had his pride.

“Why'd you call me out here?”

“How's your father?”

“Fine.” Esteban kicked the dry, crumbly dirt—the kind of dirt he dreamed about—with the toe of his boot. “Better than fine. He's . . . I don't know. Different.”

“He didn't tell you, then. I thought he might,” she murmured.

“Tell me what?” He knew this would be a mistake. Now what had she done?

“Do you like it here, Esteban?” she asked, peering out at the distant, rolling hills.

Dios.
His name on her lips took him back to parked cars and a sandy beach. His gaze followed hers over the house with the orange tile roof, the peach orchard, the scrub-covered ridges.

Of course he liked it here. He raised a hand like
duh
, and uttered a guttural noise of agreement.

“I mean, do you
like
it, like it?”

“Dammit, Savvy, I don't have time for your prima donna games. I got work to do. . . .” He turned to start back to his truck. If he left right now, he'd only have lost an hour of daylight.

“Wait . . .” Her hand appealed to him. “There's so much I have to tell you. . . .”

Suddenly the anger he hadn't known he'd been stuffing down for the past week while he juggled problems of life and death sprang to the surface. “Then tell me! You can start with explaining how I'm supposed to believe you and your old man weren't in cahoots together since the very first day we met!”

She took a step toward him. “Papa planned this months ago. First, he got his pal Robert Witmer to hire me. Then he used Don Smith as his cover to buy your land. Papa asked Robert to have me handle the deal, in part because I was so green. He was banking on me not digging into the NTI partnership agreement.”

Esteban felt his blood simmer to the point of boiling—but not because of anything Savvy had done. Could this be true?
Her own father?
What was worse, St. Pierre had to know Savvy would be irresistible to a man like him. Hell, to any man.
Still . . .
“How can I believe you?”

“Robert signed an affidavit admitting he never clued me in on the real identity of NTI. I have it with me, in the car. I'll show you.”

Esteban huffed. “One lawyer sticking up for another lawyer? That's it? That's all you've got?”

“Esteban—”

“You told me yourself that the most important thing to you in life was getting ahead in your career. Making partner.”

“It was. But I never told you why.” She took some worn paper rectangles from her pocket and handed them out. “The thing I've always cared about the most, the thing that kept me motivated since I was twelve years old, was taking care of my sisters.”

He refused to take the notes from her hand. “What do they need you for? You said they were doing great. Got good jobs . . . isn't one of them engaged?”

“They're doing great now, but there was a time when they depended on me, and I couldn't help them. That affected me more than I could ever explain.” She nodded toward the notes. “Read them. Please.”

He skimmed over the contents of one of them, then lowered it to his side. “What about us? Were you faking liking me? For my land?”

Savvy huffed softly, looking him up and down. “I'm a lawyer, not an actress.” Then she averted her gaze. “I'll admit it, though. When the deal was falling apart, I thought sleeping with you might reignite it.”

He felt his heart harden and his molars clench.

“I had it all planned out. Bought a new dress, new underwear, CVS's entire stock of condoms. . . .”

He frowned, remembering. “That day at the beach.
That
underwear was for me?”

She blushed. “That was my work underwear. It wasn't supposed to happen that day. Remember? You invited me along at the last minute. The first time was supposed to be the night after I took you to that shop in downtown Napa. Those white lace panties? Those were for you.

“That day on the beach was totally spontaneous—in every way. I didn't fake anything. You were the first.” She edged closer, bringing with her the scent of roses. “I swear on my mother's grave. If you don't believe anything else, believe that.”

How did she do that? Take him from gutted to on top of the world with a wave of her wand?

She stepped up until she stood in front of him. “Your father signed a new contract to sell.”

“I reworked the sales agreement it so that your parents can lease back the house and land for the remainder their lifetimes. Everything about the farm will look the same as it always has. They'll live out their lives in the home they love, in exchange for a small monthly leaseback fee that they'll barely notice coming out of their bank account. The only thing different is they'll clear two million dollars from the sale, so they won't have to work. If they choose to continue to farm, they can hire help.”

“How's that help Xavier?”

“The land will eventually be planted in winegrapes, after your parents are gone. That's the compromise.”

When he recovered his shock, he said, “And you'll get a sweet little commission. What're you going to do with that?

“Use it as a down payment.”

“On what?”

“This.” Savvy spread her arms. “It wasn't working out here for Anne and Lucas. They're more city than country mice, they decided. They were thrilled to entertain my offer.”

His brows knit. “You're not a farmer. You have no clue what you're doing.”

“I want to make perfume. People change and grow, Esteban, like plants. Dreams change. Sometimes they die—”

“Sometimes they get killed,” Esteban interjected.

She smiled wistfully. “I realized I was doing something I didn't really enjoy, for reasons that no longer applied. You're right. Char and Meri don't need me anymore. Everyone could see that except me. Now, Papa . . . I can't even. God knows I've already bailed him out enough times. That man was born trouble.

“I could open a solo practice, work out of the farmhouse here. Haven't decided yet. It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

She turned and stood next to him so that they were gazing out at the same view. “You're right. I'm in way over my head here. I need someone who knows what he's doing. Someone with strength and experience.” She took his hand. “Come with me. Be my partner. We'll make our dreams come true, together.”

“And let you support me? No.” He looked down, shaking his head. “No way.”

“We'll be equal partners. Your father has offered to give you—
lend
, if you insist—as much money as you need. Everything else is right here. You could make this the most amazing lavender farm in California.”

He yearned to trust her, but after all that had happened . . .

“How did you get our fathers to agree to all this?”

“Your father wants you to be happy.”

“There's more to it than that. How'd you get them to come to terms? They hate each other!”

She faced him again, taking one of his hands in each of hers. “I told them that was the only way they'd get to see their first grandson.”

He stared slack-jawed at her face, then her belly. A shiver ran up his spine.

“I've prepared documents stating that when your parents are gone, the title to their farm will pass directly into our child's name. Along with his rightful portion of all the other Domaine St. Pierre properties, of course.”

The
Plan Familiar.
She'd thought of everything.

“If you say no, I can raise our baby at the winery. Continue at the same law firm, hire a nanny. . . .”

But Esteban wasn't hearing a word she said.

“
Woot!”
he hollered. Savvy squealed as he scooped her into his arms and twirled her around in the fertile field.
“Woo hoo hoo hoo hoo!”

“G
et up! Get up!”

Savvy's mattress rocked and swayed. Her eyes flew open.
Was it the Big One?

No. These voices weren't panicky. They sounded—exuberant.

“Get up!”
Her sisters' voices.

She sat bolt upright. Sometimes she still forgot she wasn't Meri and Char's protector anymore, after having assigned herself that role for so long.

“Happy wedding day! Happy wedding day!” The girls bounded onto her king-sized bed.

Savvy sighed with relief and sank back down into the cozy warmth of her covers. “What time is it?” she croaked.

The mattress jolted violently again. “Time to get up!”

A deep-chested
ooof
was followed by a shriek and a body boomeranging away.

“What's
he
doing here?”

Savvy opened one eye to see Meri pointing at the other side of the bed. All the ruckus hadn't so much as budged Esteban.

“No fair. That's breaking the rules,” scolded Char, climbing off, too. “The groom's not supposed to spend the night before your wedding with you. It's bad luck.”

“And now we know why. Liable to get kneed in the kidney,” grumbled Esteban, his voice muffled in his pillow.

“Leave us alone,” Savvy groaned, snuggling deeper. “Is it even light out yet?” Hadn't last night's rehearsal dinner, highlighted by Jeanne and Mrs. Morales congratulating each other, just ended? She heard the scrape of drapery rings being drawn across their metal rod, saw the brightness seeping in behind closed lids.

“It's eleven o'clock!” sang Meri. “You're getting married in exactly seven hours!”

From that moment on, Savvy's day was a whirlwind of hair and makeup and a gaggle of strong-willed women telling her to stay calm and at the same time making her a basket case.

Finally, it was time for her to be squeezed into “the dress.” What a shopping ordeal that had been! There'd been way too many opinions to consider. Meri had pressed for something edgy and low cut. Jeanne had said her wedding gown must be simple and chic. And Mrs. Morales had been a fan of a getup that made Savvy feel as if she were nine feet wide and drowning in a sea of Spanish lace. Of course, Char had advised Savvy not to listen to anyone except herself.

She spread her fingers along her thickening waistline and peered down at the creamy swath of fabric crisscrossing her bosom. Amazing what a bun in the oven could do for your boobage.

“It is time,” said Jeanne, eyes twinkling. “Look at you.” She held her at arm's length. “A June bride. At the beginning of this year, who would have believed you would be married before your sisters? You were wise to take my advice concerning the dress. You are a vision.”

“Aw, Jeanne, thank you for helping me pick it out.” Savvy reached out to hug her.

“
Non non non non non, mademoiselle.
” Jeanne touched her balled up hanky to her nose, her brow crinkled. “That is the last time I may call you that.” She paused to contain her emotions, then lifted her chin “It would not be good to muss your hair.” She kissed the air around Savvy's cheeks.

Savvy gathered up her skirt, surprised at how much silk jersey could weigh. Then Jeanne helped her down the staircase, and together they wound through the house to where Papa was supposed to be waiting in the covered portico by the pool to walk her down the aisle.

But when they got there, Papa was nowhere to be found.

 

“What time is it now?” Esteban asked George out of the corner of his mouth. He ran a finger between his neck and the stifling collar of his shirt.
Mierda,
it was hot out. June had been as dry as the winter had been wet. The lavender at the ranch was going great guns.

The wedding party had been hanging around the pool, out of sight of the guests, for what seemed like an eternity.

George checked his watch yet again. “Six-twenty-nine.”

The ceremony was to have started at six.

“He'll be here. You kidding me? After spending half a fortune on this clambake? Trust me. He'll be here.”

If George wasn't worried, why had he sent Tomas off to hunt for Xavier a half hour ago?

Across the portico, Savvy's attendants hovered over her, but between them Esteban could see the worry etched in her face. It wasn't good for her to be standing like that for so long in her condition. Even he knew that.

He was going over there. He couldn't bear to see her suffer for one more minute.

When her concerned sisters saw him coming, they stepped back to let him in. No one chastised him now for breaking the rule of not seeing the bride before the ceremony.

“Let's walk,” he said, giving Savvy his arm.

She turned in the direction of the lawn where their vows were scheduled to take place.

But he didn't budge. Char's sisters had pleaded with them not to peek at the grounds ahead of time. Their father had had people out there working nonstop for the past week, spiffing it up for the ceremony. “You'll spoil the surprise,” Esteban said. But that wasn't the real reason he kept her away. Seeing all their guests milling about there, waiting and wondering what the hold up was, might only make her feel worse. “Other way.”

“No. I want to see what it looks like.”

Now Savvy peeked around a column, gasped, and put her fingers to her lips. “Oh.”

From behind her, Esteban peered over her head to see for himself.

They faced the back of the crowd and the entrance to a long, grassy aisle sprinkled thickly with yellow rose petals. A gold satin ribbon—a flimsy barrier restricting all but the wedding party from the path leading between rows of gilded chairs—had been tied between pillars topped with urns, overflowing with more roses. The aisle ended at a sweep of curved pergola dripping with wisteria and Spanish moss. In the center, a wine barrel served as an altar. Off to one side, a string quartet played a classical air for the throng of well-dressed people sipping wine, nibbling hors d'oeuvres.

The violet Mayacamas presided in the distance, echoing the color of the flowers.

“Did you have a hand in any of this?” Esteban asked.

Savvy shook her head, unable to look away. “If I'd had it my way, it'd just be you and me, up at the ranch. It was all Papa. He wanted to throw us a party.”

Party? Ha. This was St. Pierre's attempt to buy back Savvy's good graces, after all he'd put her through.

“
Mierda
.” Esteban reached around to cup Savvy's belly. “You didn't hear that,” he said to the four-month bump.

Those people have been waiting a mighty long time, he thought. The guests had had no idea the private event they'd been asked to attend was a wedding. There'd been no save-the-dates, not even a written invitation. Nothing that would be a red flag to the media.

Savvy turned toward Esteban. The mask of calm she fought to keep on her face didn't fool him one minute.

“Come on. Let's go back,” he said.

Minutes later, back in the portico, Tomas dashed up to the couple and George. “His helicopter just left SFO.”

“Won't be long now,” said George. “It's only about a twenty-minute flight up from the city.”

Esteban tried to get a read on Savvy.

With a diamond-clad finger, she flicked away a single tear. “We were supposed to have been walking down the aisle forty minutes ago, and he just took off?” She lowered her gaze to the patio, lips quivering.

Don't cry, Savvy.
Her old man had already been on her last nerve, and now this. The one thing Esteban couldn't handle was if she cried sad tears on her wedding day. Anything she wanted, he would do. He felt his fists bunch, imagining the ways he wanted to make Xavier St. Pierre pay for causing the woman he loved so much pain.
Please don't cry.

Savvy didn't cry. As soon as she'd regained her composure she looked up, cleared her throat, and pasted on a bright smile. “Cue the music,” she said, looking to George and Tomas and her sisters to lead the procession.

To the amplified notes of George Winston's “Joy” from a baby grand, the crowd came to its feet. Esteban waited while Meri and George, then Char and Tomas paraded down the aisle. At the altar, they stopped, the girls clutching their bouquets, smiling prettily across from George and Tomas.

He looked lovingly at his bride, carrying his son inside her.

He offered her his arm.

“Let's go.” She gazed up at him and together they stepped out onto rose petals, and it became a blur of three hundred smiling faces smiling back at them . . . Savvy handing off her bouquet to Char . . . the homily and the songs and the prayers . . . and then, while Madre wept tears of happiness and Padre's chest puffed out like a pigeon's, Sauvignon St. Pierre gave Esteban something greater than even his Michoacán grandfather could have dreamed of.