A Taste of Sauvignon (2 page)

E
steban stood with his back against the counter, arms folded in suspicion of the beautiful
fresa
sitting on the other side of the table.

Madre should be furious!
So why had she insisted that he pull the woman's Mercedes into the lane for her, as if she were too distraught to do it herself? What girl that age drove a car like that, anyway? And how was it that, in the time it'd taken him to round up the rest of the chickens, set a two-by-four against the hole in the fence, and come into the house, that ritzy stranger now sat in his very own chair, pinky finger posed like the Queen of England's, sipping Madre's hastily brewed chamomile tea?

“My favorite,” she purred to Madre, delicate nostrils quivering.

“Good for your nerves.” His mother reached across the table to pat her hand consolingly.

She'd just killed one of Madre's prized Ameraucanas, and Madre was treating her as the victim instead of the perpetrator!

She
was one of the prize offshoots of Xavier St. Pierre, the notorious grower, vintner, and landowner next door. Though he could see their house from his, he'd never gotten a close-up. Still, he'd been hearing stories about Chardonnay, Sauvignon, and Merlot all his life. Who in the valley hadn't?

Madre had been good friends with Jeanne, the St. Pierre cook, for years. Jeanne had reportedly been inconsolable when the girls had been sent to schools “back east”—a term that brought to mind thoroughbreds and country clubs—after Xavier's wife left him and died in a car crash in South America. When the girls—now young women—had returned from their respective schools last year, Jeanne had been ecstatic—even more so because the timing had coincided with Jeanne's own daughter's move to Portland.

Padre brooded every time Xavier St. Pierre's name came up. He said just because St. Pierre had come from an ancient line of grape growers, he thought he knew better than anyone else about
terreno
. About farming. Besides, this was America! Everyone started out equal. Or was supposed to.

Without warning, the woman raised lashes long and curly as a tendril on a pea vine. Or maybe they were only magnified by her thick glasses. Even through their lenses, Esteban recognized the intelligent curiosity in her brown eyes. When her lips curled into a polite smile, his heart stopped. Was it her skin, translucent as the petals of an apple blossom? The educated way she talked? Or her rosy scent, sweeter than the honey she stirred into her tea?

Don't forget what she did.
That was
his
old wooden chair Madre had given her to sit in, her skinny butt only filling up half of it. He was struck by a pang of resentment, followed immediately by embarrassment when he eyed the chair from her perspective. He'd eaten how many meals from that chair—and only now noticed how badly its white paint was chipped, and that one of the rungs needed re-glued. He glanced down at his muddy boots, comparing them to her fine leather shoes. He made his living in the fields. There was no shame in that. Defiantly, he lifted his chin. What was she to him, but a privileged, pampered wine princess whom he'd never get this close to again? She wouldn't be here now if she hadn't destroyed one of Madre's award-winning flock.

Like two old biddies, the women clucked away, their tones morphing from traumatized to apologetic to gossipy, all in the space of fifteen minutes.

Had Madre no pride? No family loyalty?

“I see Jeanne every Saturday morning. She's my most faithful customer. I can tell you what she buys each season.” Madre began listing vegetables on knobby fingers. They were fairly clean now, but by August she wouldn't be able to get the green off them no matter how long she scrubbed. “Asparagus and peas in the early summer. After that,
pepinos
—how you say it?” She frowned, glancing at Esteban. You'd think she'd know by now. But Madre was used to relying on his help.

Esteban's eyes were busy combing over the human sunflower's shiny-sleek hair and her lithe body in an effort to memorize the creature that fate had unexpectedly brought. Despite his determination to hate her—scion of his father's worst enemy—her every movement captivated him.

“Esteban?”
repeated his mother.

“Cucumbers,” said Esteban, his sole contribution to the conversation since he'd walked in.

She held up a triumphant finger. “Cucumbers! And basil, and mint. Then peaches, peppers, and melons. Arugula and kale, into the fall. And always, my eggs . . .” Back to the chickens.

All at once, the eyes and mouth of the out-of-place kitchen goddess flew open wide.

“Omigod. My meeting!” She glanced at her gold watch. “I'm late!”

Halfway to the door, she caught herself. “Mrs. Morales, I want to give you some money to replace Marlena, but my purse is in the car, and I'm already super late for a very important meeting. . . .”

Madre shook her head. “No, Señorita Sauvignon. I will not hear of it. It was a accident. You don't owe me nothing. I will have Esteban fix the fence better this time.”

Oh, so now it was his fault?

“Are you sure?” But the toe of one mud-spattered lambskin shoe was already over the threshold.

Esteban stood at the door watching her jog to her car, certain she'd never pass this way again.

Madre wouldn't let him forget about her, though. She'd be yakking about this for weeks. His resentment came roaring back and he felt his eyes narrow as Sauvignon St. Pierre disappeared into her car. If his shit-kickers had got her precious Mercedes floor mats dirty—well, too damn bad. He doubted she cleaned it herself, anyway. Probably had “people” for that.

S
avvy tore from the parking lot and breezed into the lobby of Witmer, Robinson and Scott, tucking a wayward strand of hair back into place. Outside the conference room, she took a belly breath and straightened her shoulders before making her entrance.

Robert Witmer looked up from his iPad. “Sauvignon. Nice of you to join us.”

“Sorry. Little incident on the way to work.”

All three partners looked up in unison. “Accident?” they sang in a chorus of hope.

“Nothing to worry about,” she said with aplomb, sliding into a chair. She laid her forearms on the table, blew a wisp of hair out of her eye, and folded her hands. “No one was hurt.”

“You don't need representation?” asked John Robinson, barely containing his disappointment.

“No, no. Not even worth discussing. I did have to stop, of course. But it's all taken care of.”

“I always say, better safe than sorry. Might not be a bad idea to go to the hospital, get yourself checked out.”

Savvy waved away his suggestion. “No. No need.”

Robert cleared his throat. “We were just finishing up. I moved this item to the end of the agenda. Group calling themselves Napa Terroir Investments—NTI—is looking to acquire a piece of property in the Oak Knoll District between Yountville and Napa. It's not big. Talking price per acre, though, it's one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the valley.”

“I know that area. That's a sweet spot between the warm Up-valley and the southern end,” said John.

“Warm enough for cab, cool enough for chardonnay,” added Mike. Just like everyone else in the valley, he thought he was an expert in all things wine.

“If you say so. It
is
one of the few parcels of Oak Knoll ground that isn't planted in grapes yet,” continued Robert. “Savvy, this seems like the perfect case for you to get your feet wet. Show us what you're made of.”

“Is it on the market?” Savvy asked.

“No.”

“Wouldn't they do better to consult a Realtor?”

“As you know, your law license empowers you to act as a real estate broker. Besides, one of the partners is an old friend of mine. We'll work it so that you get a nice commission.”

“Yes, sir.” She wasn't an expert in real estate law. Wasn't an expert in
any
kind of law—
yet.
That's what apprenticeships were for. She had to start somewhere, didn't she?

“Anyone have anything else?” asked Robert.

“Hold it,” said Mike Scott, pointing to Savvy's wrist. “Is that blood?”

All three men leaned in, narrowing their eyes. Savvy bent her elbow to examine her cuff.

“That?” She winced inwardly at the nickel-sized brown dot and snatched a tissue from the box in the middle of the table. “Not blood. There was no blood. Just a little . . . dirt, that's all.”

Slowly, the men sat back again, regret filling their faces.

“Then we're adjourned, gentlemen—and Savvy,” said Robert.

She made a beeline for the restroom, where she sniffed her wrist. Smelled like iron. Chicken blood!
Gross.
Surprising she hadn't noticed it earlier. She was blessed—or cursed, depending on circumstances—with a sense of smell so acute it was sometimes overwhelming. Hastily, she maneuvered her forearm directly under the wall dispenser and pumped a gob of antibacterial soap straight onto the stain.

Just when the lather was at its foamy peak, the lavatory door swung open and in walked Mr. Witmer's assistant, Helen.

All the firm's assistants were shared equally by the professionals, except Helen. She never passed up the opportunity to tell people that she'd been with Mr. Witmer since he'd opened the law office back in the Stone Age, and it appeared as though she hadn't changed her hairstyle since. Helen took one look at the pile of suds on Savvy's arm and raised a judgmental brow.

Savvy smiled. “Coffee,” she said. “Clumsy me. Now my sleeve'll be damp all day.”

“Best be more careful.” Helen went into a stall and closed the door.

Savvy's face fell. It'd been months since she'd started at the firm, and the assistants were still giving her the cold shoulder, despite her wooing them with donuts, wine, and anything else she could think of.

Oh well. She had more pressing things on her mind this morning.

Poor Marlena
, she thought as she scrubbed.
Poor Mrs. Morales
. Aside from them, what about her son, the god of agriculture, sleeping within half a mile of her very own bed each night? How was it that they had never crossed paths before?

Esteban.
Silently, Savvy practiced wrapping her tongue around the name while she held her wrist under the faucet and waited for the suds to subside. From the moment he'd appeared on the scene of the accident, her nerves had sprung to red alert. He'd brought with him a clean, springtime scent, all rain and new grass. She'd had a rogue wish that time would stop and everyone would freeze in place so she could circle him the way she'd once circled Michelangelo's sculpture of David at the Academia in Florence, scrutinizing every inch. But time hadn't stopped. Instead, he'd tormented her, staring at her with his arms folded and that expression of disdain, the whole time she was drinking her tea.

When the water ran clear, she blotted her sleeve with paper towels, patting it dry the best she could. This morning was probably the closest she would ever get to Esteban. What did an ambitious attorney have in common with a farm boy who still lived under his parents' roof, anyway?

Complicating matters further, Papa had this thing against Mr. Morales. Exiting the restroom, she sighed. Esteban would join the David in her mind. Larger than life. Cold as marble. And totally out of reach.

Back at her desk, she opened the folder her boss had given her. Inside the cover was a memo signed by Don Smith, general partner of Napa Terroir Investments, authorizing her to make an initial offer of 1.5 million dollars for a certain five-acre parcel of land. Behind that was a local tax map of the property outlining its current assessed value, zoning, and other pertinent data. The lot was a small rectangle with frontage on Dry Creek Road, surrounded on three sides by much larger tracts of ground.

Wait a minute.
Savvy's breath caught. She knew those ridges to the tract's north. She and her sisters had spent their early years roaming them at will, while their pretty French au pairs, who had been in America mainly to meet boys, flirted with the pickers.

Who was willing to pay such an exorbitant price for the paltry slice of land wedged in between those big tracts?

Anyone and everyone who wants to grow grapes, that's who.
California wines were in high demand, even by European drinkers. The Napa Valley was finite. Only about forty thousand acres, compared to a hundred eighty-five in the Loire Valley, for example. They weren't making any more of it.

The offer was fair: land on the valley floor was going for three hundred thousand an acre, according to recent comparable sales. And virtually everyone agreed—the highest and best use of that land was viniculture.

Everyone, that was, except the Moraleses. They were still doing what they'd always done, eking out a living raising vegetables and chickens.

As she flipped through the remaining documents, she smiled.
Looks like I'll be seeing Esteban again, after all.
Her smile grew until she felt it all the way up to her eyes. Thanks to her new assignment, she could more than atone for making a fricassee of Marlena. In fact, she had news that might make Esteban and his family very, very happy.

Within the hour, she was knocking on the Moraleses' door with giddy anticipation. This time, she brought good tidings instead of bad. The cellophane surrounding a Cymbidium orchid, her peace offering, crackled in her grip. She'd also picked up a sympathy card and a prepaid debit card for triple the estimated cost of your average oven-stuffer.