A Taste of Sauvignon (7 page)

David-like hands safely at his sides, his eyes locked into hers as she stood there, panting.

“Just one thing,” he whispered. “Who's doing the experimenting here? Me? Or you?”

Without answering, Savvy whirled around to the direction of the exit and hurried out of the sweltering heat. As soon as she got outside, she stopped and leaned a hand against the glass to catch her breath. She'd expected to hear his footsteps behind her, but to her disappointment, he'd done as she'd asked. Stopped.

E
steban fingered a flower on the scarf he held. He brought it to his nose to smell Savvy's perfume, then stuffed it into his back pocket. Who
was
the chameleon who lived next door? A cold, conniving lawyer who'd do anything to cut a deal? A cock-teasing wine princess? Or an innocent
chica?

He meandered among the comforting familiarity of his precious plants, checking moisture levels, taking note of comparable degrees of bloom, giving her time to say her good-byes to his parents and himself time to recover before locking up the greenhouse for the night. He'd so hoped that this would be the year one of these strains would take root outside the protected environment of the greenhouse, in the truck gardens. So far, it didn't look good.

After a while, he stepped out into the cool night.

When he reached the house, Madre sat in her woven lawn chair on the narrow front porch, an old serape thrown around her shoulders. A cat weaved in and out of her ankles.

“Esteban. Is everything okay?”

“What are you doing, sitting out here in the dark?”

“I always sit out on the porch in the evenings.”

“In the summer. It's only March.”

“What happened with Señorita?”

He was a grown-ass man. Was he supposed to report to his
mami
every time he kissed a woman?

“Nothing.” He started toward the front door.

“Then why was her hair all messed up when she came in to say good-night?”

He halted mid-step. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Tell me what's going on. At supper, Padre says he's waiting for an answer on his counteroffer, and Señorita doesn't know anything about a new offer. Why do you pit them against each other?”

Esteban sat down in the chair that was Padre's and rested his elbows on his knees, grateful it was dark. Hanging out on the porch was characteristic of his parents' generation, something an immigrant might do.

“It wasn't a lie. Padre made an offer that no one would accept. It's just another way of saying he doesn't want to sell.”

“How do you know this offer is too much?”

“Two million dollars? No one's going to spend that much money on this property.”

Madre was no expert on real estate. She couldn't argue. “What about you, son? Do you want to stay here?”

He'd never considered that question before, and now it had come up twice within days. There'd always been an understanding: the son would take over for the father. To reject that was to reject everything. He owed it to his family to continue the
Plan Familiar
. What other choice did he have? He was lucky to be here, even if sometimes he felt like just a cog in the wheel.

“Mami. Don't talk like that.”

“I'm hearing your words, but I'm not feeling them here”—she tapped her substantial breast—“in my heart.”

Had he upset her? Maybe he hadn't grown up rich, but he'd always known he was loved. He had a deep appreciation for all his parents had given him. He didn't want to disappoint them. “Yes, I want to stay here. Maybe not do everything
exactly
like Padre . . .” Even that small concession felt epic, for a family as tied to tradition as theirs. “But yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the peepers down by the creek.

“Let me ask you something.”

Madre rocked and waited.

“Whatever happened between Padre and Xavier St. Pierre?”

She looked out into the night. “It was so long ago, I can hardly remember. There was a meeting in town. All the growers, big and small, were there. It started out Señor St. Pierre and your
padre
were on the same side. But after the meeting, they got into a argument over who was first to bring winegrapes to the valley. St. Pierre said the French. Padre asked how he could forget it was Spanish monks who introduced grape vines to California, long before the French.”

Esteban opened his palms. “And?”

“That's it.”

“That's
it?
Two decades of bad blood over
that?
”

“That's what I told you. In the beginning, it was nothing. But you know how bullheaded your Padre can be. Must be, Señor St. Pierre is the same way. Neither one can let it go.”

Esteban shook his head in disbelief. He vowed never to become that stubborn.

“Maybe it's a growing-up lesson for you. The past is important. But it's not good to get stuck in the past by pride. Better to move forward.”

He turned to examine his mother. He'd thought she was all about the past. She certainly led her life in the traditional way, going along with whatever Padre wanted.

“How is the lavender today?”

He scrubbed his hand over his face, suddenly bone-tired. “I'll find one that works sooner or later. Soon as it dries out.”

He rose and stretched. “
Buenas noches,
Mami. Thanks for supper. It was good.”

Lying on his side in his bedroom, his feet hanging off his mattress, he couldn't stop staring at the limp heap of Savvy's scarf on his nightstand.

He'd told her “no more offers.” What if Savvy took his lie to heart and he never heard from her again? Was he fated to remember her by the few times she'd warmed his kitchen chair? The sight of her perfect oval face behind her dorky glasses? The feel of the material covering her peach-like breasts, never knowing the real thing?

What had he expected?
Cristo,
she was Sauvignon St. Pierre. Did he really think he, an immigrant truck farmer, could ever matter to her?

He rolled over to keep from seeing the nightstand, kicking at his tangled sheets in frustration. He had to see her at least one more time. That scarf was his ticket.

S
avvy had to see Esteban again.

She lay in her California king bed studying the morning shadows flickering across the carved plaster rosette in the ceiling, for once glad that it was Saturday and she didn't have to go to work.

She needed a plan. She'd almost blown it last night, freaking out over the loss of her glasses, rejecting his embraces after throwing herself at him.

She turned her face into her fat feather pillow to muffle her humiliated groan. She was so blessed—a good education and all the advantages that came with a moneyed upbringing. When it came to men, though, she didn't have a clue. It was easier to keep her eye on the business aspect of this.

No more offers.
That's what he'd said. But no didn't mean no. It just meant she had to find another way to yes. And she had the perfect plan . . . even if her skill set to implement it left something to be desired.

She reached for her phone on her nightstand, fell back on her pillow, and Googled lavender, getting a zillion hits. So she narrowed it down to lavender farms, narrowed
that
to lavender farms in Northern California. Those results, she could count on one hand. And none of those farms allowed visitors except during special events.

But some growers utilized local retailers to sell their products. She clicked on some links, and
bingo. Savvy St. Pierre, you are a genius.

A store called Smells Like Napa specialized in—what else?—oils, lotions, potpourri, and other so-called hyper-local products. An ideal place to learn more about Esteban's favorite herb, not to mention envelop herself in that indescribable scent again.

While they were at the store, she would let Esteban know in no uncertain terms that she was . . .
available
. She shivered with anticipation. Now that she had the venue, she had to get herself ready.

She sat straight up in bed and threw off the covers. It was going to feel weird asking for her sisters' advice when usually it was the other way around. If there was anything both Char and Meri were both expert in, though, it was clothes.

Her fingers flew across her phone's keypad.
N
EED WARDROBE ADVICE
. She paused, then added:
FOR A DATE
. Then she started counting.
One, two . . .

Within ten seconds, Meri and Char were falling all over each other to see who could get through her bedroom door first.

“You did it!” said Char.

“A date? You mean like, a real date?” Meri bounced onto Savvy's bed.

Char joined them among the rumpled blankets. “I was talking to Ry when I got the text,” she told Meri. “Frankly, I was starting to wonder if she even liked boys.”

“Who is he? C'mon, tell us! We're dying here!”

Savvy hugged her pillow, unable to suppress her mile-wide grin.

“You're never going to guess.”

Meri flung a throw pillow toward Savvy's head and she blocked it in the nick of time. “All right, all right,” she laughed. “Are you ready?” She drew the wait out a few seconds more. “Esteban Morales.”

Her sisters sat there in stunned disbelief.

“Who's—wait,
Esteban Morales?”
repeated Meri.

“The Esteban Morales who lives next door?” asked Char with a shocked expression.

Savvy lifted her shoulders, looking from one to the other, her grin even wider, if that was possible.

Her sisters' words tumbled over each other. “What the heck! Do we even
know
Esteban Morales? I mean,
know him
know him?”

“You remember the guy I was talking to at Bodega the other night?”

“That was Esteban Morales?”
they said in chorus.

“Why didn't you tell us then that he was the Esteban from next door?”

“I told you his name was Esteban.”

“There are lots of Estebans in California. You failed to mention it was
that
one. He is one hot tamale! How did you two meet?” asked Char.

“How do I meet anyone? Business.”

Meri rolled her eyes. “Surprise, surprise. Come on. Tell us about this date.”

“He's really into growing lavender. Trying to learn as much about it as he can. So, I found this shop that I want to take him to.”

“Wait,
you
asked
him
out?”

“
Going to
ask. Not asked.”

“He doesn't know yet?”

“No. I just decided, about five minutes ago.”

“Okaaaay . . .”

“Isn't this a little . . .
sudden?
I mean, for you? When was the last time you were with a guy?
”

There was no good answer for that. “So which one of you has the perfect outfit that I can borrow?”

Meri and Char looked at each other with puzzled expressions. Most sisters were always in each other's closets. Not hers.

“What's the big deal? You just pull on a—oh, yeah.” Meri straightened, recalling Savvy's conservative everyday style. “I told you you needed some color in your closet, for this very reason.”

“Sorry. I don't plan
my
love life around
your
taste.”

“You don't have a love life,” Meri snarkily pointed out.

“Ha,” Savvy said. “If I did, I wouldn't plan it around your taste.”

Char jumped up. “I know!” she said, sounding like an overenthusiastic kindergarten teacher. “Let's go take a look in my closet first. I'm sure there's something that'll work. It's unanimous: anything's better than head-to-toe black.”

A dozen outfits later, with half of Char's extensive wardrobe spilling across her bed onto the carpet, Meri shared her thoughts from where she lounged sideways across a slipper chair, one foot swinging back and forth.

“I think we're done here. Char, no offense, but your stuff falls into two categories. Lululemon, and Kate Middleton-ish. Savvy's credibility would be trashed if we let her out of the house in those itty-bitty short-shorts you favor—”

“They're called competition briefs, and everyone wears them to run,” Char said in self-defense.

“—and all these Jenny Packham dresses are precious, but . . .” She sprang to her feet, grabbed Savvy's hand, and led her out of Char's room. “C'mon. I've got some ideas.”

A minute later, Savvy stood before her artist sister's open closet door. “Looks like a rainbow threw up in here.”

Meri cut in front of her, scraping hanger after hanger across the bar. “Now
this
is what you call a wardrobe. There's frockage here for every occasion.”

“Ah! Here we are. DVF wrap dress. Prim, yet flattering.”

Savvy pursed her lips to the side. “Can we not do a print? I'm already stepping out of my comfort zone here.”

Meri shoved the dress back onto the rod. “How about this?” She held up what looked like a purple fabric Popsicle.

“That's a dress?”

Meri took a second look. “Hm. Maybe not.”

Char said, “You could just wear my jeans again.”

Meri's eyes widened with horror. Holding up her palms for emphasis, she said, “No jeans!”

“You love jeans,” said Savvy.

“There's a place for them, but this isn't it. This is your first date in probably forever!”

Savvy was feeling less, well,
savvy
by the second. She sighed, pulling her black knit pajamas back on over the underwear she'd donned for the try-ons, and plopped down onto the edge of Char's bed. “I think I'm going to have to go shopping. Like, real shopping. To an actual
store.”

What she
didn't
say was that the past hour had shown her there was something else she needed besides an outfit. She'd caught the mirrored reflection of her standard-issue beige bra and panties from every possible angle. While perfectly functional for preventing panty lines under her work clothes, they weren't exactly . . . provocative. She could never tell her sisters that, though. She'd be humiliated beyond words if they caught on to her real plan. Besides, it was her job to protect them, not corrupt them.

Meri tossed her thick mahogany mane. “Might as well. You're going to want all new underwear, anyway.”

Savvy's head whipped around. Were her thoughts that transparent?

Char yawned. “She's right. Don't want to be caught unprepared in those geriatric granny panties—not that I doubt you have some perfectly lovely, feminine ones, stashed in the back of a drawer somewhere.”

Geriatric?
All Savvy's underwear was like that. Bought in bulk for her new job. Her face warmed. How could her sisters—her
younger
sisters—be so blasé about sex? What would they think if they knew she'd never “done it”? It was getting ridiculous. She was twenty-seven. Both her sisters had recently found the loves of their lives and were deliriously happy. They were probably doing it like rabbits. And here she was, well on her way to becoming a shriveled-up old prune.

“Of course. New underwear. That's a given. Fuchsia. Or red, or purple or something . . .” She popped up. “I'd better get going. See you guys later.”

“Do you want us to go with you?” asked Char.

“That's sweet of you. So sweet.” Savvy smiled with gratitude. “But no. No need. I can do this on my own.” There was other stuff she needed to buy, too. And she sure as heck didn't want company for that. It would be hard enough to do without their prying, pitying eyes.

Meri looked doubtful. “Send us fitting-room pics on your phone if you're undecided.”

“We're here for you,” added Char.

As Savvy walked back to her room, she turned to see the concern on their faces. She couldn't have her little sisters preoccupied, worrying about her. That wasn't how it was supposed to be.

“Don't worry!” she called. “I'll be fine!”

 

Savvy paid for her white lacy underthings—feminine yet in no way, heaven forbid, slutty—and added the tissue-filled shopping bag to the stack on her arm. After an exhausting day in fitting rooms, she'd finally settled on a green dress—fun and flirty—with a zip back. A breeze to slip out of.

One stop left. Best to go to a CVS here, in San Francisco, instead of the one in Napa. She'd die if she ran into anyone she knew!

She headed for the magazine section and leafed through the whole May issue of
Elle
, a
Vogue
, and half a
Marie Claire
waiting for the wall o' condoms in front of the pharmacy counter to empty of customers. Why did they have to stock the condoms in the busiest part of the store? At last, checking over her shoulder, she tiptoed toward that wall.
Holy crap.
The choices were overwhelming. Should she get Thin or Ultra Thin? Ribbed? Lubricated? Double-ecstasy?
Vibrating?
And what about size? Most of what they stocked was XL. For the love of God, not every man could be an XL. Was that only to build up guys' egos? Or had the store sold out of the smaller sizes? What exactly would happen if a woman handed her man a mere medium-sized condom?
“Sorry, honey, I estimated the best I could.”
Was that automatic grounds for a breakup?

And what was all the fuss about latex? Might Esteban be allergic? Might
she?
Talk about embarrassing—breaking out in a hideous rash, right in the middle of things.

Furtively, she snatched up an armful of random boxes and hoped for the best. After paying the jaded clerk, who never even made eye contact, she hurried to her car.

Behind the steering wheel, she whooshed out a relieved breath.
Mission accomplished.
She stuffed the plastic CVS bag into her Nordstrom shopper so the cop wouldn't see it, in the off-off chance she got pulled over. Then she shifted into drive and went back out on the freeway.

Now all she had to do was inform Esteban that they had a date.

She pulled up her planner. This week was going to be a doozy. She was scheduled to be in court starting Tuesday, assisting one of the partners in a complicated jury trial. Who knew what time she'd get out each day or when the case would end? They were up against a top-notch legal team from the city. The trial might even run into next week. To be safe, she chose Wednesday for the date—a week and four days away. Farther out than she wanted, but maybe it wasn't so bad. She didn't want to seem overeager. Not only that, it would give her more time to get her nerve up. Already she was a wreck, contemplating what it was she was about to do.

Funny
. Amid all her preparations, she kept thinking more about Esteban and less about the land deal. And not just his awesome hands and god-like body, though those images were never far from her mind as she tried on dress after dress, judging them by the ease with which they could be whisked off her willing body.

She'd also thought more about his family story. How his parents had been farsighted enough to give up everything in their homeland so that Esteban would have his own stake here in America. About Mr. Morales's tidy rows of vegetables and Mrs. Morales's kind, generous heart.

Don't get all warm and fuzzy, Savvy. Keep your eye on the prize
.

She was going to seduce Esteban into revisiting the land sale. She couldn't let sentimental musings get in the way of that. After all, she had no illusions about a long white gown or a picket fence. No . . . all her fantasies were centered around a sign on her desk that said S
AUVIGNON
S
T
. P
IERRE
, followed by the word P
ARTNER
. Finally catching up with every other twenty-seven-year-old in the country in terms of sex was only a bonus.