Autumn in the Vineyard (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (15 page)

“She did?” Not that it mattered. There was no way Abby would agree.

It wasn’t as though Abby disliked Frankie and she certainly didn’t care about the feud, but she and Frankie—they were just different. Growing up, Abby was a cheerleader, prom princess, and hugged her friends like seventeen times every passing period. Frankie didn’t like cheerleaders on design alone, never went to prom, and hugging gave her chest pains. Whereas Abby couldn’t take a step without one of her brothers dutifully by her side, Frankie was always one step away from her brothers dutifully strangling her.

Frankie shook her head. “Abby would never do it. Sponsoring my winery would piss off her brothers.”

“Which is exactly why she would agree,” a peppy and princessy voice said from behind.

Frankie turned, and there, two mats to the right and one back, balancing on her forearms with her body completely vertical and her feet flexed, in some pose the instructor called the feathered peacock was Abigail DeLuca.

The woman was an odd combination of magical pixy meets Vegas showgirl next door. When she wasn’t “being the pretzel” and stood upright, she came in at maybe five-one with big chocolate curls and even bigger chocolate brown eyes.

“I didn’t know you were, um,” Frankie zeroed in on Abby’s zero-fat waistline, “qualified to be in this class or I wouldn’t have openly admitted to wanting to dismember Nate.”

“I thought it was torch, but no biggie.” Abby untwined herself and went into lotus. “Hey, if you do decide to, you know, dismember one of my brothers, can you go after Trey? Or at least wait until after next week? If all goes well, Thursday will be my last wedding anniversary before I am officially a divorcée and Nate promised to come bearing tequila.”

Abby looked at Frankie expectantly, as though waiting for her to say the right thing. A confirmation of some kind, maybe a heartfelt word. But the only thing Frankie felt was her hands go clammy. “Oh, I’m, uh…”

This was the part of the conversation where most women knew what to do, where the topic required a certain kind of finesse, a firm understanding of female subtext. Three skills that Frankie had never mastered. Because tequila straight from the bottle with a lemon would imply a sob-fest. But served frothy with Cointreau, lime juice, and one of those little umbrellas, could be a happy thing, right?

God, Abby was looking at her. Waiting for her to—what?—give a high-five because her soon-to-be-ex was a total douche? Or should Frankie lie and say she was sorry when, again, said husband was a total douche?

She settled on, “I’m sorry.” But when Abby’s lips pursed, she quickly added, “If you are.”

Abby laughed and Frankie felt herself smile. “Sorry it took this long? Yes. That it is finally going to be over? Nope. That’s why Nate’s bringing the SUV and the pre-party. He’s the designated driver, so Lexi and I can get trashed.”

Of course he was. Nate was the sweet, stand-up kind of guy who went out of his way to make other people’s lives easier. Well, other people except for Frankie.

“And I’m not in this class,” Abby went on. “Jordan called me this morning and invited me. Right after ChiChi explained that your wine—how did she put it?—was a spiritual experience.”

Frankie shot a look at her friend who was breathing deeply and innocently studying the instructor as though it was the most important pose of her life. They’d set her up.

“Then Regan called two minutes later, imagine that, just
begging
me to check out this class to see if it would be good for her and the girls,” Abby mused. “Only to find you here. And why is that again?”

“Okay,” the instructor called out, cutting off Abby with two sharp claps. “Hydrate time. Then onto Doggie Disco.”

“I’m going to fill up my bottle. You guys need anything?” Jordan asked.

Frankie turned her head to say that, no she was an adult capable of handling her own shit when Jordan not-so-slyly jerked her head at Abby and mouthed
Ask her!

No!

Chicken. Bock. Bock!

Fine!
“So, I was—”

“Yes,” Abby said with a perfectly sweet smile. “Ryo Wines would love to sponsor Red Steel Cellars for the Cork Crawl.”

“Really?” Frankie blinked. Then reeled back in her excitement. This was a DeLuca. “Why?”

“Why would I sponsor you?” Abby’s tone implied that Frankie was being a tad bit paranoid. And maybe she was, but she’d been burned enough to know to always proceed with caution. “ChiChi believes your wine will win and I do love winning. Plus, we sold out of inventory two days after being crowned Cork Queen last year, allowing Ryo Wines to pre-sell the next five seasons of futures before we’d even had our official grand opening. No product, therefore no reason to enter in the Cork Crawl. So if my nonna is set on you as our flagship, I have no choice but to be supportive.” She raised a brow. “But shouldn’t you be selling yourself to me, making me feel confident in my decision?”

“Not when you could be messing with me.” Frankie eyed her skeptically. Selling five years of futures sounded too good to be true—which in her world meant that it was. “And especially not when I know how it would piss off your brothers.”

“That’s the best reason for me to sponsor you,” Abby said, her mouth curving with mischief. “Did I forget to say that
my brothers
were crowned King to my Queen? A fact that I am reminded of often.”

“Yeah, that would suck.” Frankie hated it when, at every family get-together, Dax brought up the
one
time he managed to beat Frankie in a game of quarters.

“They know I can’t enter and since Trey will be in Monaco for some wine conference, they are down a member for the Pick Till You Punt. But did they ask me to fill out their DeLuca team of four? Nope,” Abby said, popping the last syllable hard. “They asked Jack Tanner.”

The Pick Till You Punt was a pre-qualifier for the Cork Crawl. It pitted wineries against each other in a cut and carry relay race, which determined booth locations for the Cork Crawl. And in a crowded festival, with hundreds of wineries all vying for the attention of buyers, table location could make a difference—hundreds of thousands of them in fact—when it came to selling.

Frankie sighed. Ridiculous or not, she had always wanted to compete for her family, but her grandfather had opted to use her brothers or vineyard hands. She had always manned the Cork Crawl booth.

“I thought only family and vineyard employees could compete.”

“Apparently Tanner isn’t just our exclusive contractor, now he’s Head of New Development, which in Italian means he’s
practically family. Nonna even makes him lunches on days when he’s at the vineyard.” Abby’s lips went thin. “The worst part is that my brothers didn’t even call to say, ‘Hey we’re making a deal that totally affects your business and your life. Oh, and it’s with the biggest tool in the Valley. What’s your stance on that?’ ”

Frankie bet by Abby’s tone that her stance was closer to
Hell no
than
Where do I sign?

“Now, not only am I giving that jerk Tanner piano lessons three times a week, but I am forced to see him every time I go to the office or my family gets together. So yeah, I might be helping you out, but you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

“Brothers can suck.” Frankie couldn’t believe she was relating to Abby. Maybe the DeLuca Darling’s life wasn’t so perfect after all.

“Yeah, sometimes they can. And if we aren’t careful they’ll bulldoze right over us, which is when we have to draw the line, give them a little reminder of just where they stand. Which is why part of the deal is I get to be on your Pick Till You Punt team.”

“Are you serious?” Frankie didn’t mean to sound shocked, but Abby weighed less than Frankie’s leg, and although she did have dainty, nimble hands—perfect for picking without bruising the grapes—Frankie doubted she’d spent much time in the fields.

“Dead.” Abby gave a decisive nod. Just one. But it was enough to convince Frankie that Abby was fierce when effed with. “Don’t let my size fool you. Nonno Geno bought me my first set of secateurs when I was four. By seven I was faster than Gabe with those clippers.”

“Count me in, I’m on Ryo’s board,” Jordan said, tightening the cap to her water bottle and flashing her meticulously manicured
hands. “And no, I have never cut a vine in my life, but when I was married to that rat bastard, I kept one of the best rose gardens in Napa County.”

“Great. Now all we need is hired muscle. You think one of your brothers would do it? Oh, I know,” Abby said with a smile, and she no longer resembled anything close to darling. Frankie made a mental note never to screw with Abigail DeLuca. “The hot firefighter one who was in the calendar last year.”

“Adam?” Frankie blinked. Abby hadn’t dated, shown interest, or even looked at a man since her soon-to-be-ex walked out on her. “Um, I could ask?”

“Good, because we have to win. I’m still burned that I lost out to them by eleven corks. Eleven lousy votes. And the only thing better than my brothers losing to a girl will be the look on Tanner’s face when we beat his arrogant, over-muscled, egotistical backside.” Abby wrinkled her pert nose. “Teach them to stick their nose in my life and screw things up.”

“So, you’re really offering to sponsor me?” Frankie asked dumbfounded.

“Only if you promise we’ll kick my brothers’ butts.”

“Consider them kicked,” Frankie said over the kiddy pop music that erupted from the speakers.

“Good,” Abby said. Then with a smile added, “Now take a deep breath and bend over.”

CHAPTER 8

N
ate pulled a little pink ticket from the dispenser and took his place in line at Picker’s Produce, Meats, and More—if one could call a single person standing in front of him a line. But since that person happened to be Mrs. Craver, co-owner of the store, and she was arguing with Mr. Craver, Nate figured it could take a while.

Not that he was in any rush. In fact, Nate was in such a great mood, not even one of the Cravers’ notorious blowouts could ruin his day. The sun was shining. There was a crisp autumn breeze. He’d snagged a parking spot two strides from the front door. His cart was full of groceries—ones that didn’t come in a box and have a red dye number five warning on the back. He had some kind of fancy dessert, which Marc’s fiancée had whipped up on special request, waiting at the bakery. And he’d managed to check off nearly every item on his
D
AILY
T
O
D
O LIST
. One more errand and he was free for the weekend.

Yes, sir. Nate was in the mood to celebrate. It had taken three days—three long, hot, sweaty days—but the water tank
was installed, the pump was up and working, and Tanner and his crew were finally gone. Gone as in, Nate and Frankie would have the entire place to themselves. They’d managed to go an entire seventy-two hours without a single fight and, even though there’d been enough chemistry sparking between them to toast s’mores, they’d also gone an entire seventy-two hours without kissing again.

Something he was seriously considering changing tonight. If he ever got his steaks.

Marilee Craver stood a good three feet from the butcher counter, waving some kind of legal document in Biff’s direction. Her voice was hushed, but it bounced off the glass of the display case, making every word crystal clear and nearly impossible to ignore. Although Biff didn’t seem to have a hard time tuning her out. He diligently rearranged the rounds of deli meat as though this were an everyday occurrence. The only sign that the man was even listening was that sweat had started to bead on the top of his bald head when Marilee starting talking divorce and papers.

Nate grabbed the handle of his cart, ready to come back later when Biff skewered him with a look. Nate knew that look. Gabe had sent him that look many times as of late.

Right, never leave a man behind. So he distracted himself watching Biff restack the pork ribs right through Marilee’s division of assets lecture, watched him place the new cuts of rib-eye in the correct case when she claimed full custody of their potbellied pig, Boss Hog. Even watched as Biff sucked in a big breath and closed his eyes as she threatened to shove his meat-grinder where the sun don’t shine while taking an aggressive step forward.

One step and Biff straightened on an exhale that seemed to originate from his feet. He took in where his wife’s shoes had
ventured and his brows shot up in reprimand, wrinkling his cue-ball head. “Watch yourself, Mari-girl. You know what happens when you cross that line.”

That was all it took. A few simple words, spoken calmly and directly and delivered with a weighted wink, and the woman who was rumored to take out a shoplifter with a casaba melon and a bag of fava beans from fifty feet away covered her mouth with a pudgy hand.

Now there was nothing but silence, and Nate decided that was worse than the arguing. At least the bickering was driven from frustration and anger. Silence, well, that held all kids of emotions that Nate didn’t want to witness. It felt too private, as though he were somehow intruding. But to walk away now would be awkward, so he just stood there, staring at the smoked pig’s head in the display case.

“I’m sorry, Biff,” Marilee finally said. “I didn’t notice. I was so busy…” But it wasn’t her husband, though he was built like a slab of beef, who had her hands trembling or her words trailing off. It was the big white line painted down the middle of the floor that she had, in her state of fury, crossed.

“That’s all right, honey. No harm,” Biff said, maneuvering his massive body around the counter so he could take his wife’s hand. After a little kiss on her cheek, he took the papers from her fingers and set them on top of the display case next to the cocktail sauce. “How about you let me help our customer and then I’ll take a look at the papers?”

Marilee nodded and—holy Christ—the woman was actually blushing. All the way up to her curly grey roots. “You promise you’ll sign them?”

“Never going to happen. But I promise I’ll look at them. You can even cook us up one of your pot pies I love so much,
and while we eat, you can point out every clause if you want to. Then after you’re done showing me how hard you worked, I’ll give you every reason why I’ll never sign,” he said, smiling, and Marilee smiled back.