A Taste of Chardonnay Page 13

  At least all of his men were ahead of him, where they still had a chance. Scant consolation, what with Dan on the couch with an ice pack on the bridge of his busted-up nose.

  Again, he ran down the mental list of his runners. Was there anyone he’d overlooked who had a remote chance of homering?

  It wasn’t that his team wasn’t strong. Their bunker gear came in at sixty-five pounds, and that was before the mask and air pack. It was just that only Dan and Ryder had any kick in the long haul. The plan all along had been for Dan and Ryder to push for PBs. That was just not going to happen today.

  Not that he’d end up roadkill . . . there were still a bunch of guys behind him. But he was going to have to face the fact that, barring some miracle, he wasn’t going to finish in the money.

  Good-bye, building. And most likely, good-bye, grand prize.

  Chapter 24

  Now that she’d finally hit her stride, Char wove in, around, and ahead of runners of both genders. At mile-marker twelve, her heart was thundering in her chest, but she had to keep going. The arms and legs of a woman she’d been closely trailing suddenly stiffened up like a toy soldier’s. She collapsed to the pavement, and Char veered around her and two white-shirted EMTs that came to her rescue. Poor thing. That’s what happened when you hit the wall.

  Now Char could see only men ahead.

  But that didn’t mean there wasn’t another female up front, out of sight. Or even on the good side of the finish line.

  That’s when she saw him. His pace was steady, but slow. Way too slow. He should be passing her, not the other way around.

  She studied him from behind. Something was clearly off. Without trying to, she was gaining on him. When she came up on him, she registered shock at his appearance. His face was a mask of agony. Deep lines were etched into his forehead. He was practically gulping for every breath.

  “Ry. You okay?” she managed to spit out.

  He didn’t respond. Just kept sucking air.

  “Ry.”

  She reached out and touched his forearm.

  “I’m. Fine.”

  “Your lungs?”

  “I said I’m fine.” But the effort of saying four words started a spasm of coughing.

  She stayed with him, her ambition suddenly forgotten, displaced by concern.

  “Don’t talk,” she ordered.

  From the sideline, someone thrust cups of water at them. Ry poured his down his throat, then Char offered him hers. He pushed her hand away, the precious drops splashing uselessly to the blacktop.

  The hours of grueling practice that Char had put herself through to get here flashed through her head. The ice packs and the heat wraps. The chafing and the sore muscles.

  The pain of watching Ryder struggle was worse than all of that put together.

  Just as she considered forcibly dragging him off to the nearest first aid tent, he spoke again.

  “Go”—he winced—“away! Don’t—want—you!”

  The knife of his rejection tore into her heart. This wasn’t just his pride talking.

  He knew. He knew everything.

  It was the thing she’d dreaded above all others since she’d been ten years old . . . discarded by her own parents. Back then, she’d only suspected she’d been tossed aside. But this—this was blatant, undisguised rejection.

  She had to get away from him. Now.

  She dug down deep, deeper than she’d ever reached, and she ran.

  Away from her hurt. Away from her humiliation. Away from Ryder McBride.

  When Meri’s lilac streaks came into view, the end was in sight for Char. Savvy was there, too—in black, of course, looking ready for court, even though it was a Saturday.

  Char had been watching for her sisters. She’d never dreamed Papa would be there as well.

  All three of them leaned out to brush her palm as she sprinted across the finish line. Her shoe chip activated the electronic timer: 60:52:50. One hour, fifty-two minutes, and fifty seconds.

  Her EFT—estimated finishing time—was one fifty-nine. She’d bested that by almost seven minutes.

  “You won! You’re the first woman to cross!” And then her family’s arms were around her, surrounding her in a rare group hug.

  Meri grabbed a handful of her shirt. “Char! It’s you or the fastest guy for the fifty thousand! It’s down to just you two!”

  “You were amazing,” blurted Savvy, pressing a water bottle into her hand. “We’re so proud!”

  Then there was Papa, his arms outspread. It was too much. She knew he loved her, but he’d never been very touchy-feely. His overt pride was conspicuous to anyone watching. It brought out a buried, childish need for parental approval in Char, and she fell against his chest and burst into tears. His own eyes moist, he kissed her cheeks and raised her arms high, spinning her for everyone to see.

  “Chardonnay St. Pierre, le vainqueur! Zee winner!” he exclaimed, to cheers and a smattering of applause.

  But she hadn’t won yet. The overall winner had to be figured out based on the male and female handicaps. They wouldn’t find out who’d actually won the money until tonight at the gala.

  Someone slipped a medal over her head, snapped a picture, and draped a crinkly foil blanket around her shoulders.

  The press stepped in then, jostling her with their intrusive cameras, large and small. “Give her room. Let her breathe!” Meri scolded. But for just this moment, Char didn’t mind the attention. For once, she’d earned it.

  As they made their way to the hospitality tent, Char noticed a different group hovering around the fringe. They were carrying signs, and their voices were most decidedly not congratulatory.

  “Poacher!” one of them pointed at Papa.

  “Eagle killer!” yelled another.

  “Over there!” said a reporter. The TV cameramen who’d been filming Char spun to get an angle of her with the protestors.

  Meri and Savvy flew to her side.

  “Keep walking toward the tent,” said Savvy.

  Meanwhile, Papa confronted his foes head-on. “Idiots! What vintner would kill an eagle?” he shouted, hands in the air. “The big birds, they eat the little birds who eat the grapes! I only wanted to scare him away from my fish! ”

  Char spun around from where her sisters were dragging her across the square, pulling them to an awkward halt when Papa yelled again. He was right in the face of a demonstrator. Jogging toward them were two cops.

  Savvy sighed to Meri. “Take Char. I’ll go back and handle this.”

  Char began to tail Savvy, but Meri jerked her back by the arm. “Char! Listen to Savvy. You don’t want that.”

  Char gave in, allowing herself to be led like a child. In the past twenty-four hours she had endured the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Euphoria, rejection, humiliation, triumph . . . she was beside herself with a combination of endorphins, embarrassment over Papa’s old and new exploits, and concern for Ryder’s health.

  That’s when Dr. Simon stepped up to her.

  “Chardonnay. Congratulations.”

  The warmth of her mentor’s arms barely registered. She was numb as a zombie.

  “I think she needs to sit down,” said Meri. “Can someone grab her another bottle of water? Some juice?”

  “Can’t sit. Need to walk a little . . .”

  Distractedly, she looked around. Where was Ryder?

  When she spied the results board, she slipped through her well-wishers’ hands, past their looks of bewilderment toward an official who was busy scribbling times onto the board as rapidly as they came in.

  The winning male was a Stephen Fuller, of the Wine Country Community Group.

  It all came down to Fuller and her for the bonus money.

  Her gaze traveled farther down the list until she found him.

  Ryder McBride: DNF.

  Did not finish.

  “It’s a real heartbreaker, isn’t it? After all the effort he put into this . . .”

  The woman standi
ng at Char’s shoulder looked vaguely familiar, if awkward in her designer dress and heels. She and Savvy were the only ones for miles around who weren’t wearing athletic gear. She stuck out a manicured hand. “I’m Amy. We met at your party two weeks ago.”

  Char drew a blank. Her expression must’ve showed it.

  “Amy,” the woman repeated, loud and slow, as if to a child. “Ryder’s publicist?”

  “Where is he?” asked Char. Her voice sounded remote, even to her own ears.

  “In that first aid tent.”

  It was easy to see where Amy was pointing by the crowd surrounding it.

  Elbowing past reporters and fans, Char came to an inner circle of Ryder’s teammates, some facing outward to fend off those who were trying to get to the movie star–fireman.

  When they broke ranks to let her through, she found him lying on a cot. His beautiful brown eyes were closed. An oxygen mask obscured the now-famous nose and mouth.

  Ryder cursed his stupid pride. He was an idiot.

  He knew better than to attempt this run while he was still recovering from smoke inhalation.

  There went fifty k, and there went the new FRF headquarters.

  Dammit.

  But there was more on his mind than losing the down payment on the building.

  He’d known when Char had come upon him during the race that he didn’t have a chance. But he hadn’t wanted to ruin hers.

  He’d seen what she was doing. It was too easy, her staying with him at that pansy-ass pace. She was holding back. No: It was him who was holding her back, all because he couldn’t catch his breath.

  But he’d messed that up, too. When he’d said he didn’t want her, what he’d meant to say was that he didn’t want her help. But he hadn’t had enough air to finish the sentence.

  Still, why did he even care? The woman was completely bogus, just like Dan said.

  Yeah, he was a freakin’ genius . . . buying that sweet, innocent act. She was just as self-serving as she accused actors of being.

  Char had known full well what Dan had been referring to at the pasta party . . . why he got slapped by her own teammate. And yet she never mentioned a word of it in Ryder’s truck, when she was cataloging all her old man’s sins.

  What were they again? His throbbing head made it hard to think, but the oxygen was helping. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it’d been when they’d hauled his sorry ass in here on that stretcher.

  Her cousin’s a druggie . . . That’s right. Her dad has a thing for koi and MAWs. And her mother had deserted her.

  Granted, she deserved sympathy for that last one.

  Just like he’d deserved to know that it was her son of a bitch “Papa” who—

  “Ryder?” asked a female voice.

  God damn it.

  He shifted the arm he’d tossed across his eyes to shut out the light. When he saw Char standing over him, he let it fall back again.

  Next thing he knew an EMT was poking at him.

  “How is he?” Char was asking.

  “He’s been on oxygen about twenty minutes.” There was a pause, and then the EMTs voice came again. “How’re you doing there, Ryder?”

  “Ryder. Talk to me,” said Char.

  ‘Talk to me?’ Couldn’t a guy get any peace around here?

  Slowly, deliberately, he sat up. A glance at Char’s worried expression made him sigh and run a finger around the mask’s elastic strap. He pulled it down over his ears and left it dangling around his neck.

  “Let me get this straight, Char. You want me to talk to you? Seems to me there’s some talking you should have been doing last night, before—” He coughed, and the EMT whipped out a blood pressure cuff.

  “Maybe you should put the oxygen back on,” Char suggested.

  Jeezus, would the woman make up her mind? Did she want him to talk to her or put on the damn mask?

  “I know. You’re right. I was wrong,” she said.

  Ryder tried to be patient while his pressure was checked, then slipped off the mask completely.

  “I’m through with this,” he said, handing it to the medic.

  “If you say so, boss. Your vitals are strong. Just take it easy getting up.”

  Char tried to assist when he came rockily to his feet, but he brushed her hand away.

  “Ryder. Let me take you to the hospital. A doctor. Something.”

  “I’m fine. Got an appointment for next week.”

  He ripped off his racing bib and threw it to the ground as he stalked out of the tent, Char one step behind, reporters bringing up the rear.

  “So what is it, Chardonnay?” he bit out. “Tell me. Tell me what you should have told me last night, when you were reciting all of your family’s shortcomings. I think you left something out.”

  She stuttered, but he couldn’t control his impatience.

  “Is it true? Did your Papa”—he spat out the French-accented word with derision—“own that camp?”

  “Yes. But he didn’t manage it. A management company ran it.”

  “Oh, so he wasn’t in charge. Is that what he told you?”

  “Yes . . . he said—”

  “You think for one minute he didn’t make all the decisions regarding that camp? The maintenance? The living conditions?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. All I know is what he told me—that it was an accident.”

  “Well, that’s more than I knew.”

  On second thought, he was through discussing it.

  “I’ll drop off your car this afternoon.”

  She jogged to catch up with him. “My car is the least of my concerns. I have an extra set of keys. I’ll get one of my sisters to take me up to Diablo. You ought to go straight home and rest.”

  When they reached his truck, he yanked open his door so abruptly she almost ran into it. The trailing photographers, though keeping a respectable distance, got their angles, crouched, and clicked.

  “Ryder, please be careful driving. Where are you going?”

  “My brothers’ baseball game.” He started the engine and rammed it into drive. “From there, Diablo. You’ll have your car by one.”

  “But . . .”

  All Ryder wanted was to get the hell out of there. So many disconnected thoughts clogged his pounding head. So many emotions clamored for control of his heart. He needed to sort it all out. But Char’s white knuckles gripped the truck’s window ledge like her life depended on keeping it there.

  “What about tonight?” she asked, concern etched on her forehead. “The gala? Do you think you’ll feel well enough?”

  He checked the time on the dash: eleven oh five.

  “Ask me in about eight hours.”

  He tapped the gas pedal just enough to make her step back. But he’d only rolled a few yards when he braked sharp. Leading with his elbow, he twisted out the window to ask her an important question. When he saw how forlorn she looked standing there, the glacier of his pain melted, but only a degree or two.

  “Where’d you place?”

  She opened those pretty turned-up lips to speak, but the words caught.

  “I—I won.”

  Chapter 25

  Char stared frozenly out the window of Savvy’s car during the short drive home, only vaguely aware of her sisters’ chatter up front. The stillness of her body belied her emotions, whipping through her like an out of control tilt-a-wheel.

  The satisfaction of winning the female division of the race filled a big black hole inside, in a way that no amount of chocolate ever could.

  But Ryder’s team had lost its chance, partly because of the lingering effects of a brushfire on Ryder’s lungs, but also because of a dredged-up story of Papa’s involvement in a long-ago migrant camp fire. Angrily, she brushed away the tears that stung her eyes. If there was one thing she should have learned in her turbulent life, it was how to take the bad with the good. Even with all the awful stuff that had happened in the last twenty-four hours—Dan getting punched over Papa’s reputation, the pr
o-eagle protestors stealing the scene at the race, Ryder’s DNF—she’d somehow found the stamina to win that race. No one, not the spectators on the side lines—not even her sisters—knew how much psychic energy she’d had to muster to marshal enough physical strength to do that, after everything else she’d been through. That was the kind of deep-rooted power that was invisible. Character wasn’t dependent on what anyone else thought. It had nothing to do with having blond hair, blue eyes, and a father worth millions.

  She’d always told herself she didn’t need a man. Today’s victory was proof.

  Thank goodness. Because clearly, making love hadn’t affected Ryder the way it had affected her. If it had, he should be able to accept anything Papa had done without punishing her, shouldn’t he? But no. This morning, he’d destroyed her fragile bliss by shunning her compassion in the middle of the race.

  She closed her eyes to try to clear her head. What exactly had she been expecting of Ryder, once he found out about Papa’s connection to the migrant camp? Anger? Yes. Recriminations? Of course. But after all that, she’d hoped he would understand her reluctance to ruin their chance at a relationship before it even started.

  But to forgive Papa for killing his father? Forgive her for covering it up? If it weren’t so serious, it would be laughable. What kind of man could forgive all that?

  No one. Not even a movie star–fireman.

  Then and there, Char squared her shoulders and resolved to let go.

  Last night in the vineyard, she’d made a fool of herself over something as inconsequential as romantic love. She let her guard down this one time and almost got caught. And with an actor, no less! She couldn’t let that happen again. Ever. She couldn’t afford to put her heart in harm’s way again.

  At home, back in her room, she changed clothes and made a phone call. She needed to return to her original focal point.

  “Bill? I need you. Can you meet me at the El Valle Avenue property?”

  “Sure. Let’s see here. Will next Tuesday afternoon work? I don’t have anything between three and four. . . .”