A Taste of Chardonnay Page 14

  “Tuesday? Actually, I meant, like, now.”

  Crickets.

  “I—I’m with a client. All the way over on Redwood . . .”

  “I’m prepared to make an offer. Today.”

  Char couldn’t put it off any longer. Even if she had to go get a second job and a mortgage in her own name. She couldn’t gamble on waiting until next week, when the challenge would be over and Ryder—win or lose—might make off with her building. He might have taken her heart. But she wouldn’t let him take her purpose.

  “I think I can break away.”

  “Thanks. Oh, one more thing,” she said, remembering her car was still up at Diablo. “Can you stop by my place and pick me up? It’s on your way. Just follow Redwood to Dry Creek—”

  “I don’t need directions,” said Bill. “Everybody knows where Domaine St. Pierre is.”

  All Ryder needed was a nice, long nap. Instead, he dragged himself to the ball field in time to pick up the twins, then stopped at home just long enough for a quick shower before setting out to retrieve Char’s car.

  He was sapped. But a few days without running or answering fire calls and he’d be good to go.

  His mom harangued him about going back out. Then the boys argued like the teenagers they were when they found out Ryder wasn’t going to let either of them anywhere near Char’s Mercedes.

  “Aw, c’mon, Ry! Just let us drive part of the way.”

  “I’ll let you drive my Range Rover next time you come down to LA,” he bargained.

  “Here,” he added, tossing his keys into the air. “Whoever catches these can drive the truck back to Domaine St. Pierre.”

  The Mercedes was forgotten as the twins tangled for the chance to helm Ryder’s beloved old pickup. A surge of gratitude swelled through him. The boys’ acceptance of him as a father substitute had gone a long way toward getting them all through the past seven years. He’d be sure to follow up on his promise during their next trip to SoCal.

  Brian won the key toss. “You guys know where Char’s place is. Take this,” he said, handing Ben some cash, “and do me a favor. Stop by that dry cleaner—the one on Trancas—and pick up my tux. Then go get yourselves some sandwiches. Grab one for me, too. I have some business to take care of at Char’s winery, but it won’t take long. Come get me when you’re done.”

  Ryder hit the button on Char’s key fob, and her rose perfume enveloped him as he slid onto the smooth leather seat and started the German engine humming.

  A quick glance at the high-tech dash and he was on his way.

  Highway 29 was an easy shot through the valley, even minus the sedan’s superb handling. That gave him ample time to take a closer look around the luxe, cream-colored interior.

  From beneath some crisp fliers promoting the challenge peeked something feminine and familiar: the ivory sweater Char had been wearing last night. It was only a scrap of wool, but it awakened something powerful deep inside Ryder. Visions of their lovemaking came rushing back to him. Char’s lush mouth. Her dainty breasts. Her voice, calling out his name when they came together.

  His fingers itched to touch the sweater that had touched her skin, but something—propriety? good judgment?—kept his hands glued to the steering wheel. That innocent-looking piece of nothingness was more than just a sweater. It was endowed with a magic that sent his thoughts reeling, his blood pumping.

  He caved, of course, carefully drawing the material out from under the fliers with his free hand. As he fingered its texture, he noticed the earth-colored smudge tarnishing a cuff.

  The recollection of her sweet curves, still so fresh in his mind, tempted him further, and he gathered the material to his nose. The smell of Eden came rushing back, and he closed his eyes as long as he dared while driving, savoring it. When he touched the soft yarn to his cheek, he felt himself rising against his will beneath the steering wheel.

  Disgust sent his fingers flying apart as if scalded. The ball of fluff slumped onto his groin. One glimpse of her sweater tenting his hard-on only made things worse.

  But curiosity wouldn’t leave him alone. Ryder might know Char’s body. But he barely knew her mind at all.

  What kind of music did she listen to? He touched a button, and his all-time favorite pop station—from way back in high school—came on. Another was programmed to talk radio whose political leanings meshed with his.

  Char. If you’d just been honest with me.

  But what if she had? What if she’d told him the camp fire was her dad’s fault, before she’d taken him on that after-hours tour of the vineyard?

  He never would have touched her; that was for damn sure.

  Was that what he wanted? Did he really wish last night had never happened?

  Chapter 26

  Bill Diamond pulled up to the building on El Valle and cut the engine. Char knew he was waiting for her cue, yet she could only sit there zombielike and gaze at it through the windshield while inside her head, her thoughts were spinning at a hundred miles an hour.

  “So.” Bill sniffed and put his hand on the door handle. “You sure about this?”

  She turned deadly serious eyes on him. “Let’s do it.”

  The real question was, how? She’d only won the female division of the half. Stephen Fuller, the male winner, could still beat her out of the fifty thou, once they juggled their handicaps. If that happened, the only way Char could honor a signed sales contract on this building was if she won the whole shebang. The whole million dollars.

  Just how likely was that? She had no freaking clue. Nobody was allowed to talk about how much they’d raised in donations. She knew how much she’d raised to the penny, but she had nothing to compare it to. She’d tried to make a guesstimate, based on past McDaniel Foundation figures that were now public. But the amounts raised varied so much from team to team, year to year, they were practically useless. Throw in the nationwide economic conditions, and who knew how much this year’s competition would bring in?

  She took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. The very possibility that she, Chardonnay St. Pierre, could actually be hours away from funding her very own foundation was almost too heady to consider. And yet, here she was, taking a gamble on exactly that. Because as far as she knew, Ryder had just as great a chance of winning as she did. And she wasn’t going to risk his making a deal tomorrow morning, even if it was a Sunday.

  “C’mon,” said Bill, opening his car door, putting one foot on the pavement. “Let’s take one more spin around the building.”

  “No,” said Char with a stilling hand on his arm.

  Slowly he climbed back in.

  “Do you have the paperwork?”

  Savvy had explained the process to Char earlier. All she needed today was a good-faith deposit—which she would lose, of course, if she reneged on the contract. She and Bill had just come from the bank, where Char had emptied her personal savings account and had a cashier’s check drawn up.

  “Got it right here,” said Bill, reaching between the seats for his briefcase in the back.

  “Some things are still done the old-fashioned way—on paper, with a gazillion copies.”

  He walked her through the contracts page by page, being careful to make sure she understood the considerable financial obligation she was about to commit to, but Char only heard every other word. She’d been through the basics already with Savvy.

  “How can I make an offer before I know if I’ve won?” she’d asked her almost-lawyer sister. “Everyone will know the contest isn’t over yet and I don’t have the money.”

  “And everyone will also know that you’re the daughter of Xavier St. Pierre. Believe me, you’re not a very big risk,” she’d said.

  “Meaning, they think Papa will make the mortgage payments if I can’t?”

  Savvy just smiled tightly in ascension. “Of course. Now, I know that’s not the plan. You’re asking me about the legal aspect, and I’m telling you.”

  “That’s that,” Bill was sayin
g when they got to the final page. He handed her his pen. “Sign here.”

  Without giving it any more thought, Char scribbled her name on the dotted line.

  “And here. And here. Aaaaaaaand, here.”

  Bill gathered the papers together, stuck them back into his briefcase, and started the car.

  “I’ll call the seller this afternoon, but I don’t anticipate any problems. You’re offering the whole asking price, and it’s been sitting here for over three years. So I’d say it’s yours.”

  Chapter 27

  Ryder steeled himself as he rang the doorbell of the St. Pierre mansion.

  “I’m returning Chardonnay’s car,” he said to the uniformed housekeeper who opened the door.

  For a moment she seemed to think he was some sort of deliveryman. Then, in a flash of recognition, her eyes widened and a smile almost burst her Gallic cheeks.

  “Mais oui! Hello, Mr. McBride! I saw your movie!” She stepped aside. “Come in. I will tell mademoiselle you are here.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am. Er, I came to see Mr. St. Pierre.”

  The woman’s smile ebbed, but she nodded him in. “Of course. Please, sit down. I will find him.”

  The time ticked by. Those were some of the longest minutes of Ryder’s life, trapped there in that Architectural Digest of a house, waiting for the man who was responsible for—or at the very least, involved in—his father’s death.

  Restless, he got up and wandered around the elegant room, haunted by Dan’s words of warning about the legendary St. Pierres. If Dan were here now, he’d point to this palace as proof that Char’s dad was one of the biggest vintners in the valley. It didn’t automatically follow that he was crooked, but stack that kind of clout up against the lives of two illegals and a no-name firefighter. If St. Pierre had been negligent, what attorney would’ve mounted a case against him?

  Ryder took the edge of his seat again. He rested his elbows on his knees and matched his fingertips together, thinking. Where was the man, anyway? Could be out in the caves or even in the vineyards. Where, coincidentally, Ryder had ravaged his daughter only the night before.

  Ryder rubbed his damp palms on his pants. He swallowed, the sides of his throat grinding together like sandpaper.

  What was he going to say to the guy when he finally showed up? Is it your fault that my dad’s dead?

  When St. Pierre arrived, Ryder stood, relieved. Anything was better than sitting there waiting, reliving bad memories and dreading the coming showdown.

  “Ryder!”

  Char’s father smelled like cigars and spices. A few short years ago, Ryder wouldn’t have recognized St. Pierre’s aftershave as several notches above the bug spray that passed for department store colognes. But his time in Hollywood had exposed him to some of life’s finer things.

  At his side the older man held a faded yellow envelope.

  “Such a pleasure to see you again. My apologies for keeping you waiting. I was searching for something to show to you. Come, sit by the pool. We will be more comfortable there.”

  On the shaded patio, Xavier opened a glass-fronted cooler. “I have wine.” He grinned ironically.

  It was surreal. Like watching George Hamilton in a TV commercial for wine, pulling a bottle of homegrown from his own cellar. Except that this homegrown went for around a hundred bucks a pop.

  “I’ll have a glass.” It was only midday. But there was a first for everything. Might help his nerves.

  Xavier seemed clueless as to why Ryder was there. Apparently, he didn’t keep up with the tabloids, either. After ceremoniously cutting off the foil, pulling the cork, and pouring the wine, he inserted his nose into his glass.

  “Ahhhh.” He inhaled audibly. “Fresh.”

  Pinching the stem between his index finger and thumb, he tipped it to his lips.

  “Sharp and petrolly, with the tang of cat pee.”

  Ryder’s surprised expression made St. Pierre throw back his head with laughter. “Is a good thing.”

  He looked from Ryder’s face to his glass and back expectantly, willing him to drink.

  “D’accord? You like?”

  What could he say? It tasted like white wine.

  “Good.” Ryder nodded, licking his parched lips.

  St. Pierre opened a lacquered box on the side table.

  “Cigar?”

  More smoke—that’s just what he needed.

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Bien.”

  Xavier sat back in his thickly padded chair and crossed his linen-clad legs with the air of a man of means.

  “First, I will tell you why it is that I cannot speak the good English. People assume I have lived in the United States all of my life, but this is not the case. Of course, I was born in California. But my parents, they were often preoccupied with making the business of wine, here in the valley. So it was better for them if I went away to school in Paris, where we yet have family. When I was finished, I was already eighteen years old. Too late to lose the accent.”

  Ryder opened his mouth to reply, but St. Pierre held up a halting hand.

  “Now. While I am very happy for your visit, I am not so stupid as to think it is for the pleasure of my company. You have been talking to Chardonnay . . .”

  Ryder’s head jerked up and his eyes locked on St. Pierre’s steely gaze for a few pregnant seconds.

  “And you would like to know about the fire at the Southside Migrant Camp,” he said, calmly lighting his stogie.

  The youth that had had to grow up way too fast yearned to jump up and run out of that room, through the huge house, and out the front door, only stopping when he was well off St. Pierre terroir. But the man that he’d become kept Ryder firmly planted on his lounge chair. He drained half his glass in one swallow, surprised at how well it quenched his thirst. Maybe he should drink more wine.

  “I’ve waited a long time. Tell me what happened.”

  Xavier leaned in. “First, I want to say how sorry I am that your father’s life was lost in this terrible tragedy. I am looking, but I cannot find the right words to make you understand my compassion. Even though it was seven years ago, it still seems like yesterday to you, no?”

  The question didn’t need a response.

  “I have thought of your family many times,” Xavier said, tapping his temple for emphasis. “Please—tell me about them. Then I will tell you the rest.”

  He refilled their glasses.

  When Ryder considered where to start, St. Pierre gave him a prompt.

  “How was it that you have become an actor? Is it true what they say . . . that you were discovered by an agent in the church at Yountville?”

  Ryder told him how it had all gone down at Saint Joan’s, after the mass commemorating the three-year anniversary of Dad’s death. Mom and the kids had already left, but Ryder had lingered behind when the agent had approached him with her business card.

  Talk about a game changer.

  St. Pierre smiled then. “This LA angel. She is Amy, no?”

  Ryder nodded. “I think you know what happened after that.”

  “Yes, well, everybody who loves the films knows the name of Ryder McBride. You are to be commended for your success. As you know, I too am a father, and I can tell you that your papa would be proud of you. Very proud. And your family today—they are well?”

  “They are. My brothers are in college. My sister’s going into middle school.”

  “And your maman?”

  He nodded again. “She’s good, too. I’m hanging out at home this summer, trying to help her fix up the place. Thanks to the profits from my last film, she’ll own it free and clear before long.”

  “Encore. For this, you have my greatest respect.”

  He sliced the foil off another bottle of wine. Ryder knew it wasn’t a good idea, yet when he covered his glass with his palm, St. Pierre appeared to take offense.

  “But we must drink to the health of your family.”

  The cold liquid felt so g
ood—nice and soothing—going down.

  When that was done, St. Pierre filled their glasses yet again and went over to sit next to him.

  “And now I believe it is my turn.”

  He drew a dramatic breath.

  “Today, when the workers come up from the Michoacán, many bring with them their families. They rent the apartments, the houses. Many want the citizenship. Everywhere in the valley, there is great change in the way that migrant workers live.

  “Seven years ago, these things were very different. The Southside Migrant Farmworker Camp was only one of many camps created especially for the migrants. As you know, there are thousands of acres here, and not enough men to do the work. It has always been this way. Many single men were coming from Mexico for tilling, tying up the vines, irrigation, and of course to pick the fruit—often by hand. Before the camps, sometimes they were sleeping outdoors . . . in tents . . . anywhere they could find.

  “We—some other growers and myself—pooled our resources to provide places for the workers to sleep, to eat. Because they work many hours each day for only a few months, they are only spending nights in these camps before returning south of the border.

  “The growers cannot oversee these camps alone, because we must supervise all the tasks that go into the making of the wine, from deciding which grapes to plant through marketing the final product. We hired what is called an ag management company to operate the camps. They provide an on-site manager, housekeeper, maintenance worker, et cetera.

  “These camps are like motels. The men who live there are prohibited from cooking in their rooms. There is a separate . . . how do you say . . . mess hall for meals. But, as we all know, some people, they do not obey the rules.”

  Funny that, coming from a man with a reputation for never playing by society’s dictates.

  “This terrible fire . . . he was an accident.” Xavier placed a hand on Ryder’s arm, shaking it for emphasis. “A cooking flame that got out of control in the room of the workers who died.”

  After all the talking, there was an awkward silence while the man eyed him expectantly.