A Taste of Chardonnay Read online

  “You’re getting pretty good at self-promotion. Ever since I introduced you to the St. Pierres, you took the ball and ran with it. I’m sure you’ve seen the photos. There’ve been some of you and Chardonnay locking lips, and others showing you running together. Even arguing, after the race. You’ve done such a good job convincing people you two are a couple, you almost don’t need me! That’s why I’ve been giving you a lot of free rein lately. Did you notice?”

  Amy’s smile was downright wicked. He stared at her, speechless. Was she kidding?

  “Now, I haven’t let go of the reins entirely. Though I did bend my own rules a little, spoon-feeding the Napa press that old camp fire story, but you know how second-rate small town media can be. Once I gave them the headline, though, they jumped on it. That connection between your father and Chardonnay’s? Heaven-sent! As they say, you can’t make that stuff up!”

  Ryder’s feet felt like they were glued to the floor, his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Which would be more satisfying once he regained his capacity to move? Tearing Amy limb from limb with his bare hands or letting her incriminate herself even further so he could know the full extent of the damage she’d caused?

  She rambled on. “And now, with the challenge intertwined with Chardonnay . . . well, let’s just say people will be on the edge of their seats tonight to see who wins.

  “So. Listen carefully. Tonight’s plan is to get some full-body shots of you with Char. Very hands-on, if you get my drift. And keep trying to position yourself between Char and her sisters. Tame is boring. People want juicy. They want provocative—”

  But Ryder’s tongue had come unstuck. He flagged her with a palm.

  “No, Amy, you listen to me. Do not—I repeat, do not—let your paps anywhere near Char again. Not tonight, not ever. Is that clear?”

  Amy’s face fell. “What? I thought—”

  “You thought wrong. You’ve messed with enough lives with your creepy photographers. I can handle that, but dredging up that story about the fire? That was the limit. How could you be so . . . so . . . callous? People died! My father died. He’s dead, Amy.”

  He turned and started for his room.

  “I’m sorry, Ryder, but it was seven years ago. Ancient history—”

  He whirled back around. “Try telling my mother that. My little sister and brothers.”

  Again, he attempted to leave, but she tailed after him.

  “Okay, okay. Relax. I can understand how they might still be a little sensitive. But Char? I don’t see how it hurts her. She didn’t do anything wrong. And neither did her old man, really. He just happened to be a partner in the ownership of the camp where—”

  Ryder spun round one last time, his face mere inches from hers. He raised his finger under her nose.

  “I mean it, Amy. Do whatever you get paid to do with me. I can take it. But leave my family—and Char—alone. No more stories, no more pictures.”

  He slammed the door to his room.

  But Amy’s final words haunted him. Why should he care about Char’s feelings? He still resented her for holding back what she knew . . . information that tied them together inexorably. And not in a good way.

  The digital clock on the TV caught his eye. His men would be there, at the gala, wondering where he was. And no way was he a quitter. He’d always intended to see this thing through, even though his team’s chances at winning were greatly diminished.

  It was time to go.

  Chapter 30

  Scooping up her long skirt, Char strode as fast as she could from her car to the house with the misshapen chain-link fence. The knit fabric was heavier than it looked. Her silver heels were precarious enough without having to dodge the cracks in the sidewalk. Dirt wasn’t all she was worried about. Though perfectly apropos for a gala, this high-end outfit made her feel like a Disney princess impersonator down here on dusty El Valle Avenue. But there was no time for a costume change.

  The smoky scent of corn tortillas on a hot griddle hit her as she approached the screen door.

  How do you keep the urgency out of a knock? She didn’t want to panic Juanita, but there was no way she wasn’t going to surprise her, showing up on her stoop unannounced in an full-length gown, this time of evening.

  While she waited, she composed her face. She had to make this quick to get to the gala by seven, but she couldn’t disrespect Juanita by demanding answers to intrusive questions, then blithely dismissing her responses to run off to her charity ball.

  “¡Amelia!” Char heard Juanita call to her daughter from the heart of the house. “Quién está en la puerta?”

  Amelia came to the door and gaped at Char as if she had sprouted wings. “Senorita Chardonnay, Mamá.”

  Juanita’s head appeared from around a corner of the dusky kitchen. “One second while I turn the stove off.” A second later she was hurrying toward the door—sure enough, brow already furrowed—wiping her hands on a dish towel. When she saw Char’s fancy dress and updo, her expression was only slightly less awestruck than Amelia’s. She pushed the squeaky door outward. “Come in, come in.” With one glance at Char’s face, she asked, “What is wrong?”

  When Char didn’t immediately reply, Juanita ushered her into the tidy, if sparsely decorated, living room.

  Should she make a lame attempt at small talk or plunge right in?

  “Sit.”

  Char did as she was told, still clutching her dress in her lap. Juanita took a seat catty-corner, and Amelia perched on its stuffed arm, curious and wide-eyed.

  “Nothing is wrong.” Char released her armful of fabric to reassure Juanita with a touch. “I won’t keep you. You’re cooking. It’s just—” She struggled for words. “There’s something I needed to ask you.” She slid her eyes toward Amelia and back. “Grown-up talk.”

  “Amelia, why don’t you show Miss Char your new dress? Go and put it on please.”

  Char watched the child scamper down the hall.

  No more stalling.

  “Juanita . . . it’s about your husband. What was his name?”

  “Gabriel.” She frowned. “What is this about?”

  “What happened to him?”

  Juanita’s chin jerked back at the bluntness of her question. “You don’t know?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s what I came to find out.”

  “It was a fire. Seven years ago.”

  Char’s eyes closed of their own accord. She drew a shaky breath.

  “Where?”

  “At the migrant camp where he was staying. He came here to work, leaving Amelia and me back home in the Michoacán. When Gabriel learned I was pregnant with Juan, he sent for me. He wanted us to get a house here, in the US, to be together. It was too hard, living apart. And with another baby coming . . .” Her eyes grew shiny, and she shrugged. “But I was too late. Gabe died before I arrived.”

  Juan never saw his father.

  Juanita blinked and cocked her head, perplexed. “You did not know this? But it was your papi that owned the camp.”

  Char’s head dropped to her hands.

  When she could speak again, her voice was barely audible. “No. I didn’t know about any of it.”

  Juanita sat back. “But I don’t understand. Why then did you help us so much? Why choose the spot across the street for your outreach mission, if you didn’t know us, want to make up to us?”

  Char’s head spun. All this time, Juanita believed she was somehow trying to atone for Papa’s sins by bringing donations specifically to Juan and Amelia?

  “I wasn’t singling anybody out. I want to help all the families in this neighborhood. Not just yours.” Her eyes bored into Juanita’s then as it dawned on her. “It was you who brought them to me, wasn’t it? Once you and I became friends, you vouched for me with the others. That’s why they came, why they trusted me.”

  Her friend’s guilty smile gave her away.

  “But how did you know? How did you know who I was, who my father was?”

  Jua
nita’s eyebrows went up. “How many beautiful angels with golden hair and the name Chardonnay are there who drive the Mercedes? I read the papers! I see your pictures.” She gifted Char with a fleeting grin before her hand flew to her breast. “Then you also did not know that Ryder’s father . . . ?”

  “The whole thing was kept from me until very recently,” she replied, eyes cast down.

  “But Ryder, he knows of the connection? All the names were in the reports—your papi’s, too. My lawyer showed them to me back then, before I could speak English. When Ryder McBride became this big movie star”—she tapped her temple with her index finger—“I remembered that his father Roland was the one who died with my Gabe.”

  “What made you stay? Why not return to Mexico, to your family?”

  “Juan and Amelia are my family now. Gabe wanted his children to be Americans. To have a fresh start. I bought this house with the insurance money—how else?” She chuckled. “I live frugally. Still, here we are rich, compared to Mexico. We have many friends. We are happy.” There was a peaceful wisdom in her soft brown eyes. “You still haven’t told me. Why are you coming here asking me this, now, this evening?”

  Why was she? She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the information.

  “Is Ryder angry with you?”

  But Char was still thinking of the Garzas. Meeting the older woman’s eyes was one of the hardest things she ever had to do. “I’m so, so sorry, Juanita. For you, and your family. Especially your children. I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

  Juanita drew a resolute breath and lifted Char’s chin with her finger. “You did nothing to be sorry for. And Gabe’s amigo, the man who started the fire by cooking in el dormitorio—er, the bedroom—I forgave him long ago. Mateo was just homesick for his culture. Who knows?” She shrugged. “His English was not so good. Maybe he didn’t understand the rules. It is different in Mexico.”

  “What about Papa?” She had to know.

  “Would anger for your papi bring back my husband?” Suddenly, Juanita jumped out of her seat. “But wait! Why are you here, when you should be at the gala?”

  Of course Juanita knew the ball was tonight. She’d been there to cheer Char on at the race that morning, hadn’t she?

  “You must go now.” She took Char’s arm and urged her up, just as Amelia ran into the room in her festive new dress.

  “Look. See how fancy she is!” With a change in tone, mother proudly motioned toward daughter.

  Amelia twirled, making the wide skirt swish.

  Setting her problems aside, Char bent to touch the cotton. “You look gorgeous,” she exclaimed.

  “And now Miss Char has to go,” said Juanita, “or she will be late to the ball. And I have to finish cooking our dinner.”

  “But—” Char protested.

  Juanita led her by the arm toward the door. “Go. Shoo.”

  Gathering up her hems again, Char turned back from the walk to wave to Amelia and caught a glimpse of Juanita dabbing at her eye with her dish towel, from behind the screen door.

  Chapter 31

  Everybody in the elegant lobby of the Gold Rush Resort looked up when Char dashed in at seven fifteen, slightly breathless. The jog from the far end of the parking lot wasn’t easy in four-inch heels, even for a runner.

  Meri and Savvy had been at the resort for hours, taking care of last-minute details on her behalf.

  As for Papa, she’d firmly banned him from being within a five-mile radius of the gala.

  Papa. She sighed. He was a disaster. Growing grapes was the only thing he did right. Who knew what message Ryder had taken away from their wine-soaked talk?

  After her shower, Ryder was gone, the only sign of him a messy bed, an open bottle of vitamins, and the envelope. Not even a note. Not that one was needed. Cutting loose without so much as a good-bye said it all. It was just as she’d told her sisters. Apparently, nothing she or Papa could ever say could atone for his loss.

  And now, she had to find a way to live with the knowledge that the Southside Migrant Camp fire had also scarred Juanita and her children.

  Juanita said she’d forgiven her, but she’d had seven long years to digest the facts. Seven years to come to grips with her emotions. Maybe, given time, Ryder might be able to give absolution, too. But not many people had it in them to be as gracious as Juanita.

  In the meantime, what could Char do with her whipsawed emotions? How could she get through this night?

  Compartmentalize. Put all the pieces of her shattered heart in a box and set it on a shelf, to come back to later when she could have a proper breakdown. But it wasn’t that easy. Tears kept threatening to overspill her eyes.

  Char swallowed the giant lump in her throat and pasted on a smile at some passing acquaintances.

  Nothing about this summer had turned out as planned. Even her personal best in the half was tainted by the bar fight that had ruined Ryder’s team’s chances. If it weren’t for Wendy smacking Dan, knocking his team out of the running . . .

  No. It had started way before that. If it weren’t for Papa, sharing ownership in the camp . . .

  She tossed her head, as if doing so could shake her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order.

  If only.

  Instead, she summoned the willpower to focus on the cool elegance of the window-lined ballroom, to bring herself back to the present. Soon it would be dark outside, and the panoramic exterior view of manicured grounds would contract to the details of its chocolate brown interior.

  White-clothed tables were piled with a stunning array of auction items collected by the contest participants. From across the room, Char watched Meri put the final touches on her artistic vision, turning Char’s donations into a sensational-looking spread. Just as Char had imagined, there were the colorful baskets overflowing with fruits and vegetables, tied up in bows. Sparkling wine bottles nestled in straw-lined wood boxes. All the gift certificates had been framed in silver, then set on easels. And Meri’s one-of-a-kind necklace sat mounted on black velvet.

  She wove through the tables to her sister. “Meri, you’ve outdone yourself. I can’t thank you enough. The jewelry, the displays . . .”

  A quartet brushed by Char, openly scrutinizing her Grecian goddess gown paired with Meri’s gold chandelier earrings, as they offered their congratulations for winning the half.

  “Ever have the feeling you’re in a zoo?” whispered Meri.

  “They’re looking at you, too, you know. It comes with the terroir.” Their names and faces had attracted the spotlight even before all the buzz about Char and Ryder started. That couldn’t be helped; it had always been that way. And granted, the race had earned Char even more recognition. That was fine, too. She’d worked hard for that.

  What wasn’t fine was notoriety for its own sake. Char had never asked to be a rock star. If people admired her, let it be because she wanted to help those less fortunate. Or because she was a tough competitor on the athletic field. But not because her father was rich or because she’d been seen hanging around town with this year’s Mr. Napa—kissing, running in skimpy shorts, even arguing in public. She’d only been back in town a month, and instead of improving her reputation, she’d made it worse. How could she blame anyone for believing she was just another branch of the most off-the-chain family tree in the valley?

  None of it would’ve mattered, though, if Ryder cared for her as deeply as she did him. His acceptance was all the approval she needed. But the chances of that happening were close to nil now. It was useless to dwell on it.

  How had she ever, even for one day, been brash enough to dream she could have it all: a stable family, romantic love, and the chance to give back?

  Papa was out of control. Her chance at romantic love was ruined. Now, all her hopes rested on one last thing, the only dream she had left: her professional goal of helping others. The grand prize.

  Ryder held the lobby door for Amy as Xavier St. Pierre’s black limo pulled under the awni
ng of the resort entrance.

  Xavier stepped out himself while his driver dashed out to get the door for his companion. “Ryder! Une seconde. I would like a word with you.”

  Ryder froze. Now what? And who the hell was that young chickadee with St. Pierre? Miranda? Jeezus. She must be a third of his age. How much weirder could this day get?

  Amy looked back. “Miranda, isn’t it? Why don’t we go inside?” she said, extending a hand to her. “Let them talk.”

  Sometimes Amy Smart actually lived up to her name. To Miranda’s questioning look, Xavier gave a curt nod. She swept by Ryder with a flirtatious smile before disappearing through the door, Amy close behind.

  “My daughter scolded me after our little talk this afternoon,” said St. Pierre, peering down his nose. “She said I gave you too much wine.”

  You did. Still, Ryder took responsibility for his own actions. He was a man. He should’ve exercised more self-control.

  “Do you remember the things that I told you?”

  Some. “Which things, in particular?”

  “About the fire. The camp.”

  Disjointed fragments. An illegal cookstove. Extra fuel sitting around. A yellow envelope. Ryder was having a hard time piecing them all together.

  “If you remember anything, remember this. Nothing we talked of is the fault of Chardonnay. She was an innocent child when it happened. Seventeen. In school, in the east. So please, if you must blame someone, blame me. Do not punish my daughter.”

  He started toward the door, then paused.

  “Read the reports. It’s all there.”

  Char had just sat down at the table reserved for her team when she caught movement near the double doors across the ballroom. She looked up, and in walked a radiant Ryder McBride. If he felt anywhere near as good as he looked, his nap had done wonders. A million watts of electricity ricocheted through the room. Tablemates nudged and whispered. Necks craned, heads dodging left and right to get a better view of Napa’s biggest star.

  More tuxes and flashy gowns materialized, packing into the space until it vibrated with movement and conversation. Men reached out to slap Ryder’s back or shake his hand. Moon-eyed women stood on their tiptoes to touch their cheeks to his in air-kisses. If Char thought she’d ever been the center of attention, that was nothing compared to the stir he was causing. But unlike her, Ryder seemed to take it all in stride, as he made his way to his team table.