A Taste of Merlot (12 page)

“Here we are,” said Mark. The impressive new stadium loomed into view. He hung his parking sticker from his rearview and concentrated on finding his designated space.

“No, Gates definitely didn't have anything like this,” murmured Meri, almost to herself.

She hadn't even realized there was still such a thing as “dating.” No wonder her anticipation over going on an actual date with a straight-laced businessman and his friends was tinged with a touch of panic. As usual, she'd accepted Mark's invitation on impulse—typical Meri. But it was too late to back out now. She sat helplessly in the passenger seat as he wound his Audi through the vehicles and people filling up the stadium.

F
rom the moment Meri stepped out of Mark's car into the raucous buzz of the parking-lot party, her senses were assaulted with a welcome dollop of down-home. The poignant scent of wood smoke from a hibachi teased her nose. Happy-tipsy fans strolled arm in arm. State-of-the-art motor homes sported enormous TV screens on their exterior walls.

Game? What game?
There was enough theater in the parking lot to keep her entertained all day. Pockets of war-painted young men sang bawdy fight songs, and kids passed footballs, narrowly missing passers-by, while folks of all sizes, shapes, and colors stuffed themselves at portable buffet tables draped with every material from red checkered plastic to white linen.

At her awestruck silence, Mark had a moment of concern. “What do you think?”

She gave him a wide-eyed grin. “I feel like I blinked and woke up in a foreign country. Where has this been all my life?”

“You mean to tell me Gates didn't have a football team?” His laughter was tinged with relief.

An SUV pulled up, spilling two wisecrackers decked out in gold and crimson.

“There he is, the man! The king of kielbasa! The sultan of salsa!” said a large, bearded redhead with mischievous brown eyes. He grabbed Mark's hand in a multifaceted handshake that ended in a bear hug. “And this must be Meri,” he said, thrusting out a meaty paw.

“Meri, meet James,” said Mark. “Don't worry, he's a pussy. That is, a pussy-cat.”

Because he was Mark's friend, he only intimidated her a little. “Sorry, I don't know the secret handshake,” Meri laughed, giving his hand a simple pump.

“All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”

A striking young woman of mixed ethnicity carrying an oversized shopping bag appeared at his side. “Meet Jasmine.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Jasmine smiled brightly. “James, could you get the table set up? This thing's heavy.”

Mark led Meri to the back of the vehicle, where the other couple was unloading a cooler and other sundries. There was a repeat of the elaborate greeting ritual. “I'd like you to meet Hannah and DeVon.”

“So you're the one,” said Hannah knowingly.

Meri raised a brow at Mark.

“DeVon says you're all he's talked about the last few days.”

Mark let that pass. “You bring the deli rolls? 'Cause these are the best brats yet. I did them in a whole stick of butter and sliced onion.”

“Woo
eee!
I can smell 'em all ready,” said DeVon, with an eye toward the Audi's trunk where the foil pan sat. “My eyes are burning.”

Meri sniffed her shirtsleeve.

James chuckled. “Too late now. No telling what you'll smell like by the time this day's over.”

“James!” Jasmine swatted him. “Try to make a good impression, would you, for once in your life?”

Jasmine was worried about
Meri
liking
them
? Meri was already chanting
James-and-Jasmine, DeVon-and-Hannah. James-and-Jasmine, DeVon-and-Hannah
to herself, determined to commit their names to memory.

At first, she felt like a sore thumb, watching everybody else set up the tables and the Coleman stove and ice the beer. Clearly they'd been doing this for some time. Each person had his or her job. She wondered if Mark had always been a fifth wheel, until today.

“Here, throw this on the table, will you?” A creased cloth came flying through the air, tossed by Hannah.

“Damn! Forgot cups. You bring any?” DeVon asked Mark.

Mark pulled his keys out and popped the trunk from a distance. “Mer, I know I have some in there somewhere. Look under the blanket.”

Once Mark was warming up the brats and James the Giant was scooping crab dip onto dainty leaves of endive, Hannah and Jasmine settled down in their camp chairs with beers.

“You want one?” asked Hannah, dipping into the cooler. “It's an IPA.”

Another first
. Meri accepted the icy bottle.
Wouldn't Napa laugh to see the daughter of Xavier St. Pierre drinking an India Pale Ale?
Discreetly, she watched what the others did to see if it was twist-off or she'd need an opener.

“What a week!” groaned Hannah. “ADHD is the bane of my existence. If this is what my school year is going to be like, I'll never make it to June.”

“You or one of your students?” asked Jasmine.

“She's a riot, isn't she?” Hannah asked Meri drily.

Jasmine leaned into Meri, bringing her into her confidence. “Hannah teaches first grade. Wait 'til you hear her stories. Half of them'll crack you up, the other half'll break your heart.”

“Look who's talking: the ER nurse!” Hannah exclaimed. “Nobody has stories like nurses. They've seen it all. Get her to tell you the one about the guy with the pool noodle stuck in his—”

“—
annnnnnd
, how about this endive!” James leaned over to present Meri with one of his fanciful creations from between his thumb and forefinger. In tailgate country, plates were superfluous.

“Hard to forget that one.” Jasmine yawned, blasé. “We had a record number of cases Friday night. Must've been the full moon.”

“Was that it? I knew something was going on,” replied Hannah. “My kids were bouncing off the walls Friday.”

“What about you, Meri? How do you pay the bills?”

From behind her chair, Mark coughed. “Meri and I made a pact not to talk about work today.”

Hannah nodded and raised her beverage. “Cheers to that.”

Meri raised her own bottle in solidarity, her jewelry catching the autumn evening sun.

“Cool bracelets,” said Jasmine.

 

It happened during the fourth quarter with the score tied up. Seventy thousand screaming fans jumped to their feet with a deafening roar. Mark's voice joined with those of James and DeVon to graphically suggest what the ref could do with his call. Though Meri didn't have a clue about the finer points of the game, what she did know was that she was enjoying herself immensely. In the time-out, while the zebra-suited officials waved their arms and argued down on the field, Mark crushed Meri to his side in an excited, one-armed hug. When she smiled back at him, he bussed her lips. She loved football! That was, until she looked up to see her face plastered across the Jumbotron.

Mark followed her line of vision, where he spotted their blown-up, pixelated images, he in his ball cap and aviators and she staring bug-eyed into the evil, unseen camera. “Look! It's us!” He pointed, with all the naiveté of a little boy at an amusement park.

Instinctively, Meri dropped her hind end to her seat.

Mark peered down, puzzled, to where she hid beneath those still standing, until it registered. He sidestepped toward Jasmine to fill the void, making the gesture seem as natural as possible.

Meanwhile, Jasmine's nurse's training kicked in. “Are you okay, Meri?” she asked coolly, eyes still on the field.

“It's over,” Mark said, after what seemed like an eternity. “The camera's moved on.”

Meri kept butt glued to bleachers until the call was decided, cueing everyone else to sit. Everyone, except a woman a couple of rows down whose eyes roved the crowd's faces until landing on Meri's. Like a hunter with a bead on her prey, the stranger raised her cell phone, aimed, and fired.

Meri dug for her sunglasses, but before she could locate them, an anonymous query wove its way through the din.

“Who's that?”

“That's Merlot St. Pierre! Xavier St. Pierre's daughter.” There was a flurry of craning necks before a man across the aisle also pointed and snapped.

She pierced him with her eyes, pleading, “Can you please
stop
?”

But she'd been outed. She was trapped, there in Section C, Row 19, high above the thirty-yard line in a throng of people, ninety-nine percent of whom were equipped with cell phone cameras.

Now any hopes she'd had for making genuine friends of Hannah and Jasmine were squashed.

Mark stood. “Grab your bag, babe.” To his friends, “I think we're done here. Meet you back at the tailgate.”

“Mark, no. It's almost over,” Meri protested, attempting to pull him back by his arm. He couldn't miss the ending because of her.

“I'm getting you out of here,” he said, low enough so only she could hear.

First Jasmine, then DeVon rose, gathering their logo-covered drink cups and seat cushions. “We're right behind you,” said Hannah.

“Please, no,” repeated Meri. “You guys stay. Don't leave because of me.” She glanced at the scoreboard. “There's less than a minute left.”

“It's over, anyway,” said DeVon.

“We can listen to the rest on the radio,” said James.

Meri's heart sank even lower, but she wouldn't create more of a scene in the stands.

Mark grabbed her hand. With resignation, she followed him across the metal bleachers, down the concrete steps and through the mouthlike opening in the stands, cognizant of having spoiled everyone's good time.

Mark was uncharacteristically mute on the drive back to Vallejo.

“Does that happen a lot?” he asked as they crossed the Carquinez Bridge.

“It used to be the professional photograph hounds, when my sisters and I were small. But now, thanks to cell phones, everyone's a paparazzo. And with all the apps that are out there, and social media, there're a lot more places to post photos.”

Mark stared straight ahead through the windshield. She knew what he was thinking: that now, any wisp of hope that she'd change her mind about using her real name on her line was irretrievably lost. So she was surprised by his next remark.

“That was bizarre, today in the stadium. I'd hate to be constantly on guard about strangers invading my space, interfering with my life.”

She sighed, grateful for his empathy. “Honestly, today wasn't so bad. I mean, it is stupid, being admired for having done, what? Nothing, at this point in my life. It's not like I'm Sofia Coppola, with a legitimate body of work to stand on. My career is still out in front of me.”

“What I'm trying to say is, I guess I can't blame you for wanting to stay out of the public eye.”

She turned to him, amazed that he'd let her off the hook so easily.

“I wish I could say Gloria would feel the same if she'd been there today, but she wouldn't. She'd have used that incident to prove her point of how much appeal you already have, how much of a foundation there is to build on.”

They'd pulled onto Georgia Street and were nearing the co-op, and it was now or never. Either she could stick to her principles, making a liar out of Mark and letting her nemesis grab all the glory, or she could accept this once-in-a-lifetime offer, turn Mark into a hero—and sell her soul.