A Taste of Merlot (5 page)

M
eri's head was spinning when she got back to her studio. There was work to be done, so much work she didn't know what do first.

Once inside, she closed the door and opened the lid of her laptop. The first order of business was to find out what hours Rainn kept. She had to arrange the next meeting with Mark for a time when her college classmate wasn't in the building. No way could she have them running into each other . . . risk Rainn blabbing to Mark that Meri Peterson was really Merlot St. Pierre, “wine princess,” for whom art was “just a hobby.”

But it wasn't just that. As much satisfaction as it would give Meri to show Rainn that she was legit, that a respectable store wanted her work, she couldn't chance it. There was more to Rainn than mere meanness. Rainn
knew things
. Things that hadn't seemed significant back in the day, but that Meri now realized could come back to burn her.

Exactly how was she going to keep Rainn at arm's length? It was now early September, three months since Rainn had graduated. Three months since the end of Meri's junior year. That meant there were at least nine months left on Rainn's annual lease. Rainn wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and neither could Meri. At least for the near future, she was stuck working in the same co-op with her college nemesis.

There it is, Rainn's website.
Many of the artists came in on weekends, when customer traffic was heavier, and took off a day or two during the week. Rainn's stated day off was Wednesday.

Tomorrow.
Meri would've preferred a little leeway before Mark came to visit. Only yesterday, she'd been proud of her studio. Though admittedly nothing fancy, it was perfectly functional. But now, following amateur hour at the diner, all she could see when she eyed the room were its flaws: the crack in the window, the deep nicks in the wood trim.

Mark was in a hurry, though. He wouldn't want to wait a whole week. She looked around critically, wishing that she'd invested in more equipment, maybe even a custom studio—even if that had meant relying more heavily on Papa.

No.
She'd gotten this far on her own. Closing her laptop with a soft click, she moved over to her workbench stool, wound an elastic around her hair, and spent the rest of the afternoon centering a deep pink agate in a gold ring that encircled the finger like the tendril of one of Papa's grapevines.

 

For all its renown, the Napa Valley wasn't very large or complicated. The long, narrow valley was oriented north–south, framed by ridges on either side. From San Francisco, Highway 29 led into the small town of Napa city. As it continued north, most of the wineries were located either directly alongside it or the parallel Silverado Trail, separated by a mere mile or so. The rest, including Domaine St. Pierre, sat on offshoots of those two roads.

Meri pulled into her family estate to the sound of the tires crunching on the white gravel. She wove toward the back of some well-maintained outbuildings disguised among the shadows of a grove of oak trees. The closer she'd gotten to home, the more her anticipation had grown, as she hoped Char and Savvy would be around when she got there. She was dying to fill them in on her meeting with the Harrington's rep.

Mark!
Meri had never had a real boyfriend, not in the strictest sense. But if she ever did, he'd be exactly like Mark Newman. The confidence-inspiring gaze of those clear green eyes had stayed in her mind's eye all afternoon long as she'd fashioned the new gold ring.

When he'd reached for her wrist, turning it to thumb the sensitive skin of her inner arm, the resulting thrill had made her forget all about business. Between those lofty, floating-on-air feelings and the awkwardness of the grimy diner, she'd spent all afternoon vacillating between elation and humiliation.

Meeting at the diner had been such a disaster. How could she have been so simple, so ignorant? Displaying her precious pieces—the ones she'd put every drop of her creative energy into—on wrinkled paper napkins! What had she been thinking? Meri knew well the big names carried by Harrington's. They probably had fancy showrooms with comfy chairs and catered wine and food for their buyers. Yet she had opted to meet with Mark in a diner. It was a wonder he hadn't hung up on her when she'd first suggested it, let alone driven all the way up from the city.

And yet, Mark Newman wanted to buy her work!

She jumped out of the truck, walked around, and retrieved her portfolio and tackle box from the passenger side.

“
Señorita,
let me take those for you.” One of Papa's employees was making his way over from a block planted in chardonnay grapes with his arm outstretched.

The heady scent of roses surrounded them. Rosebushes were to a vineyard what canaries were to coal mines. Whenever the roses got mildewed, it was a sign to act fast to save the grapes. “Thanks, Bennie.” She dropped the truck keys into one beat up leather glove. In his other was a refractometer, used to measure the amount of sugar in the grapes. Sugar content was vital in determining the exact moment of ripeness.

“How soon?” Meri nodded to the instrument.

“Your papi asks me to check, seems like every hour.”

When the Brix, or sugar, was precisely to Papa's liking he would give the order to pick, whether it was night or day.

Bennie dangled the keys. “She rides better than the Mercedes, no?” he teased, squinting at her from beneath his straw hat.

Meri blushed. How could she explain why she'd wanted to borrow the pickup, when the matching Mercedes Papa had bought her and her sisters were parked side by side in the garage?

“I appreciate you letting me use it,” was all she said as she veered off toward the imposing mansion she called home.

When voices reached her from the heart of the house, she brightened. “Char? Savvy?” As many rooms as the mansion had, when the sisters were at home they were usually congregated either in their adjacent bedroom suites or the airy, Mediterranean-style kitchen.

“In here,” called Char. Meri entered to find Savvy cradling an open cookbook like a hymnal, while Char stood at the AGA, stirring something bubbly. A waiting casserole dish sat on the marble island, next to a carelessly tossed knife, a cutting board, and a wheel of cheese the size of a grindstone.

Meri's stomach growled. The only thing she'd had since this morning was her skim cap on the way home from Vallejo.

“ ‘Preheat oven. Layer parboiled potato slices with shredded cheese in cassoulet. Bake until slightly golden . . .' ” read her oldest sister.

“You guys! Wait 'til I tell you what happened today!” Meri dumped her things unceremoniously onto a leather dining chair.

“What's that?” asked Savvy, eyeing her tackle box askance without putting down her book.

“My stuff. Listen to what happened . . .”

“What stuff?”

“Do you think this is tender enough?” interrupted Char, poking into the pot with a fork.

“It says three minutes. Has it been three minutes?” replied Savvy.

Meri picked up a sliver of cheese to nibble until Char flipped off the burner and Savvy lowered her book.

“You're not going to believe everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours.”

She filled them in and they gave her their complete attention, oohing and ahhing at all the right places. It was heaven, having them back in her life again after years apart. Sure, they'd resisted her idea to drop out and go into business. But once she'd made a decision, they were ferociously behind her, as she was completely devoted to them.

“Harrington's! Meri, what a coup! That's where our earrings are from,” said Char.

“So, tell us! What's he like? Did you say his name was Mark? You sound as excited about him as you do over the sale itself,” said Savvy.

Meri faked a swoon into a kitchen chair, then popped up again excitedly.

“I rehearsed telling you this all afternoon while I was at my bench. Picture this.” She framed her hands like a camera. “Expertly cut hair the color of tarnished brass, with wispy, wavy layers that follow the lines of his head. A little over average in height. Straight nose and this lopsided smile that curves upward, a tad to the left. A close shave. Some kind of musky-leathery-patchouli cologne. And the most incredible green eyes, clear as Colombian emeralds . . .” She pretended to swoon again. “And when you're talking to him, he listens—really listens. Like he actually
cares
about what you're saying.”

“Sounds amazing. What'd he have on?” asked Char.

They were humoring her now, but she didn't care. She could go on talking about Mark forever.

“I knew you'd ask!” She ticked off the items of his wardrobe on her fingers. “Fitted black T-shirt. Narrow black cords—slung low on his hips, like this . . .” With her happy-stupid grin spread ear to ear she turned her back and lowered her waistband an inch, not caring that they were rolling their eyes when they thought she couldn't see. “And a bulky old, steel-gray sweater with a brown leather strap around the neck that buckles, left casually undone. Very Phillip Phillips.”

Savvy laughed. “Too bad you didn't get a closer look. In other words, he's cool.”

“He freakin'
owns
cool! Wait, though—” She leaned forward. “Are you ready?
He's been here.
Here, at our house! He offered to ‘take me up to the wine country sometime'! Can you imagine? I died! What'll I do if he ever finds out Domaine St. Pierre belongs to my family?”

Two sets of eyebrows rose in unison.

“You do remember I'm not using our last name on my work.” Meri's glance swung from sister to sister, but their faces remained cautiously noncommittal. Her own smile ebbed away.

There was a beep from the stove, sending Char scurrying over to it. “Oh! Three-fifty. Better get this in so it's done by seven. Ryder's family invited me to dinner, and I'm bringing a potato galette. I know, my fault for claiming I knew how to cook.” Char giggled. “Thank goodness for this stash of French cookbooks Savvy dug out of the back of the cupboard. What's it say to do now, Sav?”

Savvy picked up her book, but Meri cut in.

“Because they don't
expect
that you'd know how to cook, do they? And why not? Because you're a St. Pierre! A fragile little airhead who can't do anything except dress up and get her picture taken!”

Char's head swiveled on her neck, an oven-gloved hand still poised over her casserole, her eyes wide with wary surprise.

“So what if you can't cook, Char? You're a capable executive with a degree in public service! You play forward in field hockey! Your teammates even elected you captain, and that had nothing to do with money or family.
Nada
. Yet, judging by the media, more people around here still think of you as the daughter of the degenerate Xavier St. Pierre, rather than the founder of your own children's charity.”

With concern, Char pulled off her oven mitt and watched her baby sister pace the tiles.

Meri threw up her hands. “No wonder the media has an orgasm every time one of us shows signs of being human. We're expected to just exist, like in a folk tale, not evolve into individuals. Yet when we do have the nerve to break out of stereotype, they swoop down on us like vultures on carrion.”

This time the girls didn't bother to pretend it away.

“We've all felt the sting of the media, but—” soothed Savvy.

“
Ya think
?” Meri interrupted. “Half the time when we go out to eat or to concerts or even to church, our pictures end up online the next day.

Meri pointed at the ceiling. “Remember when Papa got arrested for shooting at the bald eagle? The paparazzi heard about it on the police scanners, and
bam
—there was a photographer, already snapping away outside the police station when we picked him up. And when Char was involved in The Challenge, the paps were literally on her running trail. Sure, they covered the official events, but she also got shot just doing practice sprints. Even here, in our own home, when that waiter-slash-stalkerazzi caught her and Ryder kissing at the dinner party.”

“That might've had something to do with
who
I was kissing,” Char said dreamily. Meri dismissed her opinion with a wave. Char couldn't be expected to think clearly. She was in love with a movie star.

It seemed as if the public wanted Chardonnay, Sauvignon, and Merlot to remain forever as they had been in the ghostly newspaper photos taken at the cemetery after Maman ran away with “the Argentine”—the winemaker who had been vising Napa to pick up trade secrets—and who had died, taking Maman with him, when his speeding car careened off the side of a South American cliff.

Meri had memorized the grainy old pictures. Three sad-eyed little girls in flowered dresses, clouds of long, baby-fine hair buffeted by the Santa Anas as they watched their mother's casket go by. Those very public photos of an intensely private grief marked the beginning of a fascination with the St. Pierres that Napa couldn't seem to let go of. During their school years, things had quieted down some, but now that they were back in Napa, their cachet was blossoming bigger than the full-blown peonies in the St. Pierre gardens.

“Meri, what's gotten into you?” Savvy appealed to her retreating form, but Meri was already on her way out of the kitchen, taking the marble stairs to her bedroom two at a time, with guilt over causing her sisters grief and embarrassment at her childish outburst chasing her. So much for the pleasant afternoon chat.