Once Tasted: A Silver Creek Novel (12 page)

“Uh, Mia. I’m not up to dinner out. Jake’s got a fish stew on. We’re just going to sit around and chill and play video games. Can you believe it, Sonya rocks at Mass Effect Three?”

She didn’t know exactly when in Andrew’s reply she reached the tipping point. Whether it was his admission that he’d forgotten their dinner date, or his obvious enthusiasm for Sonya, the ace gamer who was going to distribute Crescent Ridge wines far and wide, or when it became clear that the guy she was dating preferred to slump on a sofa playing a gratuitously violent video game to having dinner with her, it was irrelevant. It was suddenly all too much.

She was damned tired of being treated like so much flooring.

“Andrew, I’d really like it if you joined me. It’s been a rotten day—several days, actually—and I could use your company.”

“Uh, I don’t—” Whatever Andrew was about to say was cut off by the sound of an explosion, a triumphant yell, and female laughter.

“Andrew?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Listen, I’m beat, Mia. Maybe we can hang out together next week or sometime after that?”

The. Last. Damn. Straw. “You know what, Andrew, I don’t think so. In fact, I think we should stop dating.”

“Oh.”

She waited. “ ‘Oh’? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m just kind of surprised. I hadn’t realized we were going out.”

She took her cell away from her ear to glare at it.
“What did you think our dates were? What did you think when you put your tongue down my throat and your hands on my breasts?”

That must have gotten through the fog of Mass Effect 3. “Gee, I don’t know,” he snapped. “That maybe you’d finally put out?”

A red haze descended over her vision. “Have a great time with your video game.” She clicked the phone off and lowered her head to the palm of her hand.

“A no-show?”

Mia straightened with a jerk. The waitress was still there and must have caught enough on Mia’s end to deduce the outcome. Well, what was one more humiliation? “Hard to compete with an Xbox and global destruction.”

“Especially if he has high-def,” the waitress said drily. “How about another glass of Zin? It sounds like you could use one.”

“No, thanks. Just the check, please.” She opened her purse to fish out her wallet.

The waitress stopped her with a wave of her hand. “Nope, no charge. Any sister who gets stood up by a loser drinks free here.”

Mia slumped in her chair. “Wow. I knew I loved Aubergine for more than its gazpacho. Thanks,” she said, dredging up a smile.

“Want some advice?”

After being given a free glass of very superior Zinfandel, she could hardly refuse. “Please.”

“Go somewhere fun and forget all about the dude. You’ll feel loads better in the morning.”

Fun, huh? Not a bad idea. She certainly didn’t have a better one, and she was sick and tired of being the good girl, the model citizen, the pillar of respectability. The person everyone could count on and then forget about.
Her smile grew grimly determined. “You know, you may be onto something.”

“No question about it. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Now, do you mind clearing the table so I can make some money on it?”

T
HE BOPPING RHYTHM
of Buckwheat Zydeco’s “On a Night Like This” poured out the open windows of The Drop as Mia walked up the path to the converted wood-and-stone barn that now housed Acacia’s favorite watering hole. Beau and Nell Duchamp, The Drop’s owners, originally hailed from Louisiana, and so music from the bayous often made it into the evening’s playlist.

It was a good place to unwind. Nell and Beau had installed a pool table at one end of the spacious interior; at the other end was a dance floor that was just the right size to accommodate people in the mood to boogie the night away. Best of all, they’d preserved the rustic barnlike feel, keeping the exposed rafters and roughly scraped plaster walls.

Mia stepped inside. Her sweeping glance picked out familiar faces, acquaintances as well as friends. Some were twirling on the dance floor, some relaxing on the Chesterfield sofas and upholstered chairs that Nell had picked up at antiques shops and estate sales. On one sofa, Quinn was sitting with Ward and Tess. Quinn noticed her and waved, then made a wide gesture with her
hands on either side of her head before giving Mia two thumbs-up and a huge grin.

For a second Mia was baffled. Then she realized Quinn approved of her having yanked off the three scrunchies required to control her hair. The tangled coils bounced about her. She probably looked like Medusa, but she didn’t care.

Her eyes scanned the far corners of the bar. She realized that if this many of the younger Knowleses were present, it was a safe bet Reid was, too. A man of action, he’d be doing something, shooting the breeze with whoever was tending bar tonight or perhaps making some woman divinely happy with a turn on the dance floor. Oh, there he was. Hunkered over the pool table like a pro, of course.

One of his fan groups—Maebeth, Nancy, Tracy Crofta, and Pru Savage, a whippet-lean lifestyle coach who ran ultra-marathons for the hell of it—was clustered near him, looking on hungrily as he leaned over the green felt and executed his shot.

The music ended just in time for Mia to hear the
clack
of the balls striking one another and then the
thud
as one of them rolled into the pocket. Typical, she thought. Reid was like the guy in the Carly Simon song “You’re So Vain.” Sublimely irritating.

It was as if she’d shouted the snarky observation at the top of her lungs. Reid straightened abruptly, his gaze colliding with hers.

She tamped down the surge of satisfaction that he’d acknowledged her at all. Because of course he
had
to pay attention to her now, didn’t he? His family had a financial stake in the winery. His newfound interest wasn’t personal.

The thought made the anger that had been simmering inside her for days come to a boil.

Reid had best steer clear of her tonight, she thought,
as she shot him a narrow-eyed glance. She was so not in the mood.

Beau was tending bar. “Evening, Mia. Nice to see you,” he said in his Louisiana drawl.

“Thank you. It’s busy tonight.” In addition to the familiar faces, there were lots she didn’t recognize.

“Tourists and such. More and more seem to find us.” Beau didn’t make it sound as though that was really a good thing, and she liked him all the more for it. She could relate to a bartender who was an introvert.

“What can I pour you?” He turned to the row of local wines lined up against the wall behind the bar. They had a nice selection. She loved that Beau and Nell stocked her family’s wine. It was always a thrill to watch whoever was tending bar pour a glass for a customer.

She usually ordered a red—a Cabernet or a Petite Sirah—but not tonight. She refused to be predictable—in any way, in any how. “A pomegranate martini, please. And, Beau? Don’t hold back on the vodka.”

His lips twitched, and for a second his dark eyes regarded her searchingly. Then he scratched the black scruff covering his cheek and nodded. “Coming right up,
ma chère
.”

She watched him fix her drink. Finished, he set it before her with a deliberate solemnity totally at odds with the amused smile curving his lips.
“Santé,”
he said.

Raising her glass, she admired the cocktail’s violet-red hue. It didn’t look anything like the wines she sampled and judged. Good. Saluting him, she took a sip. And then a second, longer one. “Mmmm. This is delicious.”

“Thomas get off to the airport okay?”

Of course the news had spread that Thomas was leaving. “Indeed he did.”

“And you’re okay?”

“Just peachy,” she drawled. “And you?”

“Fine and dandy.”

“So glad all is right in the world,” she said, and tipped her martini glass, letting the cold alcohol fill her mouth. She closed her eyes in appreciation. She swallowed, then observed, “There’s something to be said for the directness of distilled liquor, Beau. A no-nonsense, cut-the-bullshit quality to the drinking experience—”

“Better still, it’s medicinal,” a voice said.

She opened her eyes and turned her head. The man had thick red hair and was smiling at her. She put him at thirty or so but only because of the faint lines fanning out from the corners of his brown eyes. Thanks to the smattering of freckles across his face, he’d look youthful well into his AARP years.

“Medicinal? Is that right?”

He nodded and gestured to the stool next to her. “May I?”

“Sure,” she said. She could always walk away and huddle in a corner with Quinn if he began to bore her. She hadn’t seen Quinn at the tasting. No surprise there. Wine tastings weren’t exactly Quinn’s cup of tea. A chat would be good. They needed to catch up.

The man sat and ordered a shot of Wyborowa vodka from Beau. “My Polish grandfather swore by vodka’s virtues. He claimed a shot of
wódka
”—he pronounced the word with a double “o”—“would cure whatever ailed a body. Hiccups, achy joints, a touch of flu, you name it.” He propped an elbow on the counter. “Fortunately, you appear quite healthy.”

He grinned as if they’d known each other for ages.

She decided to be charmed. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Impossible not to. My name’s Will. Will O’Shea.”

“I’m Mia Bodell.” She shook his hand and found the
grasp firm, with only a touch of sweat. “O’Shea. That doesn’t sound exactly Polish.”

“My dad’s Irish. So I got the easier name to spell but I also got the red hair. Can’t have everything.”

She thought of the pictures of her mother, faded snapshots. At Serena’s death, Thomas had gathered the photos from the two-room apartment in Florida where she and Mia had been living and put them into a shoe box, so Mia might have some memories. Her mother had been tall, like Thomas. Mia assumed her own height had come from the Bodell side of the family. The rest—her impossibly dense curls, the shape and greenish-brown color of her eyes—well, the rest must come from her father.

Or maybe she was a freak of nature, as her cousin Jay had so often jeered.

She pushed the thought away. “You’re right. You can’t have everything.”

Will O’Shea didn’t seem to note the change in her voice. “On the other hand, it’s a beautiful summer night, and despite my carrot top I’ve been lucky enough to wander into a friendly bar and meet an attractive and interesting lady. So cheers.” He clinked his shot glass against her raised martini.

“Cheers,” she replied, and watched as he downed the vodka in a single swallow. Impressive, she thought, and deciding she could do no less, downed the rest of hers.

Setting his glass on the bar, Will signaled Beau over. “I’m in a celebratory mood tonight. May I buy you another?” He pointed at the empty martini glass. “And perhaps entice you onto the dance floor later?”

Despite her reckless mood, Mia instinctively paused to inspect him a little more carefully. He gazed back at her in an open and non-pushy manner. After the men she’d been dealing with, he seemed positively charming.

She put some warmth in her smile. “You know what? I think that’s a fine idea.”

Will O’Shea was in sales. Nut harvesters, specifically. At least she knew enough about the local almond and walnut growers to discuss the preferred ways of harvesting their product. If he was disappointed by the fact that she grew grapes—and hired extra crew come harvest time so they could be picked by hand in the time-honored tradition—Will didn’t show it.

Will also liked golf. Born in Indiana, he currently lived in Santa Rosa. He liked California. The winters here were a hell of a lot more pleasant than back home. He wasn’t married.

“I’m going to be in the area for the rest of the week,” he said. “How about I come by and take a tour of your vineyard? I’ve heard the Pinots in Mendocino are the hot buy right now.”

No one should buy a wine simply because it was the current fad. Wine was about taste, and thus deeply personal. It spoke to you or it didn’t. Reid might not be a wine connoisseur, but she knew he understood that crucial point.

Except she wasn’t going to think about Reid. She was going to concentrate on Will O’Shea, who seemed pleasant enough. She drew an aimless circle on the zinc bar. “Sure, come over whenever.” Though it will probably break the axle on your car, she added silently.

“I’ll do that.”

He smiled and leaned closer. After his second shot of vodka, twin red spots had bloomed on his cheeks, making him look even more boyish. His brown eyes seemed a little out of focus, but his words sounded crisp enough when he announced abruptly, “I need to go to the gents’.
Then how about you and I take a spin on the dance floor?”

“Okay.”

He looked delighted, which was darn gratifying. Gesturing to her half-full glass, he said, “Drink up. Can’t have you falling behind.” Perhaps thinking he needed to set the pace, Will signaled to Beau for another vodka before wandering off.

Now that Mia was alone, the sounds of the bar—the buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter, the bluesy vocals of Buddy Guy, the sharp
clack
of striking billiard balls—became more distinct. She was debating going over to Quinn’s table and saying hi to her and Tess when an all-too-familiar voice addressed her.