Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (13 page)

In fact, the more creative she got with the traditional Summer Showdown menu, the more her creative block seemed to crumble. Which was why, when she looked up from her Pacific sea bass sashimi with papaya and avocado mousse to find three innocent, smiling grannies, a cat trying to pass for a sunflower, and a worn leather book that predated even Pricilla, Lexi got a bad feeling in her gut.

Forcing an innocuous smile, Lexi threw a towel over the dish and said, “What are you guys doing here?”

They didn’t answer.

Lexi watched the inquisitive eyes studying her hidden appetizers, the cat sniffing wildly, and she stepped forward, placing her body between the welcoming committee and the entry to the kitchen.

“What’s that?” Pricilla asked, smoothing down her halo of gray after ducking under Lexi’s outstretched arms, which were now braced on either side of the kitchen counter, to pull off the towel.

“Oh, that? Nothing. Just dinner.” Lexi dropped her arms when ChiChi and Lucinda, who was carrying Mr. Puffins, skirted around the other side of the counter. All three grannies and the cat huddled around and stared suspiciously down at the dish, as if they were expecting it to walk off the plate.

Mr. Puffins looked hopeful.

Pricilla, proud.

The other two—completely at a loss.

“I think it’s fish,” ChiChi said to the others as though Lexi wasn’t standing two feet away.

Lucinda, needing a closer look, set Mr. Puffins on the counter. She extended one bony finger—everything about the woman was sharp edged—and poked the fish, frowning when it jiggled. “How long did you cook it?”

“It’s, um, sashimi.” When all three ladies pursed their lips in confusion, Lexi added, “Raw fish.”

The grannies shared a silent look of concern while the cat gingerly sniffed the air, his eyelids going heavy and his whiskers working overtime. At least someone appreciated good fish.

“It isn’t perfected yet. I’m still tinkering with the balance of the papaya—”

“We have reservations,” Lucinda pronounced, grabbing Mr. Puffins before he could take his first lick of the mousse.

“But you haven’t even tried it!” Lexi said, feeling her entire body deflate.

“At Stan’s,” ChiChi cut in, smacking Lucinda on the hip with the back of her hand. “For dinner. We have reservations at Stan’s for dinner.”

“I didn’t know Stan took reservations.” Nor did she know why she was calling them on the lie. Two minutes ago she would have given her left ovary to get them, and that recipe book, out of her kitchen. But it hurt that they were dismissing her plate on design alone. “Isn’t it more of a serve-yourself kind of place?”

ChiChi draped a regal hand down her form to highlight her cream pantsuit as though her St. John ensemble was solid proof that they had reservations for a bowl of soup at the service station.

“I’d ask you to join us, dear,” Pricilla said, gently rubbing Lexi’s shoulder. It was a sign that she knew Lexi was upset. “But you have your date with Vince.”

Lexi looked down at her striped pajama bottoms, at the well-used kitchen, at the fresh ingredients still waiting to be transformed, and groaned. She had totally forgotten about her dinner plans with Mr. Friday Night Lights, who was old enough to have played in the actual football game that inspired the book.

“I got so busy cooking I lost track of time. I’ll just call him and reschedule.” She pulled out her phone, hoping the ladies would take the hint and give her privacy—or better yet, leave. And take with them the traditional Showdown recipe book, which had been created by Lucinda’s and ChiChi’s mothers and had served as the culinary bible for every Showdown since.

“Nonsense, child, we’re just dropping by. Wanted to bring you this.” ChiChi opened the book to the first page and slid it closer to Lexi.

Lexi studied it for a long moment, not touching it. One look at the diagram of how to poach cod in milk was enough to cause her head to pound. It started as a slight pulsing behind her right eye, but by the time she got to the instructions for roasted squash and fig mash, a sharp pain crept down to the base of her skull.

“The tasting is set for Wednesday at seven at the Back Barrel,” Pricilla said, clapping her hands. “Bring one appetizer and one entrée with a side dish.”

“Of course, for the Showdown you’ll need to make each of the different courses for guests to choose from, including the traditional fish, pork, and beef entrees,” Lucinda added.

“Traditional. Of course.” Lexi reached out, intending to pick up the menu, which ChiChi seemed so insistent that she hold, but only managed to trace a shaky finger across its bottom edge, fearful that if she actually grasped the book it would go off like a live grenade, demolishing all creativity and culinary ability in a seven-mile radius—and all of the progress she’d made last night.

She looked at her beautiful dish, with its bright-orange drizzles and brilliant-green mousse, and straightened her shoulders. Abby was right. It was her life. Her cooking. Her clean slate.

“I was actually going to play with the menu a little. Update it. Take the traditional and make it retro.”

“Retro?” ChiChi said, her face going white.

“Yes, a remodeled menu for a remodeled venue.”
And a remodeled me.

“Remodel this—”

“Why, Lexi—” her grandmother intercepted Lucinda, who was moving toward Lexi at an alarming pace. “A little updating would be nice.” Pricilla shot a reprimanding glance at her two cohorts before giving Lexi a placating smile. It was the same smile Lexi had received when she was nine and told Pricilla she wanted to add mango to her summer tarts. “What a great idea. Perhaps salmon instead of the cod.”

Lucinda nodded.

ChiChi forced out, “Salmon sounds lovely.”

Lexi snorted. It did not sound lovely. It sounded safe, boring, the kind of thing one would expect at a catered event. And salmon was even worse than cod for a large group. It was a fish that needed to be cooked to order, freshly prepared
and immediately served. Not poached in mass quantity only to sit in a lukewarm bath of milk sauce.

“But I wouldn’t go too far,” Lucinda warned. “The other girls received their menus last week. And I know that they are thrilled by the opportunity to pay tribute to the history behind these dishes.”

“Other girls?” Lexi gasped. “Abby made it sound like the job was mine if I wanted it.”

“She is just confident in your ability. We all are,” ChiChi soothed, patting her hand. But the gesture wasn’t soothing. Nor was the presence of all three grannies smiling serenely at her over oval-rimmed glasses.

Lexi knew that getting the Daughters of the Prohibition to agree on a different menu, one that used the traditional ingredients with a fresh spin, would be a challenge. But she had no idea that she’d have to audition for the job against other caterers who were content to ruin a delicate fish by boiling it in milk.

“Don’t worry,” Pricilla said. “None of these girls have your training or palate. The tasting is merely a formality.”

“Formality my butt,” Lexi mumbled after the grannies left. Who needed training or a palate when the recipe was so explicitly detailed, complete with a diagram showing how the fish should be placed atop a bed of five balanced asparagus spears and at a forty-five-degree angle to the half cup of whipped mash?

Bo Brock’s hotel reservation had been canceled. Marc hoped to hell it was some kind of glitch and not his celebrity judge
pulling out. But the fact that he wasn’t returning any of Marc’s calls felt like a rock in his gut.

Marc pulled up a fresh e-mail and began typing, outlining the exact terms of their agreed-upon contract, when a light flicked on across the alley. He turned in his chair just as a figure walked across the room toward the stove, drawing him in. A figure with really great boobs, wavy blonde hair, and an ass that had kept him awake all week.

Gone were the pajama bottoms and stained tank from earlier. In their place she wore a slinky red top that dipped way down in the front, and he wasn’t sure if she was wearing slacks or jeans, didn’t care. They looked damn sexy on her. They also covered her bare feet, which she was currently slipping into a pair of red strappy heels, helpfully bending over to give him a great view of her lacy bra that made looking away damn difficult.

She fastened the shoes around her slim ankles and picked up a bottle of—well, shit, that girl had guts—Pricilla’s homebrew. She hopped up on the counter, then poured a cup, a full cup, and went to take a sip, then stopped. She glanced out the window and, before he could turn back to his computer, looked right at him. Then she did the damndest thing—she lifted her glass in salute, offered up a sad smile, and drained the entire thing before refilling it.

Wingman whined.

Marc leaned down and patted his head. “I know, boy. I want to go over there too. But keeping an eye on her and keeping my distance are two separate things.”

Both were equally stupid.

“How about a man night? You and me and a couple bloody steaks. I’ll even let you have some of my beer.”

Wingman didn’t answer, just stared across the alley.

Finishing her second drink, Lexi slid off the counter, set the cup in the sink, and wiped her hands across her mouth. Then she smiled over at Marc and gave him a little wave. He waved back. And his smile came out stupid and big.

“Too bad man night excludes the girl next door,” Marc mumbled, right as his phone rang. He looked at the screen, saw Trey’s number, and hung up.

He didn’t have time to listen to his kid brother lay into him over something he had or hadn’t done. He was too busy trying to figure out where Lexi, who had grabbed a small handbag off the table and sashayed her ass out of sight, had disappeared to. And why she wasn’t returning his calls.

Marc walked to the corner of his office and peered out into the parking lot at the back of the bakery. He didn’t see Lexi, but he did see a tool in slacks and a polo strangling a bouquet of roses on her back stoop.

“Dumb-ass,” Marc muttered. Lexi hated roses. Thought they were cliché.

His phone chimed that he had a voice mail. He dialed and listened.

“Answer your phone, will you? I need to get a hold of your buddy.” Marc could tell by the way Trey said
your buddy
that what little love there had been between the two was long gone. Not good. “I know he’s away on his honeymoon, but he still owes me some financials. Monte is on my case about it. So if you hear from him, tell me what he says.”

The message ended. Marc hung up. He could tell Trey exactly what his
buddy
had said.

I know this is a lot to ask, but you guys used to be friends.

Marc and Lexi had never stopped being friends. In fact, Marc, abiding by man law, had vowed to keep his distance from her, and over the years he’d done his sex proud. But when Lexi stepped out on her porch, too-big grin in place, tottered a bit on those heels, and then stumbled right into Mr. Friday Night’s arms,
friend
was the last person Marc was capable of being. Especially when Dumb-Ass pulled her closer, resting his hand pretty damn low for a first date, and tugged her toward his shiny sports car.

Wingman growled, baring his teeth and his obvious dislike for Lexi’s date.

“Me too,” Marc said.

The silver-streaked hair, corporate-branded shirt, and overcompensation with a spoiler told Marc that this was Vince Jones, a local dot-comer who specialized in social media and younger women. He was twenty years too old and Lexi was already three shots too far gone for this to be a good idea.

Wingman jumped at the window, barking up a storm and practically foaming at the mouth to rip the guy apart.

“Give me the first shot at him.” Marc grabbed Wingman’s leash and was already reaching for his keys when he added, “If he’s too stupid to listen, I’ll give you ten minutes in a dark room with the guy.”

Which was how Wingman ended up eating kibble for dinner and Marc found himself at the Spigot, wedged between an irrigation specialist and an investment banker, nursing a warm beer and watching Lexi wobble around on those ridiculous heels while Vince supplied her with enough tequila to get an entire crew of vineyard workers hammered.

Lexi licked the tip of a dart, took aim, and leaned over a bar stool for balance, causing the denim to stretch even
more tightly across her incredible backside. Marc zeroed in and choked on his beer when she threw the dart and gave an excited little wiggle. He couldn’t see what she was aiming at, but it must have been a bull’s-eye because she started bouncing up and down on her toes—and then all thinking became impossible.

God, the woman had an incredible body.

A low, appreciative whistle sounded from his right, and Marc realized that the irrigation specialist—and half the freaking bar—was just as interested in the sight of Lexi jumping up and down while holding a weapon. But when Dumb-Ass leaned in, getting all up behind her to help line up her next throw, it took everything Marc had not to do some lining up of his own.

“I’m her Friday after next,” the investment banker bragged, swirling his glass of cabernet. “Got tickets to see
Phantom of the Opera
in the city. Also booked a room at the Fairmont. Just in case it gets late.”