Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (21 page)

Natasha and crew were competing for the same job. And no one had bothered to warn her. So Lexi, party of one, stood
on the sidewalk, forced to watch platter after rectangular platter of deconstructed salmon niçoise salad and Vietnamese pork crepes sail by, knowing that she was outnumbered, outstaged, and, even worse, outcooked.

Lexi set the cooler bag down, reached inside, and grabbed an éclair. She had caved under the pressure and, determined to make Marc’s one-year plan a reality, gone with a boring baked pork chop and wild rice. Even her traditional round plates had porcelain envy.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Natasha said, approaching from behind. Her designer dress stated refined elegance, while her ridiculously high and expensive heels advertised sexy sophistication with an eye for quality. Natasha was a walking billboard for couture cuisine, which had Lexi questioning her traditional black slacks and white chef’s jacket.

Natasha continued. “It arrived fresh from Alaska this morning. The greens and pork were brought over from this great little organic farm outside Marin. I didn’t want to bore the panel with local fare or food they’d all seen before. The Showdown is the one time a year that our town gets to showcase to the world our exquisite wine and cuisine.”

“By serving food from other places?” Lexi asked, some of her nerves fading.

Couture cuisine or not, Natasha had missed the point. The same point that the grannies had so eagerly explained to Lexi earlier that morning after they’d taken one look at her rolled pork loin and started whispering nervously among themselves. They’d reminded her that the Showdown was about celebrating local agriculture and tradition.

“Aren’t you afraid it’s a bit experimental for a group that was founded on preserving tradition?”

Natasha laughed. “Do you think it was traditional for women in the twenties to run illegal liquor?” She had a point. “Traditional can become expected and boring and gets old. And from one woman to another,” Natasha said, eyeing Lexi’s half-eaten éclair, “lighten up on those. You wouldn’t want to add ‘more to love’ to your Match bio.”

Lexi smiled sweetly, her last nerve officially gone. “You’re so nice to be thinking of how much I’m loved. But from one woman to another”—Lexi winked, something she’d picked up from Marc—“my boyfriend has that department well covered. Good luck today.”

Lexi gathered her cooler and made her way up the front steps of the town hall. As she passed under the St. Helena town flag swaying in the breeze and between the white columns that spanned the entire length of their most treasured town building, Lexi felt her breath catch and her confidence bubble up. Because there, to the left of the main entrance and several feet above an aged mahogany door with an iron grille speakeasy-hinged to the front, sat a historical placard.

The Back Barrel

Founded on August 17, 1923, with the sole purpose of serving the county of Napa, California, this is the original site of the Daughters of the Prohibition, a nonviolent, nonpolitical women’s society founded on the principles of promoting patriotism, preserving local tradition, and securing the valley’s future through the production, distribution, and consumption of wines, ciders, and spirited beverages of class.

This town and the DOP had been founded on the same principles that she had infused into her cooking: local pride,
strong tradition, and lots of heart. And the DOP was going to take one look at her perfectly baked pork chop and realize that she was the perfect woman for this job. With the perfect menu to honor the return of their most treasured event. And how perfectly her understated elegance would highlight, rather than outshine, the wine tasting.

Balancing her chafing dish, bag, and cooler, Lexi made her way down the steps and pushed open the door.

“Hello?” When no one responded, she took a cautious step inside.

Bumping the door closed, Lexi took in the deep-red carpet, solid mahogany walls, and always-past-midnight lighting that illuminated the narrow hallway, which used to be the entrance to the Back Barrel, and found herself smiling a little. Okay, a lot. Because in the summer of 1923, two events collided that would forever change the future of the women of St. Helena.

The local prohibitionists, led by Mayor Burnhart, were cracking down and making it increasingly difficult for the men of Napa County to run wine. No wine meant an end to a way of life. So when Salvador DeLuca and Philip Baudouin were forced to dump forty barrels of premium cabernet in the Sacramento River to avoid spending the next forty years on Alcatraz, the women became fearful of what would happen to their beloved town and decided to take action. They formed the Daughters of the Prohibition.

As fate would have it, a week later, Miss Giannina DeLuca, eldest daughter to Salvador DeLuca and self-appointed sleuth of the newly formed secret women’s society, uncovered that the honorable mayor wasn’t running his prohibition advisory meetings out of the basement in town hall. He was running
a gentlemen’s club—complete with illegal spirits and illicit women. He was also running for reelection.

Mayor Burnhart had congressional aspirations and needed to please the conservatives in Washington while still maintaining a strong voting base at home. Giannina needed a headquarters for the DOP and a place to sell their families’ wine.

It only took a few months for word to spread and for daughters and wives of vintners across the state to unite, and the ladies of St. Helena created one of the most extensive bootlegging operations in California. And they’d ruled the domestic wine market ever since.

Smiling, Lexi rounded the last corner, entered the old tavern, and blinked.

Several times, in fact.

Because no matter how many times she blinked, the scenery remained the same. It wasn’t the massive mahogany bar that spanned the entire length of the room that caught her attention, or that there were five wine vats the size of small water towers with spigots on the back wall. No, what had Lexi balking was that the room was divided in two, with the junior league and their couture attitudes on one side, and four silvered flappers, one mobster, a fur ball in a fedora, and enough beads and feathers to stage a rendition of “All That Jazz” sitting on the other.

It was like the DOP version of
Family Feud
, only with clutch purses and family names for weapons, as the up-and-comers and the old-timers—separated by a podium and Mrs. Moberly, town librarian and the only woman stupid enough to be roped into arbitrating the evening’s event—faced off.

“Oh, thank God,” Mrs. Moberly gasped, clasping her hands so tightly that her white peplum gloves looked ready to burst at the seams and send the pearl buttons scattering. “The last caterer is finally here, so I call this meeting to order.”

“Finally?” Lexi asked, her confidence vanishing as she took in the five, not just Natasha, but the
five
other caterers, dressed to perfection and standing behind their tables, each more spectacular than the last—all of them ready to begin serving. And none of them offering traditional or simple.

“I was told it started at five,” Lexi said, checking her watch. It showed 4:49.

“The tasting starts at five,” Natasha cut in. Her table, which was a complete rip-off of last month’s
Martha Stewart Living
, right down to the loose cherry-blossom petals and dried-fig arrangement, was stunning. Stolen, but stunning all the same. “Food to be served at five sharp, I believe was the rules.”

Meaning Lexi had ten minutes to unload, plate, and present her sample course, which was not deconstructed, modern, or in the least bit interesting.

“She’ll be ready,” Pricilla said, standing up and giving a decisive nod. Her dress was more giant toilet paper roll covered in scarlet fringe than flapper, but the flask attached to her ankle was authentic and most likely full.

Everyone knew that the senior league took tradition seriously and, on occasion, pulled out their mothers’ dresses. Lexi had just assumed that they reserved playing bootlegger dress up for special occasions—like Halloween.

ChiChi bustled over in vintage Coco Chanel, her boa flapping behind her. When she was close enough for Lexi to
smell the mothballs wafting off her clothes, she asked, “Are you dating my Marco?”

The room fell silent.

Lexi opened her mouth and snapped it closed equally as fast. How was she supposed to answer that? And here, with every busybody in town leaning in, waiting for her to deny the rumors that she had been the one to land St. Helena’s most notorious playboy?

The plan was to tell their grandmas together, over Friday-night dinner. Not here, with Lexi alone and a roomful of women who either wanted to see them married with babies or on their way to an explosive breakup.

“Yes. Marco and I are”—she swallowed, hard—“dating.” Did her voice just go up three octaves?

“You’re kidding,” Isabel Stark said, her eyes wide in disbelief. “I mean, no offense, but I thought that was just a rumor you made up to get out of dating all those losers your grandma set you up with.”

“They’re not losers.” Lexi felt compelled to defend her tribe of lost boys, and more importantly, her grandmother’s efforts. “And yes, Marc and I are together. Exclusively.”

Whispers rang out, exactly what she was afraid of.

“I overheard Penny at the Paws and Claws say she saw Marc leaving her house…in the morning,” someone said, though Lexi couldn’t see who. They were all too busy huddling and gossiping about her.

“I heard that she already slept with him,” someone else said.

“So?” Lexi snapped, daring them to say one more word. “Now if we’re done, I’m here to cook.” She smoothed out her crisp white tablecloth. “So if you have any more questions,
they’ll have to wait for later, or you could just go to Facebook and read Marc’s post.”

Reaching under her table, Lexi pulled out the box of decor and flatware that her
boyfriend
had carried over earlier and dressed the table. She was just finishing up with the napkins when ChiChi opened the chafing dish, which held her pork chops, and gasped.

“Oh dear—”

“You followed the recipes,” Lucinda whispered. She resembled a penguin in her vintage black-and-white pantsuit with matching wing tip shoes. Mr. Puffins was striking in a black fedora and tie. But neither of them was giving Lexi the job-well-done expression she had expected. In fact, they all looked horrified.

“What do you mean, ‘Oh dear?’” she whispered. “You told me that whoever made the best Great-Grandma DeLuca baked chop would win. I made the best Great-Grandma DeLuca baked chop.”

“We may have overstated our decision-making power with the committee,” Pricilla admitted.

Lexi’s heart stopped, but her hands kept moving.
Pork chop is to be placed two inches out from the center of the plate and at forty-five-degree angle to the wild rice.
“Meaning?”

“Meaning that the Daughters of the Prohibition seem to be in the middle of a revolution,” Pricilla began, glaring at the table of junior leaguers, all clamoring over Natasha’s table, her new Jimmy Choos, her food. “It seems that the junior league sees the Showdown as a chance to modernize, update things a little.”

“Does Natasha get a vote?” Lexi asked, forcing herself to keep plating.

“Natasha had to recuse herself since she’s interviewing for the job,” ChiChi said. “And someone of general-member status can’t replace a board member on a night when a vote is cast.”

“Since Alison Sheehan is big as a vat and on bed rest and Jennifer Logan has bronchitis, they had no one qualified to stand in. So they only have four votes tonight,” Pricilla said proudly.

“And the senior league shares your views?” A quick glance toward the other ladies had Lexi scooting closer and lowering her voice. “Then we have the numbers. You three, Mrs. Lambert, and Mrs. Moberly.”

Lexi felt herself relax. Even if all of the Prada mommies chose Natasha, Lexi could still win.

“That’s the thing, dear,” Pricilla said, and she wasn’t smiling. “Mrs. Moberly can’t vote. She’s not even a DOP member.”

“Then who’s the fifth vote?”

All three grannies looked at the door and—

Oh God, no. This could not be happening. Her luck with
this
family could not be this bad.

“Ladies, sorry I’m late. I was just Skyping with my new daughter-in-law,” Mrs. Balldinger sang as she waltzed into the all-in-one saloon and ladies’ club, regal, refined, and ready to ruin Lexi’s life.

“I had to hear all about the honeymoon. To think that after all this time my Jeffery finally found true love.” Her ex-mother-in-law sauntered past all the tables, poked at Lexi’s flatware, and smiled. “Let the tasting begin?”

“I messed up,” Lexi said, fiddling with the hem of her pants as she sat on the bottom step of town hall and stared at the sidewalk. “I chickened out and ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin everything,” Marc said, wishing he could do something to help her.

“I baked a pork chop, Marc.” She dropped her head on her bent knees. “I served a baked pork chop and wild rice for the biggest catering audition this town can remember.”

Marc wanted to point out that she had cooked what her clients, being their grandmothers, had requested. Learning to balance expertise with customers’ expectations was a big part of finding success in the service industry. She had just gone too far in one direction. She’d figure it out. “I bet it was cooked to perfection.”