Twice in a Blue Moon (11 page)

But losing a baby. Her chest tightened as if to shield a blow. She couldn't fathom the depth of that pain. Poor Danovan.

“Knock, knock.” Danovan stood in the light of the front porch, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, a bottle of wine in the other.

An ivory dress shirt looked great against his olive skin, darkened by hours in the vineyard. Her heart tap-danced on her ribs. “Perfect timing. Come, tell me what you like on your pizza.”

He stepped in, set the wine on the table by the door and walked over. “What do
you
like?”

“I'll eat anything but fish.”

“I'm with you on that one.” He peered into each of the small bowls of ingredients. “I don't see anything here I don't like. Why don't you just put them all on?”

“Ah, he likes dump-truck pizza. No wonder we get along.” She smiled and turned. He was close. Too close.

His dark eyes took her in. “You look nice.” He took a deep breath. “And you smell even better than pizza.”

She turned back to the counter. “You're just happy I don't smell like anchovies.” She picked up bowls and scattered ingredients over the sauce.

She heard him step away. “I'll open the wine. Where do you keep the glasses?”

She peered into the overhead cabinet. “Uncle Bob only had a couple hundred.” She brought down two globed glasses and walked the few steps to set them on the small dining table. “Don't pour any for me, though. I'm having sparkling water.”

“Are you kidding?” He held up the bottle. “This is our own Clair de Lune Chardonnay, 2009.” He held up a hand at her protest. “I know, you're thinking red with pizza. But don't overlook a crisp white.”

“No, you don't—”

“Sure, the plum undertone of Chianti is nice with mozzarella, but supporting the spice actually makes an interesting pairing. Trust me on—”

“I don't drink.”

He stopped, mouth open. It stayed that way.

The skin over her collarbones burned.

“I knew you didn't know anything about growing grapes, or the terminology, but you don't...” He cocked his head as if that would help him absorb the unimaginable. “You're aware you
own
a winery
,
right?”

“I
inherited
a winery.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Can't a bricklayer live in a log cabin? A horse trainer can own a car. A corporate CEO might not wear the pants at home, right?” She could almost hear him thinking, but his eyes gave no clue as to what was going through his mind. She felt like a new species of aphid under the hot light of a microscope. “Why is that a big deal?”

He didn't answer for a few endless seconds, scanning her face. “What I'd rather know is why this is obviously a big deal to you, Indigo.”

The specimen pin pierced, anchoring her to the display board. She writhed. In the vineyard this afternoon, he'd been abrupt when she'd tried to help him after Barney scratched him. And so far he'd shared almost nothing of his past. Yet he wanted to dig around her sore spots? Nope, not fair. “Just water, okay?” She turned away, opened the oven door and dropped the pizza on the bottom rack with a clatter.

“I'm sorry.”

At his soft tone, she turned.

“It's really none of my business.” He crossed to the refrigerator, opened it and took out a bottle of sparkling water. “As long as you have a winemaker on staff, it won't matter that you don't consume the product.”

“Glad we agree.”

“But you do need to know how to talk wine. And it's a whole different language.” He took a small corkscrew from his pocket and proceeded to open the wine. “A whole different culture, actually, but it can be learned. You won't have to know everything about every wine out there, just everything about ours and how they compare in the market.” Cork gone, he poured the wine and lifted the glass.

“What's critter wine?”

He chuckled. “Where did you hear that?”

“Sondra told me yesterday that retirees only drink critter wine.”

“That's a wine snob's derisive term for wines named for animals, used to attract nonsophisticated buyers to cheap wine.”

She had to chuckle a bit at that.

“Oh, yes, there's a bunch of overblown wine snobs out there.” He raised the glass, swirled the wine, sniffed it loudly and took a tiny sip, then stuck his nose in the air and adjusted imaginary pince-nez on his nose. “An overoaked swill with a barnyard attack and a fruit-bomb finish.” He flared his nostrils and pinched his lips. “Totally spoofilated. A tragic way to treat the grape.” The snob melted away with his smile. “This is not unlearnable. It's like anything else. You hang around it long enough and it rubs off on you. You'll do fine, Boss.”

She fell into his eyes, snared by the caring look held there. She wanted to linger and rest in the acceptance.

What are you doing?
The voice in her head was a splash of cold water.

The oven timer dinged, breaking the spell. She busied her hands, retrieving the pizza.

The charisma inoculation she received in Hollywood needed a booster shot. God knew this man held a gold medal in charm.

Over dinner, Danovan gave her a lesson in terminology, even managing to make it interesting. His wonderful use of description allowed her to understand the difference in wines even if she hadn't tasted them. She'd never be able to hold her own with Sondra, but felt she now had a base to build on.

“That was one of the best pizzas I've eaten.” He eased his chair from the table and leaned back. “I'm stuffed.”

“I think the crushed pepper added a hint of
savoir faire
to the sauce—the merest hint of garlic lending a clear, stiff finish.”

He laughed. “You've got it. You're a pizza snob, for sure.”

“Hey, I'm a quick study, and I have a great teacher.”

She stood, but he snatched her paper plate before she could. “You cooked. I'm doing the dishes.”

She sat back down. “Oh, yeah, don't strain yourself. The trash is under the sink.”

He gathered the plates and utensils. “What was it like growing up on a commune?”

“Not as odd as you might think. No orgies, no navel-gazing, no psychedelic drugs. It was more like a large extended family.”

“You told me that your mom is in charge of the farm. What does your father do?”

“I don't have one.” She looked down at her clasped hands on the table. “I mean, I guess there
were
orgies back in the old days. Mom didn't know who he was.” She straightened. “I never suffered from the lack. Mom is strong, loving and wise. A good role model. And besides, there were men around. Everywhere.”

He walked back to the table. “Yeah, but a father is important, too. That's how a girl learns how men should treat a woman. What kind of man she wants to marry someday.”

She'd never thought about that. Could that have been why she was so interested in Hollywood heartthrobs as a teenager? Why she'd been so anxious to meet them when she hit the town? Why she'd played so fast and loose when she'd been “accepted” into Brenda Stone's clique?

Do you really want to know?

He carried the glasses to the sink.

“Speaking of fathers...I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Esperanza, Danovan.”

The crack of glass shattering on porcelain made her leap to her feet. “Are you all right? Did you cut yourself?”

“I'm fine. The glass slipped.” Danovan's broad back might as well have been a wall. “How did you learn about that? When?” His tone was razor wire running along the top.

“One of my clients mentioned it a few weeks ago.”

He stared out the window over the sink, fingering the scar in his eyebrow. “What else did this client say?”

“Nothing. She said if I wanted to know more, I should talk to you.” She touched his sleeve. The muscle beneath was taut. She could feel the tension running through it. “As someone who's also dealing with loss, I just wanted to tell you that I'm here if you ever want to talk.”

“Thanks.”

His tone left her nowhere to go. Subject closed.

He dropped the glass shards in the trash, dusted his hands and turned to her. His expression was—a stranger's. “Indigo, I appreciate the wonderful dinner. But it's late, and tomorrow's a long day.”

Irritation and sympathy wrestled in her mind as he walked away. He wanted to know about her, but when she probed, he shut down immediately. She understood not wanting others digging in your past. But that look...

He was giving conflicting signals. And pushing her buttons.

But he'd promised whatever had happened at Bacchanal was in the past. That it wouldn't affect The Widow.

Yeah. Her curiosity and concern was only because of the business. Sure. She walked to the back door to let Barney in, ignoring the small, lonely voice in her head.

CHAPTER TEN

I
NDIGO
DROVE
BAREFOOT
, but when she parked and slipped back into her heels, her toes whimpered. That wasn't quite true—they'd moved past whimpering an hour ago. They were now in full scream mode. But this was the last and most important sales call of her long day. She'd visited four bars and three restaurants, and though they all met with her readily enough, she hadn't managed to sign any of them.

Thanks to Danovan's terminology lesson and staying up late to study, she'd managed not to sound like a total idiot. But faking it wouldn't make it at the Demure Damsel. No lowly local wine had ever made the wine list here.

Grabbing her purse and sample case, she stepped out of the car, wincing when her feet took her weight. “Toughen up, cupcakes. There's no crying in wine sales.” She slammed the door and smoothed the skirt of her suit. Straightening her shoulders and wiping the wince off her face, she strode to the front of the restaurant.

The Demure Damsel was Widow's Grove's only four-star restaurant, holding court in one of the original Victorians on Hollister. If she could get her wines sold here, it would establish their reputation in the local market.

She tapped her way up the sidewalk to the prissy facade that seemed to look down its refined nose at her. The house was dressed in cool sea foam and a soft juniper green, and the fancy fretwork was offset in a bold teal. Beds of perfect tea roses in delicate pastels graced the front of the restaurant, and a weed wouldn't dare set roots in the tiny manicured lawn that looked to be precision-trimmed with scissors.

Indigo swallowed the impending doom at the back of her throat. She might be able to fake her way past a bar owner, but she'd bet her Italian heels that this place employed a sommelier. He'd uncover the kiddie-pool depth of her knowledge in a heartbeat.

This is a job for Danovan, not a beginner like me.

Maybe that was true, but he already had a more than full-time job. Besides, The Widow was
her
responsibility. And if she was ever going to handle the reins, she'd first have to get on the horse.

Knees shaking, she forced her foot onto the first step of the porch.

You've faced down pissed-off paparazzi. You can handle this.

Her guts joined her toes in the whimper chorus.

Five o'clock was way early for dinner at a swank restaurant like this. The crystal place settings and delicate fresh flower centerpieces made the damask-covered tables look like petits fours. Waiters and busboys flitted around them, setting up.

She stopped one. “Excuse me. Could I please speak with your wine steward?”

“Of course, madame. That would be Bernard. Please follow me.”

A voice in her head that was probably self-preservation screamed,
Run!

But she followed on quivery ankles.

You walked the red carpet at the Oscars. You can do this.
But that had been Harry's gig. All she'd had to do was hang on his arm and look glamorous. Money could buy glamour.

But it couldn't buy experience.

A dark cubby near the kitchen held a podium, and behind it stood a small balding man with pinched features, a neat mustache and a sour expression. “Thomas, I do not have time for more questions. My shipment is late.”

“Madame, this is Bernard, our wine steward.”

“Sommelier. How many times do I...”

He trailed off when the waiter stepped from in front of her.

She slapped on a bright smile. “If you'd have bought from a local winery like mine, you'd never have a late shipment.”

The waiter, smelling chum in the water, scuttled away.

“And who, pray tell, are you?” Bernard's nose rose, revealing a too good view of his nostrils.

When the kitchen door opened and a busboy walked out, light spilled into their little corner. Bernard's prissy little mouth opened in an O of surprise.

“I'm Indigo—”

“Blue.” He breathed.

Oh great, one of those.
“Yes. I own The Tippling Widow Winery and Spa outside of town. Do you have a few minutes?”

“But of course, Ms. Blue,” he said in an in-church voice. “Why don't we go where we can talk?”

He ushered her across the floor, through French doors and onto the patio where wrought iron tables were scattered amid a small English garden. A place she was sure he didn't usually hold supplier meetings. When he pulled out a chair, she sat, placing her case and purse beside her complaining feet.

He settled next to her. “I am so sorry for your loss—may I presume to call you Indigo?”

She nodded and stifled a sigh. Though the spotlight had winked out with Harry's passing, she still ran into people like this now and again. People who saw her as a Hollywood star, even though she'd never had an audition, much less a role.

“It was so wrong, how you were treated after Harry passed. And that daughter of his.” His hands fluttered around his ears, and his eyes rolled up. “Don't get me started.”

“I won't, I promise. I've come here today to tell you about some wonderful wine that we're—”

“I have to tell you.
From Here to Tedium
is one of the best films of the past twenty years. And the fact that your husband was able to pull a wonderful performance out of a used-up actor like Peter Horner is just amazing. Harry deserved his Oscar for that alone.”

It always amazed her how total strangers were comfortable offering opinions on the lives of famous people—to their faces.

But that was a different lifetime. In this one, she had to sell this man some wine.

She tensed her stomach muscles and allowed her bright smile to dim to sad. It wasn't hard. “That was some time ago, and one tainted with sadness for me. Do you mind if we stay in the present?”

His face fell. He touched her hand. “Of course. How insensitive of me.”

She slipped her hand from under his and reached for her case.

He straightened. “Now, to what do I owe the good fortune of your visit?”

This time she barely held back a sigh. He hadn't heard a thing she'd said. “I own The Tippling Widow Winery right here in the valley.” She brought out her individual-serving sample bottles and displayed them on the table. “Our wines are well respected, and we've taken top awards at the Santa Barbara International Wine Competition.” She didn't mention what year that had last happened. She pulled a sommelier's tasting glass from her case and poured a splash of their Clair de Lune Chardonnay.

He swirled the liquid, sniffed, then sipped. Lips pursed, he took a breath through his nose and set the glass back in front of her.

Her hopes went into free fall.

Bernard crossed his arms and fingered his pointy little chin. “I'm thinking about how we could mutually benefit from an arrangement.”

Hope rose even as unease trickled down her spine. “What do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking. Maybe you could encourage your Hollywood friends to frequent the restaurant when they come to visit.” He squinted into the distance. “The Damsel could become a gathering place for the famous.” A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “We could even have a Harry Stone table.”

Her stomach rolled. Cheapen Harry's memory so this odious little man would feel important? She had the sudden urge to take a shower. “Bernard. I'm sorry, but that is impossible. The contacts were my husband's, not mine.”

“But surely you have friends?”

Heat rose to her cheeks as she shook her head. “I'm sorry. I don't.” She gathered her sample bottles and returned them to her case. They obviously wouldn't be needed here.

“A pity.” He shifted in his chair. “But maybe there is a small something you can help me with. You see, the owner would like to display my modest collection of autographed stars' photos in the foyer of the Damsel, and...” He lifted the little glass of her wine and held it, like a hostage, in front of her. “Perhaps you have a photo of you and Harry that you'd be willing to autograph for me?”

The buckle on her sample case snapped like a ricochet in the silence. She wanted to give this moron a large chunk of her opinion. She wanted to gag. She really wanted that shower.

But money was pouring from The Widow like an uncorked wine barrel. If she signed a restaurant of the Damsel's lofty reputation, others would follow, giving them a foothold in the local market.

Oh, Harry.

She knew what he would have said. He was a businessman, first and always. He'd tell her to go for it. But even knowing that didn't help.

“If I did...”

His smile was small, but triumphant. “If you did, I'd be willing to cut you a purchase order today.”

A half hour later, order in hand, she walked to her car. She should have felt elated. Instead, she felt like lettuce left in the sun.

You got that order because of who you used to be.

No, it was worse than that. She'd gotten the order because of who Bernard
thought
she used to be. The Demure Damsel served exactly zero local wines before she'd walked in, and he'd barely bothered to taste her samples.

Mincing her steps to go easy on her feet, she was tempted to scream right along with her toes. Would she ever live down her former life? Would she ever be seen for what she accomplished in this one? How much longer would this life fit like borrowed underwear?

But this life was the only one she had left.

You've only been at this for two months. You wouldn't expect to sit down at a piano for two months and be able to play Carnegie Hall, would you?

No, but looking at the order in her hand, you'd think she had. Which made her feel like the worst kind of imposter.

In spite of the evening chores waiting at home, she continued driving, her thoughts as twisted as the roads winding through the hills.

She'd managed to snatch the brass ring that every vintner in the Central Valley had grabbed for and missed. She should have been happy. And she would have been, if she hadn't had to prostitute Harry's memory to get it.

She drove until the shadows under the trees spread out to take over the landscape. And kept going.

* * *

D
ANOVAN
SAT
IN
the dark, feet on the railing of the porch, drinking a beer and listening to the crickets. Indigo should have been back hours ago. He had her cell phone number, and even dialed it a couple of times, but disconnected before the call went through. Indigo didn't need him checking on her. Besides, something in the calm of his chest told him she was all right.

The light he'd left burning in the tasting room made a yellow square on the porch, and moths trying to get to it ticked at the screen. He took another sip from the longneck. He'd known Indigo would find out about his soap opera former life eventually. She might not have heard the whole sordid tale yet, but now that she was getting to know the townies, it was only a matter of time.

He should have told her himself. The other night had been the perfect opportunity. But the surprise of hearing his daughter's name on her lips had hit him so hard that his brain had seized.

And what does that say about your character?

In spite of his vow to swear off women, here he sat in the dark, waiting for her to come home. And he was powerless to do anything about it. He'd tried for the past hour to make himself get up and go to his apartment. His feet weren't buying it.

The sound of an approaching car interrupted his self-flagellation. Squinting, he raised a hand to block the headlights sweeping the porch. The car pulled up, the engine shut down and the lights went out.

The crickets ceased their mating songs. The cooling engine ticked in the silence.

After many moments, the car door opened. The interior light illuminated the asphalt and a long graceful leg, as Indigo stepped out. The door slammed, and her heels tapped until she emerged from the inky shadows.

His chest tightened.

The tailored suit hugged her slim figure, and with the sample case in her hand, she looked all business. Sexy business. When she stepped onto the porch, the light from the window fell on her face.

A high note of alarm rang in his head. He dropped his feet and sat up. “What's wrong?”

“I'm just tired.” Her purse and case thumped onto the porch, and she dropped into the chair beside him and toed off her shoes. “And my feet are killing me.”

Damned buyers probably ate her alive.
He'd offered to go with her, but she'd turned him down in a no-argument tone. “I think I have some iced tea in my fridge. Does that sound good?”

“Sounds like heaven.”

On the way back, he flipped on a small light before stepping onto the porch. She sat, head against the back of the chair, eyes closed. He held out a glass. “Here.”

She opened her eyes and took it. “Thanks.”

He sat. “Want to tell me how it went?”

She sighed and handed him a slip of paper. He closed the door then glanced at it. “The Demure Damsel?” He looked up. “You got us in the Demure Damsel?” He glanced at the purchase order again to be sure he'd read it right. “Do you know what a coup this is? They don't
do
local wines. Bacchanal has been trying to get in there for
years
.”

This little piece of paper was their golden ticket to the local market. A tide of hope rose in him, a foam of joy floating on top. “You are one hell of a salesman, Indigo Blue.” He shook his head and clinked his beer bottle to her glass, where it rested on the arm of her chair. “Saleswoman, I mean.”

She gave him a counterfeit smile.

Why didn't she look happier?

He could only imagine the guts she'd had to take on the local market, armed with only samples and a smattering of knowledge.

She was so much braver than he.