Christmas in Wine Country

by Addison Westlake

  What she didn’t have was any word from Annie. She could, she recognized, pick up the phone and make the call herself. And she would if this went on too much longer. At the moment, though, she was still too caught between indignation and self-recrimination to know what to say. A steady stream of How could you? How could I? How could he? Wouldn’t make for much of a conversation.

  It did provide a nice internal monologue on loop, however, and she hopped on board as she began tidying the cookbooks. Station one: anger at Annie. She’d been so quick to point a finger at Lila, hadn’t see? Almost as if she’d never been a true friend, but waiting for this moment all ten years of their friendship to turn traitor. Where was the comforting shoulder when Lila needed one? Nothin’ but cold shoulder from Annie, the false friend.

  Which took her abruptly to station 2: self loathing. Why should Annie comfort her when she’d been the reason everything had fallen apart? That store had sat vacant for months until she’d opened her big mouth. She was a sucker, clearly, always had been, starting back in high school as she’d joined the legions with long-suffering crushes on Hyannis High’s star lacrosse player Mike McCaffrey. Then on to the Frisbee golf champion at Colgate—she’d really stepped down a notch, she realized; at least Mike had been recruited to a D-1 college. Who’d even heard of Frisbee golf? And let’s not forget Phillip—her interior monologue was good at re-focusing her on hating herself—king of smooth jazz and sidelining Lila.

  At least her initial instincts about Jake had been right; she’d known he was an untrustworthy prig. Until she remembered that wasn’t even true. Her first glance of him with that long, slow stride across the vineyard grounds had cued the songbirds in the Disney movie of her heart. That thick burgundy Fisherman’s knit sweater with a poetic patch on the elbow and an endearing fray at the hem. The way he’d been lost in thought, a slight furrow to his brow as if pondering the significance of the last stanza of a Keatsian ode. And that hair. Dark, not exactly black but you couldn’t really call it brown without that sounding far too light. Thick with those curls and surprisingly soft she’d discovered as they’d embraced late into the wee morning hours.

  Station three! What kind of a man held you, gazed deep into your eyes, whispered that you were so beautiful, and then crushed your dreams and ate them for breakfast the very next day? How could he have heard the excitement in her voice, the anticipation in her plans, and then left her a message explaining yes, he had killed all that, but it was only business? Don’t take it personally? What was more personal than the culmination of months and months of planning and work that was finally all set and ready to take off? What else did he do in his spare time, drown kittens?

  Every once in a while she’d try to stop the madness with a little common sense. Reason it out. But try as she might, she just couldn’t seem to solve this puzzler. Had she really been responsible for losing the store? Had Jake’s father, the great Big Bob himself, successful multi-millionaire international businessman, gotten the hot scoop on a commercial real estate deal via Lila? Did he usually wander about aimlessly, waiting until bookstore clerks struck him with inspiration? And if Jake were such a villain, why had he shown Lila and Gram around the vineyard? But if Lila’s prattling on about the soon-to-be bookstore cafe hadn’t started the Lila-Jake-Big Bob dominos, what else explained how the store had gone from vacant and without interest to suddenly scooped up just before the deal closed?

  With a sigh, Lila brought two errant travel memoirs back to their proper section. What did it matter, really? Understanding the how and why wouldn’t change the what: they’d lost the store. They’d come close, and close they’d remain. That’ll be fun, she thought ruefully, imagining walking past the shop next door as it started bustling with a remodel and then patrons. They’d be stuffing their piggy little faces with Endicott wine instead of sipping perfectly excellent cappuccinos from homemade mugs, their children next door but within eyesight attending storytime with Mr. Meows.

  At the thought of Mr. Meows, Lila silently thanked Marion, looking over again at the big sign on the front door: Mr. Meows is on vacation, back Thursday. While Marion had known that she could get Lila up and running, she apparently hadn’t been so sure about Mr. Meows. And Lila had to admit, her flag was still at half mast. While she was technically up and out of the apartment at her job, she still felt like she was wearing a ratty old t-shirt with a duck fighting a pig and watching the Red Sox take a beating.

  The bell on the door rang. Zoe walked into the bookstore. She wore an orange scarf so large and loud it appeared to be wearing her rather than the other way around. After exchanging a look with Godfrey, Zoe sank into one of the store’s armchairs.

  “I am absolutely exhausted!” she declared, exhaling in a puff that blew some of her hair up and back from her face. “Do you know what all of this has done to my chi?” She held out her left wrist as if one only had to look there to see.

  “Good to see you, Zoe.” Lila gave her a shy smile, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against a wooden bookstack.

  “This kind of negative energy…” Zoe waved her hands up in the air. “It is toxic. You are both going to have to do a ginseng cleanse after it’s all over. Which I hope is now.”

  “Well, we’ve lost the shop—” Lila began.

  “The friendship!” Zoe interrupted with frustration. “I’m talking about you and Annie!” After a few more choice words about the links between mental, emotional and physical health, she insisted that Lila come over after work. “So you don’t relapse into your funk,” she warned.

  That night at Zoe’s apartment they made vegan spring rolls. Lila felt checked out but grateful for the company. The evening was passing rather uneventfully until Lila headed for the bathroom and opened the wrong door. It turned out, the door next to Zoe’s bedroom led to a room even bigger than her bedroom and filled, top to bottom, left to right, with a gargantuan array of perfectly arranged and displayed clothes. Lila had never seen so many dresses. Vintage, black tie, cocktail, A-line, sheath, mini. Lila’s head spun as she backed out, closing the door behind her.

  “So,” she ventured, back in the kitchen, “What’s up with your closet?”

  Flushing red, Zoe looked down into the sink where she was washing dishes. In a whisper she said, “I can’t get rid of them.”

  “The clothes? Why would you want to?”

  “It’s so materialistic.”

  “If I had all those gorgeous dresses I’d wear a different one every day.”

  It turned out that the clothes were remnants of Zoe’s pre-Redwood Cove life as Tiffany Perpetua Whitwhite of Palm Beach, a fourth-generation debutante and party girl. After multiple assurances from Lila that it would be a crime to get rid of clothes that fantastic, Zoe brightened and asked, “Wanna see?”

  About an hour later, dresses strewn about in Zoe’s bedroom, Lila sat on the floor in the midst of pale pink taffeta (sweet sixteen). Zoe lounged on a chaise looking like a mermaid, head-to-toe in aqua sequins (pageant).

  “I haven’t played dress up since I was about eight years old,” Lila said, toying with the tiara atop her head.

  “Oh, I do it all the time.” Zoe plucked a feather boa out of what appeared to be an entire bag full of boas. Pausing after she flung it around her shoulders, she asked, “Hey, did you like the message I left you? The one where I sang that Pat Benetar song you like?”

  “Did you leave me a message?” Lila asked sheepishly. She’d turned her phone off on Friday and hadn’t touched it since.

  “Two. And I left them on your cell phone even though they’ve been proven to cause brain cancer.”

  “Well, I don’t think—” About to say that she was pretty sure no research linked using a land line to leave a message on a cell phone with any kind of cancer, Zoe cut Lila off.

  “You haven’t listened to any of your messages, have you?” Zoe demanded. “You don’t even know if Annie’s called.”

  It was true. Lila shrugged, unable to explain th
e passivity of the downtrodden.

  “Come on. We’ll do it together.” They went back into the kitchen, fished Lila’s phone out of her bag and put it on speakerphone on the table before them.

  Five voicemails. Two were from Gram.

  “Oh no.” Lila brought her hand up to her mouth. How had she let their Sunday call come and go? Gram must be worried sick. Zoe stopped her from making an immediate return call, however, insisting that she get through all five. Two were from Zoe, including one in which she sang, “Hit me with your best phone call! Dial away!” The final caller, however, threw them for a loop.

  “Lillian.” A smooth, polished male voice glided through the speaker. “I must take you out this Saturday. So much to catch up on. And we have something to discuss that I think is going to make you very happy.” Zoe and Lila looked at each other.

  Answering the question in her eyes, Lila said, “Phillip.”

  * * *

  At first, Lila wanted to blow Phillip off in exactly the same manner as he’d behaved with her: cold, cruel and heartless. Maybe not even call him back. Maybe send a text: Phillip who? But Zoe worked on her; she really wanted to see what the deal was. Eventually, curiosity won out. The guy who had neither phoned nor emailed nor texted once since the break up was going to drive all the way out to Redwood Cove, take her out and tell her something that was going to make her very happy? Lila had to find out what was up.

  She opted for a quick return call. Phillip, who maintained a strict policy of no personal calls during the workday (or at least no Lila calls), picked up on the first ring. When she suggested they just meet at a restaurant, he refused. He insisted on picking her up at her apartment, and on keeping their destination a surprise.

  Later that week, Zoe asked, “Wasn’t that French girl wearing a backless dress at that party?” Surprised she remembered such a detail, Lila confirmed that, yes, at the holiday party Axelle had indeed been wearing a backless dress. And looking phenomenal. Later that day Zoe showed up at Lila’s apartment with her own backless number. Stretchy and black, it looked almost casual from the front, only to wake you right up from the back.

  “You need to bring your full Lila,” Zoe counseled, dropping off what she referred to as “the works”: make-up for the stars, hair product, teeny dress, even teenier panties. Lila hadn’t known that holistic Zoe of the unbleached organic cotton tunics would even recognize such items as an eyelash curler or a flat iron, let alone own them. “They’re Tiffany’s,” Zoe explained. “And, besides, we’re women. We don’t need to make sense.”

  Saturday, Lila was wearing her own panties, thank you very much. But she was also feeling grateful. At least Zoe didn’t seem to think she was an idiot who’d ruined everything. Zoe still seemed happy to be her friend and for that Lila had played her dress-up doll.

  She’d let Zoe style her hair, with guidance away from up-dos and toward how she wore it every day anyway, just softer, shinier and with bigger, looser curls. And she’d let Zoe do her makeup, again counseling away from the initial suggestion of angry red around the eyes (apparently reds were ‘the palette of the heart’), in favor of some sultry grays. The best thing about the fuss was it didn’t give her time to think. Questions like, “Phillip? Really?” didn’t have time to percolate.

  Pacing across the wooden floorboards, Lila’s strappy high heels made a rhythmic clicking. It was 4:23pm. Phillip was due to arrive in seven minutes. With only a few hints—“prepare to be impressed” and “dress up, not down”—plus the early hour he insisted upon, Lila could only assume that he was taking her out in the city.

  She’d certainly dressed, if you could call it that. Lila tugged her cashmere wrap tighter around her shoulders and wondered how she’d let Zoe convince her to borrow that slinky black backless dress. Pacing her living room, now just three minutes before 4:30, she didn’t feel much like seduction. Not that Zoe had been counseling her to get Phillip back; that scenario hadn’t seemed to cross either of their minds. Zoe seemed to simply take it as a given that on such an occasion—seeing the one who jilted you, particularly if the jilt was done for someone French and without much thought—it was essential to look scorchingly hot.

  The downstairs buzzer rang. Lila jolted, then called into the intercom, “I’ll be right down.” She’d considered inviting him up for a drink before heading out, but now decided against it. The apartment, present week excepted, had become a happy place. A place where she sipped tea and watched the ocean. She didn’t want to see it through Phillip’s judgmental eyes. She was sure she didn’t have enough taupe or charcoal or whatever modernist lack of color she should be celebrating. Grabbing a light coat with the same hemline as the dress—also borrowed from Zoe—she headed out the door.

  Phillip waited outside, standing alongside his black Porsche. He looked like an ad for the car in a dark, slim-cut James Bond-worthy suit and tie. She couldn’t help but be struck, as she always had been, by his cool, sophisticated good looks.

  “Lillian. You look fantastic.” In a romantic gesture, Phillip grasped her hand and gave it a kiss.

  “Hello Phillip.” Lila wished at that moment she smoked so she could do something dramatic and 1940s like blow a smoke ring, throw the butt to the sidewalk and grind it under her shoe. In lieu of that, she accepted his arm as he walked her to the passenger side. Suddenly so gallant she thought to herself, remembering their former habit of leaving the office separately so as never to arouse suspicion.

  Sliding in among the new leather interior, Lila did have to admit it felt nice. He’d even heated her seat. Key in the ignition, Philip’s dashboard leapt to life with a softly lit navigation system and Bluetooth synced and ready.

  Pointing at the glowing map, Lila said, “You know, I can pretty much just tell you how to get back to the freeway.”

  “Shhh.” Index finger to his lips, he oozed charm as he said, “This night is all about you, Lillian. You sit back, relax. Leave everything to me. And prepare to be dazzled.”

  Lila sat back into her seat, stifling the hint of a laugh. He was trying hard, wasn’t he? Stealing another glance at him as he pulled the car into the street, she was struck by his beigeness. Beige hair, beige skin. He looked so well groomed, skin softly glowing, hands surely fresh from a manicure. A bit like a show dog.

  “So good to see you,” Phillip said. Lila nodded non-committally. She wasn’t so sure yet. She was officially in a wait-and-see mood.

  The automated GPS voice yelled “Turn right in 50 feet.” Seeing as how they’d dead end into the state road in 50 feet, Lila knew she could navigate better than some computer regardless where they were going. But, wait-and-see, she reminded herself. As she shifted in her seat, her dress slid up a few inches. Phillip’s attention riveted to her legs. “Made you look,” she thought, chuckling to herself and wondering if she could maybe even have some fun with him tonight.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I was able to get us tickets at such late notice.” As Phillip bragged about his connections, Lila looked out the window and recalled how much her old roommates had prized that quality. Venice and Valeria had launched and landed entire relationships based on the male’s ability to book a table or get into a party.

  As they drove, Phillip kept them company with the sound of his own voice, punctuated at awkward intervals by the GPS loudly reminding them to “keep straight.” Tuning in as he waxed rhapsodic about the B&B where he had a room with “at least 500 thread count European cotton sheets” Lila asked, “Wait, you’re staying up here?”

  “Where’s that pretty head tonight?” Phillip teased her, then answered, “Yes, as I’ve been saying, I’m at Surf Ranch. At the wine-tasting this evening the proprietor…”

  As he described how he’d impressed even the veteran wine snobs with his palate, Lila bit her lower lip and watched the dark blur of trees out the window. Surf Ranch was where she’d booked them a romantic vacation last December. Where she’d dragged herself sobbing and miserable, bereft and jobless. Like a snail witho
ut a shell, slinking out for a romantic getaway all alone. Of course he wouldn’t remember that she’d made plans for them to stay there.

  “Left turn in…one mile!” the GPS yelled and Lila sat up straighter. One mile? They’d come down south a ways and now they were heading inland. Almost as if they were going to start climbing up and over the ridge toward something else she knew of in the vicinity.

  “Wait, are we heading…?” Lila began to ask.

  “Yes. I can’t keep it a secret any longer.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Phillip pulled out two tickets to the Sonoma County annual wine auction. Held at Endicott Vineyards. He reached out and patted a hand on her knee, his palm soft as a baby’s bottom.

  “No!”

  “I know! Aren’t you shocked I got tickets? I know someone who knows someone. Had to pull some strings. It’s a great opportunity to network. And I wanted to see you. I need to talk to you about something.”

  At the GPS’s next command to “turn left”, Phillip eased them onto Vineyard Drive and up they began their winding ascent. Past Heartstone Vineyards. Past Briarpatch Vineyards. And on to the plum estate, the crème de la crème: Endicott Vineyards.

  * * *

  A huge, white tent billowed in the parking area next to the Great Room. Together, the two spaces created room for nearly 1,000 guests. Phillip pulled into queue for the valet.

  Closing her eyes, Lila rested the bridge of her nose on her fingers. Options, what were her options? Wishing she’d gone to spy school instead of Colgate, she thought of the arsenal of skills she could now be drawing upon. She’d probably have a stun gun and a fake license plate she could unfold right in her purse. She could smoothly exit the scene in a car of her choosing, change her identity with a single bottle of hair color and never look back.

  But they hadn’t covered any escape scenarios at Colgate. She’d learned nothing of use, really, at all she realized, and so now she sat in Phillip’s car in the parking lot at Endicott Vineyards as he got out, closed the door and gave his keys to the valet.