Just Like That

by Karin Kallmaker

  Missy lounged across the guestroom bed, still in her robe. “I don’t know my way around very well, but if it’s a winery I might know it. I went tasting for the charity thing.” She smiled nostalgically. “Very nice things can happen in wineries.”

  “You look besotted,” Toni said, trying not to be irritated. Missy was almost unreasonable with her gooey reminiscences about Jane.

  “I am besotted. She’s such a gentleman. She knew I’d have gone home with her, but didn’t ask.”

  It had surprised Toni, but all it meant was that Jane was far more clever than most of the attractive, brooding butch women in Missy’s life before now. She glanced at Missy in the mirror. “Well, she had her friend to get home. She probably has to do that all the time.”

  “Do you think? Syrah doesn’t strike me as a drinker, and after my mother, well, I can spot an alcoholic a mile off.” Missy put her head down on her arms, leaving Toni alone with her own reflection.

  “Is that the friend’s name?” She slowly buttoned her blouse. “Syrah Ardani? That was Syrah Ardani, Ardani Vineyards?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you hear me introduce her?”

  “It was too loud.”

  “How do you know the—” Missy lifted her head to regard Toni in the mirror with horror. “Oh, no. That’s why you’re here. Oh, that’s awful. She’s very nice. And her father is adorable.”

  Hell. Now she wondered if the borderline hostility in Syrah’s greeting had been because she knew why Toni was there. Frankly, however, she’d have thought Syrah Ardani would be much more hostile than that—she might not have heard the introductions either. “I’ve no doubt they are swell people, but I can’t say more than that.”

  “Business can suck.” Missy looked almost tearful. “I don’t know how you do what you do, T.B. It would kill me.”

  Toni steeled herself against a flurry of images—her father meeting her mother for the first time, at the introduction of the man she would be evaluating in less than an hour. A little girl with eyes that had left an indelible impression on her father. She thought of the way Syrah Ardani’s very grown-up eyes had sought her out for just a moment when she was dancing and she made herself remember the cold, hard facts. Syrah Ardani was the debutante who’d just gotten back from Europe. Given her roadside performance after the dance, she was still a party girl.

  The party was over.

  “It’s not easy, sometimes,” she admitted to Missy. “Especially when people who’ve not done anything wrong get hurt. There’s nothing wrong with thinking if you go to work every day and do an honest day’s work you ought to be able to go on doing that, live your life, raise a family.”

  “But the world changes too fast for that these days. I know why you gave all that money to the Inner City Education Fund. You don’t want to be laying them off because they don’t have a flexible mindset or the skills to change jobs if they have to.”

  Toni fastened her cuffs. “It’s just guilt money, nothing more.”

  “Shut up,” Missy snapped. “I hate it when you say things like that. Mira—”

  “Mira occasionally spoke the truth. I’ve gotten very rich.”

  “Playing by the rules!”

  “Rules that favor me in every game. There.” She patted her hair.

  Missy appeared behind Toni and slipped her arms around Toni’s waist. “You’re a good person, Toni. I’ll never believe otherwise.”

  Light and dark, Toni always thought, when the two of them were side-by-side. “Why don’t we love each other?”

  “I thought we did.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe…” Missy patted Toni’s stomach. “Maybe we are meant to be the best friends ever in the history of the world.”

  Toni laughed, marveling as always how Missy could make life seem very simple. Her laughter faded as she made herself ask, “So, how do I get to Ardani Vineyards?”

  * * *

  Syrah awoke with the certain knowledge that her head was stuck in a bottling machine. Thump-click-slam-whuff-zzzzzzzz-thump-click-slam-whuff. For quite some time she could only pray for the machine to stop.

  She feared the creak of the bedroom door was Bennett bearing anything that could be food. Instead she had only a mere warning of claws on hardwood before the bed exploded in motion.

  “Hound!” Syrah clutched her head. “Get off the bed, please!”

  Hound licked her face, and the smell of dog breath was Syrah’s undoing. It was nearly an hour before she reached the stage of being able to put her sheets and shirt, clothes from the floor and the bathroom rug into the washing machine.

  Bennett said nothing when Syrah made it to the kitchen. She gave a pointed look at a mug of coffee on the counter and went back to rapidly chopping nuts. Machine-gun fire pinged between Syrah’s ears.

  When she opened her eyes again, head still on the kitchen table where she’d slumped, it was just after twelve. Her nose was being tickled with the scent of fresh coffee and this time it didn’t make her want to die.

  “So you had quite the fun night,” Bennett observed. Her hands were smoothing what looked like—in the very brief glance Syrah gave the food—pesto chicken wraps.

  “It was fun until I was stupid.” Syrah cautiously sipped the coffee. It stayed down. She heaved a sigh of relief. “Don’t make me anything to eat for lunch.”

  “This isn’t for you. Some woman showed up to see your father and they’re in the office.”

  “Oh.” Syrah frowned. “Who’s pouring?”

  “Nobody here yet, but it’s a beautiful day and I bet we get busy soon.”

  Syrah nodded and regretted it. The thought of smelling wine was threatening her equilibrium.

  Bennett set a small bowl of steaming something in front of her. “Just a couple of bites and you’ll start to feel better.”

  Halfway through the bowl of chicken noodle soup, salty but otherwise mild, she did feel better. A small of glass of water and some Advil went down next and then a few crackers. By the time the first tasters arrived she felt nearly human. She still had to breathe through her mouth when she uncorked the first bottle but the food in her stomach stayed put.

  When the customers left she was aware of the low sound of voices from the office and recalled that someone had stopped in. It had been a long meeting, and on a Sunday. She crossed the tasting room to blatantly eavesdrop and heard the woman saying, “I really didn’t plan to go into all these details today.”

  “Sooner the better,” her father answered. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, as I’ve said.”

  “I wish I could say that it was, but when payments haven’t been made for so long, and there appears to be no means to begin making them, the lenders are understandably anxious.”

  Syrah closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. She tried to make sense of the words but nothing was tracking.

  “Couldn’t the investors make those payments? Can’t we give them more shares?”

  “They have to want them, Mr. Ardani, and I have no assurance from any of them that they do.”

  “But Ms. Blanchard, not two years ago everyone was saying how great it all penciled, I think that was the word. Why doesn’t it now?”

  “That’s why I’m here—”

  Syrah pushed opened the door and stared dumbly at Toni Blanchard. She first connected the haughty curve of neck with the Inc. magazine photograph, but in another moment, Syrah recognized Dark Shadow.

  They regarded each other in silence but Syrah could have sworn she saw Toni Blanchard’s dark gray eyes replaying that charming scene by the road with Syrah throwing up in the weeds. There was a brief roar in her ears as she heard again “below the par” and recalled the disdain the woman had shown toward Jane, and all of them.

  “You’re finally up, pumpkin. That was some dance.” Her father pulled over a chair but Syrah declined to sit.

  “It was. I’m listening for the bell. I wasn’t aware you had business appointments today, Dad.”

 
“Not today, tomorrow. Ms. Blanchard just dropped by.”

  Sure she did, Syrah wanted to snap. Why hadn’t he told her the woman had been in touch for an appointment? She nearly demanded an answer from him but didn’t want to admit in front of the viper that he had kept her in the dark.

  Searching for something appropriate to say, head pounding, Syrah was relieved to hear the tasting room door open.

  She turned to see Jane, who glanced around the empty room, then espied Syrah. Heartily, she said, “Well, you look like the cat dragged you in, then dragged you out again.”

  She gave Jane a wide-eyed glare of warning, then headed her off before she got any closer to the office. “In here,” she hissed, dragging Jane into the kitchen.

  “What? There weren’t any customers—”

  “The receivership woman is here!”

  “Today? It’s Sunday.”

  “Like that matters to business types. It’s Monday somewhere in the world. It’s Missy’s friend, too. Toni Blanchard.”

  “No way.” Jane regarded Syrah as if she’d just said aliens invented nacho cheese.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oh, so Missy’s not here. I saw her car and thought…”

  “I don’t have time for you and Missy news right now.”

  “Syrah, you don’t have to be that way.” Jane crossed her arms over her chest. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”

  “And I’m hung over. The woman who decides if we keep our land or not saw me puking in the bushes last night. She thinks I’m dirt.”

  “I’ll talk to Missy—”

  “Don’t you dare! Don’t you even dare.” The tasting room door opened again, and Syrah closed her eyes. “I’m in hell.”

  “I’ll pour,” Jane said immediately. “I’ve heard you enough I can do it.”

  “I just need a minute to find my wits,” Syrah said. She gave Jane’s arm a grateful squeeze. “I like Missy. I’m being a bitch. I’m not me right now.”

  Jane smiled. “It’s okay. I know.”

  There was a clatter behind her and Syrah saw Bennett hastily arranging the wraps she’d been making on a tray. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I had no idea that was Toni Blanchard or I’d have been done already. The nerve of someone coming to talk heavy business like that on a Sunday. It’s so ill-bred, I can hardly believe Missy has anything to do with her.”

  “Bennett, please, keep your voice down.”

  “Why should I? Is this her house already?”

  The mere thought that someone else would take over this place stabbed so hard into Syrah’s brain that she momentarily could not breathe. “I won’t let that happen. She can’t be that arrogant…”

  From the frozen look on Bennett’s face Syrah knew that the Blanchard woman had to be behind her.

  She turned with all the dignity she could summon, which wasn’t much. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I came to apologize for my intrusion on your hospitality. My hope was to make everyone’s acquaintance so that tomorrow we could settle down to business. Was there anything in the list of records I’d like to review that you didn’t understand?”

  “What li—” Syrah cleared her throat. “No, it was all clear.” The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly and Syrah felt like a bug on a stick. “Then I’ll see you at nine, if that’s not too early.”

  “I’m usually up at sunrise,” Syrah said truthfully.

  Toni Blanchard looked skeptical. “Then nine o’clock it is.” Her gaze flicked to Bennett, standing at the ready with her tray of food. “That looks lovely, but you didn’t need to bother.”

  “The Ardanis have a long history of hospitality.” Bennett sniffed. “Under all kinds of circumstances.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” Toni turned to Syrah with a slight smile. “Your father got a phone call and I thought I ought to give him some privacy.”

  Bloody hell, Syrah thought. She’d have to entertain Dark Shadow now. “I’ll show you the tasting room, then. Perhaps you’d like to begin Bennett’s wonderful lunch with a glass of wine.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Oh, aren’t we cool and courteous, Syrah thought. They left the kitchen for the tasting room and Syrah pointed out various appointments in the store—local pottery and textiles that complemented various Ardani labels. “The tasting room is not the only way we sell wine, but it allows us the space to provide special events for buyers, not to mention the regional awareness of our vineyard. There are a lot of big names in this neck of the woods. We’re a specialty vintner, relying on my father’s skill to blend and create unique wines.”

  “What would you say is the average price of a bottle of wine that you sell?”

  “Open or reserve?”

  The woman’s dark gaze swept over Syrah’s face for a moment, then lit on the bar where Jane was chatting with several women. “What’s the difference?”

  We don’t know everything, do we, Syrah thought. “Reserve wine has reached a limited quantity and is only for sale at our discretion. Its value is increasing as collectors anticipate its peak. Every wine has a range when it is at its best. Sometimes a wine is reserve from the moment we open the first bottle.” She shrugged. “We taste it and we know. We put it on reserve because it will go up in value. An open wine is expected to sell out and no one will exactly tear their hair out. It’s consumable, certainly tasty, but it’s not one you’d keep for a couple of years. Our open wines are considered very good in their price range.”

  “Which is?”

  It’s all about the money, Syrah scoffed to herself. “Twelve to eighteen dollars a bottle. Reserves can start in the low thirties and range up to the hundreds. The highest, our ’seventy-four Syrah, is over five hundred and will go up for three more years, when it peaks.”

  Blanchard nodded. “Your namesake wine.”

  “My birth year wine. Dad was so pleased that my mother said he spoke of little else. When I was born in December my name was a done deal.”

  “Well, I went to school with three other Tonis, two of them boys, so there’s something to be said for unique.”

  Jane, from the bar, said, “Could have been worse. She could have been named Riesling or Gewürz.”

  Everyone laughed and Syrah kept a smile on her face. Her temples were throbbing with purple lightning from the effort of making nice with someone who couldn’t wait to pounce on every weakness.

  She rescued Jane from pouring duty and offered up the first of the reds to the waiting trio of women. They were all cute in that twenty-something way, and she got definite couple vibes from two of them. “This is our ’oh-two Cabernet.”

  Toni Blanchard was wandering around the store, but occasionally her gaze flickered to Syrah and every time it did, Syrah felt breathless and annoyed. Jane went over to chat and that, too, annoyed Syrah. She didn’t like the way Toni Blanchard’s eyes seemed to be tallying up the cost of Jane’s clothing or haircut.

  She briskly moved the three now giggling women to the Merlot and poured two modest glasses to accompany Bennett’s lunch. She carried them into her father’s office to find him staring pensively out the window.

  “Call over?”

  He nodded and took the glass she handed him. “Thanks, pumpkin.”

  Her voice low, Syrah asked, “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve been on pins and needles since I showed you the letter.” He breathed in the scent of the wine, though Syrah knew he had to have done so a hundred times already. “Let me take care of it.”

  “I need to be part of it, Dad.” He’d been handling things for too long, maybe, she thought, then called herself disloyal. He’d run the vineyards for most of his life and done so successfully. She didn’t understand why they were having problems now, all of a sudden. “This is my home and my land, too.”

  “I’m sure Toni will do right by us. She just needs lots of information.”

  “Show me the list lat
er and I’ll help—” She stiffened at the sound of footsteps approaching. “I’ll ask Bennett to bring in lunch.”

  “Join us, pumpkin.”

  “No, I’m pouring, Dad. You enjoy yourselves.” She stepped back to let Blanchard go past her and hoped she looked gracious. She suspected, however, that she did not.

  Bennett muttered her way to the office while Syrah poured the reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. A new couple had arrived and Jane was chatting with everyone as she headed out the door. Syrah put out glasses and knew she’d be grateful for the arrival of full summer, when their vine manager’s wife would run the tasting room.

  She was distantly aware that the Blanchard woman had finally left but was too busy to do more than silently celebrate. If only she would be gone forever.

  Missy’s convertible was fun to drive but Toni found herself too deep in thought to really enjoy it. The road meandered through the rising and falling countryside and she thought distractedly that it reminded her of Bolton Landing. She knew her father still owned the bare bones cottage on Lake George but he hadn’t been there in years. Decades.

  Too late she realized she’d missed her turn and she found herself on a side road to another winery. She’d already seen more of one than she’d wanted to in a day, but when she pulled into the small parking lot the view was so pleasant she sat for a minute.

  Riotous greens gave way to hints of golds on the hillside below her. She was fanciful enough to think—for just a moment—that the countryside held its breath in preparation for the explosion of summer. Most of what she was looking at had to be grapes, but there were trees aplenty, and the sunlight occasionally sparkled on moving water. A creek trickled nearby, pushing the beep of cabs and bustle of business a long way away, but she knew she couldn’t forget where home was. She had a dozen phone calls to make and wasting time looking at grapes grow wasn’t on her schedule.

  She didn’t want to leave the view, the sunshine. It helped her not think about Mira, and Mira seducing Crystal, or the prospect of a very unpleasant task ahead of her with the Ardani business.