Just Like That

by Karin Kallmaker

  “What do we do now?”

  Wiping away a tear, Syrah had only one answer. “We hurt. And then we get over it.”

  She dragged herself back to the house after their swim and Jane departed listlessly for home. The tasting room was crowded, including a buyer for a supermarket chain in the southern part of the state. Syrah took over the room and let her father retire to talk business. Her shoulders felt as if her head was a boulder and she knew she moved with all the oomph of a banana slug.

  She joined her father and Bennett for dinner, hungry at last but taking no real enjoyment from her meal. She didn’t want to explain her mood, and she knew they both noticed. Bennett, however, knew who had called this morning and in what order, and knew, too, that Syrah’s black mood and blotchy eyes had appeared only after the second visitor.

  “I can’t say they’ve been any credit at all to the neighborhood,” Bennett pronounced. “All that money and a lovely house, but what have they done? Poor Jane Lucas is heartbroken and you, I must say, look as if you’d like to murder someone.”

  “Leave Syrah alone, Bennett,” her father advised. He looked up from the steaming fricassee to regard her seriously. “It’s been a stressful little while, but things are better. Tomorrow we’ll work out the chemical order.”

  “And when will Ms. Blanchard be back,” Bennett demanded. “How long will things be better?”

  “She said two months. I’ll look forward to meeting with her again.”

  Syrah observed, with a strong hope it might be true, “Perhaps she’ll send one of her colleagues next time. We’re small potatoes to her regular deals, I would think.”

  “It would be just like her best friend, that Missy Bingley, who has broken Jane’s poor heart. They cut and run, these types.” Bennett stacked dishes, leaving Syrah to muse on the staunch fluidity of Bennett’s loyalties.

  “She’ll be back,” he father said. “Her pride won’t let her leave things half-completed.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of, Syrah thought. Feeling better for the hot meal, she sat down at the computer hoping for anything entertaining. She didn’t expect another missive from “A Friend” and wasn’t disappointed. What she did find sent her heart into her throat. Hesitantly, having no real expectation of what the message might say, she clicked open.

  Dear Syrah, I hope you will at least read this letter, especially if I assure you that I won’t repeat what I said this morning. It was clear you found my words offensive and that matter will not arise between us again. I’m writing you from someplace over Denver wishing to clear the air on the other matters you brought up. We will, most certainly, have to face each other again in the course of business, and my hope is to ease those later meetings with information now.

  Syrah scrolled down, consumed equally with curiosity and anger.

  You accused me of several things of differing magnitude, and I will deal with the smallest matter first. Though I do not want to offend you or Jane, you cannot blame me for wanting to protect my friend from a woman I thought would ultimately hurt her. I was not and still am not convinced that Jane feels any deep or lasting feelings for Missy.

  You do know her better than I do, but I know Missy better than you. I saw nothing in Missy’s manner that I hadn’t seen before. Though she repeatedly told me she believed she was in love with Jane, she quickly agreed that leaving the area for a while was the smart thing to do, especially after I told her I didn’t think Jane’s feelings ran very deep. I related the ease with which Jane flirts with other women and even you did not disagree that Jane has liked to the play the field.

  That’s right, Syrah thought. Not everybody ran cold, unlike some financial types she could mention. The thought was unfair, she knew that immediately, remembering the heat of Toni’s body. Nevertheless, the lofty, lecturing tone brought out her most childish responses, and she read on, less and less willing to believe a word of it.

  I won’t apologize for doing what I thought best for a friend, and I’m sorry that you think badly of me for my part in it. But I would do it again, and since Missy ultimately agreed with my assessment, it seems to have been the right thing to do. I acted out of concern for Missy, and I can’t seriously believe that this matter alone would have caused you to be so repulsed by my feelings.

  That brings me to the other charges you laid at my feet, interrelated. You mentioned workers in Georgia, which means you received or sought out information about me. I certainly don’t blame you for typing my name into a search engine—it was a sensible step to undertake. But if you read any of the articles about the Georgia affair you would, I think, not have said what you did. I deeply regret that the deal fell apart. I did all that I could to make it work. You have only my word for that. There was nothing more I could do, and the other parties refused to make any concessions. They wanted their business to remain unchanged and so it did, until the day it closed its doors, just a few days after I withdrew the contracts offered by the consortium I represented.

  * * *

  “Only your word for it, that’s right,” Syrah said to the screen. “Everybody would say how unfortunate when our vines were sold, but they’d praise you for getting money for the lenders.” She scrolled down again, still angry, and read the closing paragraphs.

  The grand jury affair was a long time ago, not the first of its kind and probably not the last. People with hurt feelings try to find recourse any way they can. Every action against me, my firm and my colleagues has been easily dismissed.

  As for the idea that I would use my position somehow to blackmail you into a relationship with me, I must say that I am grateful to you for suggesting it. Only when you said that did I truly comprehend how little you respected or understood me. I pride myself on my honor and it’s clear you do not believe I have any. I can offer no evidence to change your mind, but rest assured, I have never, and will never, force any woman into bed with me. I do not know how it is we have misunderstood each other so badly, but I think we may have to each take a small amount of blame for letting our baser desires get so out of hand. It will not happen again.

  Syrah stared at the signature, “T.B.,” for several minutes, then read the letter a second time. The assertions about Jane’s feelings were patently false because any fool could have seen Jane was crazy about Missy. If Missy had been so easily persuaded to part company with Jane, then Missy was the one with no substance.

  It was harder to read the part about the business deal. With chagrin, she realized she had not performed even the most cursory search for information about Toni. Instead, she had relied on a stranger’s word, one she had no reason to believe beyond a moving and well-written letter.

  She opened a browser window and typed “Toni Blanchard” into the search box. Within seconds she had links to hundreds of articles, and the counter was still rising.

  Some of them were the same articles that “A Friend” had sent, but she chose instead links that went to magazines and journals. She was prepared for it all to boil down to a matter of “she said/they said” but it quickly became apparent that it was not so simple. The most vitriolic words against Toni were, in fact, the very ones that “A Friend” had sent. But for each of those there were a dozen that told the story Toni’s way. One journalist even concluded, “Given Blanchard’s history of saving the day for medium and large enterprises, this surprising failure will no doubt rankle all concerned for some time.”

  She sat there for a long while, trying to sort through what she ought to take from Toni’s letter. If she found some of it to be true, shouldn’t she believe it all? Since “A Friend” had sent only the most slanted information about Toni to be found, could Syrah really believe the assertion that Toni had in some way blackmailed someone into a relationship with her?

  With a growing sense of shame, Syrah read Toni’s letter one more time. Toni said the matter of Jane and Missy was the least important and that was where, Syrah thought furiously, she was wrong. Jane’s feelings and well-being were important to Syrah
, and having wounded those, Toni could not expect Syrah to look upon anything else she did with favor.

  Toni had seen her hung over, angry, indiscreetly naked, and if Toni wanted to think she was some kind of trash, that was one thing. It hurt, but she could see how Toni might feel that way and truly regret having any kind of feelings at all for someone she didn’t respect. But to tar Jane with the same brush, Jane who had never hurt a fly and never would, that was too much to bear.

  “Maybe I was unfair, and maybe I should never have read those e-mails,” Syrah said to her reflection as she brushed her hair before bed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have touched her and shouldn’t have wanted to find out why she felt so good. But she should not have hurt Jane.”

  She brushed her teeth and shut off all the lights. Hound’s steady breathing and the warm bed were welcome and yet she didn’t sleep, not right away. She had behaved badly and Toni was now on the other side of the country.

  Perhaps she would come back. If she did, Syrah would apologize for what she could. Maybe since Toni had put such emphasis on her love for her friend she would understand how Syrah had had to do the same.

  She wished her father hadn’t been unwise with money that people had had no business lending them. Part of her wished she was back in France, watching grapes die on the vine for another spring. Even that would be less painful than what she felt right now.

  Chapter 11

  The sterility of her apartment was the most welcome thing Toni had ever experienced. No smell of loamy earth, no buzzing of insects, and the small fountain in the living room, when she switched it on, did not truly resemble the real sound of running water. The June skies were dark and heavy with heat, so sunshine wasn’t even a reminder of the gold she’d been so aware of in those fine, dark eyes.

  She hadn’t meant to insult Syrah, hadn’t even thought she would say what she’d said until the words were spoken. She hadn’t been herself from the moment she’d stepped into the winery that first day. But she was herself again, back at home. Balanced. Steady.

  Not in love with anyone. I could never love someone as arrogant and unfeeling as you. No, she was not haunted by Syrah’s last words.

  It had been a week of insanity. Some virus in the spring air, some potion in the wine.

  Monday morning was normal in every respect. A quick report from Kyle on the way into the office. A pit stop at the deli, then a brief glance at the Wall Street Journal headlines on the way up in the elevator.

  Crystal smiled broadly when she saw Toni and saluted with her latte cup. Pleased to see such an improvement in Crystal’s manner, Toni was glad of every minute they’d spent chatting in the last week. She sincerely hoped that Mira’s vicious game wouldn’t keep Crystal from dating soon.

  As if, Toni thought, dating has turned out so well for you.

  Even as she considered the first of Tracy’s hot-list items, part of her was wondering if one dinner had constituted dating Syrah. Had that been her mistake? Not enough courtship, enough roses and chocolate and sweet nothings?

  “What?” Tracy was waiting, pen poised over her notebook. “What’s so funny?”

  “I just remembered something, that’s all.” She hoped the rental car company had checked the trunk and if so, someone had enjoyed the picnic lunch on dry ice. Wine, cheese, salads, crackers and fresh chocolate chip cookies had been her foray into courting Syrah.

  “Gonna tell me?”

  “No.” She had known Syrah would be upset about Jane but had never dreamed they wouldn’t be able to at least talk about it.

  “And you’re not going to tell me why now you look as if someone just stomped on your favorite doll, are you?” Tracy’s eyebrows had disappeared behind her bangs.

  “No, not that either. What’s next?”

  “Henry wanted a moment.”

  “Let him in, then I’ll see Barth’s list.”

  She answered two e-mails while she waited for Henry, who lingered nervously at the door.

  She waved him in. “What’s new?”

  “I was hoping to really quickly—quickly, Toni, promise—run through my deck for Orly? I think I’ve got it right.”

  “Sure, give me twenty to settle up with admin and we’ll do it.” Toni regarded him thoughtfully. “If I hadn’t come back today, what would you have done?”

  “E-mailed you the deck and if you didn’t have time, just gone with it.”

  “Good. That’s exactly what you should do.”

  Barth shooed Henry out of the office, took Toni’s receipts and the Ardani files while running through the most urgent matters on his list. “I’ll get you those reservations to North Carolina—same hotel?”

  “Yes, and make sure Doc gets an invitation to dinner the first night I’m there.”

  “Will do.” Barth gave her a long look. “I’d have thought a week in the wine country would have shown more, boss.”

  Obviously, the Admin Queens were noticing far too much about her today. “Oh, gee, thanks. I look like crap?”

  “You look tired.”

  The infuriating part of her day, her week, the next several weeks, was waking up every morning knowing she looked tired. Her own foolishness to make some wild declaration of love wouldn’t let her sleep. She’d known the woman for only a week, and so yes, the adrenaline every time she’d breathed in Syrah’s cologne had been intense, but how could she have been so reckless with her own heart and Syrah’s life? Caroline’s professions of attachment bothered Toni, so how must Syrah have felt listening to professions from someone she so disliked?

  Maybe the truth is no one would love you if you weren’t rich. Had she told Missy that Jane only wanted her money because it had been true of Mira?

  The vision of the last minutes with Syrah followed her through a successful, lucrative deal for Doc—who told her she looked tired—and back to New York again where she welcomed even more work. The court in Delaware, of course, approved her application for a creditor’s stay, and she put Ardani Vineyard, Inc., out of her head for the nonce. She would get over Syrah Ardani even if it meant never drinking wine again.

  * * *

  In a matter of a week, the fields that formed Syrah’s horizons went from green to gold. Grape leaves darkened and the fruit began to swell. Finally, clusters she sampled began to tell of the late spring rains and the promise of a rich, ripe harvest.

  Walking the vines with her father was a daily adventure, as were their sojourns into the fermentation buildings. They tasted, took readings, broke soil in their fingers so they could practice the most difficult part of viticulture: trusting their instincts enough to do nothing.

  Syrah looked up from one of Bennett’s hearty sandwiches to see Jane’s truck pulling into the crowded lot. Thankfully Chino’s wife was enjoying control of the tasting room and Syrah could focus on the vines and the business end of things more than ever. Slowly, her father was letting her weigh in on bills to pay and decisions to make. As the summer progressed, every day’s list of things to do would grow longer until harvest would play out over a month where sleep was scarce.

  Maybe harvest results would be more than anyone dreamed. Maybe it would be enough to keep Toni Blanchard and her business interests on the other side of the country.

  Hound bounced excitedly around Jane, but Jane had no enthusiasm for a game of fetch. She had lost a few pounds, weight she could not afford to shed. Syrah, on the other hand, knew she had put on a few. Once her initial turmoil had subsided, her hunger had returned and she seemed to have no end of craving for things like macaroni and cheese, oatmeal with cream and Bennett’s mashed potatoes and gravy. Comfort food, plain and simple.

  “Job’s done,” Jane confided as she helped herself to the other half of Syrah’s sandwich. “I am officially seasonally unemployed.”

  “There’ll be some more jobs.”

  Chewing thoughtfully, Jane said, “Of course. This year I might take them. I don’t feel like painting, that’s for sure.”

  Syrah patted Jane’s h
and. “I understand.”

  “You’ll never guess what I just heard.” Bennett joined them on the porch outside the kitchen. “Wine for Dimes is still having an event at Netherfield, in three weeks.”

  Jane winced. “I know someone who is working on the landscaping. I thought it was being prepped for sale. The owner hasn’t been near it.”

  “I was told that she is back, and I must say, Jane, you don’t need to go near the place.” She hauled Hound’s snout out of a bag of potting soil. “Missy Bingley might be able to buy the affection of some people with a little charity event, but we know the truth about her.”

  Jane put down the sandwich and Syrah knew she wouldn’t have another bite. She reclaimed it for herself and said, around a mouthful, “She could still be getting ready to sell.”

  “Maybe,” Jane said.

  “That poisonous sister of hers will be there.”

  “Probably.”

  “We’re not going anywhere near the place, are we?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Bennett said with equal conviction to her opposite declarations of only moments earlier. “You should march right in the front door, dressed to kill, and show all of those outsiders that local women do not need them to be happy. You should wear that morning suit of your mother’s, Syrah. It’s all the rage, vintage clothing. And you, Jane, should perhaps try a dress.”

  “Never,” Jane said with a flicker of a smile. “But I will brush my hair—that is, if I go.”

  A timer dinged and Bennett hurried away. They shortly heard her say, “…and Jane Lucas refuses to wear a dress when she could score the last word if she did.”

  “She’s remarkable,” Jane said.

  “Believing two conflicting things at the same time is hard work, and Bennett makes it look so easy. But it’s nice to have someone in your life who thinks you’re right about everything for a few minutes every day.”