She couldn’t help but think that maybe the prediction written about her at graduation was destined to come true.
“I saw your dad at the vet this morning,” said Keval. “He told me your news. Exciting!”
“What news?” asked Red.
Poppy hesitated. She hadn’t decided how much to tell her friends about her long shot for the future, in case it didn’t pan out.
At first when Cory Anthony—the Cory Anthony, one of Portland’s top chefs—mentioned he might be able to put her knowledge of wine to good use at the new place he was opening up, she’d been ecstatic.
Then, during the formal interview, Chef told her the elaborate renovations were going to take longer than he’d originally thought. The target opening date had been pushed back until the end of the year. But the real clincher was that even though he was impressed by her having taught herself about wine, his job offer was contingent on her becoming official—earning her sommelier certificate.
Her elation had given way to panic. She was a terrible test taker. To this day, she still had nightmares about school.
“First I have to pass that exam,” she told her friends.
“You’ll pass. You’ve got a great bedside manner,” said Keval. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt that you look like that classic painting of Venus on the Half Shell.”
“Thanks—I think,” she told Keval. Another well-meaning comment equating her worth with her appearance. “And it’s called table service. The parts of the test are wine theory, tasting, and table service.”
“Excuse me,” said Keval, waving his fork in the air. “Do I know all those fancy wine terms? Promise me one thing. Once you’re a famous lady somm with your face plastered all over, you won’t forget your roots.”
She chuckled. “I can safely say that’s not something you’ll ever have to worry about.”
“You’ve heard, right?” exclaimed Keval to the others. “Poppy’s been, quote unquote, discovered by a talent scout who happened to be having dinner where she used to hostess. Not only is she going to be a wine steward at Cory Anthony’s latest place, she’s been tagged to be the new face of Palette Cosmetics!”
“Easy,” said Junie, dodging Keval’s utensil. “Here, Keval, eat part of this sticky bun. I can’t finish it. Poppy, what’s he ranting about?”
But Keval couldn’t seem to help himself in his frenzy to be the one to spill the beans. “Am I making this up? Her father told me himself. He was leaving the vet’s office with Jackson, and Miss Sweetie and I were on our way in. Miss Sweetie adores Jackson. Anyhoo, between the fabulous new restaurant, the modeling, the private parties, and the jetting off to who-knows-where—well, I’m just saying. Take a good hard look at her. We might as well say sayonara right now to the Poppy we know and love.”
She was going to kill her dad first, and then Keval.
From the corner of her eye she thought she saw Heath’s healthy complexion pale.
Then Red chimed in. “Details, please?”
Keval opened his mouth, but Red cut him off with a look. “From Poppy, if you don’t mind.”
Poppy wrung her hands in her lap, her excitement tinged with nerves. “Well, it’s far from a sure thing. The Palette people are waiting to see if I pass the test and get the wine steward position. Everything hinges on that. So, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“It’s a thing now for companies to use a so-called real person with an authentic career in their ads instead of a full-time model,” added Keval, stuffing the wad of cinnamon-encrusted dough Junie had given him into his mouth. “What’s hotter than a lady somm?” he asked around his mouthful. “Everybody either wants one or wants to be one.”
Keval might have a flair for the dramatic, but he was right. The day would soon come when a somm was a somm, but for now, flaunting women sommeliers was a way for restaurants to get buzz.
Red squealed and hugged Poppy as best she could in the narrow space between the table and the booth. “That’s fabulous!”’
“Go Poppy!” said Junie from her seat by the window, raising her mug in a salute.
Poppy looped her ponytail around her hand again and again until she noticed the right angles poking against the canvas of Heath’s backpack. She pounced on it as a way to change the subject.
“What’s that?” she asked playfully, craning her neck.
“What?” replied Heath.
“That book.”
“Nothing. Just a book.” He drained his lemonade and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Our old high school yearbook,” said Red.
Poppy’s smile dissolved. “That’s ancient history.” She had long since thrown her yearbook in the dumpster. But not before the senior superlative that yearbook editor Demi had managed to sneak by the advisor had become fixed in her mind.
After all these years, it still felt like a stab to the heart. Anyone else would have been content to stick with the traditional lines: Best Dressed, Most Likely to Become President, and so on. Not Demi. She’d had it in for Poppy since seventh grade, when she found out Daryl Decaprio, the guy she had a crush on, was playing Poppy sappy love songs over the phone at night.
In a small town, your senior superlative defined you like an epitaph carved in stone. Except unlike an epitaph, you weren’t dead when you got it—you had to live with it for the rest of your life. Demi had used her creative writing skills to create the ultimate, parting gibe.
“What made you haul that out of storage now?”
Junie said, “You know Heath. He doesn’t get rid of anything. Our tenth reunion’s coming up. Didn’t you get the Save the Date?”
“I haven’t checked email for the past couple days.” Poppy had been spending every free minute studying.
“We thought it’d be fun to look at faces. You know, jog our memories. Guess who’ll show and who won’t.”
Heath pulled out his phone, tapped something in and handed it to Poppy. “Here. Read this.”
Poppy’s body stiffened like a corpse.
Heath knew her impediment better than anyone. How could he put her on the spot like this? Surely everyone could see the panic on her face.
You’re not stupid, she told herself firmly. But her shame at being dyslexic was still paralyzing sometimes, especially when she had to read out loud, in public. And not being able to control her shame made her feel guilty. Inadequacy, shame, guilt. A vicious cycle.
For once, Heath held her gaze. “Poppy,” he said evenly. “You’ve got this.”
She felt his strength seep into her, igniting a warmth that stole through her body. Gingerly, she reached for the phone and bowed her head over the screen. The letters of the alphabet swam and shifted before coalescing into a pattern of rune-like shapes.
“Deep breath,” Red said gently.
Dutifully, she inhaled. “Clarkston High School Ten Year Reunion. Saturday, December 15, 8 pm,” she read haltingly. “The Radish Rose. Dinner and dancing. RSVP to Demi Barnes, Reunion Committee Chairman.”
“So, who’s in?” asked Red.
“I am,” sang Keval with a wave of his fingers.
Of course Keval would go to the reunion. Reunions were made for people like him. Following four years of exceptionally awkward adolescence, Keval was a walking “it gets better” ad.
“It’ll be good for business,” said Junie. “I don’t get out enough as it is, what with running both the vineyard and the winery.”
Red looked at Poppy. “What about you?”
“Think I’ll pass.” She handed Heath’s phone back and attempted to bolt, but Red stopped her with a hand on her forearm.
“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun! Dancing, seeing people you haven’t seen in forever . . .”
“That’s after Poppy’s test. She might be chillin’ in some Portland penthouse overlooking the river by then,” said Keval.
Maybe not a penthouse, but she’d better have some place in her sights. Because if she didn’t, that would mean she had flunked the test a
nd failed to get the sommelier position. And that Demi had been right about her all along.
“She can come back for it,” said Red. “It’s only an hour’s drive.”
Still perched on the edge of the booth, Poppy asked Heath, “Are you going?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Heath had come a long way since his own senior superlative: Most likely to blow something up. On the watch list of the Clarkston F.D. since sixth grade, when his attempt to build a geyser with a pack of Mentos, a liter of soda, and duct tape worked a little too well.
Poppy smiled to herself, forgetting her own problems for a moment. Heath had always been somewhat of an enigma.
Their teachers murmured to each other that he was a science prodigy. Who could forget his Edible Skin Layers Cake made from Fruit Roll-Ups (epidermis), Jell-o (dermis), and mini marshmallows (hypodermis)? Rumor was, he’d aced his college boards. Yet he’d tossed out all those scholarship letters without opening them. And now beer drinkers all over the Pacific Northwest couldn’t get enough of his ales with names like Newberg Neutral and Ribbon Ridge Red.
But when it came to social skills, there was a sweet innocence about Heath that made him hard to get close to.
Junie didn’t waste her breath pressuring Heath to go to the reunion. Everyone knew he’d rather face an angry rattlesnake than make chitchat at a party. Instead she focused on persuading Poppy. “Don’t you want to see all the people we went to school with?”
“I’ve never stopped seeing most of them,” replied Poppy. Even during the four years she worked in Portland, she’d still lived with her parents. “For everyone else, there’s Facebook.”
“A lot has happened over the last decade. Some people went away, some got married, had kids, got divorced, won and lost jobs . . .” mused Red. “People change.”
“Exactly. That part of my life is behind me. I don’t feel the need to see how I’m measuring up.”
“But how can it hurt?” pleaded Keval. “Come on, Poppykins. It won’t be any fun without you.”
She set her jaw. Finally, she said to Heath, “Hand me that yearbook.”
Rain pelted the windows, and there was the rumble of distant thunder.
Poppy thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. She laid the open book in the middle of the table and pressed her index finger to the passage that had never stopped haunting her.
Red, Junie and Keval tipped their heads and read silently, while Heath looked around the room like he’d rather be anywhere else than there.
Most likely to still be a Clarkston waitress at our tenth class reunion: Poppy Springer. Poppy’s most endearing talent is writing her name backwards. She is a true golden retriever at heart, as evidenced by her blond mane and a mind refreshingly free of deep thoughts. Poppy’s hobbies are organizing individually wrapped tea bags and leaving a trail of smiley faces wherever she goes. Why change?
Following a brief pause, everyone started talking at once.
“Are you serious? Who cares about an old senior superlative?”
“That doesn’t define you.”
“Who’s going to remember that? It was the freaking Stone Age.”
Lightning flashed. The café door opened and a tall woman in a silk blouse and pencil skirt blew in, shaking the rain off her umbrella.
Demi Barnes had started out in the typing pool at the statehouse down in Salem and worked her way up the ladder until Senator Hollins appointed her to run his newly-opened Willamette Valley satellite office.
She paused just inside the entrance, combing her fingers through her windblown hair, waiting to be seated.
Poppy was the only server working until the dinner shift came in at three. But somehow her butt was glued to her seat.
When Demi spotted Poppy she started walking toward her, her heels clicking ominously with every step.
From the corner of her eye Poppy saw Heath slam the yearbook shut and slip it into his bag.
“Well, look who.” Demi stared down at the splashy, orange flower on Poppy’s apron. “Back working at your parents’ cafe?”
“For now,” she replied meekly.
“Things didn’t work out in Portland?”
Why did Demi always make her feel so inferior? It was her own fault for letting Demi get to her. Inadequacy, shame, guilt.
By some miracle, she managed to mask her inner turmoil. “Things worked out fine. I’m just . . . just back home temporarily, until my new job starts.”
“Oh, really? What job is that?”
There was a roaring in Poppy’s ears. She felt like she was in the middle of a circus ring and everyone was waiting for the show to begin. Five sets of eyes homed in on her, projecting every emotion from encouragement to empathy to disdain.
From somewhere deep down, defiance welled up in her. She was tired of being talked down to. Underestimated.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I’m going to be a sommelier at Cory Anthony’s new restaurant in Portland.”
Her heart pounded. What was she saying?
Demi’s jaw dropped.
She was speechless.
And Poppy was loving it!
Keval caught Poppy’s momentum. A haughty grin spread across his face. “And a model. Boom.” He punctuated the syllable with his fork.
Demi’s eyes swung back to Poppy’s, seeking clarification.
“You’ve heard of Palette Cosmetics?” Poppy tossed her ponytail and stared straight into Demi’s treacherous green eyes.
She was already in over her head. Might as well go all the way.
“They’ve hired me to be their spokesperson.”
What alien being had taken over Poppy’s body?
But as swiftly as Demi had been caught off guard, she recovered. “Isn’t that special? You’ll definitely have to come to the big class reunion, then! I’m sure everyone will be fascinated when they find out we have a sommelier and model in our class. In fact, spreading the word ahead of time might get more people to come.”
The faces around the table froze.
Demi sensed weakness like a shark smelled blood. “That is . . . unless it’s not a done deal?”
Keval said, “Oh, it’s a done deal. Done as a dog’s dinner. Tell anyone you want. Tell the world! Poppy Springer has evolved. Our golden retriever’s going to compete at Westminster. Instead of sorting teabags, she’ll be sorting French Chardonnay. In place of smiley faces, she’ll be the face of—“
“Poppy’s going to be a great somm.” Compared with Keval’s rising hysteria, Heath’s voice sounded rock solid.
Poppy wanted to kiss him—even if it did make him squirm.
Red took advantage of the lull to start gathering up her belongings. “Nice to see you, Demi. Poppy, could I scoot out and pay? I have an appointment to get to.”
“I should get going, too,” said Junie.
Poppy let Junie out and remembered that for the time being, her job was pouring nothing stronger than Stumptown’s Hair Bender. She offered Demi a nearby table.
“Actually, I’m not as hungry as I thought,” Demi said, backtracking toward the exit. “But we’re having a reunion meeting here next Tuesday evening. I’m sure every person on the committee will want to hear all the details about your new job then.”
“I look forward to it,” said Poppy.
Her smile felt as phony as a three dollar bill.
She watched Demi walk briskly out the door and down the sidewalk, umbrella in one hand, phone in the other.
If only she’d kept her mouth shut!
There had never been any expectations of Poppy. She could have gone on working at her parents’ café forever and no one would have thought less of her.
But now, if her fabulous new life failed to come to fruition, she was going to be the laughingstock of Clarkston.
Did you enjoy this teaser? Click here to get your copy.
Heather Heyford learned to walk and talk in Texas, then moved to England.
(“Y’all want some scones?”) While in Europe, Heather was forced by her cruel parents to spend Saturdays in the leopard vinyl back seat of their Peugeot, motoring from one medieval pile to the next for the lame purpose of “learning something.” What she soon learned was how to allay the boredom by stashing a Cosmo under the seat. Now a recovering teacher, Heather writes romance novels set in the wine country. She is represented by the Nancy Yost Literary Agency.
Click here to get all the latest news from Heather Heyford!
Join author Heather Heyford as she uncorks a sparkling new series following the St. Pierre sisters, heiresses to a Napa wine fortune who are toasting the good life and are thirsty for love . . .
Chardonnay St. Pierre’s father is as infamous for his scandals as he is famous for his wine, and it’s up to Char to restore the family name. The Challenge, an elite charity competition held in Napa, seems like the perfect opportunity for the socialite to cement her image as a philanthropist. But all eyes—including Char’s—are on the Hollywood heartthrob who’s also entered the race . . .
Long before his face was splashed across the gossip magazines, Ryder McBride grew up in a working-class family in Napa. He knows all about the St. Pierre sisters and their notorious father, and when he learns he’ll be up against Char in The Challenge, he assumes the grape doesn’t fall far from the vine. But the more they get to know one another, the more they begin to realize that nothing pairs better with a heated rivalry than a healthy pour of flirtation . . .
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Raise your glass and join Heather Heyford as she pours a second serving in her series following these headstrong wine heiresses in their quest to strike out on their own . . .
Merlot St. Pierre is struggling to break free from her family name. Her college classmates whisper behind her back that her passion for jewelry design is little more than a hobby, since she’ll always have her father’s fortune. But Meri is determined to prove them wrong, and with the help of a handsome jewelry buyer, she just may taste her first sip of success—as long as she can hide who she really is . . .
The Crush Page 22
