A Taste of Sauvignon

by Heather Heyford

  She loved Papa. Truly, she did. But at times like these, she’d give anything for an ordinary, run-of-the-mill dad, in place of the notorious Xavier St. Pierre.

  A TASTE OF MERLOT

  Grinning so hard her cheeks might burst, Merlot St. Pierre wove through the tightly packed crowd to the front of the art gallery, the jingling of her trademark stack of bracelets obscured by polite applause.

  When she finally reached the podium, she clutched its clear acrylic edges and paused to commit the scene to memory, her gaze bouncing from face to familiar face. A rare sense of belonging washed over her, satisfying—if only for the moment—a cavernous emptiness inside.

  Chardonnay and Sauvignon had even driven down from Napa for the annual exhibit—though not Papa, of course. He was perpetually busy, tied up in the never-ending cycle of planting, picking, and pressing grapes. Savvy smiled maternally, and Char brushed away a proud tear. Though they tried to blend in by hugging the wall at the back of the room, her sisters’ expensive clothes and skyscraper heels elevated them to another class altogether. From a casual glance, nobody would’ve tagged Meri, in her scuffed flats and faded jeans, as their sister.

  Just as well.

  Meri waited for the clapping to taper off, then leaned into the mic. “To the Gates faculty, thank you from the bottom of my heart for this award. And to my fellow students, our shared appreciation for the craft I hope to spend the rest of my life perfecting fuses us together like one big, extended family.”

  The kind Meri had always wanted.

  And in less time than it had taken to walk to the podium, her speech—and with it, the reception—was over.

  Ten minutes later, still basking in the glow of her achievement, Meri excused herself from a small circle of well-wishers for a quick trip to the ladies’ room. Hidden behind the stall door, she heard footsteps, followed by a voice.

  “Did you see her up there?”

  Meri’s hand froze at the lock. She knew who that was. Her portfolio storage slot adjoined Meri’s. They came in contact almost daily.

  “The wine princess? I know. Made me want to gag. But you know how it is: ‘Them that has, gets.’” Chelsey. Meri had known her since freshman year. “Still, it’s not fair! She doesn’t need the accolades. The rest of us are going to have to eke out a living, for real. How does she get the Purchase Prize?”

  With shocked dismay, Meri flattened her palms against the door, cocked an ear, and held her breath, straining to hear through the sound of water running in the sink and paper towels being ripped from the dispenser. That first voice belonged to Rainn—like Meri, a jewelry major, except that she was a graduating senior and Meri still had another year to go.

  “How do you think? Her old man donated a gazillion bucks to the college.”

  “Hmph,” came another, mocking snort. “Should’ve guessed.”

  “Art is her hobby,” said Rainn. It was the ultimate insider insult. “Everybody knows she’ll never be a real jeweler. Just go back to Daddy’s mansion and become a professional shopper.”

  “Have you seen it?” Chelsey asked.

  “The winery? Only in pictures.”

  “She invited me up one time, over winter break. The pictures don’t do it justice. Even if she does keep making jewelry after graduation, she’ll never have to make a living at it. It’s not fair. She’s taking up space here that could’ve been given to a real artist. No wonder she calls her line ‘Gilty.’”

  Derisive laughter rang off the lavatory tiles. Still hidden, Meri cringed and squeezed her eyes closed, desperate for it to be over.

  “C’mon, you look fine. It’s the last Thirsty Thursday at O’Brien’s. Everyone’ll be there.”

  Everyone? Meri had spent last Thursday night hunched over her bench hook, buffing her final project. She’d been invited to O’Brien’s once—back in the fall, after her twenty-first birthday—about the same time she’d developed a fascination with the historical uses of gemstones. She’d declined the offer in order to do research. She’d never been invited again.

  A door creaked, and blessedly, the voices receded.

  In a fog, Meri sank slowly onto the toilet seat and stared down at her cracked, work-stained fingertips until they all blurred together in her tears.

  It was Mark Newman’s idea to troll end-of-year student shows for fresh blood. While his boss at Harrington’s was at least willing to humor him, if she’d had her druthers he’d be sticking with the stale, tried-and-true vendors.

  After finding a parking spot, he walked all the way across the Gates College of Art and Design campus, only to find he was at the wrong building and had to cut back. He’d probably miss the speeches, but that was of no consequence. Receptions were for friends, family, and colleagues. Mark was there solely to see the work.

  He’d scouted art schools in Chicago, Miami, and New York that spring, and so far, nothing had grabbed him. Where was all the new talent? Maybe Gloria was right, these excursions weren’t worth the trouble.

  He browsed through the two-dimensional art, the video installations, the ceramics and sculpture, saving the best for last. A leisurely, methodical sweep of the gallery was his way of pinpointing the location of the jewelry display cases, and as usual, he made a game out of it, letting the anticipation build, deciding which case he’d examine first and which he’d save for last.

  When he finally got to the fixture in the center of the room, his roving eye came to an abrupt halt at five strands of flat braid connected by a perpendicular clasp. The alternating metals—yellow, white, and rose gold—lent fresh appeal to the simple design. Next to it, a royal-blue card with the words PURCHASE PRIZE sat slightly askew, a last-minute addition to the carefully arranged display. The piece begged to be touched, stroked—always a sign of good art. No wonder Gates had elected to buy it for its permanent collection over all the other projects created that year.

  Mark looked up, his enthusiasm building by the second. Only a few people remained in the gallery, congregating quietly on the opposite side of the room. Deftly, he tried slipping his fingers into the crack between the lid and the side of the case. Locked, of course. Pulling out his jeweler’s magnifying loupe, he bent close, straining to examine the piece as best he could through the layer of glass, to read the name on the hand-drawn tag attached by a silken cord.

  GILTY. That was aggravating. He wanted a real name. On the other hand, the craftsmanship was outstanding. He’d never get over what could be achieved with simple tools in talented hands. Retail was his business, but design was his passion. Design, food, and football, in that order.

  He let his loupe fall from the black leather thong around his neck and draped his hands possessively around the corners of the wide case, pulse quickening with the thrill of discovery. There had to be someone in authority here, someone with a key.

  The reception was really winding down now; there was a growing trickle toward the exit. Mark didn’t see anyone wearing a name tag. He went up behind two women who might be students.

  “Excuse me.” His voice sounded surprisingly calm, given how hard his heart thrummed. “Quick question.”

  The young women half-turned, their blank faces sizing him up with mild annoyance. Simultaneously, their eyes widened as they turned fully and broke out in cat-like smiles.

  “Anything,” the shorter, sultry-looking one purred, giving Mark a glimpse of the shiny barbell puncturing the center of her tongue.

  Down, girl. Damn. He’d have to wear this old shirt more often.

  “There’s a mixed-metal bracelet over there with a tag that says ‘Gilty.’ The Purchase Prize winner. Know whose work it is?”

  Their smiles went sour. The one with blue hair and a sleeve tattoo opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Barbell Girl.

  “No idea,” she interjected, eyeing Mark’s loupe. “But hey, do you have a card or something? I can ask around. . . .”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said, reaching into his back pocket.

  “
I’m Rainn, and this is Chelsey.” Rainn lowered her lids while she drew a lengthy lock of raven-colored hair through stubby fingers, then tossed it back.

  “Mark Newman.” He peeled off a few cards and held them out.

  “Harrington’s?” Her smile morphed from merely seductive to blatantly opportunistic, displaying beautiful, white teeth. Individually they were perfect little pearls, but strung together they formed a wolfish grin that was downright unsettling.

  “Nice meeting you. If you run into Gilty, have her—or him—give me a call.”

  He returned to the case, snapped some photos through the glass, and left the building.

  He’d already forgotten the two students when he noticed them again across the street from the gallery, heads still bowed over his card like it was the key to the Grail.

  He couldn’t help smiling to himself. For an aspiring jeweler, it was.

  As he walked back to his car, he pulled out his phone and scrolled for Gilty online, but nothing showed up.

  So he’d call the school, first thing tomorrow morning.

  He brightened with anticipation. Purchase Prize? He’d show them a purchase prize.

  A TASTE OFSAVIGNON

  Sauvignon St. Pierre pulled the first little black dress from the left side of the rod in her precision-tuned walk-in closet. Later that evening, she would replace it on its padded hanger and hang it to the far right. And so on for the next two months, until today’s dress came back into rotation.

  From neat rows of acrylic boxes, each with a photo of its contents taped onto the end, she picked out a pair of two-and-a-half-inch black pumps.

  The only aspect of her workday routine that couldn’t be prearranged was which of her myriad fragrances to wear. Not even she could plan her mood ahead of time.

  This morning, her hand hovered over flagons of every shape and pastel hue before landing on Maman’s special rose perfume . . . for luck.

  Savvy had made a calculated decision to become a lawyer when she was only thirteen. Fourteen years, three hundred thousand dollars in tuition, and two progressively thicker lenses later, she’d been offered a junior position with a small firm in her Napa hometown—either because her last name was St. Pierre, or in spite of it. And today, at the weekly meeting, she was finally being assigned her own case.

  At precisely eight-thirty-five, one porcelain cup of chamomile tea, one bowl of Greek yogurt, and half a banana later, she slid into her black Mercedes to make it to her law office in time for the crucial nine o’clock meeting.

  She looked both ways before steering the sleek sedan out of the long gravel drive of Domaine St. Pierre onto Dry Creek Road. Her car cut a perpendicular path between rows of yellow-green mustard flower buds alternating with what appeared to be dead sticks wedged upright in the soil. It was only March, though. The sap was rising. By summer, the mustard would be over and those “sticks,” laden with leaves and berries, would steal the show, drawing thousands upon thousands of tourists to Napa Valley—doubling her drive time to and from work. But this morning, there was no other vehicle in sight.

  She double-checked her reflection in the rearview to make sure the gold clasp on her pearls lay on her collarbone, just so. Then she pinched an earlobe to secure a diamond ear stud, brushed a microscopic speck of lint from her shoulder and cupped the chignon at the base of her neck.

  Satisfied that all was in order, she began a mental preview of the day. She fast-forwarded, picturing herself seated side by side with the firm’s partners around the long conference table, eager for the chance to finally prove herself worthy of someday becoming the first female partner at Witmer, Robinson and Scott.

  “Diana! Susanna! ¡Vuelve! Come back!”

  Esteban leaned on the handle of his pitchfork, grinning as he watched his mother toddle after a clutch of her errant Ameracaunas. Expertly, she snatched up a hen into the crook of her arm and brandished a threatening finger in her face. “¡Chica traviesa! You naughty girl. How many times do I have to tell you do not go down the lane, eh?” Beneath her long strokes, the chicken’s feathers flickered iridescent gold, green, and orange in the morning light. She softened her tone to a tender purr. “My beautiful little chica.”

  Esteban shook his head. Madre was as fond of those stupid birds as she was of him and his sister. If possible, her attachment to her “girls” seemed to have only deepened, now that Esmerelda was married and living in Santa Rosa.

  “Esteban! Can you look at the fence again? My chicas must have poked another hole somewhere,” his mother pleaded, gently setting Marlena down with the others to shoo them back toward the paddock.

  “Sí, Madre,” he said, lapsing briefly into his native tongue.

  Away from the farm, Esteban prided himself on his command of English. Mr. Bloomquist at Vintage High had even offered to write him a college recommendation.

  “Your chem teacher said she’d write one, too,” he’d coaxed. “We agree it would be a waste of your verbal and analytical skills not to continue your education. You could start out at NVCC and transfer to a four-year school later. . . .”

  Esteban had been helping out on the family farm ever since he could lift a spade, but he’d never questioned why it was that plants were green. When he’d learned that what made them that way was a substance called chlorophyll that captured the sun’s energy to make sugar out of air and water, he’d been fascinated. From then on, he’d been somewhat of a science geek.

  After Mr. Bloomquist’s offer, he’d imagined himself for a minute in a white lab coat, peering through a microscope at chloroplasts and ribosomes. The thought had made his scalp tingle.

  But Esteban Morales was born to be a farmer. What would Padre do without him?

  “This afternoon,” he responded to Madre. First he needed to check on the effect of last night’s rain on his tender lavender plants. The worst thing for lavender was mold.

  Another stray—Natalia?—ran helter-skelter into Esteban’s field of vision, down the muddy lane from where Padre had already thinned celery seedlings in the truck gardens earlier in the morning, past the paddock and the house toward Dry Creek Road. ¡Mierda! Was he actually beginning to distinguish one of the flighty creatures from another?

  “No this afternoon—now!” Madre scolded. She grabbed her broom from the porch and used it to sweep Natalia back toward the paddock. “You see this?” She gestured animatedly. “Before they all run onto the road and get hit by a car, and I have no chickens, no eggs, no money to pay the bills!”

  Esteban chuckled under his breath. The Morales family would never be rich, yet they were hardly in dire straits. Losing a random eight-dollar chicken here and there wouldn’t break the bank.

  “Okay, okay.”

  Madre’s appreciative grin was a reminder of her unconditional love, no matter how stern she pretended to be.

  He continued in the direction of the shed. “I’ll go get my tools.” Seconds later, he cringed at the squeal of rubber on asphalt and a sickening, avian screech.

  Savvy slammed on the brakes the moment the chicken darted into view, but too late. She felt a thump, heard a squawk, and cringed. I can’t be late for work! Not today! Yet something about the stricken expression on the face of the farm woman toddling toward her stabbed at her heart.

  Mrs. Morales. She’d seen her stout silhouette a hundred times from a distance as she drove past the modest ranch house on Dry Creek Road, but she’d never met her next-door neighbor face-to-face. Still, thanks to Jeanne, the St. Pierre cook, she knew all about the Moraleses. Jeanne bought vegetables from their stand at the Napa farmers market. As far back as grade school, Jeanne had been rattling on about the Moraleses, their daughter, Esmerelda, and son, what’shis- name. But while Jeanne had only good things to say about the family, Papa always said Mr. Morales was nothing but a big pain in the derriere.

  Savvy threw the gearshift into park, got out, and strode around to the right front tire, bracing for what she might find.

  Directly behind the front pass
enger-side tire lay the deceased—intact, thankfully, but motionless, its beak frozen open in its final squawk.

  “Marlena!” The older woman stopped short at the edge of the lane. Her chest heaved with effort. Calloused palms flung in helplessness toward the dead animal. “Marlena!” she sobbed.

  Savvy looked from Mrs. Morales’s furrowed brow to the chicken—er, Marlena—and back.

  Lips pressed into a tight line, she swallowed her squeamishness, squatting down for a better look. The last time she’d been this close to a chicken it had been covered in a delicate morel sauce.

  What was she supposed to do? She glanced back up at Mrs. Morales to see her cross herself, then back down at Marlena. Don’t birds carry all kinds of diseases? Bird flu? Salmonella? Mites?

  She took a resigned breath, the farm odors of wet earth mingled with manure assaulting her senses, and steeled herself. This was all her fault. It was her responsibility to fix it.

  Gingerly, she slid her bare hands under the hen’s body. The unfamiliar feel of stiff feathers atop warm jelly—apparently Marlena had been neither smart nor athletic—brought up the taste of bile. Somehow she found the strength to swallow it back.

  Slowly, she turned and gently deposited the animal into its owner’s outstretched arms.

  “Dios mío.” Mrs. Morales hugged the hen to a bosom that threatened to ooze from between the buttons of her shirt and rocked the bird, all the while chanting something that sounded like, sana, sana, colita de rana—whatever that meant. Obviously, the chicken had been a well-loved pet.

  “I’m so sorry!” Savvy cried, torn between the urge to embrace the grieving woman and the longing for a hazmat shower.

  And then from out of nowhere, an agrilicious, king-sized man in faded jeans, snug plaid shirt, and silver belt buckle the size of a turkey platter jogged up to them, and in a flash, Savvy forgot all about death and God and germs. She even forgot about work.