“Take your time here. But when you’re finished . . . tonight, tomorrow, one day soon . . . I want to talk to you.”
Only then did his eyes travel up to her face, but too late—the stranger had already turned away, the click of her shoes receding until the heavy wooden door whooshed closed and he was left truly alone with the smell of frankincense and the weight of his worries.
He looked down at her card. “Amy Smart. Gould Entertainment. Los Angeles, California.”
Amy. But not the savvy Hollywood-agent Amy he’d come to know. This was off-duty Amy. The wine-country-tourist-who-had-a-thing-for-old-churches Amy.
Ryder had barely begun flexing his acting chops when a big studio looking for fresh blood had signed him over all the Daniels, Roberts, and Zacs for the lead in a film about firefighters.
It was surreal seeing his picture in the celebrity magazines with the crazy captions: “Ryder McBride Among Hollywood’s Hottest,” “Ryder Sizzles in First Responder,” and so on. Some of the stories had a grain of truth to them, but most were pure crap, made up by agents and journalists to promote careers and sell magazines.
He’d never picked up a gossip rag in his life until his mom and sister had spotted his photo staring back at them in the grocery store checkout only a couple of months earlier. They’d called him up in fits of unintelligible squealing. Ever since, he’d begun to feel as though he couldn’t make a move without somebody taking his picture.
Ryder had always had goals and dreams, but being a movie star had never been one of them. Neither had partying at a renowned Napa Valley winery. But his sidestepping hadn’t worked with Amy. After all, he was her pet project. Her very lucrative pet project.
“Okay, let’s do this,” sighed Ryder, as he and Amy crunched along.
“Now, don’t forget,” she said under her breath. She counted on her fingers as she rattled off the St. Pierre sisters’ names.
“Meri is the youngest. She’s the artsy one. Savvy lives up to her nickname—brainy. And Chardonnay,” Amy said with an eye roll and a dramatic hand flourish, “is your tall, cool blonde. The middle child, the do-gooder. Always has her hand in one charity or another. Though, who knows if it’s just a put-on. Personally, I’ve always thought it was all orchestrated to compensate for her family’s scandals. But then, that’s how my mind works.”
“Slow down. What scandals?” asked Ryder, finding it hard to keep up with her pace, even given those stilettos, and her prattle. His knowledge of the who’s who of Napa Valley society was a little thin.
“It’s irrelevant.” Amy brushed the question off with another impatient flick of her hand. They were climbing the wide marble stairs up to the entrance now.
“Back to the daughters. Take your pick. All three are single, fresh out of college, and it’d be great for you to get hooked up with any one of them in the media.”
Her eyes grew large, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Better yet, more than one!”
“Oh, that’s just what I want my mom and little sister to read about,” Ryder responded drily. He spread his hands, pretending to read a tabloid. “ ‘Ryder McBride dating not one, but two, of the St. Pierre sisters.’ ”
“Better yet—all three!” Amy winked.
Ryder winced.
“Try to cooperate. My insider will be watching for any chance to shoot you next to the girls. One good photo sold to People is worth a year’s pay to a waiter.”
As they approached the open double doors where a white-gloved butler waited, Amy gave him one last annoying piece of advice.
“Smile,” she said through the clenched teeth of her own wide grin.
Sighing, he dutifully followed suit, in preparation to appear in public. In spite of himself, he was beginning to learn the ropes.
If he was ever going to pay his mom’s house off and go back to finish his degree, he had no choice.
Chapter 4
Chardonnay floated through the glittering crowd, stopping every few feet to blow air-kisses and utter warm welcomes.
For as long as she could remember, Papa had been entertaining on June Friday nights to launch the growing season—his contemporary homage to a fertility ritual. As down-to-earth as she was, Char couldn’t deny that an invitation to the weekly dinner parties where celebrities, intellectuals, and politicians were entertained was highly coveted. Within minutes of every party ending, the social media sites were hopping with who was there, what they wore, and with whom they left.
Traditionally, the parties began the weekend the girls returned from their respective boarding schools. Over the years, Char and her sisters had met hundreds of accomplished and influential people around the family’s long mahogany dining table. But for every worthy guest, there was a shallow, opportunistic social climber. And it wasn’t always obvious who was who. Papa, it seemed, had a particularly hard time telling one from the other.
The dinners were both a blessing and a curse. Yet attendance at his parties was virtually the only demand Papa made on his daughters. Ever. Besides, they were allowed—encouraged—to invite their own guests, too, which made their annual obligation a little more palatable.
Years of practice had left her perfectly at ease in this setting. Sifting through the bulk of the guests, she soon spotted a regal-looking black woman wearing an understated burgundy suit.
“Dr. Simon!” Char clapped her hands together. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“The pleasure is all mine. I believe the last time I saw you was right here at one of your father’s dinner parties. You were still in school then. My, how you’ve grown. You look just like—”
Dr. Simon appeared to bite her tongue. In an obvious attempt to buy time, she took the last sip from her wineglass, the large stones in her rings sparkling.
“Like my mother,” Char finished for her, to relieve the older woman of her discomfort.
Maman, the legendary Lily d’Amboise.
Char guided the woman to an overstuffed couch and took a seat at a right angle to her guest. A waiter immediately placed two fresh glasses of wine on a side table.
“It was the year of the McDaniel Foundation’s last Napa Charity Challenge—five years ago. I was eighteen. That event made a big impression on me. Ever since, I’ve been waiting for the chance to be a part of it.”
“I’m so pleased that you want to contribute to our work.”
“I love the idea of charities competing to win money for their cause,” said Char. “Something about it appeals to the competitiveness in me. It doesn’t hurt that there’s a half-marathon involved, either, since I’m a runner from way back.”
“We feel we’ve developed an original concept. Five years between challenges may seem rather lengthy to some, but the board has discovered that bestowing one extravagant grant every five years, rather than smaller annual grants, has proven to be a greater motivation for the competitors. It’s also less of an imposition on donors because they’re not being canvassed every year. Even the organizations that don’t ultimately win the grant raise a good deal of money for their respective causes.”
“I think I read that whoever wins the half-marathon gets a bonus. How does that work? Aren’t there usually separate categories for men and women runners?”
“We use a formula that accounts for differences in male/female times to come up with a single winner. Rather like the way golf handicaps work. The foundation grants the one winner of the race a fifty-thousand-dollar donation toward his or her charity’s total earnings,” said Dr. Simon.
“I think I’ve already memorized every detail of the contest, but can we talk specifically about the gala?” So far, this night was unfolding exactly as Char had hoped. It was all about face time with Dr. Simon. Relationship building.
“Before the half-marathon, the participants are given two weeks to solicit suitable items for the auctions. The race is held on the morning of the final day, followed by the black tie gala, which consists of dinner, dancing, and both silent and live bidding. The who
le thing is a tremendous amount of work for those in charge of the competing charities.”
“I presume that’s another benefit of having it only once every five years,” said Char.
Dr. Simon nodded. “That’s right. Tell me, is there any particular cause you’re interested in working with for your very first challenge? The food bank? Perhaps the women’s shelter? Any of our partner organizations would be thrilled to have you. I’d be more than happy to make some calls, set up an introduction.”
Char scooted forward. Time for her speech. She hoped she didn’t look as nervous as she felt.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that. Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve been involved with a bunch of causes during the summer months, getting my feet wet. I’ve served at the soup kitchen, done some fund-raising, and I still help sort donations at church.”
Dr. Simon nodded politely.
“In every place that I volunteered, I watched and listened. And I noticed that a large percentage of underprivileged people were the children of pickers—er, excuse me, that’s what Papa calls them. You know what I mean. Migrant farmworkers. Immigrants.”
“Go on,” said Dr. Simon.
“I got to know some families when I was serving at the soup kitchen. Then I started working at Saint Joan of Arc. There, I learned that more people would’ve come to the mission, but they didn’t have transportation. That’s when I started driving donations over to their neighborhoods. I found out firsthand: It’s all about outreach.
“When I went back to college in the fall, I couldn’t forget those kids. There were two especially whose faces kept me up at night, wondering and worrying. I couldn’t wait to graduate and make public service my career. So I did some research and found that Napa already had well-established organizations for the hungry, the homeless, the addicted, and various medical conditions. But I wanted to do something specifically for migrant children. These are the children of the vineyards. And wine is the basis of the valley’s economy.”
She took a sip of her wine, hoping she wasn’t running on. She had to say this right. Competing in the challenge meant everything to her.
“As you know, I’m one of the lucky ones. A third-generation landowner. My family’s business has always been intertwined with migrant workers. I feel compelled to do something for their kids.”
Dr. Simon’s expression was interested but guarded.
“So I’ve started my own foundation.”
There—she’d said it. Despite Dr. Simon’s cool poise, her eyebrows rose sharply. Char rushed on before she could be shot down.
“I even found a building that would be perfect to work out of, right in the center of an immigrant neighborhood. And I’ve recruited a group to run in the half-marathon with me: the local women’s field hockey team I play on every summer. I think it’ll be easier to persuade people to contribute to my cause if I’m an actual participant, instead of just an organizer, don’t you? We started training separately months ago, while I was still in school. Now we can finally start running together, as a real team. . . .”
A hint of a shadow swept across the professor’s face then, as if she’d suddenly remembered exactly whose couch she sat on, and Char’s heart sank. She’d seen that look on plenty of faces before.
All of her life, people had made assumptions about Char, simply because she was one of the three granddaughters of Yves St. Pierre, the Burgundian winemaker who’d brought French cultivars to California and planted them here one hundred years ago.
It was Papa’s favorite story, one his daughters and all his workers, from head winemaker to lowly picker, knew by heart. Yves had survived the dry times by selling inferior communion wine for a premium and stockpiling the good stuff. He knew Prohibition would eventually be repealed, and the minute it was, he had a cellar full of mature cabernet ready to meet demand. Now, a century later, the award-winning Domaine St. Pierre label was celebrated from Napa to Paris.
But there was a downside to being a St. Pierre. Char’s individuality went largely unrecognized. Her mind, her values, and her feelings were all obscured by the family’s success—and their equally tragic mistakes—over the decades.
As she’d matured, even Char’s physical appearance had become a handicap, to her way of thinking. Some might think being a skinny blue-eyed blonde was an asset, but Char worried that it only added to people’s impression of her as an empty-headed heiress. She would have competed in sports even if she hadn’t had long muscles and a high metabolism, but sports fed her need for legitimacy apart from her looks. She’d played field hockey all her life and was honored when the local women agreed to run with her for the challenge.
“Dr. Simon, I can’t blame you for what you’re thinking—that Papa could easily underwrite my entire campaign. But I’ve made a decision. I want to raise all of my contributions myself, solely from the fund-raising events. Independent of the St. Pierre name.”
Dr. Simon looked doubtful.
Char couldn’t use her trust fund, either. That wasn’t technically hers until she was thirty. She felt her chin harden, and a vision of Papa’s own set jaw flashed through her memory. She winced. Stubbornness was the least pretty trait she’d inherited, but you couldn’t choose your genes.
“There’s no need to rush to that decision—” Dr. Simon advised, but Char interrupted.
“I’ve made up my mind. I’m only going to use the proceeds from the official events, like all the other contenders. Every penny I get for my cause will be earned.”
“You realize that you’ll be up against some stiff competition. The challenge always attracts the most established charities in the county. Have you even filed paperwork to—”
“But that’s what makes it so exciting!” Char cut in. “The chance to prove my new organization on the same playing field with those other institutions is even more incentive for me to enter.”
“Are you quite sure? There are already a dozen well-established causes in the valley that I’m sure would be thrilled to have you on their team. Does this budding organization of yours have a name yet?”
“I was thinking about ‘Valley Kids.’ ”
Dr. Simon’s brows knit. “Somewhat generic, don’t you think? If you insist on forming your own foundation, why not use your name recognition to advantage? Say, ‘Chardonnay’s Children’?”
Char bristled. “Doesn’t that sound a little egotistical? I’m not doing this to draw attention to myself.” That was the last thing she wanted. “It’s for those kids.”
“Not at all. In my opinion, it’s always wise to utilize whatever advantages one has at her disposal. Your name is distinctive. It carries a whiff of the St. Pierre prestige, which you must admit, is considerable here in the valley. Yet it doesn’t allude to your last name outright. The word chardonnay even has a double meaning. It’s more than your name; it’s also a widely grown varietal. The benefits will be worth the off chance that you’ll be thought conceited for using your name in the title.”
“ ‘Chardonnay’s Children.’ ” Char tried it out on her tongue.
“And one never knows. Rather than making you sound egotistical, it may have a positive effect on your family’s reputation.”
That was a tactfully veiled reference to the less savory part of her family’s past. Maman’s vanishing act and what came after. Papa’s philandering and arrest record. Embarrassing scandals she’d had nothing to do with that made her cringe just thinking of them.
Dr. Simon’s warm expression returned, and she leaned over and touched Char’s hand maternally.
“In the end, it’s your foundation, your choice. Give it some thought. In any case, I admire your modesty and your enthusiasm, my dear. Even if you decide to join an established cause and wait until the next challenge to start your own concern. No one would think any less of you.”
Char looked up to see a distinguished looking man with silver hair.
“Nicole!” The man bent down and kissed Dr. Simon’s cheek.
“Winston! How lovely to see you!”
Char excused herself for the time being. She’d left explicit instructions to the staff to seat the head of the McDaniel Foundation directly across from her at dinner. She had all night to cement a bond with the woman she wanted desperately for her career coach and mentor.
Chapter 5
Ryder took a tentative sniff of the straw-colored wine he’d been offered by a circulating butler. His substantial hand contrasted with the thin, brittle crystal, and for a second he wondered if he held the glass in the proper way.
Amy drew Ryder’s attention to two women—one fair, the other dark—from where they sat across the well-appointed room.
“That’s Chardonnay,” hissed Amy. “Next to her is Nicole Simon, chair of the McDaniel Foundation.”
Angled in a chair next to a middle-aged African-American lady sat the woman he’d bumped into that very afternoon on Pueblo Avenue. She’d changed into a drapey white dress that obscured her slim physique. Huge, silver circles pierced her ears and a silver cross hung between her breasts.
What did Chardonnay St. Pierre want with a run-down warehouse on the poor side of town?
But almost equally as intriguing to Ryder was the presence of Dr. Simon. Maybe this dinner party wouldn’t be such a bore after all.
Amy snatched something that resembled a fried bird’s nest from the tray of a passing waiter. “Did you manage to switch the names on the place settings?” she whispered.
“Swapped Ryder McBride and Nicole Simon,” replied the waiter, without moving his lips.
“Excellent,” muttered Amy.
“Mingle, mingle!” she then sang out to Ryder. “I’m going to work this crowd like a sheepdog on steroids. Watch and learn.”
All the introductions had been made and a dozen bottles of the latest vintage poured. Orange rays of late-day sunlight streaming through the tall windows flattered the guests’ complexions as they made their way into the softer glow of the candlelit dining room. Inhibitions were falling away, and voices rose above the clatter of silver on china and the clink of fine crystal.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 2
