She made a face. “I know what LSD means.”
Unfazed, he went on. “But this is my first Saturday out here since I moved back. I’ve got a place in LA, but I’m working on a new project up here in Napa, and I need to get in shape for it. I’m living at my mom’s for the summer.”
He looked her way and grinned fetchingly.
Again.
Char wiped the perspiration off her forehead with her arm.
He knew full well that he was already “in shape.” In fact, she couldn’t imagine any way he could possibly be more in shape.
And then, Char’s nerves got the best of her, and she began to giggle.
Oh, how she hated herself for letting him get to her, but she couldn’t help it. Her giggle gurgled into a full-out laugh, and she lost her momentum.
Ryder slowed, too.
“What’s the matter? You don’t think I have it in me?”
Why, oh why, could she not wipe the stupid smile from her face?
“Obviously, you are fishing for compliments.”
“Well, you might be right. Maybe I am. But I wouldn’t do that if I didn’t like you. I wouldn’t care what you thought of me.”
There was another lull as she tried to think of a smart retort, but then he saved her.
“Like I tried to say before, I’m sorry. For kissing you, I mean.”
And then Ryder stopped, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, and stuck out his right hand.
It was that ancient gesture of trust, and Char, with her boarding school manners, responded instinctively with her own hand.
But recalling last night, she withdrew it just as swiftly.
Yet he was faster. He’d caught her before she could pull all the way back.
He was about to do it again. He reeled her body toward him, and as he did, a thrill shot through her, in spite of herself.
But unlike last night, when he’d rendered her gasping for air, this time both their chests were already heaving from the last half hour spent pounding the pavement.
Ryder wound her forearm into his side, drawing her so close she could feel his breath on her face. It held a trace of cinnamon toast.
He held her there, staring hard into her eyes while she anticipated a repeat of last night’s performance. Then his gaze traveled down to her lips, and she braced herself for their onslaught. She gulped. Some primal emotion swept across his face; something dark enough to scare her, yet sweet enough to melt her fear.
And then, abruptly, he released her.
“Friends?” he asked cheerily.
“Friends,” she echoed, because what else could she say? She’d be damned if she let him know he’d flustered her.
“Good,” he said. He sprang away at a diagonal.
“Nice seeing you again. But I’ll never get buff at this pace. Got to pick it up a little.” He flashed her one last toothpaste-commercial smile.
Damn him! Every time she thought she “got” him, he proved her dead wrong. Now he’d left her discomfited all over again. She should be grateful he hadn’t kissed her, but to her chagrin, disappointment swelled through her.
Lengthening his stride, he sprinted easily around Char and her pack, and in no time at all was far out in front.
Char watched his back—and his quads, biceps, and glutes—until he made a turn, taking him out of sight.
He’d definitely been coasting earlier, staying at her pace just so they could talk.
Char had been athletic all her life. She knew another jock when she saw one; she’d hate to be in competition with the likes of him. For the half-marathon, or any aspect of the challenge.
Not only would Ryder McBride have a good chance of actually winning a half-marathon purse himself, she could only imagine the auction items he could persuade people to donate to his cause, just because of who he was.
Luckily for her, he wasn’t any part of the challenge.
A woman up ahead, eyes sparkling with mischief, called out, “Who was that?”
“Nobody,” Char replied, thankful that Ryder wasn’t quite so famous that he was immediately recognizable in running gear.
Yet.
“Four-mile mark!” she called out to her team, suppressing an inner smile.
Chapter 10
The e-mail was addressed to “R. McBride, President, NoCal Firefighters’ Relief Fund.”
The McDaniel Foundation is in receipt of your agency’s application to participate in the Napa Charity Challenge, the valley’s foremost charitable event.
He skimmed the details yet again. The run, the auction, and the gala.
Was he ready for this?
Ryder leaned back in his dad’s creaky old desk chair, made a pyramid with his pointer fingers, and considered.
Could he pull it off?
Please stop by the foundation’s office at your earliest convenience to pick up your materials. These include individual entry forms, donor forms, promotional items, and race jerseys.
It hadn’t been very long since he’d taken the temporary reins of the FRF. Before that, it had been floundering on the brink of insolvency.
Joe, the FRF treasurer and a running buddy from way back, had been the first to feel him out about the situation. Joe knew that Ryder would be in town all summer. And he knew he was already a dedicated runner.
Then when the board of directors—most of them old friends of his dad—came and begged him for help with the challenge, he’d had no choice but to say yes.
They wanted to use him for his name and face. Just one summer, they’d said. While you’re up here filming. You’ll just be a figurehead, really. The “interim president.” We’ll do all the heavy lifting.
But Ryder had reasons of his own for wanting to help the Firefighters’ Relief Fund.
Ever since the night seven years ago that had ripped life, as he knew it, out from under him.
It had begun with the midnight blare of a siren, jarring Ryder from a dead sleep.
He and his younger siblings were used to their father dropping everything when the alarm went off down at the firehouse. They knew the drill by heart. Dad would dash out to the garage to snatch the Nomex jacket with the bright yellow reflective stripes from its special peg.
Then, if the siren had interrupted supper or their homework, the kids would fly to the picture window to watch him throw his gear into the bed of his pickup and back out of the driveway with controlled urgency, the strip of red lights flashing on before he was past the big sycamore at the edge of the yard.
But whenever the alarm went off in the middle of the night, the kids turned over and went back to sleep.
They knew fighting fires was dangerous, of course. Apart from the obvious, they knew from what Dad and Mom always called to each other as the screen door slammed behind him.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
They didn’t say that whenever one went out to the store or a ball game.
Still, to the kids, the danger was an abstract concept. Like the potential for blindness from running with a stick, something awful could happen, but it never did. Up until that night, Dad always came home from a fire—eventually.
Ryder was jarred from his thoughts by a light rap on the door of the study.
His mom materialized. She went over to the couch, leaned against its back, and studied the faded pattern on the carpet while she fiddled with the cross around her neck. Ryder tried to be patient while she chose her words.
“Bridget doesn’t understand all this nonsense yet.”
Ryder opened his mouth to reply, but she held up a silencing palm.
“Now, don’t get me wrong; this isn’t me scolding you. I’m fully aware that it’s been your acting jobs that have got us through the past three years. If it weren’t for you quitting college to pay our bills, I don’t know where we’d be now. Probably in some government-subsidized apartment complex.”
“Mom, cut it out. You know I quit school because I wanted to help. It wasn’t a hard
decision.”
“I know. You were always that type of boy—responsible and a hard worker. Your brothers and sister and I will always be grateful for what you’ve done for us, since Dad died. So far, you’ve been a fine example for them.”
Ryder’s brows knit and unknit.
“So far?”
“Up till now, your acting has been like any other job. You have an apartment in LA. You go to work, you come visit us when you can—like any other big brother.
“Sure, we knew you were making a movie, but you weren’t . . .” She hesitated. “Well, there’s no better word for it: famous. Lately, people I haven’t spoken to in years are asking about all these stories in the press.
“And at school, Bridget’s friends are talking. You know how kids are today, exposed to stuff at a young age. Way too young.”
She walked to the window, and Ryder twirled his pen.
“Even when First Responder became a hit, it was fine, for a while. But these publicity stunts are another thing. They’re putting out a picture of my son that isn’t very flattering.”
Ryder shut the top of his laptop with a snap and gave his mom his full attention.
“Mom, I don’t like it any more than you do. But it’s not a big deal, so please don’t take it so personally. That studio’s paying Gould Entertainment big bucks to promote me. Believe me, it’s the same with all actors who’ve reached a certain level of success.”
“I’m no expert on the film business,” said his mother. “It makes sense to me that you need publicity. All I’m saying is, I hope you won’t let it get out of hand. Those girls from down in Hollywood you were photographed with last month. I know those were just party girls . . . women who get a kick out of the attention or like the money—”
“They’re called ‘MAWs,’ Mom,” Ryder interrupted. “ ‘Models/ Actresses/Whatevers.’ And believe me, they have no problem with being the object of attention. In fact, it’s what they live for.”
“Whatever. I’m not up on these things. But Chardonnay St. Pierre . . . that’s something entirely different.”
Her chin dipped down and to the right, and she eyed him sideways, in a version of her vast repertoire of mom-looks. Since he’d begun studying drama, Ryder had gained a new appreciation of just how skillfully she wielded her facial expressions. Maybe that’s where his own acting ability had come from.
Hiding his bemusement, he mustered some polite patience.
“Okay, what’s different about it?”
“This is Napa Valley, Ryder, not Los Angeles. I grew up in this county. Around here, everybody knows about the St. Pierres. Those girls go to our church!”
Of course, Ryder had heard of Domaine St. Pierre, but to him, it was just another winery. He could cite a dozen of them without even trying. The whole valley consisted of one vineyard after the other, lining both sides of narrow Highway 29, from Napa city in the south to Calistoga in the north.
“Think back; you’ve seen them. Don’t you remember? When Saint Joan’s is filled to bursting on Christmas and Easter, it’s not just because of the occasion. Some of those people are there just to catch a glimpse of Chardonnay, Sauvignon, and Merlot St. Pierre, home for the holidays. It’s no wonder. All three of them got their mother’s looks and that French sense of style.
“Why,” she said, chuckling in spite of herself, “I’ve heard Saint Joan’s has gotten converts to Catholicism, just so that people could say they belong to the same church as the St. Pierres. Not that Father Ed minds. A convert is a convert.”
She walked back over to the couch.
“Of course, you’ll never see the great Xavier St. Pierre at mass with his girls. He was always too preoccupied with making wine and money—that is, when he was home at all,” she added, her tone heavy with disapproval.
Ryder supposed that as a kid, he’d been more interested in baseball and bike riding than people watching. But if he’d ever seen Chardonnay before, he thought he’d have noticed.
“What about their mother?” asked Ryder. “Does she go to church with them?”
“You really don’t know?” The expression she gave Ryder made him feel like a complete social derelict.
He responded with an empty look and a shrug.
“Lily d’Amboise, the actress! The one who ran off with that Argentine winemaker and got herself killed.”
Chardonnay’s mom was Lily d’Amboise?
Chardonnay’s mom was dead?
“Tsk.” His mom shook her head. “Such a tragedy for those little girls . . . motherless at ages eight, ten, and twelve. It was all the papers wrote about for days. Right afterward, Xavier packed them off to separate boarding schools back east. They only came home during the holidays and summers.”
“Man, must’ve been hard. First their mom dies, then they get sent away. What happened after high school? They go to college?”
“The oldest one did. Even graduated law school. And Chardonnay won an athletic scholarship to UConn. There was a big fuss about that—the naysayers in town said it wasn’t fair that a girl who could afford any college she wanted got a free ride. But after all, she did captain her prep school field hockey team to a championship.
“I heard the baby—’course, she’s in her twenties now—the one who was in art school, recently dropped out.”
She turned to the window, and Ryder peered past her, toward the furrowed hills.
“This is a small town, Ryder. People talk.”
He’d had no idea that the St. Pierre girls were so idolized.
“My point is this. Chardonnay St. Pierre may seem like nothing but a spoiled rich girl on the surface. But she’s had a rough go of it. Lost a parent at a young age. In that way, she’s like you. She can’t be enjoying this type of publicity.”
Ryder made a skeptical face. “Seriously, Mom? That family goes out of its way to snag PR. St. Pierre practically begs for it with those big bashes he throws. He has his own publicist! Well, technically, it’s the winery publicist, but you get my point. How do you think Amy got me into that party?”
“Don’t lump the girls together with their father. He’s notorious for his escapades. The police have been called out there I don’t know how many times . . . breaking up fights, noise complaints. Do you know, he was arrested just yesterday for shooting a gun on his property?”
Belatedly, Ryder recalled Miranda’s pronouncement at the table that had left Char red-faced. The night’s later events had eclipsed that awkward moment.
“It’s funny, but the daughters always seemed to be more mature than their parents. Chardonnay, in particular. She’s well-known for her generosity. Volunteered in a couple of different places, including down at church. Like you, with your Firefighters’ Relief Fund. Because of all that, there’s a lot of empathy for her—and her sisters—around the valley.”
She came over and perched on the edge of his desk.
“Her situation’s not exactly like yours, of course. You’ve both had advantages, too, but in different ways. Char had money. But you had moral guidance.”
Ryder stood.
“Call me dense, but I don’t have any recollection of Char or her sisters.”
“It’s not all that surprising. You were always preoccupied with your sports and clubs and schoolwork. Like I said, they’ve been away for years. And you’ve been gone a while, too.”
Ryder curled his arms around his petite mother and looked down on her brunette head that was showing a few faint wisps of silver. “Don’t worry, I won’t let the PR get too out of hand.”
“I’m not worried. Just a little concerned.”
She tilted her head back and kissed him on the chin.
“You’re a good boy. A good man. I just have to get used to my son being a celebrity.” She smiled wistfully.
When she’d gone, Ryder sank back down behind his computer screen, staring without seeing.
In addition to all the other worthy entities vying in the challenge, he was about to set himself up against Chard
onnay St. Pierre’s.
She’d been all he could think about during the remainder of his morning run and in the car driving home. He’d already registered his organization, and now his mom tells him that Char and her sisters were also the darlings of the valley.
Naturally, she would have connections. Big-time connections. Other wineries, growers, fancy eateries, old-money families. And she’d be a fool not to use them.
All that on top of being gorgeous and athletic.
Could he compete with that?
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
But then, in his mind’s eye, he saw again the stricken faces of his mother, brothers, and sister when the chief had knocked on their front door that dusty August dawn . . . helmet in hand, his wife and other crew wives standing solemnly behind him, toting the telltale casseroles.
He saw again the dark splotches of his mother’s tears on his father’s flag-draped casket. The growing stack of bills in the basket on Dad’s desk—the very desk he now sat behind.
Today that basket was empty, thanks to Amy’s improbable discovery of him as he knelt in a candlelit church.
If there was any way in hell he could help another family going through that kind of pain, he would.
Whatever Chardonnay’s pretty little charity was, he figured his was more important. At least, it was to him and other fire victims.
Besides, Ryder brightened, he had certain advantages, too.
He looked at his calendar. He’d been running since high school; he’d merely tweaked his routine to prep for the half. He had a ready-made team in his band of brothers in the FRF.
Shooting didn’t start until July, giving him a month to up his reps and weights and study his lines at night, and find them a building to work out of. That had been Ryder’s idea. Once he moved back down to LA in the fall, he wanted to leave behind a legacy—a headquarters for the organization.
He scribbled a note across the “Monday” square on the broad, old-fashioned desk-blotter calendar. McD Fdtn—pick up stuff for challenge.
Then he went outside and mowed his mother’s lawn.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 5
