He’d mentioned taking classes at San Jose State in . . . what was it he’d said? Economics and sociology?
And what on earth was the Firefighters’ Relief Fund? Had Char heard Dr. Simon right—that Ryder was its president?
Who exactly was Ryder McBride anyway?
Chapter 13
Wednesday, June 18
In the afternoon, Char drove to a neighborhood far away from the touristy areas of the valley. The enticing aromas of cumin and oregano hit her as she got out of her car.
A little girl of nine or so waved to her from the porch steps of a modest home with a warped chain-link fence, across the street from the lot where Char parked.
She waved back, and soon the child’s mother came out and watched Char set up a small folding table and begin emptying her boxes of donated clothes onto it.
“¡Hola, Amelia, Juanita!” called Char, waving. “Come over and say hi!”
They crossed the street, a shy younger boy in a white T-shirt lagging behind.
Char propped her hands on her hips and examined the girl.
“¡Cómo has crecido! Do you remember me from last summer?”
The girl’s mother said something to her in Spanish.
Char only picked up the gist of the conversation. “I used to see you and Juan every week last summer. Your madre is the best cook! She used to bring me tamales all the time.”
That jogged Amelia’s memory, and she smiled bashfully, then hugged her mother’s legs through her skirt.
Juanita’s wet brown eyes met Char’s in a meaningful gaze that didn’t need any translation. Juanita was a widow. Her husband, a picker, had died when Juan was just a baby. Both women knew that Juanita hadn’t started bringing Char her Mexican soul food specialties just for the heck of it. It was a proud woman’s way of repaying Char for her weekly donations of food and toys—and sometimes plain old cash.
That’s when Char had made up her mind which of her many causes moved her the most.
Char peered around Juanita’s womanly form. “It’s nice to see you, too, Juan. Hey, you like Levi’s? I hope so, because I have a whole pile of them here that I don’t know what to do with. I only guessed at sizes; I haven’t seen you in a whole year!”
Juan’s eyes lit up as he reached tentatively for the shopping bag Char held out. She’d topped it off with new socks and pajamas from the mall.
“And here’s yours.” Char handed another bag to Amelia.
“What are you cooking over there, Juanita? I could smell it the minute I opened my car door.”
“Nacatamales. Like in the Michoacán. I give you some next week. You coming back?”
“I’ll be here. Every Wednesday. From now on.”
“You done with college?”
“Uh-huh. I’m home to stay.”
Juanita’s genuine smile warmed Char to her soul. This was what she wanted. To be home and to be of service.
“Juanita, who owns this building?”
She shrugged. “Nobody. I wish somebody would do something with it. It’s just a place for older kids to hang out, get in trouble. When you’re not here, I keep my kids away.”
More people were meandering up the street, some familiar, some not. It was the third year Char had been coming to the parking lot of the vacant building to distribute donations from church. Every year, more people came. And every year, the building fell deeper into disrepair.
But Char intended to change all that.
Minutes later, all heads turned when Bill Diamond’s logo-splashed car pulled in.
Char was so antsy to get inside the door of the building she could hardly contain herself, watching him fumble among a dozen keys for the right one.
Suddenly an idea hit her.
“Juanita, come along.”
“¿Cómo?”
“Will you join me?” She motioned with her arm. “C’mon. Bring the kids.”
Juanita looked doubtful, but she gathered up Amelia and Juan, and together they moved toward the door.
“Anxious to see the place, aren’t you?” asked Bill, perplexed. “Well, don’t get too excited. It’s nothing like the spread you got up there on Dry Creek Road.”
He handed her a key. “Here, I’ll let you do the honors.”
He couldn’t have been more right. The few bare lightbulbs that worked barely lit up the interior. Probably a blessing, since what Char could see was filthy. There were beverage cans tossed around on the floors and junk piled up in the corners.
“Squatters,” said Bill. He went over and kicked a can, scattering dust motes. “Long gone now.”
But the floors were wood, and the raggedy roller blinds camouflaged tall windows. Char yanked on one, and it made a racket snapping all the way up, sending years’ worth of dust into the air.
She turned to Bill. “I love it! It’s perfect!”
Juanita looked at her like she was loco. Little Juan ventured a few feet away to go exploring.
“¡Juan Garza!” His mother let loose with a torrent of Spanish, bringing him scurrying back to her side.
“Isn’t this cool?” asked Char. She approached one of the longer walls. “Picture this, Juanita. A little cantina with a counter where you could do your cooking!”
Now Juanita really looked nervous.
“Think of it! With your culinary talent, you could pack ’em in. Just do a limited menu, be open a few days a week. The kids could hang out right here, under your supervision.” She smiled encouragingly, and slowly Juanita began to get it.
“I don’t know. Mayyyybeee,” she said, looking around with new eyes.
“You could make tamales, corundas,” said Char, citing some of her favorite dishes.
“Is hard to find charanda around here,” said Juanita. “We could sell that, too.”
“Now you’re talking!”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to know what the asking price is?”
“Oh,” Char said. “Yes. What is the asking price?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
Char’s smile faded. She looked around again, more critically this time.
“C’mon, I’ll walk you through,” said Bill.
But the more she saw of it, the more she was sure.
Then she remembered her most important question.
“Tell me something. Are you helping Ryder McBride buy this?” she asked.
“Like I said before, I’m working for the seller. I’ll show the property to anyone who expresses an interest. First come, first serve. That said, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to comment on other potential buyers. Or”—he added with a meaningful look—“any offers they might have made.”
Damn. She wanted this building. But where was she going to get three hundred thousand dollars on her own?
Chapter 14
Friday, June 20
Ryder McBride would be practically unrecognizable in his fireman’s helmet and bunker gear—a fact that wasn’t lost on him.
After memorizing his lines, he’d stayed up late last night, strategizing. Listing potential contributors, mapping them out for his team.
Chardonnay St. Pierre probably knew every hotshot in the valley. All the big winery owners, for sure, and lots of other businesspeople.
But that wasn’t the worst thing. The hell with begging for donations from other people. Char’s old man could annihilate all her competition with one big fat check.
Ryder slumped back in his desk chair, reality closing in before he’d even got started. His team could work twenty-four-seven for the next two weeks, and Char could still win.
He recalled yet again his mother’s dire straits following his dad’s death.
And more recently, poor Lori MacKenzie raising two kids on a cashier’s salary. Only a year ago, Lori’s husband James had died in a wreck between the pumper he was helming and some crazy-ass civilian in a jacked-up sports car.
Ryder’s body sat motionless as his mind raced. There had to be a way to beat Team Char.
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Then he remembered. All the team captains had been advised never to reveal how much they’d raised at any point in the campaign. In the past, near winners had been overheard bragging about their war chests, only to be outdone when a competitor went running to a big corporate sponsor who’d written a single check on the spot.
If Chardonnay didn’t know how much her competition raised, she wouldn’t know how much she had to raise to beat them.
She wouldn’t expect much out of a small outfit like his. But then, she had no idea how much the FRF meant to him and the rest of the department.
His best bet was to work like a dog and downplay his progress. It wouldn’t be the first time David beat Goliath.
Plus, he brightened as he remembered that Char was just as green at this as he was. She was no experienced fund-raiser. Just a wine princess. He started writing, and within a half hour, he had a fresh plan.
His mission: to outdo Chardonnay in contributions for the auction. His tactic: to mount an organized attack on small-time donors.
If she had the valley’s elite sewn up, he would go after the regular folks. Since each of his donations would probably be smaller than hers, he’d have to get more of them, which meant covering more ground. Whatever. He might not have her contacts, but he had more endurance and dedication than a whole cellar full of wine princesses.
Chapter 15
Saturday, June 21
Early the next morning, Ryder was eating breakfast at the diner with the other FRF board members. He waited until the others were immersed in typically rambunctious conversation to run an idea by his treasurer.
Lowering his voice a notch, he asked, “You know that empty commercial building I was telling you about over on El Valle? I think it would be great to use as an adjunct to the little station house we have. You know, so we don’t have to meet in restaurants. Do some community outreach, maybe install some workout equipment.”
Joe forked some eggs into his mouth.
“I don’t know. I kinda like having meetings in restaurants.”
Ryder ignored that. “I drove by it again yesterday. It’s nothing fancy, but we don’t need fancy. Just somewhere to put an office, some storage, and a gathering space. Maybe run some fire education programs for the neighborhood, too.”
“Might be a good idea to recruit some young people. It’s not in the best area of town, but if we got some student volunteers, it could be useful to them and us. Give the youth something constructive to do,” said Joe.
Joe’s initial comments were encouraging. If Ryder was going to make this happen, he needed board support.
“Exactly. Make them feel like they’re part of the community.”
“What’re they asking?”
“I called the Realtor. Three hundred k. But they might come down. The guy said it’s been empty for about three years.”
“They could come down by half, and it still wouldn’t be low enough. The way things stand, we couldn’t even invest in a Porta-Potty.”
“We could if someone on our team wins the half-marathon. That would give us a sweet little down payment.”
The always levelheaded Joe grunted. “You’re the only one who’s fast enough to do that.”
“What about Dan? Ever watch him run? He’s got a pretty good kick, for an old-timer,” said Ryder.
“Watch who you’re calling old! ’Sides, he’s only about forty, isn’t he?”
“Hey”—Joe slapped Ryder good-naturedly with the back of his hand—“that reminds me. How come you’re not taking advantage of your pretty face to collect donations? Hell, if I had the women crawling all over me, you wouldn’t find this old boy with a helmet covering his head.”
Ryder ducked his chin, embarrassed. “Aw, let me do it my way first. Besides, I think you’re blowing this fame thing way out of proportion. I’m not that big of a deal.”
“Ha,” Joe exclaimed, draining his orange juice. “ ‘Not a big deal,’ he says. Then why were the wife and her book club going all gaga last night when I mentioned I was meeting with you this morning? ’Course, they’d had a couple o’ glasses of wine in them. . . .”
“How are the MacKenzies doing these days?” Ryder changed the subject.
“Doing good. Lori’s still working at the market, and she got Jamie a summer job there, too.”
“What about Jimmy?”
“FRF just got a thank-you note for the check we sent to cover his baseball camp.”
“If we could buy that building, we could put in a rec room and a snack bar. Mentor kids like him. Kids who need some positive role models in their lives.”
Ryder checked the time and slammed the rest of his coffee. He addressed his men. “Let’s roll. Everyone’ll be waiting.”
A few miles away, at the little fire station off 29, Ryder scanned the room of volunteers squeezed into the foyer. Among them were his core group of FRF members, plus a cadre of reserve and career firefighters.
“Thanks for coming, everyone. Glad to see you brought your bunker gear. That’ll come in handy when we’re asking for funds. Luckily, it’s not too hot out today. Use your boots to solicit on the street corners. Here are your maps and lists of contacts,” he said, passing out papers.
“Remember, this is for the benefit of firefighters and other victims of fire throughout northern California. God forbid, someday the money we’re raising may even help your own family or the family of the man or woman standing next to you.
“I’ll start at the north end of the valley. Drop off everything you get—pledges, checks, whatever—at the nearest station. Dan, you take a team up to Calistoga. I’ll follow you up, then work my way south and do pickups at the end of the day.”
Char reread the instructions in the challenge pamphlet. “The Mc-Daniel Foundation will grant one million dollars to the registered charity that raises the most money in the designated two-week period. Qualifying donations include outright monetary donations, plus bids placed at the gala on donated items during the final night of the competition.
“A fifty-thousand-dollar bonus contribution will be granted to the charity of the one individual who wins the half-marathon.
“All charities are directed not to disclose the amount they have raised during the two-week period. The winner will be determined after bidding closes on the night of the gala. The totals will be calculated during dinner and dancing, and announced at the conclusion of the evening.”
She set the instructions aside then and started writing down the names she’d been carrying in her head all semester. First she racked her brain for all the business owners she knew personally. Then she did some research online and added to her growing list. Unfamiliar businesses she assigned to her teammates.
Bright and early Saturday morning, she started making phone calls. But thirty minutes later, she was dissatisfied. She didn’t have the personal cell numbers of several potentially prime donors, even though she’d known them casually for years . . . shopping at their stores, eating at their restaurants. Those were the same people who knew her immediately by sight and who were certain to help her cause if she showed up to see them in person.
Ordinarily, Char didn’t take advantage of her celebrity. She tried to not even think about it until she was out and about and noticed that people were whispering—though most of the locals were pretty good about respecting her privacy, even if they did stare. But if flaunting her name and face could help some of those migrant kids . . .
She could simply start phoning business numbers, but she knew from her own family business that the employees who answered those phones were paid to be gatekeepers.
What’s more, her own phone number was private. Harried business owners routinely ignored anonymous calls on their cells.
Leaving messages took too long. By the time people called her back, there was a good chance they would already have been hit up by somebody else. There wasn’t time for e-mail, either. Not if she wanted to get to the key people first.
This was a job t
hat had to be done in person.
There were dozens of stops to make and no time to lose. She was going to win this thing. It was her best chance for cementing a brand-new, squeaky clean reputation in the valley. But more than that, it was the best chance for nabbing that building for those kids.
She grabbed the list of names and arranged them in rough order by location. Then she took a fistful of fliers and tore out the door again.
Highway 29 had the greatest number of establishments, but there were some over-the-top places along the Silverado Trail where she knew people. She could head up the trail and later parallel back down the highway.
Char got lucky all morning. If anything, it’d been tough tearing herself away from people she hadn’t seen for months . . . even years. Everyone knew Papa, some had even known Maman—or said that they had—and they all wanted a firsthand account of what Char and her sisters were up to. She tried to be gracious, giving pat answers while guarding her sisters’ privacy. Most of her contacts were discreet, but some would be tweeting as she walked out their door, spreading Char’s scant family news. “Sorry, but I have a lot of ground to cover. I have to keep moving” was the excuse she used over and over.
By the time she hit Calistoga, the front seat of her car was stacked to the window with sponsorships, pledges, and gift certificates.
As she pulled into the tiny northern town, the sound of sirens detracted from the chic shop windows and tree-lined sidewalks. Traffic was slowed to a standstill. She pulled over and parked in the first empty space. From there it would be an easy walk to virtually all the businesses in the square.
She’d passed only a couple of shops when the spectacle that had created the traffic jam became evident. A shiny yellow fire truck was parked in a vacant lot off the town’s main intersection, lights flashing, siren blaring. Children were climbing in and out of it, supervised by their parents and some uniformed firemen. A van with a TV news logo, its satellite receiver ratcheted up, was pulled in next to it.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 7
