“The day after Calistoga. I got a little taste of how it feels to be you up there,” he said.
“How’d you like it?” she replied, her mocking tone gone. “Sometimes I feel like I’m on stage myself.”
He shrugged and smiled. “That’s showbiz.”
“What about your family?”
Ryder’s smile faded. “I can take care of them all right.”
“I never said you couldn’t. What about your dad? Does he ever go to church with you?”
He’d seen her sarcastic side, but he hadn’t taken her for a mean girl. He searched her face for an overlooked cruel streak, but found none.
She shrugged. “I’m not judging. Papa doesn’t go, either.”
His team was getting restless, a few running in place. He shifted his view sideways to the sun, just above the Mayacamas.
“We’re burning daylight.”
Char followed his eyes to the horizon.
Then she turned and peeled off toward her own group.
“Later,” she called with a casual little wave.
Still sorting out what had just transpired, Ryder joined his team in watching the rhythm of her bodacious glutes contract and relax as she jogged back to her friends.
No way she could have known his dad was dead. It was always in the forefront of his consciousness, but he could hardly blame her for her ignorance. After all, Ryder’s family members were nobodies. His own flame was just catching spark, whereas she’d been living in a fishbowl for years, according to those who paid attention to those things—his mom, for instance. Char had apparently always been a big deal in this town, and yet Ryder had never even noticed, much less been aware that her mother was the dead actress Lily d’Amboise.
Gesturing to his team to follow, Ryder set out to the Mission Trail endpoint.
A half mile in, Dan, a crusty career man who had worked with Ryder’s dad, edged up alongside him. Ryder’d known him for years, though the bit of a chip on Dan’s shoulder had prevented them from growing close. But Ryder had to admit, he had an awesome cadence for a runner of his age.
“You know who she is, don’t you?”
Apparently everyone did. “One of St. Pierre’s girls.”
“Ever met her old man?”
“Grower.” Ryder panted. “Vintner. Owner of the St. Pierre label.” Ryder glanced Dan’s way. And was taken aback by his dark expression.
“Owns a lot of stuff in this valley.”
What was Dan getting at?
“Word is, he owns the mayor, the police chief, and half the city council.”
Ryder couldn’t restrain a dry laugh. Was this some kind of veiled scolding? Had Dan read about him kissing Chardonnay two Fridays ago at her father’s party and disapproved? If that were the case, why didn’t he just come out and say so?
“Rumors like that dog the big wheels in every town. I’d be more surprised if he hadn’t made any allies along the way.” It didn’t take a degree in sociology to know that. Anyone who kept up with the news could cite a dozen ways in which politics were dictated by human nature, for better or worse.
“Just saying. The St. Pierres have always been known as ruthless cons. Since the day Yves St. Pierre sailed over from Bordeaux with his family’s old rootstock, just about the time Prohibition went into effect. Piss-poor timing there. Lots of growers either left, or ripped out their grapes and planted peaches. Yves gambled it wouldn’t last and went on as planned, though, making cab. Got through the dry times selling plonk to the Catholics and the Jews—made a lot of priests and rabbis rich, too, funneling a tad more’n just communion wine down to their congregations—and cellared the rest.”
Dan paused in his story to let his breathing catch up with his stride.
“When Prohibition was repealed, ol’ Yves was ready to rock and roll.”
Ryder eyed Dan with bewilderment. “How’d you know so much about the wine business?”
“Brother-in-law’s got a little operation down in Santa Rosa.” Dan grinned sheepishly. “You know what they say: ‘Any jackass can make wine.’ It’s the marketing that takes brains.”
Ryder shook his head. “So both generations of the St. Pierres are shrewd businessmen. What’s that have to do with Char? Besides, it was her father who invited me to their house in the first place. He wanted to meet me.”
“All I’m sayin’ is, watch your back. She’s a St. Pierre. You can’t trust her.”
A rising wail from the direction of the valley floor snapped Ryder’s head back to the present.
Like a school of red fish, Ryder and his team of firefighters executed a smooth one-eighty in perfect unison, turning back in the direction of their cars. What had been a controlled, moderate pace accelerated to a group sprint.
Chapter 18
Thursday, June 26
Meri’s hand flew to her mouth. Her tablet sat propped in front of her on the breakfast table, among small crystal bowls of oranges and honeydew sliced earlier by Jeanne, the cook.
“Here you two are again, on NapaUnbound!”
Savvy and Char eyed each other over their porcelain teacups. Meri had always had a gift for melodrama, no doubt inherited from Maman.
“Let me see,” said Char, putting down her éclair and licking her fingertips.
Meri looked up round-eyed.
Char took a steadying breath and reached for the tablet.
Meri was right. This shot showed them standing in the middle of Solano Avenue, the Mayacamas serving as a conveniently picturesque backdrop.
The photo was taken during their brief conversation before yesterday’s run.
“At least you’re not indelicato in this one.” Meri giggled.
Char frowned.
“Sucking face,” Savvy chipped in.
“Funny.” Char flashed a sarcastic grin.
“Now this had to be one of his runners with a phone camera. There were no paps around. I was on my guard the whole time.”
“They got you in your running shorts,” said Savvy.
“More like bikini bottoms!” added Meri, scowling and looking over Char’s shoulder. “What the heck, Char?!”
“Oh, Meri. When did you become such a prude? They’re called briefs, and everyone’s wearing them.”
“Hold on! Scroll down there.” Meri pointed to the bottom of the page.
“More stuff.”
Char’s heart leaped when she saw the full-page close-up of Ryder. His cool LA haircut was matted with sweat, one anvil-shaped cheekbone was stained with soot, and his stubbled jawline was gritted. It was a candid shot of a rugged workingman caught up in the midst of a dangerous job, oblivious to the camera. He just happened to be drop-dead gorgeous. And, oh yeah, Hollywood royalty.
Pulse pounding, her eyes flew to the text accompanying the photograph.
It’s Not an Act—Ryder McBride’s the Real Deal
Firefighter Follows in Father’s Footsteps
“What’s that mean—his ‘father’s footsteps’?”
Sharp-eyed fans of Napa native Ryder McBride spotted the actor disguised in a bright yellow slicker and helmet last Saturday in Calistoga. McBride was acting as spokesman for a team passing the boot for the Firefighters’ Relief Fund, a nonprofit that provides assistance to the victims of fires.
While his role as filmdom’s leading man is unassailable, Saturday’s sighting led some to question whether McBride has the right to wear the uniform of a real “first responder,” other than on a movie set.
But Wednesday’s brushfire off Western Avenue was no publicity stunt. McBride again appeared decked out in Napa city gear to help extinguish the blaze.
Char inhaled sharply, looked up at Meri, and pointed to the text. “Yesterday while my team was running along Solano, we heard sirens and saw Ryder and his team hightailing it back to their cars.”
McBride has a history of civic service. Records in San Jose reveal he was a reservist while a student at SJ State. NapaUnbound has learned that this summer, he’s signed on wi
th the Napa city station, between learning his lines and bulking up for his latest film, Triple Play.
She turned to Savvy. “This says he actually volunteers for Napa city.”
“Well, whaddaya know. He’s legit,” said Savvy.
Ryder’s late father, Roland McBride, was a career firefighter who lost his life battling the Southside Migrant Farmworker Camp inferno seven years ago, leaving behind a wife and four children, of whom Ryder is the eldest.
While he couldn’t be reached for comment, that tragic incident from his past might well explain McBride’s involvement in the FRF.
Char stopped reading and closed her eyes to steady herself. “What is it?” asked Savvy, an edge to her voice.
Silently, Char read on.
For the first time, the FRF is vying against some of the valley’s most well-established charities for a grand prize of one million dollars in the Napa Charity Challenge, the McDaniel Foundation’s premier charitable event. Sources estimate that the FRF collected over ten thousand dollars in cash and pledges over the first weekend, thanks in large part to McBride’s appeal.
Notably, the only other new organization competing in the challenge is Chardonnay’s Children, founded by the Domaine St. Pierre heiress. Xavier St. Pierre was the owner of the camp where Roland McBride was killed in the line of duty.
The story was accompanied by page after page of old photos from both the McBride and St. Pierre families, and an aerial of the Southside Migrant Camp.
The blood drained from Char’s face.
Seeing her pale, Savvy pulled up the story on her own device.
The room was still while she brought herself up to speed.
“Okay.” Savvy leaped up in her take-charge way, spreading her fingers in a gesture of calm. “Let’s all take a deep breath here, shall we? First of all, there’s no hard evidence that this story is true. And even if it is, no one’s blaming Papa for Roland McBride’s death. Even if he really was an owner at the time—and we don’t know that he was—there were no charges filed in the case of that migrant camp fire. If there had been, we surely would’ve known that. And Papa’s insurance no doubt took care of the victims’ families. So let’s not get our panties in a twist.
“And secondly, these are archive photos. I’ve seen them before, in old newspapers. It’s not like someone broke into our house and got previously unpublished pictures.”
Stiffly, Char stood too, and strode barefoot across the cold terracotta tiles, thinking on her feet. “Yesterday when Ryder and I were running, I asked him whether or not his dad went to church.”
She spun back around to face them. “How was I supposed to know the poor man was—” She choked on the word, unable to finish. “And now, I find out our family was involved in his death. . . .”
“Char. Don’t,” said Savvy.
“Accident or not, we’re involved,” Char added, a deep frown creasing her forehead.
She pressed her temples and paced back the other way.
“He’ll never speak to me again. Why should he?”
Meri flashed Savvy a look that pleaded for her to say something smart. Then she went to Char and tossed an arm around her shoulders.
“Would everybody just chill?” asked Savvy. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Char. Even if Papa was involved—tangentially, of course—you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no guilt by association.”
Char gave her an incredulous look.
“What are you talking about? Of course there’s guilt by association! Guilt and humiliation. All of our lives, every stupid thing this family’s done has reflected on us. That’s how it’s always been. It’s what drives us! It’s why Meri was so anxious to make a name in the art world that she quit school early, the minute she got a little recognition! It’s why you were obsessed with scoring a four-point-oh all the way through college and getting into a top law school!”
It was also behind Char’s deep-seated need to give back to others from the great, unearned wealth that had come to them merely by virtue of being born St. Pierres.
But shame was only part of what motivated them. It was also about unique self-worth. Real worth, not the number that was their bank account. And now, here was yet another disgraceful scandal for them to live down.
It had happened seven years ago. But thanks to Ryder’s newfound fame and some Jack Russell journalism, within a matter of hours everyone in the valley would be talking about how Xavier St. Pierre had made an orphan out of their favorite son.
Tension blanketed the room while the sisters looked at the floor . . . the table . . . out the window at the sunshine reflecting off the palm-tree–lined pool. Anywhere to avoid seeing the pain in each other’s eyes.
Meri set down the tablet. “Stop torturing yourself over the past,” she choked, enfolding Char in her arms.
Char sniffed and stepped out of her embrace.
“Meri! Don’t you see? Tomorrow night I have to face him at Diablo.”
“No, you don’t,” said Meri, blinking back tears. “You can quit. You aren’t obligated to do any of this.”
“I’m not a quitter. But it’s not just the race. Do you realize the implications that article will have?”
“Meri’s right. There’s no reason to put yourself through this.” Savvy stepped forward authoritatively, hands on her hips. “Char, you’ve always pushed yourself so hard. The volunteering. The field hockey. The running.” Her sternness softened to maternal concern. “When will you learn that you can’t outrun our past?”
“NapaUnbound said Ryder’s face has already helped him raise five figures in one day!” Char went on, ignoring Savvy’s question. “And when word gets out that he’s a for-real fireman—and his dad died in the line of duty . . . and it was Papa’s fault . . . Ryder’s donations are going to go through the roof, and mine are going to dry up like an arroyo in August.”
“What is this arroyo?”
All three women jumped when Papa entered the kitchen in an artfully rumpled plaid button-down.
He kissed their cheeks in the European manner, enveloping Char in his aura of tobacco and patchouli. Then he fixed himself a shot of espresso from the state-of-the-art machine tucked away on the counter.
Char had friends who swooned over Papa’s old-world manners. But sometimes, instead of the air-kisses, all she wanted was a big old American bear hug.
“Ça va, Papa?” asked Savvy, covering up with a forced smile.
“Ça va bien,” he replied in his familiar gravely tone.
“Tomorrow is Friday. Are you prepared for the party?”
Only Meri and Savvy nodded their assent.
Char turned away to swipe a tear away before her father noticed, but she needn’t have worried. As usual, he was too caught up in his own thoughts and plans to notice his daughters’ agitation.
Char couldn’t help but compare Papa to the suave, silver-haired “world’s most interesting man” in the old beer commercial. Like him, Papa was usually surrounded by gorgeous women. She waited to see what glamorous stranger might be tagging along after him this morning, but he was alone—for the time being.
He picked up the mail from where the housekeeper had laid it and thumbed through the periodical on the top of the pile.
“Regardez. Chardonnay, your name is here, in Napa Lifestyles.”
Three pairs of female eyes met in apprehension.
“I had completely forgotten the McDaniel Foundation race was this Saturday.”
Papa hadn’t seemed surprised, back when Char had told him about her charity. He’d indulged her philanthropic whims for years, just as she knew the others in the valley humored her back when she was a teenager. But they’d never had an in-depth conversation about Chardonnay’s Children. Despite her new degree, Papa had no clue how deeply committed she was to public service.
Papa sat down, folded back the page, and kept reading.
“Fruit?” asked Meri, spooning some pale green melon chunks into a bowl.
Without looki
ng up, he grunted his thanks when she handed him the dish. Then a scowl formed above his eyebrows. Red crept up his neck inch by inch, until it flooded his cheeks.
“Salaud! What swine wrote this?” he spat, scanning the page for the author’s byline.
The girls hadn’t read the Napa Lifestyles version of the Ryder story, but it was easy to guess what was in it.
“Is it true, Papa?” asked Char quietly.
Papa jumped to his feet, tossing the magazine across the counter.
“If you are asking me if I owned the Southside Migrant Camp, the answer is yes. But this reporter, he did not”—he looked up, pinching together his thumb and two fingers as he searched for the phrase—“do his due diligence.”
With baited breath, the girls waited for him to go on.
“Yes, it is true, I—along with some partners—did own this migrant camp, but I did not manage it. It was run by what is called an ag management company. I paid them a very large sum of money to oversee it.”
The sisters exhaled as one.
Char stepped forward. “What caused the fire?” she asked softly. Prying risked Papa’s further wrath, but she had to know.
“What is the difference what caused the fire? Do you think it was I who caused it? Of course not! This fire, it was an accident! The insurance company and the fire marshal, they all say I am innocent!”
He tossed back his espresso.
“For what reason is this written about now, after seven long years?!”
Char stared at her half-eaten chocolate éclair, her appetite gone. Could she take Papa at his word or was he covering for yet another one of his major faux pas?
Even if Papa was telling the truth and the fire had truly been an accident, one thing was still for sure. Ryder McBride would never forgive her or her family for their role—no matter how minor—in his dad’s death.
Char dreaded bringing it up, but Papa was already agitated, so bracing herself, she rushed the words out before she lost her nerve.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 9
