Ryder blinked to clear the blurry edges surrounding St. Pierre’s face.
“What do you want me to say? That I swallow your version of what happened, just like that?”
“The insurance company had to do their own investigation. The fire marshal, too—by law. As you know, they are in the business of saving people. They don’t like when people die, and they especially detest losing one of their own . . .”
A slight understatement.
“So they were very thorough. The flames from the prohibited cooking stove spread to some extra containers of liquid fuel stored in the room, which caused a number of explosions. The two Mexican pickers died instantly. The blaze spread quickly. It was the middle of the night, and the others were sleeping. By the time the fire department arrived, the whole camp was on fire. Your papa, he became trapped when a wall collapsed as he was saving another man.”
Ryder had heard that part of the story, somewhere in time. But with all his more pressing obligations, he hadn’t dwelt on it. He couldn’t afford to. Or maybe, he’d let his more concrete problems—family, finances—distract him from the pain of imagining his father’s last moments. Now, visualizing them, his head dropped to his hands.
St. Pierre picked up the yellow envelope from where it lay on the side table and handed it to Ryder.
“I would like to give to you the reports, for you to read yourself.”
With an effort, Ryder raised his head. His headache was coming back with a vengeance. And the wine was clouding his thinking.
He scowled. “How did you know I was coming here today?”
“I kept these, knowing someday you will come. I did not know when.”
Ryder reached tentatively for the envelope.
Simultaneously, the door to the house opened. There stood Chardonnay, wearing a white cotton dress and a quizzical expression.
“Papa? What’s going on?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“Ryder, your brothers are in the foyer. They said they expected to hear from you about an hour ago. . . .”
Ryder set the envelope aside, stood, and took a step in her direction. The room spun. He staggered backward, barely catching himself on the chair’s arm before landing back in it.
“Ryder!” Char lunged toward him.
That’s when the lights went out.
Chapter 28
Ryder slumped back into his chair next to the table holding the empty wine bottles, leaning his head back on the plump padding.
“Papa! What have you done?”
Papa’s face was the embodiment of innocence. “Rien! I have done nothing but tell Ryder what he came to hear!”
“And what was that?”
“Only the truth!”
Fanning cigar smoke away from her nose, she flew to Ryder and the bottle-strewn end table.
“Did you drink all that wine today?”
Her father appeared perfectly sober. But then, he practically drank for a living.
She held up a bottle by its neck and shook it at him. “Three bottles, early on a Saturday afternoon?”
“It is good to drink wine when one is having a serious discussion. It makes the words land easier. . . .”
“But Ryder only has a beer now and then! And today, of all days. He’s still recovering from the race. A race he shouldn’t even have attempted. . .” She huffed. “Oh, never mind.” It was futile, trying to explain simple social concepts to Papa that he should already know.
“I’ll bet he didn’t even eat lunch,” she muttered as she scooped up the other empties and tossed them into the recycling bin. Then she cracked open the door that led from the patio to the house. “Ben! Brian!”
The identical long-legged young men in their slouchy jeans ventured shyly onto the patio, looking somewhat intimidated by their sumptuous surroundings. When they saw their brother passed out on the lounge chair, they started toward him, their wonderment forgotten.
Char downplayed her concern for their benefit. “Don’t worry. He’s just suffering from exhaustion. Get on either side of him, guys. Let’s take him where he can rest a while.”
Out of some instinct, she snatched the yellow envelope and led the three McBride brothers through the house, up the wide staircase, and down the hall to her suite, where they lowered Ryder onto her bed.
“He’ll be okay. I’ll let him sleep awhile, then feed him,” she said, herding them out of the room.
Simultaneously, they hesitated, talking over each other. “What are we gonna tell our Mom? She’ll be waiting for him. They’re going to that thing tonight. She’s gettin’ her hair done right now.”
“Tell your mom to go ahead to the gala. I’ll see that he gets there.”
While crossing the foyer, one twin braked early and the other bumped into him.
“What about his tux?” asked Ben. Or Brian. She wasn’t sure.
Char bit her lip. She hadn’t thought of that.
“What he means is, it’s hanging in the truck. He just got it cleaned,” said Brian. Or Ben.
“It is? Perfect. Why don’t you bring it in, so he won’t have to run home to change? That’ll buy him another hour to rest.”
She took possession of the tux and, unexpectedly, a soggy submarine sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. Faking a sunny grin, she waved them off, then dashed to the kitchen for filtered water and a bottle of vitamins. She put them on a tray along with the sandwich and sped back up to her bedroom. Along the hallway leading to Char’s suite, the upstairs maid paused, feather duster poised midair.
“Mademoiselle?”
“What, Celine?” She grinned proudly. “You’ve never seen me carry a tray before?”
Single-mindedly, she flounced by, Celine staring after her.
Char felt good—no—great. She always felt her best taking care of others, whether ladling soup, sorting donations, or whatever it took to be a positive force for change.
But this was way more personal. At the moment, her nurturing was centered on one person, not a group of people. Her earlier resolve to forget about Ryder flew out the window. Though he may be unaware of it in his unconscious state, he needed her. And she was determined not to let him down.
Ryder was snoring when she got back to her room. She picked up the wrinkled envelope, still lying where she’d dropped it on her nightstand. It was addressed to Papa from an insurance company. The postmark was seven years old, and the flap was hanging open.
Char rifled through the contents, her gaze halting at the names of the fire victims. There it was in black and white: Roland McBride, firefighter, Napa County. Mateo Perez, picker, Michoacán. Gabriel Garza, picker, Napa.
Garza? She frowned. Where had she heard that name before?
She skimmed page after page until she got to what she was looking for, the findings of the fire investigation, exonerating Papa from negligence.
Letting out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, she peered down at Ryder, wishing he were awake. Now, with the evidence she held, she was ready to apologize for withholding what little she’d known about the fire before they’d made love. But it would have to be put off a little longer.
In her bathroom, she ran some cool water on a cloth and then returned to lower herself onto the mattress beside him.
“I’ve learned some things, thanks to you,” she whispered, gently wiping his forehead.
“I’ll admit it. All actors are not bad. In fact, there’s one who’s a real treasure. Smart.” She kissed his eyelids. “Kind.” She cupped his cheek tenderly.
She rambled on, freely voicing every thought that popped into her head. His unconscious condition had a liberating effect on her tongue.
“Not only that, I found out it’s true what they say—even negative publicity can sometimes be positive. Did you see those protestors all over Papa today?”
Ryder didn’t open an eye.
“Tsk.” She shook her head, remembering. “Today was supposed to be our big day—not just mine, Juan�
�s and Amelia’s and all the other kids’ down on El Valle. I promised them I would do my utmost to win the race so that I could buy them that building. But that’s not all. Today was the day I was going to break free from my family’s crazy reputation.
“I was thrilled to see Papa there at the finish line, until those angry people showed up with their signs.
“Savvy and Meri don’t seem to be as affected by Papa’s antics, but he embarrasses me to no end! Don’t misunderstand. He’s not an awful person. He has a lot of good qualities, and usually he means well. It’s true. He did fire a few rounds into the air to scare the birds away from his koi. Those fish are his main hobby. Well”—she chuckled—“that and starlets. But he’d never intentionally harm a flea.”
She sighed. “Things just seem to get out of hand when Papa’s around. Like this morning. That shouting match between Papa and the protestors ended up getting as much press coverage as the event itself. But the funny thing is”—she stopped wiping Ryder’s face, threw her hands in the air, and let them fall to her lap—“after the video hit, our online donations actually soared!”
She laid aside the washcloth.
“Okay, I’ll admit—winning the female division of the race might have helped, too. The point is, that video didn’t hurt us one bit. I don’t know if they were pity donations or what, but who cares? Every dollar helps, right?”
Then she lay down next to him and curled her body close to his. With him there in her bed sleeping, she could pretend that he was hers. Suddenly all her inadequacies faded into the background. Nothing had ever felt more right than being there together with him.
“You know what else I learned today?”
Ryder snuffled and rolled into her warmth.
“That there’s something that matters more than what everybody in this valley thinks of me. And that’s you.”
She lightly kissed his lips.
“You know how I know? Because giving you what you want is more important than getting what I thought I wanted. I love you, Ryder McBride.”
Then and there, Char made a decision.
She would’ve been content to lie quietly with him until he woke up on his own, but the need to get ready for tonight kept niggling at her. Tossing on her dress wouldn’t take long, but her hair and makeup would.
“You just stay here and relax, and I’ll be back before you know it,” she said, kissing him again, this time on the nose. He smiled in his sleep. Happiness spreading through her, she got up to start to get ready for the gala.
A recurring vibration emanated from the region of Ryder’s backside. It was accompanied by a familiar ringing. His hand automatically reached for his back pocket.
“Yeah?” he grunted into his phone.
“Where the hell are you?”
There was only one person on earth whose voice could convey so much venom and sugar in five little words.
“Amy?”
“Who else? What have you been doing? It’s five thirty! The gala’s in an hour and a half!”
Ryder sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“I have to hand it to you, Ryder. I’d never even heard of this ‘challenge’ thing, until you got involved. It was never part of my grand promotional plan for you. But now that you’re in it, you’re committed. You’ve got to follow through. Tonight’s when the winner’s announced.”
He squinted at his surroundings. Where the hell was he? Looked like the set of some fancy boudoir in an old-time movie—all pink and ruffly.
“Don’t tell me about follow-through. Had every intention of going. Still do.”
“Then come outside. I’m sitting out here in the limo.”
Inside, there was no one else in sight. He now realized that what he was in wasn’t just a bedroom—it was more like a suite, with lots of doors. On the wall facing him was a big-ass abstract that reminded him of something he’d once seen at the Getty. Beneath him was a comforter of the softest material imaginable whose subtle print matched that of the drapes on the French doors. Beyond them, he could see a short segment of horizontal wrought iron railing enclosing a balcony that looked out on rolling vineyards.
On an interior doorframe hung a man’s dark suit—obvious by its width at the shoulders—in a clear plastic garment bag labeled Trancas Dry Cleaners. His eyes skittered to a tray on the nightstand. Though the waxed paper around the sandwich was crushed and it was sitting in a little pool of liquid, its pungent aroma had him suddenly salivating with hunger. Then it hit him: He hadn’t eaten all day.
From another closed door came the sound of a shower running. The third must be the way out.
“Ryder?” asked the voice on the phone.
“I’m coming.”
He tossed a handful of vitamin Cs into his mouth, chased them with the water, and grabbing the sandwich in one hand, the tux in the other, exited the bedroom into what resembled the hallway of one of LA’s better hotels. He followed it to a marble staircase and down. The rays of late afternoon sun shone through the front doors in exactly the same way they had two weeks ago, on his first visit to Domain St. Pierre. But unlike the night of the party, today the foyer was empty.
Out front, a man hopped out of the driver’s seat to swing open the back door of the idling limo.
“You look like shit,” grinned the driver admiringly.
“What a coincidence. I feel like shit.”
The door was shut behind him with a high quality thunk as he crawled into a seat opposite his agent. What was so prestigious about limos? It was always so awkward climbing in and out of them.
“You look like shit,” Amy remarked.
“I heard.”
“What’s going on?”
Ryder shook his head to clear it. “Had a few drinks with the old man. Guess I got over-served.”
She raised an eyebrow. “In the middle of the afternoon?”
He shrugged. “When in Napa.”
“What’s done is done,” she said, waving it away. “It’s not my job to judge. Besides, it’s not important that you feel good. All that matters is that you look good.”
She was all heart.
“Is that your tux?”
No, it’s my pajamas. He gave her a look and rubbed his hand through his bed head.
“Excellent. We’re going back to my hotel. You can get ready there.”
He sat back into the plush leather then. As they pulled onto 29, he gradually became more alert. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“Seriously?” Amy lifted an eyebrow. “It’s what I do.”
Char wrapped her damp body in a towel and cracked the bathroom door.
“Ryder,” she sang happily. “Are you awake? It’s five thirty-five. I’ll get out of here and let you have your turn.”
No reply. He was probably still dozing. She hoped it wouldn’t be too hard to rouse him and that his headache wouldn’t be too bad after all that booze.
She slathered some moisturizer onto her legs. God, what a day it had been for him! And they still had the gala to get through. She should run downstairs and get him a coffee. She glanced at the time again. She still had to dress and do her hair and makeup.
She called to him again. “Come on in. Get a quick shower. It’ll help you wake up.”
“Ryder?” She stepped out of the bathroom and looked at the bed. But all she saw was the rumpled comforter and scrunched-up pillows.
“Ry?” She glanced at the nightstand. The sandwich was gone, the cap had been left off the vitamins, and the water glass was half empty.
Char wrapped her towel around her head turban-style, shrugged into a robe, and hurried out into the hall. Could he have gone downstairs? It seemed unlikely that he’d go wandering through the house, but where else could he be? He didn’t have a car here. He couldn’t have gone far.
Maybe he’d gone to the kitchen. For coffee. Yes, that had to be it. Good. That was smart. That meant he’d come to and was thinking clearly.
When she reached the top of the staircase, she ca
lled for him again. Celine appeared from one of the other bedrooms, carrying an armload of neatly folded sheets.
“He is gone, mademoiselle.”
“Gone?” Char repeated. “Where’d he go?”
“In the limo.”
She frowned. “The limo?”
“With the lady.”
“What lady?”
“The same lady he came to the party with.”
Amy.
Chapter 29
The limo pulled up to La Maison de la Lune just as Ryder had finished wolfing down his sandwich.
“Ew. That reeks. Here.” Before he even knew he needed them, Amy was ready with a distasteful expression and a box of tissues dangling from her thumb and forefinger. But then, that was Amy.
“Thanks.” He wiped his hands.
“No need,” she said. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
His stomach felt a little better, now that he’d fed it. But there was a deeper place inside that still felt raw. No wonder he looked so horrific.
They slipped unnoticed into Amy’s suite.
“Go ahead and get cleaned up. I’ll order a pot of coffee from room service.”
A shower felt good, but he couldn’t wash away his disappointment in Char.
“Coffee’s here,” Amy called from the common living room.
Ryder wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom. A little caffeine in his system and he’d be as good as new.
“How you feeling?” she asked.
Maybe she did have some warm blood running through those veins.
“Outstanding,” he lied.
She handed him a steaming cup.
“Drink this. You’ll be fine.
“Like I was saying, it was brilliant, you signing up for this battle of the charities. I’ve been vacationing in wine country for years. Remember the night I found you, at Saint Joan of Arc? Last night of vacay. And yet, I’d never even heard of the challenge. And this fireman’s philanthropic scheme you’ve wormed your way into is genius. Kudos for finding that all by yourself, too. You’re really putting your acting skills to good use.”
She poured her own cup and perched herself on the arm of the couch.
A Taste of Chardonnay Page 15
