A Taste of Chardonnay
Page 18
“Young girls? It’s the older ones I’m worried about. His humanities prof is already gaga over him,” said Char, giving Ryder a sidelong glance.
“I’ll share Dr. Simon with you,” said Ryder.
“Promise?”
“I promise, hellcat,” he said. He pulled her to him in a one-armed hug. “That your phone vibrating?”
He released her, and she drew her cell from her back pocket. “Hey, Meri.”
“Char?” Meri sounded frenzied.
“That Realtor friend of yours—Bill Diamond? He’s a genius. A little outspoken, but a genius. We spent the whole day together. You won’t believe what I did. Papa’s going to fart a crowbar.”
Char sighed.
A stable family, romance, and the chance to give back. She’d settle for two out of three.
Keep reading for
An excerpt from the next novel in
The Napa Wine Heiresses series
A TASTE OF MERLOT
Available January 2015
from
Heather Heyford
and
eKensington
Chapter 1
Grinning so hard her cheeks might burst, Merlot St. Pierre wove through the tightly packed crowd to the front of the art gallery, the jingling of her trademark stack of bracelets obscured by polite applause.
When she finally reached the podium, she clutched its clear acrylic edges and paused to commit the scene to memory, her gaze bouncing from face to familiar face. A rare sense of belonging washed over her, satisfying—if only for the moment—a cavernous emptiness inside.
Chardonnay and Sauvignon had even driven down from Napa for the annual exhibit—though not Papa, of course. He was perpetually busy, tied up in the never-ending cycle of planting, picking, and pressing grapes. Savvy smiled maternally, and Char brushed away a proud tear. Hard as they tried to blend in by hugging the wall at the back of the room, her sisters’ expensive clothes and skyscraper heels elevated them to another class altogether. From a casual glance, nobody would’ve tagged Meri, in her scuffed flats and faded jeans, as their sister.
Just as well.
Meri waited for the clapping to taper off, then leaned into the mike. “To the Gates faculty, thank you from the bottom of my heart for this award. And to my fellow students, our shared appreciation for the craft I hope to spend the rest of my life perfecting fuses us together like one big family.”
Even closer than some families.
And in less time that it had taken to walk to the podium, her speech, and with it the reception, were over.
Ten minutes later, still basking in the glow of her achievement, Meri excused herself from a small circle of well-wishers to find the ladies’ room.
“Did you see her up there?”
Meri’s hand froze at the lock on the stall door before exiting. She knew that voice. Its owner’s portfolio storage slot adjoined Meri’s. They came in contact almost daily.
“The wine princess? I know. Made me want to gag. But you know how it is: ‘Them that has, gets.’ ” Chelsey. Meri’d known her since freshman year. “Still, it’s not fair! She doesn’t need the accolades. The rest of us are going to have to eke out a living, for real. How does she get the Purchase Prize?”
With shocked dismay, Meri flattened her palms against the door, cocked an ear, and held her breath, straining to hear through the sound of water running in the sink and paper towels being ripped from the dispenser. That first voice belonged to Rainn—like Meri, a jewelry major, except that she was a graduating senior and Meri still had another year to go.
“How do you think? Her old man donated a gazillion bucks to the college.”
“Hmph,” came another mocking snort. “Should’ve guessed.”
“Art is her hobby,” said Rainn. It was the ultimate insider insult. “Everybody knows she’ll never be a real jeweler. Just go back to Daddy’s mansion and become a professional shopper.”
“Have you seen it?” Chelsey asked.
“What, the winery? Only in pictures online.”
“She invited me up one time, over winter break. The pictures don’t do it justice. Even if she does keep making jewelry after graduation, she’ll never have to make a living at it. It’s not fair. She’s taking up space here that could’ve been given to a real artist. No wonder she calls her line ‘Gilty.’ ”
Derisive laughter rang off the lavatory tiles. Still hidden, Meri cringed and squeezed her eyes closed. All she wanted was for it to be over.
“C’mon, you look fine. It’s the last Thirsty Thursday at O’Brien’s. Everyone’ll be there.”
Everyone? Meri had spent last Thursday night hunched over her bench hook, buffing her final project. She’d been invited to O’Brien’s once—back in the fall, after her twenty-first birthday—about the same time she’d developed a fascination with the historical uses of gemstones. She’d declined the offer to do research. She’d never been invited again.
A door creaked, and blessedly, the voices receded.
In a fog, Meri sank slowly onto the toilet seat. The only sound now was a tsunami roaring in her head, taking her back to the first time she’d felt utterly dejected and alone.
Her spindly legs dangled from another toilet, small hands clutching the sides, on the afternoon of her first day of fourth form—the lowest grade offered by Lindenwood School for Girls. But Meri wasn’t in the bathroom out of any bodily necessity. All she’d sought was a private place to think. And maybe to cry. Twelve-year-old Savvy had just been enrolled in her own prep school, and Char, ten, was in middle school. Before they’d left Napa, her eldest sister had drawn three dots on a map of the United States, so that Meri could see where their new schools sat in relation to one another. When Meri connected the dots, the resulting triangle crossed the borders of Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island.
Somehow, Meri had gotten through the misery of an endless round of sitting still in hushed offices while grown-ups talked about her as if she weren’t there, and then squirming in her hard classroom seat throughout the remainder of the morning, wondering how long her teacher’s monologue would drag on.
Being the new girl was awful, she decided. No one had even thought to tell her what time to expect lunch. When the bell finally rang, she felt invisible as she endured being jostled by chattering groups of girls through winding hallways toward the smell of food that made her stomach lurch, even though she hadn’t touched her breakfast. Then it was on through the unfamiliar procedures and smells of the cafeteria line to the entrance of the dining room, her thin forearms straining with the heavy tray of food, worried eyes combing the round tables already filled with laughing, mostly older students. In the end, she’d had no choice but to take the last seat next to kids who were already deep in conversation about their classes and boys and teachers she didn’t know. If that weren’t bad enough, she’d neglected to get her silverware, so she had to get up in front of everyone a second time.
That afternoon she’d found refuge there, in the lav, the only place where she could sit and sob quietly for Maman and her sisters and the vineyards where they’d spent endless hours playing hide-and-seek among the neat rows of vines, picking handfuls of wilted yellow mustard flowers to give to their au pairs.
Now, twelve years later, in a lav in San Francisco, Meri stared down at her cracked, work-stained fingertips until they all blurred together in her tears.
Chapter 2
It was Mark Newman’s idea to troll end-of-year student shows for fresh blood. While his boss at Harrington’s was at least willing to humor him, if she’d had her druthers he’d be sticking with the stale, old, tried-and-true vendors.
After finding a parking spot, he walked all the way across the Gates College of Art and Design campus, only to find he was at the wrong building and had to cut back. He’d probably miss the speeches, but that was of no consequence. Receptions were for friends, family, and colleagues. Mark was there solely to see the work.
He’d scouted
art schools in Chicago, Miami, and New York that spring, and so far, nothing had grabbed him. Where was all the new talent? Maybe Gloria was right—these excursions weren’t worth the trouble.
He browsed through the two-dimensional art, the video installations, ceramics, and sculpture, saving the best for last. A leisurely, methodical sweep of the gallery was his way of pinpointing the location of the jewelry display cases, and as usual he made a game out of it, letting the anticipation build, deciding which case he’d examine first and which he’d save for last.
When he finally got to the fixture in the center of the room, his roving eye came to an abrupt halt at five strands of flat braid connected by a perpendicular clasp. The alternating metals—yellow, white, and rose gold—lent fresh appeal to the simple design. Next to it, a royal blue card with the words PURCHASE PRIZE sat slightly askew, a last-minute addition to the carefully arranged display. The piece begged to be touched, stroked—always a sign of good art. No wonder Gates had elected to buy it for its permanent collection over all the other projects created that year.
Mark looked up, his enthusiasm building by the second. Only a few people remained in the gallery, congregating quietly on the opposite side of the room. Deftly, he tried slipping his fingers into the crack between the lid and the side of the case. Locked, of course. Pulling out his jeweler’s magnifying loupe, he bent close, straining to examine the piece as best he could through the layer of glass, to read the name on the hand-drawn tag attached by a silken cord.
“GILTY.” That was aggravating. He wanted a real name. On the other hand, the craftsmanship was outstanding. He’d never get over what could be achieved with simple tools in talented hands. Retail was his business, but design was his passion. Design, food, and football, in that order.
He let his loupe fall from the black leather thong around his neck and draped his hands possessively around the corners of the wide case, pulse quickening with the thrill of discovery. There had to be someone in authority here, someone with a key.
The reception was really winding down now; there was a growing trickle toward the exit. Mark didn’t see anyone wearing a name tag. He went up behind two women who might be students.
“Excuse me.” His voice sounded surprisingly calm, given how hard his heart thrummed. “Quick question.”
The young women half turned, their blank faces sizing him up with mild annoyance. Simultaneously, their eyes widened as they turned fully and broke out in catlike smiles.
“Anything,” the shorter, sultry-looking one purred, giving Mark a glimpse of the shiny barbell puncturing the center of her tongue.
Down, girl. Damn. He’d have to wear this old shirt more often.
“There’s a mixed-metal bracelet over there with a tag that says ‘Gilty.’ The Purchase Prize winner. Know whose work it is?”
Their smiles went sour. The one with blue hair and a sleeve tattoo opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Barbell Girl.
“No idea,” she interjected, eyeing Mark’s loupe. “But hey, do you have a card or something? I can ask around.”
“I’d appreciate it,” he said, reaching into his back pocket.
“I’m Rainn, and this is Chelsey.” Rainn lowered her lids while she drew a lengthy lock of raven-colored hair through stubby fingers, then tossed it back.
“Mark Newman.” He peeled off a few cards and held them out in a spread.
“Harrington’s?” Her smile morphed from merely seductive to blatantly opportunistic, displaying beautiful, white teeth. Individually they were perfect little pearls, but strung together they formed a wolfish grin that was downright unsettling.
“Nice meeting you. If you run into Gilty, have him—or her—give me a call.”
He returned to the case, snapped some photos through the glass, and left the building.
He’d already forgotten the two students when he noticed them again across the street from the gallery, heads still bowed over his card like it was the key to the Grail.
He couldn’t help smiling to himself. For an aspiring jeweler, it was.
As he walked back to his car he pulled out his phone and scrolled for Gilty online, but nothing showed up.
So he’d call the school, first thing tomorrow morning.
He brightened with anticipation. Purchase Prize? He’d show them a purchase prize.
About the Author
Heather Heyford learned to walk and talk in Texas, then moved to England. (“Y’all want some scones?”) While in Europe, Heather was forced by her cruel parents to spend Saturdays in the leopard vinyl backseat of their Peugeot, motoring from one medieval pile to the next for the lame purpose of “learning something.” What she soon learned was how to allay the boredom by stashing a Cosmo under the seat. Now a recovering teacher, Heather writes love stories, feeds hardboiled eggs to suburban foxes, and makes art in the Mid-Atlantic. She is represented by the Nancy Yost Literary Agency.
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2014 by Cathy E. Campbell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
eKensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: October 2014
eISBN-13: 978-1-60183-359-4
eISBN-10: 1-60183-359-8
First Print Edition: October 2014
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3359-4