St. Helena Holiday

by Grace Conley

“You ARE making fun,” she protested.

  Ben stopped in his tracks as he saw a sheer veil of wet at the corners of her eyes. “Go on, Cheech. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  She gulped, collected herself. “I know. Look, my cousins lost their dad and mom when they were teenagers – I know you know all about that—but to me, it seemed like it must be different with a larger family. They had each other, and Great Aunt Chi Chi, who is just the bomb. I didn’t figure out until I was a lot older and my brother had the motorcycle accident that they were putting up a good front all that time. I mean, they all seemed so confident and happy. That’s not just a good front, that’s a great front.”

  A DeLuca front. United. How could she be a part of that if she was hiding something from them? She frowned.

  “We choose to be happy, though, right?” Ben said softly.

  “That we do,” agreed Chiara. She took another gulp, feeling vulnerable, but followed her sudden strong desire to put everything out there. She wasn’t sure why Ben was having this effect on her.

  Having reached the front of the Napa Grand, Chiara touched a light hand to his shoulder, stopping him so she could finish her point before any fear of being overheard. She sucked in a shallow breath, realizing that this was the first time they’d touched since last week’s Kissing Spectacular out on the street. Her hand wobbled a bit as she jerked it back. She hoped he didn’t notice.

  “Frank invested in us, in the vineyard, to the point of almost no return. He bought a majority stake, but my Mom and Dad welcomed it, because we’re a family business and he made it clear from early on that he was interested in being family. He came on strong with me, and I bought it. I thought we were in love. And he acted like a gentleman with my parents. He was worldly and kind and we all thought he was saving us. Then it turned out that he was buying up several of the neighboring properties.”

  Ben was confused. “So why cancel the wedding?”

  She set her jaw, straightened up. “Because he owned us by that point. Without us knowing, he closed on the last of the neighboring properties the day before the wedding. He’d made confidentiality a part of all of the deals. Three other vineyards total. And we had no idea, until he decided he’d gotten what he’d come for, so why bother marrying the vintner’s daughter!”

  “Why bother marrying the vintner, when you can get the wine for free?” agreed Ben. “That is possibly the shittiest thing I have ever heard.”

  “Oh, it gets shittier,” she said. “He doesn’t own us outright – yet. But he owns a majority stake. He knows he’s got us. He’s planning on calling the loan.”

  “And it’s your fault.” Ben immediately regretted the way he put that.

  “Yes. Yes, I guess it really is my fault.” Chiara’s gold-flecked brown eyes were bright with hurt and instant distrust. She was tired of being burned by men, and wouldn’t be burned by some…fireman!

  She pushed through the door to the lovingly restored front lobby of her Cousin Marco’s historic boutique hotel, leaving Frank to struggled through with the wagon.

  “We’re headed to the basement, freight elevator’s that way, just follow that hallway all the way through the door at the end of the hall!” called out Chiara, walking in one direction and waving a hand in wild chops to the other. “I’ll take the stairs. See you down there!”

  Her boots made a satisfying clomping sound as she made tracks to the Napa Grand’s freight elevator, which would take her down to the basement and Marco’s prized original-to-the building refurbished 1920’s wine vault, which housed the best collection of wines in St. Helena.

  Ben would find out in about two minutes that he was sent to the hotel laundry.

  A good thing, because she needed to get him out of her sight for a few minutes so she could stomp and have fits. The DeLuca Daredevil was coming out of a long dry spell. Frank had tried to cover up, smooth over her personality, make her polished and elitist-sounding like him. Chiara was starting to feel that part of her was hurt, part was empty, and part was a mixture of relieved and damned angry.

  Chiara was conflicted about spending time with Ben, because she knew she was hurt and her signals were all crossed.

  A girl out of whack.

  But when he leaned near her or said something, she couldn’t figure out why she wanted to rip Ben’s hair out and kiss him at the same time…

  CHAPTER 4

  Chiara raced into the elegant powder room on the first floor of the Napa Grand, not wanting any staff or family to see her tearing up.

  She splashed cold water on her face and dabbed it with a paper towel. Her telltale blotchy-red I’m-about-to-cry look stood out. She pulled a compact out of her tote, “fixed her face” as Chi Chi would say, and glanced at her smartphone.

  There was another private message from Frank, this one threatening to go to the media if she didn’t convince her parents to “quietly” let him buy out the rest of their share in DeLuca’s Collina, the Willamette Valley vineyard that her family had founded prior to Prohibition. She clicked off of that, vowing to come up with a way to handle his skullduggery.

  A second private message was from Cousin Gabe’s wife, Regan.

  “Exclamation! Exclamation! Heart!” read the emoticons, with a tiny reindeer emoji thrown in for good measure.

  Chiara read the message out loud, “You have to watch for the senior citizens and their cellphone cameras. You and your co-chair are out on the town Facebook page.”

  She quickly flipped to the St. Helena Community Page, where, sure enough, there she was a few minutes ago with Fire Boy and His Red Wagon, him for all the world looking like he was leaning in close, flirting with her.

  “That is so not the case!” She tapped out her message and clicked the phone off, racing downstairs to the basement. Maybe she could still beat Ben there, and get right back out with her case.

  She stopped at the office of the Napa Grand’s international award-winning sommelier, Orrin Ross.

  “Hello Miss DeLuca,” Orrin stretched to his full six-foot-four height, giving the impression of an unfolding accordion. He smiled down at her. “The case of Red Steel is in there for you. And Miss Chi Chi has left instructions for another donation. She wants you to take some time and browse, select two bottles, carte blanche. She will pay Nate back and donate these as one of the silent auction baskets. No limit, your pick of whatever you think is best.”

  “The basket will be from her and Mr. Baudouin,” Orrin grinned.

  “That is very generous,” said Chiara. “Okay, what should I do?”

  “Well, it’s pretty easy. The vault has different sections starting with Local California, which is the lion’s share. But Nate has a great collection of the various Western Region appellations like where you come from in Portland, and other American wines from Texas and upstate New York. It circles around to the Old World, France, Italy, Germany, etc.. The sections are organized from low-end to high-end, with the high-end in the very back of each section.”

  “Wonderful,” she breathed.

  “And Miss Chi Chi insisted – pick what you want. Something perfect. She said she wanted you to be happy with your choices.”

  “Thanks, that’s amazing,” said Chiara.

  “Tell you what – I’ll give you some quality time,” suggested Orrin. “I need to run over to DeLuca Wines and replenish a couple of the more popular varietals. I think even someone raised in a vineyard would be like a kid in a candy store in this place. I’ll just leave you here to play, I’ll check back with you in a half hour.”

  Chiara grinned back, delighted. “Absolutely.”

  Forgetting Ben’s wild goose chase, Chiara stepped into the enormous antique vault and felt like she had stepped back in time. She imagined a girl wearing a fringed beaded flapper dress and sneaking in here in the 1920’s. And there would be a guy, in a white Gatsby style waistcoat, carrying two wineglasses.

  She breathed in the cool air and ran her hand over a few bottles, pulling out and checking a few. She pad
ded from rack to rack, admiring the comprehensive library collection of vintages that Nate had spent years acquiring and curating. She felt the flush lift from her face and neck, appreciated the coolness of the refrigerated air on her face and neck.

  “Impressive,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” growled a voice behind her.

  She wasn’t sure how a huffing and chuffing Ben managed to sneak up on her. He hefted the wagon upended on its side with his good arm, gingerly avoiding the racks.

  “Aeyyeeee! Get that out of here!” yelled Chiara. “Do you have any idea what Nate’s collection is worth?”

  “You told me the wrong way,” he huffed, shifting his arm so the wagon would be more comfortable.

  “Sorry!” she said brightly.

  “Yeah. I figure you needed time.” He flexed his arm again. Chiara noticed the sheer fireman size of it. His arm was nearly double the size of Frank’s. She noticed that she didn’t feel guilty for thinking that.

  “No, really. Just – get that wagon out of here, please, before you get us in trouble.”

  Ben shifted, pivoted, neatly avoiding the racks for such a big guy. He was just at the front of the vault and in the clear when his fireman’s boot hooked onto the door sill.

  “Ow!” he yelled as he tripped forward, leading with his good arm as he tried to protect the arm with the cast.

  Chiara bit her teeth together and sucked in air, exhaling slowly when it was clear he hadn’t taken out any racks on his way down, but worrying that he was injured.

  “You okay?” she asked sotto voce.

  “Owwww!”

  Ben rolled, still attempting to protect the cast. He accidentally shoved the wagon into the massive circular bank vault-style metal door. He pushed himself to his feet, dusting his left arm down his shirt and pants, holding his right arm carefully in its cast.

  “Ben, wait!” Chiara squeaked out a yell and rushed towards him.

  Ben turned and moved swiftly back toward her. Fireman’s instinct, his job was running into trouble headlong. He really walked into the flame this time, he thought. His entire body was thrumming with adrenaline.

  The eight inch thick metal door slammed shut behind him.

  “It’s locked?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah, sweetie,” said Chiara. “Yes, the big old bank-style door is actually what it appears to be. A vault door! Yes, it has a lock!”

  “And we’re stuck in here for some time?”

  “Well, at least a half an hour, I’d say. But someone will see this and open it back up before the lunch rush. I hope.”

  “You hope. Any chance that won’t happen? We have air?” He dragged his smartphone out, and noted no service.

  “Yeah, we’re all right. There’s piped in air, to maintain a consistent temperature and humidity.”

  “Then we’re okay for now then. Chilly,” he observed. He wondered if her nipples were peaked under the absurd reindeer sweater. He was still sweating from racing around the Grand in his fruitless quest to find a freight elevator that was on the entire other side of the building.”

  “Fifty-five degrees. And that will be exact, on the dot, because Nate is that way. The ideal range of temperatures for storing wine is about 45 to 65 degrees, but some purists aim right for that sweet spot.”

  He immediately got hard, thinking of her sweet spot, then kicked himself inwardly. She was a girl with a whole lot of heartache, and he didn’t know if he should make a move or not.

  He caved, settled.

  They yelled and pounded.

  Complete silence above. It was as if no one was in the Napa Grand.

  “So, we figure we won’t be in here that long?” he asked.

  “Nah, it’s a busy business. Someone will make their way down soon. I guess it’s that thick,” she mused.

  Slowly, gently, the lights inside the vault started to dim.

  “Oh, crap,” said Chiara. “Nate must have it on a timer. Makes sense and all. Saves on money if an employee were to leave the light on, and saves the wine. Light is bad for it.”

  “Well.”

  “Well.”

  “While we’re waiting for rescue…” he winced, knowing this line of conversation was going to ruin his chances of being kissed in the dark by the adorable girl, but couldn’t help wanting to know. He needed to understand her. “Why don’t we talk about why you won’t tell your Aunt Chi Chi or at least one of your cousins what is going on.”

  “I can’t,” she brushed him off.

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not. I can’t, I just can’t, Ben,” she sounded so truly plaintive, so distressed, that his heart hurt for her.

  “Why not? They’re successful, maybe they could think of something. At the very least, maybe they could sic an attorney on him.”

  “I can’t, Ben. And my Mom and Dad agree. It’s pride,” she bit out.

  “You’re going to let pride cost your family their home? That they’ve lived in for generations?”

  “Ben, you don’t understand,” she started sobbing, and he felt awful for it. But the questions needed to be asked.

  If you care about someone, you ask the hard questions. He started, realizing that he was caring, more and more, about helping this girl. And being around her. Just plain being around her.

  “I can understand if you help me,” he said, closing the few feet in between them in the dark, careful not to knock into anything or trip again in the pitch-black wine cellar. He looped his left arm around her, tugging her over until she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “We have lived on this land for generations. And Mom, Dad, my little sister and I, we all got bilked. Really, bilked. Frank is a shark, and did what he needed to do in order to get what he wants.”

  Chiara owned that she was finally letting herself get angry at Frank. Before that, for the past few weeks since he called off the wedding, Chiara had just been blaming herself.

  For being stupid and naïve.

  For making the mistake of confusing his sophistication with actual good manners.

  For failing to see that his early interest and subsequent total lack of interest was not just pre-wedding jitters.

  Tears streamed down her face. Ben stroked her back up and down, his hand working like a metronome, building comfort. Every few minutes, he broke that rhythm and snuck his hand up so he could brush a new batch of tears off her cheeks with his thumb.

  He was perfectly accepting. Ben just listened, and held her, and let Chiara cry.

  After some time she started hiccupping, which lightened the mood.

  She lifted her head off his shoulder, but leaned her cheek into his cupped hand.

  “It’s not stupid pride,” she explained. “Like, pride cometh before a fall, or whatever. It’s family pride. We’re DeLuca’s, and this was what we built. And we’re going to deal with it on our own. The cousins are so wonderful and successful, and I’m sure they would bail us out if we asked them to. But we don’t want to. We’re farmers, Ben. We stand on our own two feet. Sometimes…you just have to deal with things as best you can, on your own.”

  He got that, though he disagreed with her viewpoint so strongly it pained him. It hurt him, deep in the pit of his stomach, that this bastard Frank could have treated this sweet woman and her family so poorly. He damn well wouldn’t rate the idiot very good chances if Frank ever walked into The Spigot, St. Helena’s local watering hole, on one of the off-duty nights where members of his crew went in to nurse a beer and cheer for the Giants. But Ben wanted to help Chiara more than find Frank and kick his ass.

  Ben could be patient. He had confidence that Professor Wine Snob would get his ass kicked soon, and that he’d be the one doing it.

  That could wait. Chiara was so much more important. The fact that he was feeling this way after only one week boggled Ben a little. His relationships had been pretty trivial before this, from some cheerleader who left him after only a month to date one of his friends back in high school through the st
ring of girls he dated as he drifted through a variety of odd jobs for a few years into his early twenties.

  There was the tattooed shop girl from the Haight the summer he worked at Pier 39 in San Francisco, hoping for a City experience. He got one. He found quickly that even with four roommates, he couldn’t afford to stay there. There was a college girl the year he worked as a barista in Berkeley. Same problem, he couldn’t pull a living.

  Ben finally ended up back in St. Helena, working for his family’s olive grove. A chance fire on the property that he was able to put out due to quick thinking and quicker movement jazzed him. He went out and volunteered. Then he headed to community college, started taking fire technology classes in earnest, got his E.M.T. certification, made it into the fire academy in his county.

  He was even more jazzed when St. Helena’s Fire Station #1 was willing to hire him. But it was funny, even though women young and old were attracted to him, no one had stopped to look at what was inside. The man behind the uniform.

  Don’t fuck this up, he thought.

  Ben was pretty sure Chiara could see through him.

  He looped his left arm back around her, pulling her back into a hug.

  “Keeping you close,” he murmured in her ear, moving to kiss the top of her head, then her cheekbone, then moving to her soft lips. Chiara moaned a soft little moan from the back of her throat as she kissed him back, slowly at first, then with gentle nips back at his lips.

  It incited him then that he couldn’t see her. He lifted the hem of her sweater, and played with the waistline of her jeans, moving his hand slowly under her shirt.

  He needed to move slowly. He realized that he desired her acutely, and that he wanted to make her happy.

  Ben caught hold of one of her pants loops and bunched his fingers, tugging playfully. She broke off the kiss and laughed, a sound he found beautiful.

  “You tickle,” she nuzzled close to his ear. “Everything you do tickles me. What are we doing here?” she asked breathlessly.

  “We’re…making out.” He snuck his hand up under the sweater again, this time sweeping from her lower back around front to her abdomen, whisking lightly up her side.