Full of Grace (13 page)

I smiled at him and he ran his hands through his hair, smiling back. “I’m gonna go wash my face.”

We ate and pretended there was nothing to worry about. That weekend we went out for dinner a couple of times and saw a movie and pretended there was nothing to be concerned about. Monday morning I left for Napa as though there wasn’t an entire set of steak knives stabbing me in the heart. I knew, and don’t ask me how, but I knew that this was the last time I would leave him with our lives still intact.

W
e arrived in San Francisco, touching down so gently it was as though the pilots knew they had a bunch of sissies on board. During the flight, I had chatted up the clients and their spouses. They were a great group, wise to the ways of the world, all of them well turned out. In fact, three of the women had the exact same Burberry cotton quilted jacket lined in the same plaid. I made a mental note to burn mine.

We took up most of the Business First cabin. Once the flight attendants saw that we were together, they asked questions and, deciding we weren’t going to be a heavy burden, gave us more generous servings of wine, help with the crossword puzzles and extra cookies.

The driver from Liberty Limousines—a smiling fellow named Geraldo Sanchez—was there in the baggage claim holding up a sign with Bomze’s name on it. Fortunately, everyone in this highly efficient crowd had carry-on luggage. No one wanted to keep the grapes waiting.

In the time it took to say Cabernet Sauvignon, we were headed north toward Napa Valley. Geraldo was polite, congenial and anxious to share with us something of what he knew about the area.

“I’ll tell you a little something about the wine country if you would like to hear…”

“Of course!” I said. If Geraldo wanted to be the tour guide for the
moment, that was fine with me. After all, he lived in this neck of the woods. I did not. “Would you all like to hear some history?” I asked the group.

“Sure! Please!”

Geraldo cleared his throat, winding up for the pitch. “All right, then. Well, the history of Sonoma and Napa goes way back to the Wappo Indians, who had been here for who knows how long?
2000 B.C
.? They named it Napa, which is a Wappo word that means ‘land of plenty.’ Plenty of scary animals, that is. The archaeologists have found the bones of grizzly bears and panthers from a long time ago. Elk, too.

“Anyway, sometime during
1823
, a priest, Padre José Altamira, came out here to Sonoma and built a mission. That didn’t last too long because the famous Mexican patriot General Vallejo thought Sonoma would be a good outpost for his government.”

“So that’s why all these places have Spanish names?” someone said.

“Yes. But California wasn’t destined to be part of Mexico. No, not at all. There was an uprising called the Bear Flag Revolt when thirty or so men arrested the general and his men without one bullet! What did they do? They drank wine to mark the surrender!”

“I love it,” one of the group, Alan McGregor, said. “They drank wine!” He was a little tanked from the flight, and as if on cue, his wife burst into laughter so enthusiastic and large that I had to open a window.

McGregor was the largest wine and liquor distributor in the Carolinas. He and his wife, Patsy, were slightly loud, to put it kindly. It was not going to be the Alan and Patsy Show. No, no. To send out a warning shot, I gave them a smile that had a little chill around the edges.

Even in the darkened light of the van, Patsy caught my drift and elbowed Alan. They settled down for the moment. Now, on a curious note, you might have thought they would have been the ones to engage my services in the first place, but they weren’t. I would have thought that the guy making the most money would have wanted to arrange this trip for the pleasure of his best clients, right? After all, he made his living selling wine and spirits to the restaurants that were owned and supported by the other guests on our trip. Although I had only known them
for a few hours, it was abundantly clear that Alan McGregor didn’t think he needed to do anything to secure his business with anyone. Like Nonna always says, pride comes before the fall.

It was actually
Charleston
magazine’s food editor, Mark Jennings, who had called Bomze Platinum Travel. Mark’s idea was to take some of Charleston’s leading taste buds and sensitive noses out to California and see what new trends there were and then to write a feature article about it. He and his wife, Julie, had a genuine interest in food and wine. It always amazed me that people like Mark and Julie could remain so thin and fit—all that eating and drinking. If I had their job, I would be as big as a cow.

Geraldo continued talking. “So these priests who came out here decided to raise grapes, for sacramental use, of course.” He blessed himself and we smiled at his humor.

“I’ve never met a member of the Roman clergy who didn’t like his cup to runneth over!” McGregor said, and laughed loudly at his own very stupid joke. His dutiful wife cackled, caught my eye again and became subdued. There were little moans from the others.

I could see Geraldo’s eyes twinkle with good feelings and he politely waited for a signal to continue again.

“Come on, Geraldo, give us some more,” I said.

“Okay. Well, they convinced the Native Americans to help—read: they turned them into slaves—and so they worked in the vineyards and winegrowing began to flourish. But the wine business really took off when this Hungarian named Haraszthy came along. He brought all kinds of varietals from Europe which did very well in Sonoma because we have great dirt. He was the founder of the BV—the Buena Vista, which is the oldest winery out here.”

“Hmm, how about that? And I never knew there were Indians out here,” I said. “I mean, I just never thought about it. What happened to them?”

“Smallpox,” Geraldo said. “Just about wiped them out.”

“Whew! I never heard that either!” I said.

“And you know Mount St. Helena used to be loaded with silver—hence the Silverado Trail, and then of course there was the gold rush.
Anyway, some of those folks who were unlucky in gold or silver turned to forestry and built sawmills all over Napa Valley. They would ship the timber down to San Francisco on the Napa River. And there was a railroad between Vallejo and Calistoga. They still use it today, but it’s for tourists who ride it to have lunch or dinner and roll up and down the valley.”

“That’s the Napa Valley Wine Train, isn’t it?” someone said.

“Yep. Did you folks know that Robert Louis Stevenson took his bride on that train?”

We shook our heads.

“Well, he surely did. This place is what inspired
The Silverado Squatters
.”

“Hmm. Humph. Well, how about that?” said George and Leigh Murray, extreme foodies from the Lowcountry and wealthy friends of the rich-as-Croesus Josie and Steven Hughes, who owned several restaurants and legendary cellars.

I leaned against my window to rest for a moment. I was tired and, of course, my personal issues kept crawling to the front of my thoughts. It was an unexpected bonus that Geraldo was so personable. Just as Geri Post had done in Sardinia, it looked like Geraldo would add that extra element of knowledge and wit to our trip to the wine country. I was relieved and delighted at the same time. I loved planning logistics and being in charge. I didn’t crave the limelight, nor did I possess the soul of a lost professor who loved to lecture and inform. The perfect trip for me was one that ended without one snag and with the clients finally realizing I had been there in the first place.

I would guess I fancied myself to be something like a director on a film. I set everything up in advance and then watched the action unfold. That’s not all there was to it, though. Here’s the ugly truth: I most especially loved vicarious living.

I knew all too well who I was and, even more, who I was never going to be. I wasn’t rich or powerful, a genius or some great talent. If I hadn’t been involved in this particular side of the travel business, I probably would never have known anyone as interesting, gifted, funny, chic or wealthy as most of my clients were. Or as peculiar. Or as grandiose. Or as
immature and petulant, selfish and arrogant, pugnacious and demanding…Were the very rich any different from the rest of us? You don’t have the days left in this lifetime and the next ten for me to tell you how many ways we differ from them.

I loved traveling, eating and drinking like they did, but I also seriously clung to the wide gulf between us. Hell would have been to be born with the supercilious personality possessed by half the wives I met or with an overblown sense of self like half the husbands Bomze Platinum Travel squired around the globe.

But they weren’t so bad either. They could be uproariously funny one minute and unlock the secrets of Dubai’s politics in the next breath. I enjoyed them for all the unexpected things they were because their great wealth gave me the chance to learn and see things I otherwise never would have glimpsed. But once again, here was the critical difference. Working for Bomze may have produced the keys to the chalet that once was home to the shah of Iran, but these people had actually partied with the shah.

We were almost at the Meadowood and I willed an adrenaline surge. There was plenty of work to do before I could put my head on a pillow that night.

Geraldo and the bell captain quickly unloaded the luggage in the lobby while I checked us all in. Alan and Patsy McGregor immediately discovered the wine bar by the fireplace and drifted over to it with the others. I separated their luggage by couple, looked at them all once more and assigned their rooms.

“The Jenningses will take a Tree Line Cottage, as will the Adens, the Greenes, and I will, too. The Murrays and the Newtons will share the Hillside Terrace Suite, the McGregors will take the Tree Top Suite, and Josie and Steven Hughes will occupy the Oakview Suite,” I said to the desk manager, who ticked the names off on her list.

“Very good, Ms. Russo, and welcome to Meadowood. If there’s anything I or my staff can do to make your stay more enjoyable, just let us know.”

I took a moment to join the group at the wine bar and told them we
would have thirty minutes to change or freshen up before dinner at the Martini House.

“Your luggage will be in your rooms, some small tokens of appreciation from Bomze and the Baroness, and oh! I almost forgot. The Meadowood has a fantastic spa, you know. They have generously donated a Cabernet Crush massage for everyone, which is a body polish and massage done with grape seeds and grape-seed oils. All you have to do is call for a time.”

The crowd was atitter over this bit of information and they suddenly couldn’t wait to see their rooms.

“I love it!” Patsy McGregor said. “No point in wasting any grapes!”

“Right. Okay, so…There are golf carts outside with attendants ready to take you to your rooms whenever you are ready.”

I handed each couple their keys and an envelope with my room number and cell number on the front. In the envelope was the itinerary with all the information they needed. I tried calling Michael from my room, but there was no service for my cell phone. Big surprise. We were in the middle of the woods. Rather than pay the premium to use the landline, I decided to wait until we were in St. Helena and try again.

By eight, we were seated around the table and prepared for a feast. The chef appeared from the kitchen and tapped Hampton Greene (the chef from Bailey’s in Charleston) on the shoulder.

“Hey, you old dog! Want to go hunting truffles with me next month?” he said.

“Well, look who’s here! Only if I get to bring my own pig!” Hampton said, and literally leaped from his seat to shake his friend’s hand. “Y’all? This is Todd Humphries, one of the finest chefs in America!”

“Yeah, that’s probably true!” Todd and Hampton laughed and knocked each other in the arm. “Are you folks hungry?”

“Are you kidding? This is Grace Russo, our team leader.”

“Hi,” I said, and gave a little wave from the other side of the table.

“I think she has prearranged a menu for us…” Hampton continued.

“Forget it,” Todd said. “I’m cooking for you tonight! Come on, you can help!”

“We used to hunt for truffles in the Hudson Valley years ago when we were just getting started…Honey?” Hampton turned to his wife, Darlene. “I’ll be back…”

Todd stopped and looked back. “That good-looking woman married you? She must be blind! Let’s go.”

“Wait! Did you meet Jonathan Aden from Cypress? Jon? Wanna come?”

“No, you big hot dogs have your reunion! I’ll take care of the ladies!”

“Hands above the table, okay, Casanova? Darlene?”

“Go!” Darlene said. “We’re starving!”

Todd and Hampton disappeared into the kitchen and we were left to shake our heads.

“They’re like giggling schoolgirls,” Darlene said.

Steven Hughes and Alan McGregor were going over the wine list.

“Personally, I’m glad we came to a place that makes martinis,” Alan commented. “I’ll take a good vodka over fermented grapes any day.”

Steven Hughes turned red. Even his wife, Josie, dropped her jaw. I, along with the others, studied the menu and tried not to make eye contact with Alan or Steven.

“Well, Alan? One of the reasons we came to Napa was for the wine, wasn’t it?”

Alan McGregor was a Neanderthal. Steven Hughes was probably his most significant client in the city of Charleston and was considered the area’s leading authority on wine. Pairing food and wine on his tasting menus was his rapture. His ecstasy. This guy Alan was a complete slug of the first order, and so far had contributed nothing to building a convivial ambience. In fact, I could see the Hugheses shift in their seats and could read their minds.
How many more days do we have to be with this jerk? How many meals?

With the two brain cells he had remaining in a corner of his thick skull, it came to McGregor that he had somehow offended Hughes. He reached over and took the wine list from Hughes and said to the som
melier, “Tell you what, pal. Bring us your very best Chardonnay, your very best Pinot Noir and your very best Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s on me, okay?”

The sommelier, who had no doubt suffered the Alan McGregors of the world for longer than he cared to remember, said with a smooth smile, “The
very
best, sir?”

I smiled and immediately ate an entire roll. We were about to be served some outstanding bottles and I knew Alan McGregor had just been snookered in the grand style. It always amazed me that even though people got older, they didn’t necessarily get any smarter.