A Taste of Merlot (2 page)

“I
'm not going back,” said Meri from the marble countertop where she was frothing skim milk for her vanilla cappuccino on a sunny mid-August morning. She'd made the decision to quit two months ago, right after winning the Purchase Prize and overhearing that unforgettable conversation in the lav. The only thing stopping her from making it official back in June was that she needed access to the Gates facilities until she figured things out.

Meri knew her siblings. Knew that behind her where they sat at the breakfast table, they were eyeing each other in a sisterly conspiracy over their bowls of yogurt. But the roar of the espresso maker made it impossible for them to mount their objections just yet.

Meri added the perfectly microfoamed milk to her cup and braced herself to join them. The always-serene Savvy spooned some of the melon that had been sliced earlier that morning by Jeanne, Papa's devoted cook, into her bowl, silver ringing off crystal. She took a sip of tea, replacing the porcelain cup gently in its saucer.

“What do you mean? Of course you're going back.”

Sauvignon was the oldest. An attorney. Always sticking to convention, following the rules.

“No, I'm not. It's my decision.”

“But why on earth not?” chimed in Char. “You only have a year left. Your senior year!”

“You're doing so well,” Savvy added. “You won the Purchase Prize. Your work was singled out. It's exceptional.
You're
exceptional.”

Meri had thought this through and she had it down. She knew the best argument to sway her sisters. “But you two are home now, and for the first time since we were little, we're all together again. It's what I've been waiting for for years. Don't ask me to leave.”

“But we've graduated, and you haven't,” Savvy said logically.

Meri leaned in for emphasis. “I'm not going.” Then she sat back, took a sip of her coffee, and folded her arms.

“Meri, what is it? Why in the world don't you want to finish your BFA?”

“I've learned all there is to learn at Gates.”

Two pairs of brows knit together in a joint show of skepticism.

“Is that all you're having? Here, how about some fruit.” Chardonnay began spooning chunks of cantaloupe into a clean dish. Typical middle child . . . always trying to maintain harmony. “Did something happen at Gates?”

The voices of her classmates rang through Meri's ears.
“She made me want to gag. But you know how it is: ‘Them that has, gets. ' ”
Ever since that day, those words had been plastered in one-hundred-point font on the walls of her brain.

“Nothing happened,” she lied. Telling her overprotective sisters would only cause them pain. “I'm just. Not. Going.”

“What about your art?” asked Savvy.

“I didn't say I'm going to give up art.” Her optimism bobbed to the surface. “I can make art without a degree. I know what I'm doing. The Purchase Prize proves it. I've learned all the basics. Mostly what they're doing this year is marketing and stuff.”

“But marketing's important!” said Savvy. “You can be the most talented designer in the world, but you have to know how to sell yourself.”

“I've got an idea for a website. A little online boutique.”

Her sisters smiled with cultured civility. But Meri wasn't fooled. Her defenses were primed for their next volley.

“Without a studio, how are you going to make the jewelry that goes on your website?” asked Savvy.

Meri took another sip of her skim cap. She hadn't touched her melon. “I want to open my own atelier.”

“Pardon?”
asked Savvy, her
r
coming from the back of her throat. Her accent—like that of all the girls'—was dead-on.

“A workshop,” Char translated unnecessarily, in her enthusiasm for making sure everyone was always on the same page.

“All I need is a little place I can work out of.” Meri got up and padded in bare feet across the Spanish tiles to a cabinet. “Something with electricity, a sink, and good ventilation.”

“Where're you going to find that?” asked Savvy, taking another sip of tea.

“I don't know yet,” she said, returning with a scant handful of almonds. “I haven't really started looking.” The truth was, she didn't have a clue where to begin. But there had to be something out there. The St. Pierres lived less than an hour north of San Francisco. There must be dozens of possibilities. She just didn't know where any of them were.

“What will Papa say?” Char fretted.

“He won't say anything! He won't even care!” Meri's bravado abandoned her, while her anxiety, never far from the surface all summer, returned full force. What Papa would say was exactly what had been nagging her since June. And now August had come, and she couldn't hide from it any longer.

Char got up from the table to slide an arm around her. “It's all right.”

“You know
Papa,
” Meri cried. “He doesn't pay any attention 'til our hair's on fire, and then he practically drowns us trying to put it out.”

Char gave her a squeeze while the kitchen fell silent. Even her sisters couldn't deny it. The whole of their tangled lives, the three had been alternately pushed and pulled, ignored and controlled. The shared experience had lashed them together tighter than a French braid.

Then Char had an idea. She raised an index finger, as if to gauge how the wind blew. “Bill Diamond.”

Meri wiped away a solitary tear, forest-green mascara staining her white linen napkin. Celine, the housekeeper, was going to kill her.

“Who?”

 

Bill Diamond held the door of his compact car for Meri, distorting the image of the real estate logo plastered from headlights to tailpipe.

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate you spending a couple of hours with me,” she said as they headed out toward Highway 29 South. “Char told me this kind of deal is small potatoes to you.”

“Small potatoes? How 'bout tater tots?”

She blushed, and he laughed good-naturedly. “There are worse ways to spend a fine Saturday morning than a road trip down to Vallejo.” He pushed a button and the convertible top retracted to reveal a sapphire sky. “Let me know if that's too much air. Did your sister tell you how this works?” he asked, picking up speed.

Just this year, Bill had helped Char with her office building. Char had explained it all to Meri. Once they found a space, the building owner would pay Bill a commission for bringing him a tenant. It wouldn't be much. But simply being known around the valley as the St. Pierre sisters' go-to real estate guy made it worth Bill's while. Relationship-building was everything in his business. Small deals often led to bigger ones.

“So you think I can find something that's not too expensive?”

“A workshop outside the city in a converted warehouse? If it's out there, we'll find it. Excuse me for asking, but is price really an issue? I mean, to be frank . . .”

Meri held up a halting hand. “I don't want Papa's help with this.”

“Chill.” He smiled gamely. “I'm only asking the same questions I'd ask any client. It's called ‘qualifying the buyer.' Or in your case, the lessee. After all, Char said you quit school.”

Meri started. Apparently Char had forgotten to mention Bill Diamond's bluntness. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Was she going to be made to feel like a loser at every turn?

“Sorry. I overstepped. But let's talk turkey. How're you going to pay for this studio, all by yourself? I assume you have resources. . . .”

Meri lifted her chin. “I will.” When her trust fund kicked in. But that wouldn't be for a long time.

“So . . .” Bill made a rolling motion with his right hand.

The skeins of long hair whipping across her face impeded her view of the vine-combed hills rising up on either side of the two-lane. To buy time, she developed a sudden preoccupation with digging through her oversized bag for an elastic band. “I'll figure something out,” she said with a breeziness she didn't feel. “Let's just find the place, first.”

“Mind if I make a suggestion?”

The eager glance she shot his way was a tacit yes. Truth was, she needed all the advice she could get. She was an art major, not an MBA.

“Is your father on board with this?”

“You mean, with my renting a studio?”

“Yeah. How's he feel about it?”

“Honestly? He's usually too caught up with his own life to pay much attention to mine.”

Bill mulled that over.

“Your papa got off the hook by not having to cough up that final year's tuition, am I right?”

She nodded uncomfortably.

“Why not ask him to loan you a year's tuition? A year at a private art school has to cost way more than the rent and electricity for a room in an old warehouse.”

She felt the first legitimate spark of hope in months.

“You think that would work?”

“Tell your papa you want to cut a deal. When you start making some income, you'll pay him back.”

“With interest,” Meri added, for good measure.
Thank you, Char.
Bill Diamond was a genius
.

Now that everything seemed doable, her focus returned to finding the ideal place.

“Why Vallejo?” she asked, as they pulled off the highway onto an unremarkable boulevard.

“There're some artsy-fartsy shops sprouting up down here.” They'd come to a street dotted with antiques shops, secondhand stores, and the like. “This was a Navy town, 'til they closed the old shipyard back in the nineties. When the whole economy took a nosedive, the town went bankrupt. Most of these downtown stores closed. But it's cycling back. There's a lot of empty real estate up for grabs, and as you can see, creative types are snapping it up. Plus, it's situated about halfway between the valley and the city. The commute's short, and the rents'll be a lot cheaper than in San Francisco. I've set up appointments at a handful of locations.”

The vehicle slowed to a crawl as he peered toward an ancient brick monstrosity on the right. “In fact, here's the first one now.”

S
avvy was perched with one leg tucked under her on Meri's bed when Papa surprised them with a visit. Meri couldn't remember the last time he'd set foot in her bedroom.

As his eyes roved over the spacious yet tidy boudoir, his brows shot up. Even the mildest emotions registered strongly on his Gallic face.

“Merlot? Where are the bags?” He spread his hands questioningly. “Where are the clothes, the shoes, the
cosmetiques
?”

All summer Meri had known this moment was coming, but she still wasn't ready for it. From the corner of her eye she noted Savvy carefully monitoring her reaction.

“
Cheri?
August has arrived. When will you return to school?”

“I don't want to go back.”

Papa's eyes registered confusion. He lowered himself onto the foot of the bed.
“
But why not? You don't like making the art anymore?”

“No Papa, I love making art. And it's jewelry. That's what I've been concentrating on for the past two years. Mixed-metal jewelry with semiprecious stones.”

“Ah, oui.
The bracelets,” he said, reaching out to make hers rattle.

“She's building herself a nice little Internet site, Papa. How many have you sold?” Savvy prompted.

“A couple of buyers have found me already, even though the site's still under construction. It's taking longer than I thought since I'm kind of a perfectionist. I donated a necklace to Char's charity event last month, and I just finished duplicating the bracelet that won the Purchase Prize to see if I could sell another. Gates kept the original for their collection.”

“Ah, so that is the reason for your frequent trips to the city this summer.”

“I'm allowed to use the workshop during semester breaks as long as I'm still enrolled.”

“But if you do not return . . .”

“I'll need somewhere else to work.”

“An
atelier
? There is an unused area in the loft above the lab.”

Meri knew he'd try to fix this for her. “I don't want to work above the lab.”

Papa shrugged. “But I don't understand. You want your little jewelry
entreprise
, but you will not permit me to provide the place in which to do it.”

Meri's face warmed as the voices came back to haunt her yet again.

She forced calm into her tone as she mouthed the lines that she'd rehearsed. “I found a building where artists rent workspace. It's called an arts co-op.”

Papa's brows shot up again. “Ahhhh, a ‘cooperative.' I know this word. You will be sharing with other artists.”

“Mostly painters, maybe a few sculptors.”

“And where is this arts co-op?”

“In Vallejo.”

“Vallejo!” He scowled and pursed his lips. “But why drive to Vallejo, when you could work here, at home, in your own bespoke atelier that I will have built for you?”

“Papa, it's a twenty-minute drive!” Minus tourist traffic. And there was usually tourist traffic.

“So you will still live
chez nous
.”

“Of course. That's one of the reasons I don't want to go back to school. So I can be here with my family.”

That seemed to appease him.
“Bien.
How much is the rent?”

“Actually, Papa, I wanted to talk to you about that, too.”

He looked at her askance. “There is a problem with the credit card?”

“There's no problem. I haven't put any charges on it in months.”

“Then you have crossed the line of credit. I will have Thomas pay it down tomorrow.”

Savvy huffed from the sidelines. Meri flashed her a warning look that said,
Let me handle this, Miss Big-shot Attorney.

She closed her eyes to compose herself. “No, it's not that. I hardly ever even use the card. I was wondering . . . if we can make a deal.”

Bemused, Papa cocked his head and turned to Savvy. “What have we here? An artist who is wanting to talk the finance?”

Savvy gave him a stern, lawyer-esque look. Meri knew it took all the restraint her sister had not to jump up and shout, “Objection!”

He turned back to Meri. “Have you been taking the business classes, without telling your papa?”

She ignored that. “Listen, Papa. The building owner doesn't take credit cards. I have to pay with a monthly check.”

In a flash, his French mood-o-meter did a one-eighty. “You are explaining to your papa how this works?” he huffed, fingertips sharply tapping his chest, face reddening. “Perhaps you forget that your papa has the successful business, eh? I will have Thomas set it up as an automatic withdrawal,” he declared with an air of finality.

She rolled her eyes. “Papa
, listen!
Now that I won't be going to school, you won't have to pay tuition. Could I put that money toward my studio rental? I promise to pay you back in exactly one year, with interest.”
Or die trying.

In yet another breathtaking about-face, he shrugged and pursed his lips, considering. “Why not? My paying the rent for you is the same thing as paying the tuition, is it not?”

It was, but it wasn't. Not to Meri.

“I will hear no more talk of paying me back. I have plenty of money, no?” With a patronizing smile, he leaned over to kiss her right cheek, then her left, as custom dictated. Then, without further comment, he got up and exited the room. Off to make more wine. More money.

What Meri would've given for one warm hug of encouragement, in place of two dry, pecks.

At least borrowing money already earmarked for her education so she could jump-start her business made her feel a little less like a wine princess and a little more like her former classmates at Gates. If they could survive and thrive on limited resources, she could make this work out the way she planned it.

She'd show Papa. Someday, when Gilty Artisanal Jewelry was successful and she'd paid him back every cent, he would finally take her seriously. She'd prove to everyone—Papa, her classmates, and the whole Napa Valley—that she could make it on her own, without family money. Without the infamous St. Pierre name.