A Taste of Sauvignon (11 page)

She had a point. No one in his right mind would pay two million dollars for their boggy bottomland. And since he was certain that price
was
Padre's final word on the subject, all he had to lose was his pride. Better to be humiliated and have it off his chest.

“Not only that, you'll feel better inside.” She patted his back, right on the sore spot.

S
avvy smiled at Esteban as they strolled down the city sidewalk toward Smells Like Napa, the skirt of her springy green dress swirling around her legs as she walked.

Never had she felt so attractive. So alluring.
So sexy.
The unfamiliar crispness of new lace hugging the crease where her legs met her body only intensified the feeling. As it turned out, all that time and money spent on new underwear had been unnecessary. Everything had happened so fast that Sunday at the coast . . . all the drama and emotion of the near-tragedy channeled into a magical act of passion. A week and a half later, she still hadn't floated back to earth. By the set of his chin and the pride with which he carried himself, neither had Esteban. Arm linked through his, she tugged her god of agriculture closer to her side.

Those condoms would still come in handy, though—if they could ever find a little privacy. It was hard to be alone when you both lived with your parents, unless you wanted to go the super-obvious route and rent a hotel room or something. They'd figure something out. As soon as her caseload calmed down, she was planning on going shopping again, building a whole new underwear wardrobe, in all the colors of the rainbow. No more Ms. Beige.

When they got to the shop, Esteban held the door, and she gazed up at him adoringly. Inside, she pulled up short, closed her eyes, and inhaled, transported to a place of peace and romance by the all-encompassing aroma. She was glad she'd opted not to wear fragrance today so she could focus solely on the scents of grapes and olives and herbs.

She opened her eyes to shelves brimming with baskets, bottles, and boxes competing for her attention. Which direction to head first? Candles? Bath products? Soaps?

Barely visible behind the counter stacked high with dried bundles of lavender, a sales associate was in the midst of a dialog with a customer.

“. . . and currently the best we have is one made by Welsh monks, but as you know, we like to keep it local whenever possible.”

“When Lucas and I bought the ranch ten years ago, there was a built-in distillery there, but we've never even gone near it. Lucas had just retired from the tech industry and I was a clinical psychologist and professor. We had this idea that we wanted a little piece of land, maybe grow a few vegetables and herbs for our own use. Who knew lavender grew like wildfire in our rocky soil?” said the woman with the silver braid, whose back was toward Savvy.

“I'm going to go check out those lotions over there,” Savvy whispered to Esteban, pointing. Casually, she meandered nearer the women and picked up a random bottle, pretending to scrutinize the writing on the back.

“Farming is harder than most folks realize,” the clerk sympathized.

“Even if I did have the time and energy, there's a lot of expertise that goes into composing a commercially successful perfume. Aside from distilling the oil, the real trick is combining the base note with middle and top notes. It takes years of study. To be honest, I'm content to have your place to bring a few bundles of my lavender to. If nothing else, coming into town a few times a year fools me into believing I still have some semblance of a social life.”

From their body language, they were saying their farewells, but Savvy didn't hear another word over the blood rushing in her ears. Out of the blue, she saw herself pouring potions back and forth between test tubes like some mad scientist. Blending, sniffing, creating. It wasn't like her, indulging in that kind of frivolity. She already had a job—one she wasn't doing too well at. Her cheeks warmed when she thought of her original plan to use sex as a tool to get to Esteban. That plan was all in the past now.

Excelling as a lawyer was a goal she couldn't afford to give up, though. It wasn't like she could rest on her laurels, put in her time. Witmer, Robinson and Scott had an “up or out” policy. Most law firms did. If you weren't productive enough to make partner within a certain number of years, you were politely asked to leave.

If she was fired, who would take care of Papa and her sisters? Papa had already had his share of run-ins with the law, and knowing him, there'd be more to come. Who would be there to bail him out? As for her more law-abiding sisters, who better than Savvy to write their prenups, keep an eye on their complicated personal estates? She still had nightmares about the times when they'd needed her and her hands were tied
. Never again.

“May I help you?”

The clerk's voice startled Savvy out of her thoughts. “I hope so. The woman you were talking to. Do you mind if I ask her name?”

“You mean Anne Rathmell? She and her husband own a ranch on the county line. They grow the most amazing lavender. She came to drop off these bundles.”

She handed Savvy an armful of the purple flowers bound up in raffia.

The stalks rustled in her hands. “They're gorgeous. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying about perfume-making.”

“Oh, that.” She lifted her chin. “I'm always on the lookout for an excellent-quality personal fragrance based on lavender.”

“Is that so hard to find?”

“There are a few out there, but most of them are from Europe. Lavender's originally a Mediterranean plant, you know? Are you in the market for a fragrance?” She reached into a glass case and pulled out a box tied with a satin bow. “I get this when I travel to Wales. They won't ship it to the U.S. Here”—she picked up a sampler—“let me see your wrist.”

“Just a little spritz. I'm highly sensitive to smells.” Dutifully, she held out her forearm. As the woman was poised to spray, Savvy gasped. “That looks like my sister's bracelet!”

The woman tilted her head in surprise. “Your sister is Merlot St. Pierre, the jewelry designer?”

Savvy nodded enthusiastically. “That piece you're wearing is from her Entwined Collection.”

“Yes, I know,” said the woman, fingering the fine gold wire looping her wrist. “My interest in all things local extends to what I wear. As soon as I saw this piece, though, I knew I had to have it. I would have bought it even if it hadn't been made by a famous Napan.”

“You know, her line was just bought by Harrington's.” Savvy couldn't help giving Meri a little plug.

“I do.” Her smile held a twinge of regret. “I'd carry your sister's jewelry myself if Harrington's didn't have an exclusive.” She extended her hand. “My name's Elizabeth Hull. I'm the owner here.”

“I'm Savvy.” She deflated a little. If Elizabeth knew of Domaine St. Pierre, that meant she'd also heard about the family scandals.

“Sauvignon. I recognize you now! How are you and your sisters adjusting, now that you're all back home in Napa?”

“Great! Fine.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Is Chardonnay still seeing that actor? Everyone's talking about it.”

Despite its world renown, at its heart Napa was just another small town that loved its gossip.

“Um . . . can I try that fragrance?”

“Oh! Of course.” Elizabeth sprayed, and Savvy cautiously inhaled. Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Tell me what words come to mind.”

“Flowery. Honey. Herbal.' ”

“
Angustifolia
, English lavender, sometimes called true lavender. Or French lavender, when it comes from France. Real French lavender,
dentate
, is an annual that comes from Spain. It's similar to English lavender in size, except the leaves are toothed.”

Savvy put a hand to her forehead, and the clerk laughed.

“Confused? Don't feel bad, everyone is. Then there's Dutch lavender,
intermedia,
which has higher levels of camphor and other terpenes.”

“Well, whatever it's called, this one's lovely. My—er, friend over there is trying to teach me about the different plant species and varieties. What I'm really interested in, though, is a locally sourced perfume.”

The woman eyed Esteban up and down, then raised an eyebrow. “Between you and me, you have excellent taste in ‘friends,' ” she said. “Anyway, if you find a Cali product as good as this one, be sure to let me know. It'd be a runaway bestseller.”

“Northern California's climate is similar to the Mediterranean's. Isn't a lot of lavender grown around here?”

“To some extent. It's easier and most profitable though to sell it in an unprocessed form, either the live plants or the dried product. Not only that, there are so many different microclimates and soil compositions here. You know how that affects grapes. It's the same with lavender.”

Savvy gave her a tight smile. She knew all too well what Elizabeth meant, but she avoided getting into wine conversations whenever possible. Too often, they led back to her family.

“So yes, it's true,” she continued. “Lots of folks grow a few plants. Some DIY types even experiment with blending small batches of essential oils for themselves, but here at our store we have high standards for consistency, packaging, and the like. We have a reputation for quality. You understand.”

Lavender was way more complicated than she'd thought. Every answer spawned another question.

Esteban came over, and Savvy introduced him.

“I'll take a couple of Anne's bundles, and this Welsh perfume,” said Savvy. “And another perfume for comparison, using the—what did you call it? Intermediate?

“Intermedia
. The Dutch one. Also called lavandin.” She laughed. “Sometimes even I get overwhelmed.”

“Oh—and Anne's card, if you have an extra?”

 

Early the next morning, Savvy called to see if she and Esteban could get in to visit the lavender ranch.

“Yes, this is Anne Rathmell,” said the voice on the phone.

“Hi, Anne. We've never met, but I got your name from Elizabeth Hull at Smells Like Napa.”

“I'm sorry, we're not interested in wholesaling anywhere else. We're not real farmers. Just people looking for peace and quiet who got lucky”—she laughed drily—“depending on your point of view—with the perfect piece of land for growing lavender.”

“I'm not a retailer. The reason I'm calling is because I'm interested in learning more about your still.”

There was a pause. “Unfortunately, I can't really help you there, either. It came with the property. It's been sitting there for ten years, collecting dust. To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure if it works.”

“That's okay. I've been trying to educate myself online about the distillation process, but that's not the same as actually being able to see a real still up close—to touch one. I thought if I could take a look at yours, it might help.”

“Well . . .” Anne hesitated.

“I didn't catch your name, earlier.”

“Savvy.”

“Savvy?” Anne's chuckle held a semblance of doubt. “As in smart and savvy?”

Oh, she was savvy, all right. So savvy that the one and only time she'd had sex, she hadn't taken precautions.

“Are you there?” asked Anne.

“As in Savvy St. Pierre.” Savvy held her breath. You never knew which way that would go.

Dead air filled the phone. “The wine family? Oh my, Lucas and I were just reading about—never mind. Um . . . I suppose it might be all right if you stopped out sometime.”

Excitement swelled like a balloon in Savvy's chest.

“It can't be until the end of the month, though.”

The balloon deflated a little.

“I'm collaborating on a project so I'm afraid my timeline isn't very flexible. Still interested?”

What choice did she have? “Sure. I don't want to be an inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience, but we've got some travel planned. Could you come out, say, the thirtieth?

Today was only the ninth, but what could she say? Anne Rathmell was doing her a favor. “That would be fine.”

“What time of day were you thinking?”

“Say, around six?” If she left right after work, she could be there in twenty-five minutes.

“It'll be getting dark by then. Are you sure you don't want to come when it's light out? You'll be able to see the property better.”

And miss work?
She only paused a moment. “Four, then?” It wouldn't matter if she left early, just once.

“Four sounds great. I'll be waiting for you, April thirtieth.”

“Oh—Ms. Rathmell? May I bring a friend along?”

“I don't see why not. I'll leave the gate open.”

A
t her desk, Savvy sipped her smoothie and tried not to grimace at the taste. After a couple of weeks of tacos and burgers with the partners, the stressful trial she'd assisted on had finally been decided in favor of her firm's client. She was overdue for a healthy lunch.

As she sipped, she set aside her briefs. Scrolling through page after page of information about perfume blending, she pressed her fingers to her temple. Why did all her interests have to be so complicated? And why was she always in such a hurry to squeeze in everything there was to know, in as short amount of time as possible?

She'd downloaded some books to her iPad. Titles like
The A-Z Guide to Perfumes
and
Discover the Alchemy of Scent
.

But digesting all those books would take forever. What she was looking for was a crash course in how to train as a “nose” while still being a lawyer. Her lunch hour had already turned into her lunch ninety minutes.

From the myriad choices Google gave her, she selected one Lawrence van Horne, “prominent master perfumer and director of the New York Perfumery School,” and shot him an email asking him to contact her. She sighed after she pressed send, realizing she'd still have to settle for cramming from books until Van Horne got back to her. Assuming he ever did.

“Savvy?”

She jumped a mile when Robert Witmer poked his head in her door.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.”

He slid into her lone visitor's chair, propping a wingtip on his opposite knee. So far, her boss had taken a hands-off approach. But she knew sooner or later he'd want an update.

“You didn't startle me!” she shrilled.
Click, click, click
went her laptop, as she closed tab after tab of perfume pages.
Jeesh!
When had its keys become so audible?

“How's it going?”

“Fine!” Evidence destroyed, she sat up perkily, crossed her arms atop her yellow legal pad, and gave him her winningest smile.

“Now, you know I'm not a micromanager.”

She scowled. “No, I know you're not, Mr. Witmer. Definitely not.”

“I'm a firm believer in giving my people some head. Er, their rope. Their head, some rope. You know what I mean. Do you feel like you're being micromanaged?”

“No, sir! Not at all. I'm fine with the way you're, um, giving me head.”

He gave a curt nod. “Good. Even so, it has been a while since we touched base on the NTI deal. I wanted to check in, see how things are going.”

She cleared her throat. The trial had been a major distraction for a while, but she knew this moment was coming. “And I'm so glad you did! Things are going great. So great.” She scooted her chair farther forward, inadvertently spying a week's worth of mindless doodles filling every square inch of her pad:
Esteban Morales
written up one side and down the other, surrounded by the most elementary sketches of daisies and roses. Unlike Meri, she couldn't draw worth a darn.

She adjusted her arms accordingly.

“So did Mr. Morales ever get back to you on your initial offer?”

“Ah, yes. Yes he did, as a matter of fact.”

Robert turned over a palm. “And?”

“Well, it seems that offer wasn't quite in line with their way of thinking.”

“Would you mind elaborating?”

Her smile faded. “One-point-five wasn't enough.”

He gave her a blank look, then made a rolling motion with his hand. “So, what happened? Did they counter?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly did they say, Savvy?”

She couldn't tell him they were deadlocked and she hadn't yet figured a way to fix it. And no way could she admit that she was starting to care more about the Moraleses' son than the Moraleses' land.

“Well, they said, you know, that one-point-five wasn't going to be enough, but they didn't say how much
would
be enough, so I went ahead and offered them one-point-six.”

Robert dropped his chin and glared up at her. “With Don Smith's approval, of course.”

She mock-grimaced. “Was I supposed to get NTI's approval before I did that?”

Robert sighed and raised his brow. “Er, yeah. That would've been the thing to do.”

“My mistake.” She held her breath, walking a tightrope waiting for Robert's reaction. Sometimes the smart thing to do was act dumb, even though he had to know she couldn't be that ignorant.

He rose and paced the length of her desk. “Now don't panic,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, talking more to himself than to her. “NTI didn't really expect Morales to take their first offer, anyway. Matter of fact, their first counter probably would've been one-point-seven-five. What'd they say?”

“Hm?” She bought time to invent a response.

“What. Did. The Moraleses. Say.”

“Umm . . . they haven't got back to me yet. They're still thinking about it.” She nodded like a bobblehead doll, her lips a tight smile. “Still considering.”

Abruptly, Robert paused mid-pace and cocked his head, his eye having been caught by the curlicues on her pad. His neck craned slightly.

Savvy leaned farther forward, unstacking her forearms to cover more area, all the while keeping her eyes focused on Robert's face, willing him to look up.

Robert's chin jutted out and his eyeballs swiveled downward, angling to see exactly what was on that pad.

Savvy lowered herself until her thorax practically lay on the table.
Oh, for big boobs.

Finally, his eyes returned to hers. “Savvy, may I give you a word of wisdom? Not micromanaging or anything. Just fatherly advice, the same thing I'd give my own daughter.”

She gave him a virtuous look. “Of course.”

“Don't get caught kissing men in parking lots. Even if you are trying to get them to make a deal.”

He turned on his heel and walked out.

When she was sure he was gone, Savvy shut her eyes, whooshed out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, and let her forehead fall to the desk.