Everyone hushed.
“I’ve brought four new children to join us.” She turned to Brandon and his travel mates. “This is Marisa, Loni, Eddie, and Brandon. Please introduce yourselves to them when you have a moment.” She looked at the new arrivals. “If you have any questions, you can ask one of the adult supervisors — Miss Collins, Mrs. Trieb, Mr. Munson, Mr. Whitney, Sergeant Lukes, and Specialist Granter.”
Specialist Granter was the one who’d checked Brandon’s bag.
“Where do we sleep?” Marisa asked.
“You will each be assigned a bed in one of the dormitories. I know it’s not like home, but it’s not bad.”
A few of the kids who’d been there laughed.
“All right, you can all go back to what you were doing,” the captain said. “And don’t forget to welcome your new friends.”
10
James Sumner, CEO of Yeti Pepper — a highly successful mobile application developer — had over six hundred bottles of wine in his private collection. Each bottle was carefully chosen not only for its taste, but also for its reputation. The majority was housed in a climate-controlled facility up the road in San Francisco, while he kept nearly one hundred at home in case a special occasion arose.
This night was one such occasion. In fact, it was probably the biggest occasion of all. It was Christmas evening, but that wasn’t why he was standing in his well-designed wine closet.
Though only in his early fifties, this would be his last night alive. He’d hoped that wouldn’t be the case. He had always dreamt of passing away at ninety while drifting off to sleep at a café in Loire Valley in France. But ninety was not to be, nor eighty, nor seventy, nor even sixty.
That morning, not long after breakfast, he had coughed for the first time. As the afternoon had progressed, his symptoms had worsened. He was now drained and congested and sore from coughing, but he had not yet given up the ghost.
What he was trying to decide was which wine would be his last.
In no particular hurry, he pulled bottle after bottle from the exquisitely handcrafted rack, read each label, and put it back if he thought it unworthy. So far, there were only two bottles he hadn’t returned to their place — the 1945 Pétrus Bordeaux, and the 1982 Château Haut-Brion, a first-growth Bordeaux.
He slid another from its slot. A 2005 Romanée-Conti Burgundy. He had bought three bottles at auction for over twenty-three thousand dollars each. He rubbed his thumb lightly across the label, but, in the end, he returned it to the rack. It was good — excellent, in fact — just not…right.
When he reached the end, he moved to the next rack. As he did, he noticed something on the floor, tucked into the back corner of the room, almost out of sight. It was a simple, brown paper bag, bottle-size, sitting upright and full. He had forgotten all about it.
As he picked it up, a cough exploded from his chest, and he had to grab one of the racks to keep from falling down.
When the fit passed, he set the bag on the table next to the Pétrus and Haut-Brion, then carefully opened the top and pulled the bottle out.
He couldn’t help but smile as he set it down.
Boone’s Farm Tickle Pink.
Not only was there no date, there was no cork, just a screw top.
When his sister had given it to him, he had rolled his eyes and grimaced.
“I just thought, you know…” Lauraine had said.
He had played dumb at the time, but of course he did know.
That had been, what? Three years ago? He hadn’t seen her since. She’d emailed him once, saying she was going to be in town and wanted to have dinner with him, but he had claimed another commitment. Now he couldn’t even remember if he’d really had one.
The bottle had made him angry at the time. It had evoked memories he had long buried and never wanted to think about again. When he arrived home that night, he fully intended to throw the low-rent wine in the trash, but found himself unable to do it. Instead, he hid the Tickle Pink in his wine vault, thinking that in a few days he’d get around to disposing it.
Apparently, he never did.
He’d been eighteen and in the final semester of his senior year of high school. Lauraine, a year and a half younger, was a sophomore. That afternoon, their father had informed him there was no way his parents could afford to send him to the university in the fall, and that he’d be better off getting a job and learning a skill. It had come as a shock. His mother had promised him they’d pay for college. He’d been counting on it. It was how he would avoid following in his father’s footsteps.
Lauraine, his biggest supporter and best friend back then, had found him outside of town along the trail by the river they used to hike together. She’d come prepared with two bottles of Tickle Pink. They passed them back and forth, drinking straight out of the top. She let him vent his anger, nodding in encouragement. At some point, they had started laughing as more of the horrible wine flowed.
It was the first time he’d ever been drunk, and he’d never had a headache as bad as the one he had the next morning — before or since.
It was funny, though. His father’s refusal to live up to his mother’s promise had been the push Sumner needed. The day after he graduated, he packed the few things he wanted to take with him into his crappy little car and headed west, not stopping until he reached the ocean.
He looked at the three bottles on the table. People would pay seven hundred dollars for one glass of the Haut-Brion. He had paid that much. And for the Pétrus — if you could buy only a glass — eight grand. The Boone’s Farm? When he was younger, he could get the whole bottle for a few bucks. He doubted the price had come up much.
He thought about Lauraine. She had always treated him with love and kindness, something he couldn’t say he’d done in return.
The Pétrus. The Haut-Brion. The Tickle Pink.
It wasn’t even a contest.
He grabbed the Boone’s Farm by the neck, and closed the door to his wine closet for the last time.
It was weird being one of only a few people in the dorm, but Belinda Ramsey had no place else to go for the holidays. Home was out of the question. Her mother, a professional drunk, had kicked Belinda out of the house when the girl had still been in high school. She’d gone to live with her grandmother, but Grams had died last summer.
That was the extent of her family, and hence the reason she had opted to stay at school while everyone else had rushed away.
She had counted a total of three others who seemed to be doing the same thing she was, all on lower floors than hers. Of course, they had all needed special permission to stay at the dorms because technically they were closed. When Belinda received her approval, she was told she would have to provide her own meals, as the cafeteria would not be open again until just before the new term began.
That was fine. There was a microwave oven on her floor, so she had stocked up on Top Ramen and frozen pizzas. Her plan was to spend the first part of the break working on her book. She was an English major with dreams of being an author. The story she was writing was a thinly veiled version of her own life. It was a bit painful to put on the page at times, but nowhere near as bad as she’d expected.
For the week leading up to Christmas Day, she had decided to seclude herself on her floor and do nothing but write, sleep, and, occasionally, eat. That way, she could avoid all the “Christmas cheer” that would remind her she had no one to share the holidays with. She disconnected the Internet and unplugged the TV. She even turned off her phone, though she didn’t think anyone would be calling her, her college friends undoubtedly busy at home.