“They’d better.”
“You doing anything for dinner?” he asked.
“Probably something involving a can opener and the microwave. Or cheese and crackers. I’m beat.”
“What if I bring takeout over to your place, say, in about an hour? Chinese, maybe,” he said. “You might need some backup, especially if the kid refuses to admit what a jerk she was.”
I sat up in my chair and looked at him in surprise. “That sounds nice—even if the kid doesn’t admit she was a jerk. I can handle her on my own, you know. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I’m not worried about you,” he said. “I’m worried about her and Amanda. I’ll bet you they start going at each other.”
“I don’t think it will get violent.”
“I know it won’t,” he said. “That’s what I’m there for.”
My grandfather, looking like a gracefully aging matinee idol in his double-breasted dinner jacket, was waiting in the foyer when I walked through the door twenty minutes later.
“Tu es magnifique!” I said.
He grinned as though I’d just confirmed a well-known truth. “Merci beaucoup.”
“Someone’s coming to get you?”
“My colleague,” he said. “You met him and his friend the other day.”
“I’ll wait up for you. I’d like to hear all about your reunion.”
“I’ll be home after breakfast,” he said. “You may want to get some sleep.”
I heard a car pull into the driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. “How do you do it?” I asked. “I know people who are twenty, thirty years younger than you and couldn’t keep up with half of what you do. You’re amazing.”
He caressed my cheek. “I have always looked at whatever came my way in life and tried to find the good in it. It brings one energy and joie de vivre.”
“Even during the war?”
“Especially during the war.”
I smiled at him and felt like my heart would break. “I love you, Pépé.”
“I love you too, mon ange,” he said.
I walked with him to his friend’s car, his posture as erect as a soldier’s. As he climbed into the back passenger seat he said, “I have been thinking. Perhaps tomorrow we could visit your mother’s grave?”
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you wish.”
He held his hand up in a small salute as the car pulled out of the driveway. I went inside and tried not to think about how much I would miss him when he returned to France in a few days.
Quinn brought enough Chinese takeout to feed our entire crew when he showed up a few hours later. We ate dinner in the parlor in front of a fire I’d made in the fireplace. Last spring when the men cleared additional acreage so we could plant more vines, a couple of the guys split the logs into firewood and everyone was told to take whatever they wanted. They stacked half a cord for me near the carriage house next to my dwindling old woodpile.
“Did you use that new wood for this fire?” Quinn asked as a log crackled and popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“Most of it’s the old, seasoned logs. Maybe I accidentally brought in one or two new ones.”
“Still too green,” he said. “You might end up with burns in your nice new carpet if more sparks shoot off in the wrong direction. You should know better, country girl.”
“I guess I’m distracted about tonight,” I said as I put the small white takeout boxes back in the bag he’d brought them in so he could bring home the leftovers.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” He moved so he was lying on his side with his chin propped on one hand, watching the fire.
I sat on the rug across from him with my back against the sofa. “I hope so.”
“Another two weeks and we’ll be ready to blend the Cab,” he said.
All evening we’d kept the conversation on neutral ground, talking mostly about work. Nicole’s name hadn’t come up once.
“Are we going to have three hundred samples until you achieve perfection?” I asked.
“No more than two-fifty. I don’t like to go overboard.”
I laughed. “You’re spoiled here in Virginia, you know that. In California you make the same wine every year since your weather is sunshine and more sunshine. Here it’s like Bordeaux and you can experiment your blending little heart out because every year the weather is different from the year before. Or the year before that.”
“I’ll ignore that highly oversimplified comment and chalk it up to ignorance,” he said. “You make it sound like California is the land of homogenized wine.”
“Terroir matters much less there,” I said, “because of the climate.”
“Not true,” he said. “California winemakers may have a lot less variation in their harvests from year to year, but we must be doing something right. Remember the ‘Judgment of Paris’?”
I did. Everyone in the wine world did.
More than thirty years ago a small wineshop in Paris sponsored a blind tasting of French and California wines. To everyone’s astonishment—not least of all the French—the California wines won hands down. The event made worldwide news thanks to a Time magazine correspondent named George Taber, who was there. After that California’s reputation as a world-class wine producer skyrocketed.
“Talking about judgments—” I said as the sweep of headlights coming into the driveway flashed through the front parlor window. “They’re here.”
“Yup.” He stood and helped me up, handing me my cane. “Show time.”
Chapter 22
“Listen to me,” Quinn said as the doorbell rang. “We’re going to play this as good cop, bad cop. Okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Which one am I?”
“Go answer the door.”
Kyra’s fashion sense—and her attitude—hadn’t changed since I saw her at the Point-to-Point. Dressed in black from head-to-toe, lots of metal. In need of a bath or a dose of flea powder.
I led her and Amanda into the parlor where Quinn waited and invited them to have a seat. Amanda sat on the sofa. Kyra stood where she was.
“You were asked to sit down,” Quinn said to Kyra. “Do it.”
I’d only heard him use that tone of voice a couple of times since I’d known him. She sat. Quinn leaned against the fireplace mantel and glared at her. I sat in the wing chair opposite them, hands in my lap.
Kyra resumed her sullen hostility while I questioned her about what she’d done. Finally Quinn, who’d been growing increasingly exasperated, said, “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yeah. Because if I didn’t come she’d call the sheriff on me.”
“Is that so?” A muscle twitched in Quinn’s jaw. “The right answer, sweetheart, is that you came to explain why you did what you did—and apologize for it.”
“Sorry.”
Quinn looked like he wanted to flog her. I caught his eye. We weren’t going to get anywhere with her.
“Kyra,” Amanda said, warning her.
“I said, ‘Sorry.’”
“Don’t go into acting,” Quinn said. “I don’t think you’ve got much of a future.”
I glanced at him again and shook my head slightly.
“Do you realize how much trouble you could be in if a horse went over the fence you tampered with and the rider took a spill?” I asked. “Eight years ago something spooked my mother’s horse so he threw her going over a jump. She broke her neck and died in the ambulance.”
That got through to her. Her eyes, raccoonlike with too much eyeliner and mascara, widened and, for the first time, she looked scared.
“Did you booby trap another jump that your mother didn’t find?” I asked. “Do anything else we need to know about?”
“No,” she said.
Quinn pointed a finger at her. “If you are lying, my dear…” He didn’t finish.
“I’m not. I didn’t. I promise.” Her words came out in a rush.
“All right,” I said. “I believe you.”
She nodded and I could see her start to relax.
“We’re not done yet,” I said. “I expect you to clean the pillars and the stone wall. They need to look exactly like they did before you threw paint on them.”