Summer in Napa (A St. Helena Vineyard Novel) (10 page)

Every time she stood and stared blankly at her ingredients, every time she sat at the table alone, only to leave her meal untouched and turn in early because he could tell she didn’t know what else to do, he formed another question for Jeff. Questions that, Marc knew, had answers he’d hate.

His only option was to hire Natasha. The more he thought about it, the more logical it seemed. She was talented in the
kitchen, and although a little experimental for his taste—culinarily speaking—she was a simple solution to his professional problem.

Marc had wasted the past week staring out the window, accomplishing jack shit, and he knew that the town council and his brothers were going to be all over him if he didn’t nail down the food. And soon. All he needed was for Gabe to find out he’d turned down a reputable caterer because he hadn’t been able to keep his dick in his pants.

With a heavy sigh, Marc made his decision. Natasha wasn’t the perfect fit, but she was the best option he had. He’d opened her most recent e-mail and had read through most of it when a door slammed closed and echoed through the alley.

Wingman buried his snout under his front paws and whined.

“I know, buddy,” Marc said, ruffling him behind the ears and going to the window.

He and Wingman both watched as Lexi slowly made her way down the alley, feet bare, garbage bag in hand, and shoulders slumped in defeat. She opened the lid to the trash can and ceremoniously dumped the bag, most likely containing the entirety of what she’d been cooking up for the past two hours, inside. She was about to replace the lid when her back went rigid. She stopped, slowly turned her head, and—looked right at him.

“Shit.”

Marc jerked to his right, plastering his back against the wall. The sudden movement and elevated energy sent Wingman into a barking fit.

“Shh,” he hissed, sounding panicked, and not wanting to draw any more attention to his window. “Sit.”

Wingman obeyed and sat at his feet, waiting, with big doggie eyes, for his reward. Marc reached in his pocket, and Wingman inhaled the bribe without even chewing.

She’d seen him. He’d been spying on her like some kind of pervy teen, and she’d caught him. This was worse than the summer when he was supposed to build Mr. Weinstein a new shed and instead had spent most of his time watching his new trophy wife do her morning laps—naked. He’d been fifteen. Mrs. Weinstein had known he was there. And it had been thrilling.

This felt like an invasion of privacy, though. Which was why, instead of pretending it was a coincidence and waving like a normal neighbor would do, he slunk into the shadows. Now, on top of everything else, he was going to have to come up with an excuse, one that wouldn’t get him arrested, to explain away his behavior.

“Last boy I caught doing that found himself one peanut short,” Grandma said. Not his grandma, but Lexi’s.

Marc thunked his head against the wall because Pricilla wasn’t smiling and she wasn’t alone. No, all three grannies stood inside his office door, each silver coif shaking while they tutted simultaneously, their expressions ranging from amusement to threatening eternal damnation. But all of them seemed to imply the same thing: Marco DeLuca had been caught checking out the neighbor’s wears, and he was in trouble.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Marc said, casually walking around his desk to hug ChiChi and company, but going the long way so he didn’t have to pass in front of the window.

“Of course not, dear,” ChiChi said, giving him a peck on the cheek and taking her seat. “You were too busy peeping on the new neighbor.”

“I was not peep—” was all he got out before Pricilla pulled a piece of fudge out of that crocheted bag of hers and shoved it into Marc’s mouth.

“I don’t take well to lying either,” Pricilla said, penciled eyebrows arched so high they all but disappeared into her hairline.

Marc couldn’t respond. One, he didn’t want to lie, and two, the fudge was incredible. He wondered if this was one of Pricilla’s originals or if it was a Lexi creation. A smoky hint of bacon teased his tongue while a bite of cayenne warmed the back of his throat. Marc smiled—savory. Definitely Lexi’s, then.

“What can I do for you ladies?” Marc mumbled around the melting chocolate even though he knew he’d regret the question.

These grannies were professional busybodies with only two things on their corporate agenda: their grandkids’ business and the business of getting some great-grandbabies. Most of the time one goal overlapped the next, and when that happened everyone in town was bound to suffer. So if they were here before the lunching hour, something was up. And it wouldn’t bode well for Marc and his siblings.

“We hear you’ve gotten yourself into a fix,” Lucinda Baudouin said, taking a seat and opening her enormous bag. She pulled out a fluffy white cat wearing a sailor suit, complete with hat, neckerchief, and irritated growl, and set him in her lap.

Wingman jumped to attention, his ear going up and his eyes going wide. He lowered his body to the floor with his tail standing straight up, and then he went completely still.

Mr. Puffins’s tail, on the other hand, puffed out like a porcupine’s, ready for battle. Wingman barked once. The cat’s eyes narrowed on a low growl. Wingman ran behind Marc’s desk and hid.

“Harrumph,” Lucinda tutted, handing Marc a printed-out copy of an e-mail.

He took one look at the e-mail and almost asked Wingman to move over. The e-mail was one that he’d drafted and sent to the dean of the Napa Valley Culinary Academy, asking for a temporary chef for the Showdown. An e-mail that was supposed to remain confidential.

“How did you get this?”

All three women straightened with pride, but it was Lucinda who spoke. “Broke into Janice’s work computer. Regan helped us.” Two more things that Gabe never needed to hear about.

“What were you thinking, sending
this
,” ChiChi chided, grabbing the e-mail and waving it in his face, her head shaking in disappointment, “to that woman? You want the whole town knowing that you don’t have a chef for the Showdown?”

“I sent it to the dean. How was I supposed to know a Baudouin would get her hands on it?”

“Janice has been working there for over twenty years,” Lucinda said, as though Marc should be up on every damn Baudouin in the valley.

Marc ran his fingers through his hair. He should be. Just like he should have known this would happen.

Although Lucinda was a Baudouin and ChiChi had married a DeLuca, neither was willing to throw away a lifelong friendship over a silly feud. That didn’t mean Lucinda was
above using her family ties to the academy’s associate dean to gain information, especially if ChiChi asked.

“Does anyone else know?”
Please say no.
The last thing he needed was Gabe up in his business, going all big brother for the next few weeks. Or worse, old man Charles finding out and, like ChiChi said, somehow using it against Marc with the town council.

“Not even Janice,” Lucinda clarified, straightening Mr. Puffins’s neckerchief with a tug.

Marc raised an unconvinced brow.

All three ladies exchanged panicked looks. Pricilla pulled out a truffle and handed it to ChiChi, who took a nervous nibble before giving a defeated nod.

Lucinda patted ChiChi’s knee, much the same way as she did her cat, and said, “Janice has been having online relations with a man.”

“A man who had, up until last month, been having relations with me,” ChiChi snapped, lips pursed into a tight line.

“Sweet Jesus,” Marc murmured, wanting to cover his ears. He looked at his sweet nonna with her white hair, designer churchwear, and little round reading glasses hanging from a diamond-encrusted chain and grimaced. Then he turned to the window, judged its size, height, and drop to the ground, and quickly determined that a broken leg would be far less painful than finishing this conversation.

“Marco DeLuca,” ChiChi scolded, making the sign of the cross. “I raised you on a vineyard, not a farm.”

“Sorry, Nonna. I just…Can we not—”

Pricilla pulled out another square of fudge, eyes narrowed in warning.

“Put it away, Pricilla. We didn’t come here to talk about whoopee. We came here because we have a proposition,” ChiChi said with an innocent smile that had Marc looking at the window all over again. The only thing stopping him was the thought that Lexi might still be in the alley.

The last time ChiChi and her friends had a proposal that involved his hotel, it had ended with a drunken bachelorette party, a small bedroom fire, and a confused group of firemen who’d come for a convention on fire safety and left with wadded-up bills in their jeans.

“The Daughters of the Prohibition is about to be hijacked,” ChiChi said. “Isabel Stark and that woman you’ve been keeping company with have been asked to head up the junior league. They think that just because Natasha’s good at lighting your fire that you’ll hire her to heat up your kitchen too.”

“For the Showdown,” Pricilla added.

“I’m not sure who I am hiring.” Marc snapped his laptop, and the e-mail to Natasha, shut. “And just because Natasha and I are friends—”

Mr. Puffins let loose a low and gravelly growl that vibrated his hat.

And Pricilla waved the fudge in his face.

Right, lying.

ChiChi released a breath, her shoulders sagging just a bit, and for the first time Marc saw just how old his nonna had become. She looked small and fragile and so unlike the bold force that had molded his life.

“It is important to this town that this year’s Showdown remains true to the founding fathers’ ideas. That we abide by the traditions that were set before us. A lot of people’s dreams have come true at this event.”

“A hundred years of dreams that those ladies are willing to overlook to make room for newer, shinier things,” Pricilla added, her hand clutching her chest.

“The Summer Wine Showdown was always about family and friends and community,” Lucinda said. “We understand that you need a little flash to get the celebrities and media. That they bring in more money for the hospital and school. But some things, the ones that seem silly to your generation, matter because they are the heart of the event.”

“And you think if they have a say in the catering that it will change the event?” Marc asked, because he heard what the grannies were saying, but he didn’t understand how something as simple as a caterer would affect the bigger picture.

“This town is a family, Marco.” ChiChi leaned across the desk to take Marc’s hand. “Family is about sharing wine, breaking bread, remembering the past. Your grandfather and I met at the Showdown. Your parents, God rest their souls”—and there she went with the sign of the cross again—“had their wedding there. Along with a few dozen other people over the years, who are all looking forward to reliving those moments, remembering those who have passed.”

ChiChi broke off with a sad shake of the head.

“If the junior league gets their way,” Pricilla stepped in when it appeared that ChiChi couldn’t finish, “there will be deconstructed this and imported that. The Showdown will turn into one of those celebrity events you see on TV. It won’t be about the people of this town and celebrating their appreciation for food and wine and agriculture; it will be about how far up the exclusive places to live list we can move.”

“Are you asking me not to hire Natasha?”

“No, we are asking you to let us pick. Let the Daughters of the Prohibition hold a tasting where we invite local culinary artists to showcase their appreciation of local cuisine and culture. You get to focus on the rest of the event, and we can make sure that the people of this town are represented in the food chosen.”

Meaning his brothers couldn’t blame him for thinking with the wrong head, no matter who got chosen. It also meant one in a long list of problems disappeared. Normally he wouldn’t even consider entertaining any brainchild of the granny brigade, especially if it meant bringing them into the middle of something that could potentially sink his entire career, but he was rapidly running out of solutions.

“Deal,” Marc said, wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake. He figured that everyone had to have at least one brilliant idea in their lifetime, right? Maybe this was theirs.

Lexi stared up at Jeffery with his bedroom eyes, easygoing smile, and adorable dimple marking his right cheek, and then she sucked in a deep breath and blew. A wad of tissue paper splatted with force across his left nostril, particles breaking off and speckling his upper lip.

Lexi smiled, tore off another piece of tissue, and rolled it around in her mouth, letting it soak up the spit.

“You shouldn’t have chosen a head shot. Then you can’t do this,” said Abigail DeLuca, resident spit-wad champion and fellow woman scorned, putting the straw to her lips and aligning it with lethal accuracy before hitting her estranged husband, Richard, in the goodie bag.

Abby, with her olive skin, big brown eyes, and perfect white teeth, was a miniature version of her brother—only with a bunch of curves and a cute, pert nose. Although compact, she had the body of Ginger, the face of Mary Ann, and, when riled, the same capacity for total destruction as Scarface. She was also Lexi’s oldest and dearest friend.