A Pairing to Die For Read online

  “Always looking out for yourself,” I say, but inside, I’m beaming. “What’s the course?”

  “Modernism in Film.”

  Felix returns behind the tasting bar, a satisfied grin in place. “Four glasses of the Campy Cab. You owe me a coffee.” He stacks the menus next to the discard vase and gives Liam a fist bump, the two having met on prior occasions. He continues, “Think I’ll go big. Caramel macchiato. No, wait, pumpkin.”

  Honestly, it’s almost like I have two brothers. I heave an exaggerated sigh.

  “ ’Tis the season, I suppose.” I pour glasses of the maroon wine, scents of tobacco and cherries rising from the crystal bowls, and arrange the glasses carefully on a tray. Hopefully the ladies will be impressed enough to purchase a few bottles.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” Liam says, getting to his feet. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s tomorrow morning?” I ask as Felix whisks the tray away.

  “Reid’s arraignment.”

  Wordlessly, I go around the tasting bar and give Liam a hug. He lifts me off the ground and I swat at him to set me back down, my vision blurry from tears.

  “Thanks,” I say, sniffling.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, grabbing his camera bag. “Now get back to work, slacker.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The nature of winemaking involves looking forward—creating vintages that need to age for months, or even years, before tasting. It gets one thinking about permanence.

  My roots, like those of grapevines, run deep. My family, my business, and my cat are all in Boulder. It’s where I’ve always felt I belong.

  Still, who’s to say where I’ll be next year? What will become of Reid and me? If Vino Valentine will still be a thing?

  The truth is: life holds too many unknowns. The only thing we can do is put one foot in front of the other and focus on what we can control. Which is exactly what I intend to do.

  With Felix manning the storefront, I sneak into the back to work on the harvest.

  While the tasting room is warm and welcoming, the back is pure business, stainless steel as far as the eye can see. Along one wall, giant vats reach all the way to the arched ceiling, and opposite those are the crusher de-stemmer, state-of-the-art bottling system, and grape-sorting table. Oak barrels with steel rims dramatically line the back wall, some of the barrels containing a brand-new chardonnay, and others, aging reds.

  Giant plastic bins full of red grape varietals early in the fermentation process stand center stage. These grapes have been crushed into a goop called must, which, along with the juices, includes skins, stems, and seeds. At this point, they require attention multiple times a day to ensure that the cap—the grapes floating at the top—doesn’t dry out and halt the chemical breakdowns.

  It’s the latter I focus on now. I grab my punch-down tool from where it’s hanging on a rack in the corner, a long pole with a round disk at the end that I’ve spent far too much time with.

  I maneuver the hefty lid off a tub housing pinot noir grapes. Sweet and fruity aromas waft from the surface, with just a hint of tartness. I love the way my winery smells during harvest. Like a farmers market, jam factory, and potential.

  Stepping on a stool for extra leverage, I wield the long metal pole. Using the end with the circular disk, I push the cap toward the bottom of the bin, giving a little extra squeeze to coax even more juice from the grapes, and then urge the liquid underneath to the surface.

  I repeat these steps—punch down, squeeze, and mix—moving my stool as needed.

  To think, it was just two weeks ago when these grapes arrived on my doorstep. They were tiny, only the size of my thumbnail, and a deep shade of purple. Reid, Oscar, and Felix helped me unload the crates.

  The sky was tinged with pink and the air crisp as we made trip after trip, moving the crates to the grape-sorting table to remove sticks and stones, and then to the crusher de-stemmer, and finally dumping the must into this bin. It was hard work and we didn’t hesitate to voice our complaints, stretching our backs and rubbing sore muscles. All, that is, except for Oscar.

  I’d wondered about it afterward and eventually mustered the nerve to ask. Turns out, Oscar was no stranger to hard labor. He’d worked construction jobs throughout high school and culinary school, and even for a short stint afterward when chefs were reluctant to hire someone rumored to have a hard time following directions. Oscar spoke with pride about the work, of what it had allowed him to accomplish, had even referenced picking up a few extra hours on the side to supplement his income. Though I’m not sure why he would have needed to.

  The door leading to the storefront opens and I snap back to the present.

  Expecting Felix, I shout, not taking my eyes off my task, “You can put some of this in your shoes if you want to feel jelly between your toes.”

  Imagine my surprise when it’s my mother who answers, “Maybe some other time.”

  I accidentally slop must down my sweater. Smooth, Parker.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, hopping down from the stool. I grab a cloth and mop up my shirt, but it’s no use; I’m going to have to change.

  My mom’s frizzy hair bounds out in all directions and her cat-eye glasses are perched at the end of her nose. “Can’t a mother sporadically stop by to have a heart-to-heart with her daughter?”

  “I guess.” My apprehension remains. Because my mom never stops by and we don’t do heart-to-hearts.

  When Liam warned me I’d be getting an invite to dinner, I expected a phone call or, if my mom was feeling especially hip, a text message. She’s a busy lady with her job, and frankly, I think her equations and experiments make more sense to her than I ever have.

  She clutches her periodic table tote to her side. “Liam told me about Reid.”

  “Oh, right.”

  I turn my back on my mother so she won’t see the heartbreak written on my face. I hang up my punch-down tool, focusing on my smarting palms. Harvest is only half over and already calluses are forming. Just not fast enough.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m . . .” I trail off, unsure how to respond since I don’t even know the answer. “Fine.”

  She purses her lips. “Sure you are.”

  I hold a hand to my forehead and then remember it’s covered in grape juice, which basically sums up my current emotional state. I clean my face with the same cloth I used on my sweater.

  “I’m in shock,” I say. “And I have no idea how to help him.”

  She dips her chin. “Sometimes people have to fight their own battles.”

  My mom has this annoying tendency of being right. All the time. But I refuse to budge on this; the stakes are too high.

  I shake my head, a few strands of hair escaping my headband. “Some battles are too big to face alone.”

  She nods but doesn’t say anything else.

  Restless, I pad over to the shelving unit where I store my lab kit.

  Yes, winemaking is largely an art, but it’s aided by a decent amount of science. And, ever the model student, I’ve always felt like the more information I have, the better. Which is why, at this point, I take daily measurements.

  I bring my lab kit to the bin of pinot and go about my routine, testing the Brix—the amount of residual sugar in the fruit—titratable acidity, and pH, finding them within the limits of what I’d expect.

  “What are you doing?” my mom asks, appearing at my shoulder.

  “Determining the chemical makeup of the grapes.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” I say, glancing at her, slightly puzzled. “It helps me determine if fermentation is progressing as it should, or if I need to course-correct.”

  She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Huh.”

  I continue, testing the SO2 level and cross-checkin
g this with the volume. Seeing it’s a touch lower than I like, I add a couple drops of sulfur dioxide. “To prevent spoilage,” I explain. “And to keep the wine tasting fresh.”

  Mom looks mildly interested, the crow’s-feet around her eyes becoming more prominent as she crinkles her forehead.

  I clamp the lid on the bin and wipe my hands together.

  “That’s it?” she asks.

  “For now. I’ll do another punch down later.”

  She nods, fiddling with the straps of her tote. “Do you want to come to dinner tonight? The Iyerses are coming over and I’m making enchiladas.”

  My mom isn’t much of a cook. There’s really only one dish she knows how to make, and that’s chicken enchiladas. They’re spicy, savory, and, for me, the ultimate comfort food, but even those saucy rolls of perfection aren’t enough to entice me to partake in her career-matchmaking scheme.

  “Thanks,” I say, and take a sip of water. “But I already have plans to see Reid’s family.”

  “I’ll save you a plate in case you change your mind.” She gives me a quick hug and then leaves.

  As most interactions go with my mom, I’m left feeling the worse for wear. A feat I didn’t think was possible. Now, in addition to shock and sadness, guilt gnaws at my stomach.

  I wish I was a better daughter, one who could make her proud.

  But I have other things to worry about. Things that are in my control. Like finding out why my boyfriend’s family was so twitchy around the man he supposedly murdered.

  Chapter

  Seven

  There’s a fountain outside the St Julien Hotel, only instead of water, it overflows with flowers. Gorgeous blooms that even in autumn encompass a wide range of colors—yellow sunflowers, maroon mums, and fuchsia coneflowers.

  The hotel rises in the background, a striking combination of old-school class and new age sleek, with sandstone siding, black-framed tinted windows, and flags welcoming guests from every corner of the globe.

  And then there’s the valet parking. Not that I own a car.

  I used to drive a tan Toyota Camry, my car being inextricably linked to freedom. But after Aunt Laura’s accident, nightmarish visions kept flashing before my eyes every time I got behind the wheel. Cars screeching into mine, shattered glass raining down on me in the intersection, and my aunt’s bloody face slowly transforming into my own. My chest would grow tight and my palms sweaty, and before too long my nerves couldn’t take any more.

  Luckily, all of this coincided with the rise of ride-sharing. That, along with public transit, made it easier to find alternative modes of transportation rather than dig into my psyche.

  So, yeah, I don’t have a car.

  Instead, I wave at the valet attendant and enter the posh hotel. The first thing that hits me is the scent. It smells like money—clean, luxurious, and perfumed with some exotic flower. The next thing is the hardwood. Giant pillars, pristine floors, and gorgeous countertops, all made of warm shades of wood.

  The lobby oozes comfort with tables and cushiony chairs scattered throughout, dimmed modern lights, and a dual-sided fireplace.

  A good-natured concierge stops me, a polite smile on her face. “Can I help you?”

  Given that I’m dressed in mismatched slacks and a T-shirt that reads Got wine?—the only spare shirt I had at my shop—I appreciate her kindness.

  I rest my forearm on the edge of her podium. “I’m here to see the Wallaces. They’re expecting me.”

  She taps a few strokes on her keyboard, her fingernails expertly painted with tiny pumpkins, and then makes a phone call.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wallace, there’s a young lady here to see you by the name of—” She holds a hand over the receiver and gestures at me with her hand.

  “Parker,” I supply.

  She relays my name and there’s lots of mmhmming as she listens to whatever’s being said on the other end of the line, her eyes flitting curiously to me.

  My palms grow sweaty as I consider the possibility that the Wallaces might refuse to see me, might turn me away, or pretend they don’t know me. Which would be the epitome of embarrassing.

  Finally, the concierge hangs up and says, “Suite 408. Grab the elevator, just over there—” She nods in the direction of an archway. “When you get to the fourth floor, take a right and keep walking straight on till morning.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a small smile.

  I follow her directions into an elevator, studying my reflection in the paneled mirror. I came straight from closing up at Vino Valentine. In a desperate attempt to freshen up, I give my T-shirt a French tuck and finger-comb my hair. It’s the best I can do.

  The elevator chimes and opens.

  For the dread building in my body, you’d think I was doing a death march through Stephen King’s version of the Stanley Hotel and not walking down a posh hallway on my way to see my boyfriend’s vacationing family.

  I reach suite 408 and knock loudly, half hoping they’ve already left for their dinner in the time it took me to reach the fourth floor. No such luck.

  Camilla answers, looking as poised as ever. Cashmere cardigan, pearls, and snake-embossed heels. With pristine posture, she gives me a once-over, her lips curling malevolently as she takes in the lettering of my T-shirt.

  I insulate myself against her icy stare, willing my skin to grow thicker. “Uh—hi, Mrs. Wallace. I mean, Camilla,” I say, stumbling over the words. “Mind if I come in?”

  “I suppose, but we have to leave soon.”

  She regally opens the door to their suite. And that clunk you hear? That’s my jaw hitting the floor.

  Their suite has a full sitting area with a sofa and two lounge chairs surrounding a wrought iron coffee table. Off to one side is the master bedroom with a four-poster king bed, and through a sliding glass door is a private balcony with a breathtaking view of the grassy foothills and slanted Flatirons.

  It’s that odd time in Colorado when the sun has disappeared behind the mountains but hasn’t officially set yet. The sky is still crisp blue, the only sign of impending darkness a yellowish tint to the clouds.

  “Hey, Parker,” Ben says from where he’s parked on the sofa. He’s in a suit similar to the one from last night, only now paired with a cream shirt the color of butter.

  His father sits beside him, absorbed in the talking heads on whatever news show they’re watching on TV. Gary gives me the barest nod of acknowledgment. His face is red and the top button of his shirt is undone, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.

  “I didn’t know you were coming to dinner tonight,” Ben says, absently swiping at the screen of his phone. Honestly, it’s more like an extension of his hand than a mobile device.

  Camila and I speak at the same time—

  “She’s not.”

  “I’m not.”

  Tristan saunters in from the balcony, leaning coolly against the doorframe. He looks like a movie star. Tousled hair, sunglasses, V-neck showcasing a leather necklace with some sort of bronze pendant.

  I read once that nerves associated with public speaking stem from the primal part of our brain that feels threatened when eyes are on us, as if sensing we’re being hunted by a predator. I feel that way now. Like I’m in a den of wolves.

  I swallow and force myself to continue, “I wanted to talk with you. All of you. About Reid.”

  “I need another drink,” Gary says. He goes to the wet bar and pours himself a finger of whiskey from a bottle that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

  “What about Reid?” Camilla asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Well, to start, have you tried visiting him?”

  “I’ve been more focused on things that matter.” She primly squares her shoulders. “Like hiring a lawyer.”

  “Oh,” I say, cocking my head to the side. I shouldn’t be
surprised that Camilla’s answer is basically to throw money at the situation. Still, the more people on Reid’s side, the better. “My friend is happy to help as long as you need. She’s really good, I promise.”

  Camilla purses her lips. “I’m sure your friend is fine for some people, but Reid needs the best. The legal counsel I’ve secured will sort out this colossal misunderstanding. Hopefully before our family name is dragged through the mud.”

  Of course Camilla is more worried about how this will affect their reputation—their precious family name—than about their son. Although, as I home in on her, I notice flyaway strands from her chignon and extra concealer dabbed around her eyes. Perhaps Reid’s arrest is affecting her more than she’s letting on.

  “I can’t even imagine what people will think if they find out,” Camilla says, arms crossed over her chest.

  “They’re going to blame us, obviously,” Gary grumbles at his wife. “Always blame the parents. Even though I warned Reid about Oscar years ago.”

  “Warned him how?” I ask. I rest my hands on my hips and lift my chin, trying to mimic Sage’s power pose from earlier. Pretty sure it comes across as awkward and stiff. At least I fit in with this crowd.

  “That Oscar is nothing but a freeloader,” he hisses. “A leech. He roomed with Reid, slept on the couch, while we, hardworking Americans, paid for the roof over our son’s head.” Gary straightens to his full height, his deep voice taking on an alarming tone. “Then there were all the free meals.”

  The entire room is silent at this proclamation and I catch Ben and Tristan exchanging a worried look, obviously embarrassed by their father’s blatant racism, as they should be.

  I furrow my eyebrows, unable to stop myself from grinding my teeth. From what I knew of Oscar, he was definitely not a freeloader. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” I mutter under my breath, referencing the first rule of economics.

  Gary looks me straight in the eye for maybe the first time. “Oscar tried to prove otherwise.”

  Well, this explains the tension I noticed between the Wallaces and Oscar. Could it have been something from his past, some misunderstanding from culinary school, that got him killed?