Page 17 of The Voice We Find

August:

Seeing as we’re both Californians, we should probably define “natural disaster”?

You forget I lived in NYC where I survived brutal winter storms and blackout-inducing heat waves. I assure you, Phantom will be happy at home. For your peace of mind, I’ve recently purchased him a white-noise machine to help drown out the construction chaos near our living quarters.

August:

What a relief indeed. I’ll sleep better knowing that. How does Monday at 9 a.m. sound? (Barring any real natural disasters, of course.)

August:

I just opened Chip’s attachment. Did you realize this manuscript is 539 pages???Maybe we should push back the start date a few days?

I discretely type out a cheeky reply.

Two things you should know about me: 1. I love reading challenges! 2. The only award I ever won in school was for my speed-reading abilities in the third grade, Mrs. Deitz’s class. It came with a gold star-shaped button I pinned to my backpack that read, “I’m a superstar reader!” Unlike my math skills, my reading skills have only improved with time. Monday will be great.

I’m about to slide my phone back into my pocket when it buzzes in my hand.

August:

If you manage to read all 539 pages by Monday morning, you definitely deserve a superstar button. You can add it to Phantom’s backpack. A bright yellow button can only improve his habitat.

I’m still grinning as I wave good-bye to our last customers of the day, a delightful mother-daughter duo on an epic West Coast road trip. I then clear their table in preparation for the catering crew covering tonight’s private event—yet another change since my brother took the reins. From what I’ve gathered, there are only a small handful of staff on the winery’s payroll; the rest are contracted from a local catering agency as needed. I’ve yet to work with the same employee twice.

I’m humming along with the happy tune on the playlist when Natalie walks into the dining area. Like usual, she’s dressed in top-tier designer fashion: a flowy, high-collared jumpsuit and strappy, red-soled heels. Even if I could somehow tally the retail prices of my favorite curated consignment pieces, my eclectic boho selections wouldn’t hold a candle to her sophisticated, tailored wardrobe. I remember nearly choking to death on a coconut-battered shrimp when my mother slipped about the cost of Natalie’s wedding dress during their three-day wedding extravaganza in Maui two summers ago. My brother had spared no expense when it came to the big event—except, of course, when it came to my plane ticket from NYC. If not for my mother’s unexpected deposit in my money app, mybrother’s fancy nuptials would have cost me more than six months in tip savings.

I assume Natalie’s purpose for stopping by ranks higher than my need-to-know status, so I’m more than a little surprised when she beckons me to follow her into the butler’s pantry behind the wine counter. Perhaps if I wasn’t riding so high on endorphins, I would be more alarmed by her assertiveness, but I’m too curious to be cautious. This is the most interaction the two of us have had since she went over the rules of my temporary employment.

Once we’re tucked into the pantry next to shelves of catering supplies and stemware, Natalie sheds the outer layer of her aloof shell and speaks to me directly. “Is there any chance you can work another shift this evening? One of my regulars called in sick. I can double your hourly wage and offer you a fair split of the tips at the end of the night.”

Given my debt-to-income ratio at the moment, I’m hardly in a position to turn her down, but oddly enough, I’m not thinking about my overdue bills when I agree. “Sure, I can help.” My plans to start Allie Spencer’s romantasy novel will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m definitely gonna put my elementary school button to the test. “Where would you like me?”

Before she answers, I note the flicker of relief that crosses her features. “Mason and Brianne will tag-team food prep and plating in the kitchen, and Christina prefers to work the floor, so I’d like you stationed at the wine bar. Is that alright with you?”

I employ my best acting skills and nod as if she isn’t going against my brother’s wishes to have me front and center. “That’s no problem at all.” I study the way she’s styled her dark hair into a slicked-back twist that makes every feature of her face all the more striking. I was thirteen when my brother brought Natalie home for the first time his senior year of high school, and I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. My opinion hasn’t changed. Unfortunately, her outside appearance and her choice in men are the majority of what I know about my sister-in-law, even after all these years.

“What’s the event?” I ask.

“It’s a VIP networking social for some of Jasper’s business associates.”

My stomach dips as I realize what this means: My brother will be in attendance. We might be able to avoid each other due to the size of the winery, but the tasting room was designed to be intimate—with richly textured walls and an open floor plan, barring the large wine cellar below the stairs. I push the unwelcome fact from my mind and recall, instead, the only exception I’d requested from Natalie the day she became my official supervisor.“I’m happy to do any task you assign in order to fill my hours,but I’d like to request that any job involving the wine cellar go to someone else.” She didn’t bother to ask any follow-up questions; everybody in my family would know the reason, even if some refused to acknowledge it. Still, she’d simply bobbed her chin and said, “We can work around it.”

“Tonight’s patrons are,” Natalie begins with obvious hesitation, “important to your brother and to the winery. We do our best to accommodate any requests from our guests.”

The statement is odd, but I suppose there’s little about this pantry conversation that isn’t. I can only hope Jasper will be too busy schmoozing with his carbon-copy friends to notice me behind the bar.

Before I can ask anything else, we hear voices, and soon Natalie is instructing the per diem employees—Mason, Brianne, and Christina—about the evening. It’s obvious by their familiarity with one another and with Natalie that this is not their first time working a private event. I have just enough time to grab a quick snack in the kitchen, refill my water bottle, and check my phone—no new texts—before returning to the tasting room and setting up for a night behind the counter.

Over the next three hours, a couple dozen men wearing different versions of the same designer suit fill the tasting room. Thankfully, the steady stream of wine orders is enough to keep me on my toes but not enough to completely overwhelm me. Staying busy is a good buffer between me and my brother. Jasper is in full publicmode tonight: mingling, joking, smiling, and of course, charming and wowing his captive audience with his brilliance.

I’m uncorking a vintage bottle of our reserve Sauvignon Blanc when a clean-shaven man I served early on in the evening approaches the counter. He unbuttons his suit coat at the waist and casually leans an elbow on the bar top. Between his carefully groomed hair, smooth, easygoing grin, and over-confident demeanor, I know his type well. And it’s far from the type of man I want to engage with. Almost immediately, I see someone else in my mind’s eye. A man with striking blue eyes and a rough-around-the-edges personality. Or maybe that’s not quite a fair assessment of August. He invited me back to his studio, after all, and his texts have been surprisingly personable. And fun.

“Good evening, again,” coos the gentleman, resembling the majority of my brother’s acquaintances from Stanford. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of Pellegrino back there, would you?”

“You’re in luck,” I say amenably as I turn away to retrieve the chilled glass bottle. “Would you like that over ice?”

“You read my mind.”

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