Page 5 of Corkscrew You
“I needmoney,” I insist. “Investment.Not some interfering Harvard automaton who gets a woody from a spreadsheet.”
“Oo... you said ‘woody.’”
Jordan definitely doesnotneed a third beer. But it’s an old joke. My inability to properly curse has been a long-standing source of amusement for pretty much the whole population of Verity, and a fair proportion of the wider Sonoma County.
And no, I don’t know why I have such trouble with cussing. Dad swore like a sailor who’d hit his thumb with a hammer, and even Mom occasionally said the eff word. Perhaps I’m channelling some Puritan ancestor? I mean, I’m not uptight about anything else, like, you know –thatstuff.
Not that I’ve had time for any of that stuff. I admit I do miss sharing my bed with a warm body that isn’t entirely covered in fur, but the truth is I’m afraid that if I get distracted, something vital will break. Running Flora Valley Wines feels like juggling three hand grenades, two chainsaws and a pineapple, and if I drop a single one the business will be obliterated in a sticky mess. I couldn’t face confessing to the ghost of my dad that I destroyed his dream because I didn’t have what it takes to hold it together. Because I wasn’t him.
That’s why I have such mixed feelings about Nathan Durant taking over. Juggling for so long has made mesotired, and it could feelsogood to have some of the load lifted from me, especially that stupid pineapple. But if I can’t do it all by myself, does that mean I’m already a failure? Does that mean Iaman unrealistic dreamer like all the potahto-people in my past have declared? I want so badly to prove them wrong, and I want so badly to have justoneday free of grumbling anxiety that not even my natural optimism can muffle. And to be absolutely embarrassingly honest, I’d like the chance to get to know boy wonder on a less professional level. I mean, catsaregreat but it’s also true that I haven’t had time to meet anyone I’d be prepared to shove them off the quilt for. Nathan Durant is the first hot guy to enter my orbit since forever, and he’s so hot that I just mentally blushed at the word ‘enter’. He isridiculouslyhandsome. I could see all those Martinburg ladies eyeing him up at lunch. They were so excited, their foreheads almost creased.
But – and it’s a huge one with a capital B – he’s made it clear he’s here to pummel the winery into shape, and if that shape isn’t to my liking, then stiff cheese. (I mentally blushed again.) He might be hot, but he’s a Harvard-bot (ooh, rhyme!), and I amnotlooking forward to next week.
“Harvard,” says Chiara, thankfully only reading part of my mind. “Must come from money.”
My two best friends of all time forever and ever are gorgeous, in completely different ways. Jordan’s all honey blonde and tanned, with boobs I’d die for but would probably make me topple over all the time. She works for the local outdoor pursuits centre, doing terrifying things like rock climbing and whitewater rafting and minding large groups of teenagers.
Chiara’s mother came from St Kitts in the Caribbean, and her father is Italian, and though her parents are both kind of dumpy and short, they managed to produce a tall, slender exquisite vision who regularly causes traffic incidents on Verity’s main street. Her parents are also super sweet and huggy, whereas Chiara has more of a Bond villain vibe, like one wrong move and she’d take your eye out with a stiletto heel.
Chiara works morning reception at Bartons, the boutique hotel that used to be the roughest bar in Verity until its last customer’s liver finally exploded. It still has a bar, but with gold velvet chairs and cocktails containing mulberry leaf root cider and barrel-rested bergamot tea. We gave it six months, but three years later it’s still going strong because Ted, the owner, comes from some British noble family and knows every rich person on the planet.
Locals drink at the Silver Saddle. It has a jukebox and beer.
Chiara is also frighteningly ambitious. Which would explain why she’s drinking a Manhattan (the only cocktail Brendan will make), and her interest in personal wealth.
“He can’t bethatrich,” I protest. “Or he wouldn’t need this job.”
“Might be a scholarship boy?” suggests Jordan.
“Makes no difference. He went toHarvard,” says Chiara, explaining it to us simpletons. “Once you’re in, you’rein. With theincrowd.”
Jordan swigs on her beer. “You could make your own money, Kiki. Instead of becoming a real housewife of – wherever he lives. Where does he live?” she asks me.
“In a coffin? Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Iintendto make my own money,” says Chiara. “But connections never hurt a girl.”
She gives me her trademark ‘offer you can’t refuse’ look. “How about I come around on Monday and you introduce us?”
More mixed feelings churn in my stomach.
“Do you want to check him out as a person – or as a potential date?” I ask.
“Both, of course,” says Chiara. “But I certainly won’t hit on him, if you want first dibs, because that is the kind of friend I am.”
“I can’t hit on him. That would be too complicated and I hate complicated.”
Jordan pokes me in the upper arm.
“But you’ll be working right alongside him, close quarters and all, for weeks or months orages.Do you really want him yapping on all that time about Chiara?”
“I’mtotallyworth yapping on about,” Chiara objects. “I know how to do that thing.”
“I have no clue what that thing is,” I say. “Please don’t ever tell me.”
“OK, no, you’re right…” Jordan has been doing some beer-thinking. “Complicated is bad. Much easier if he yaps on about Chiara, because with you working together at close quarters, it could get pretty uncomfortable if he dumped you, couldn’t it?”
That’s a fair point, but it fails to un-mix my feelings. I stare down into my almost but not quite empty glass in the hopes that the old saying about finding truth in wine is … well, true.
