Page 36 of The Fine Art of Faking It
Anastasia wore the same thing every day. Jeans and a black sweater in the winter and jeans and a black tank top in the summer. She insisted her mental energy was better spent on the grapes rather than her wardrobe.
“Your father called me this morning,” she said, changing the subject.
Davis picked up his pen and tapped out a beat on his notebook. “And what did he want?” He knew exactly what his father wanted.
“Oh, the usual. Wanted to know if the girl at the inn had been arrested. Wanted to know where you were staying. Wanted to know if he needed to call his cousin Ira.”
Ira Gates was a bulldog lawyer who worked out of Boston and made a living suing the shit out of anyone who looked at his clients funny.
“Of course, I figured he could get this information from you if he’d just ask,” Anastasia said.
Davis had been avoiding his father’s calls since Ferguson had sicced the sheriff on Eden. He didn’t want to give his father any more reason to fly home early.
“What did you tell him?” Davis asked.
“I told him your family pays me to tend the vines and make the wine, and if he wants me to take time away from that to play snitch, he’s going to have to pay me extra and hire me an assistant.” Anastasia took no crap and doled it out by the shovel full.
“Thanks for not telling him… anything.”
“Maybe you all should work on your family communication so you don’t have to put employees in the middle of it,” she suggested pointedly.
A tremendous snore erupted from under Davis’s desk.
“You got a girl under there so long she fell asleep?” Anastasia asked.
Davis leaned down to ruffle the mound of fur at his feet. “It’s Chewy, Eden’s dog. He followed me over today.”
“Eden know you stole her dog?”
“I didn’t steal him. He came willingly.”
“Uh-huh.” Anastasia rose. “Well, I’m getting out of here before you turn me into an accessory to dognapping. Enjoy the blend,” she said, leaving the beaker on his desk. “I’m going to top up and head out.”
“Thanks, Stasia.”
Davis stared down at the dog slobbering on his shoe. “I guess maybe I should let her know that you’re here,” he said. He didn’t need yet another reason for her to hate him. He thought they’d been making progress that night over eggs and business talk. But once again, his parents had bullied their way in, wrecking things.
He leaned down and snapped a picture of Chewy. Attaching it to a new email message, he wrote:
To: Eden
From: Davis
Subject: To Whom It May Concern,
Found. One narcoleptic dog with a snoring problem. Will return to rightful owner this afternoon.
He hit send. And waited for the reply. She had one of those watches that told her every time she got a text, received an email, or the temperature dropped a degree. He waited five full minutes before her reply came through.
To: Davis
From: Eden
Subject: Beware the back end
Tell Chewy to enjoy his last hours of freedom. He knows he’s not supposed to cross the property line. In the meantime, watch out, he tends to let them rip in his sleep. He’ll make your stink bomb seem like an air freshener.
To: Eden
