BLURB:
In
Napa Valley, he who has the best grapes wins. And in the pursuit of perfection,
dreams and hearts can be crushed.
Sophia Stone is a widow on the brink of an empty nest, stuck in an unsatisfying
job managing the vineyard for a mediocre Napa vintner. Faced with an uncertain
future she wonders how do you choose between making a living and making a life?
Between protecting your heart and sharing it? Five years ago, after her husband
was killed in an accident, Sophia put her heart and dreams on ice to care for
those around her. Now her home, her dreams, and her family’s legacy grapes are
threatened by the greed of the new money moving into the Valley. Sophia has a
choice—give up and let them take what is hers, or risk everything fighting a
battle everyone says she can’t win.
Nico Treviani has one goal in life: make brilliant wine. A woman would be an
unwanted distraction. So, while recognized as one of Napa’s premier vintners,
Nico finds himself alone… until his brother’s death drops not one, but two
women into his life—his thirteen-year-old twin nieces. In an instant, Nico
gains a family and loses his best friend and partner in the winemaking
business. Struggling to care for his nieces, Nico accepts a job as head
winemaker for Avery Specter, one of the new-money crowd. And he learns the hard
way that new money doesn’t stick to the old rules.
When Sophia Stone gets caught in the middle of Nico’s struggle to remain true
to himself or sacrifice his convictions to make stellar wine, both Sophia and
Nico are faced with a choice they never imagined. A choice that might
extinguish the hope of a future neither expected.
EXCERPT:
CHAPTER TWO:
Nico Treviani’s mood stood in stark
contrast to the collegial spirit of the throng gathered at the annual meeting
of the Napa Valley Vintners Association.
Housed in a LEED-certified, open and airy, steel-and-glass building near
the library in St. Helena, the Vintners Association was Mecca to winemakers
both experienced and novice—a repository of their collective knowledge and a gathering
place to commiserate over the fickle affections of their shared mistress.
Wine.
Had he had a choice, Nico would’ve
done anything other than be a winemaker, but choice was not an option—he’d been
born to it, a family heritage so strong that Nico suspected his blood was half
Cabernet. As his father’s first-born, he
was handed the reins to something that was less a business than a calling. On the other hand, his brother, Paolo, had
been given the option, and, fool that he was, he chose wine. And the fool had died before he knew the
brilliance of the last Cab vintage they’d crafted together. 100 points.
Liquid perfection. Not many wines
reached those lofty heights—not that it translated into much more than bragging
rights, which were a damn poor substitute for food on the table. Without his own land, his own grapes, he was
nothing more than the hired help. Oh, he
could buy grapes and custom crush, but that wouldn’t be the same—he’d have no
real control, and folks would take too keen an interest in watching him work
his magic … assuming he had any left without his brother. No, he nee
ded his own space far from prying
eyes … and he needed very special grapes.
Their mother had always said while
you’d be hard-pressed to make a good living out of winemaking, you could make a
great life. Nico wasn’t sure he agreed.
And now that he had Paolo’s, children to house, feed, clothe, chase down, and
send to college, he was feeling the pinch.
How his brother had done it, he didn’t know. Especially after his wife had fled to the
city. Preferring a quiet, sophisticated
life, she’d turned her back on her family, her children. Nico was sure that was one of the
unforgivable sins, the kind that ensured an eternity roasting on a spit over
the open fires of Hell. And if it
wasn’t, when he got there he’d be sure to figure a way to make it so.
As he eased into the back of the
large room and leaned against the wall, Nico thought about the price a life of
wine exacted. He recognized the back of
every head filling the rows in front of him as the speaker droned on. He knew their histories almost as well as
they did. One guy was a recovering
alcoholic—no longer able to risk tasting his wine, he still made it, slaving
over every nuance of the process. One or
two had hit a home run and now basked in the ability to make limited batch
estate wines that sold for upward of a grand a bottle. Some scratched out an existence on the
strength of their wine clubs. Most
turned large fortunes into small, proving the old joke. And then there were a very few, like Nico,
who had been born to winemaking or grape growing, selling their skills to those
who could pay. Despite differing
backgrounds, and differing futures, wine glued them together.
Except for Avery Specter, Nico’s
current employer.
As if thought could conjure flesh,
Avery materialized in front of Nico, his usual ruddy complexion flushed hotter
than normal. With his eyes at half-mast,
his comb-over falling the wrong way in wisps of misplaced hair, exposing his
bald pate, he looked like exactly what he was:
a self-important prick who’d made a fortune in manufacturing, or
textiles, or running a hedge fund, or something, and had bought his way into
the wine business.
Specter grabbed Nico by the arm and
tugged him into the vestibule as he hissed, “Have you read this report?” Stopping in the center of the open area,
Avery turned to face his winemaker and pressed a sheaf of papers into his
chest. “And before we get started, you
need to learn one thing, Treviani. You
come when I call.”
Being treated like a dog to be
trained was enough to kick up Nico’s simmer to a boil, so he wasn’t about to
validate Specter’s contemptuous attitude by making excuses … although he did
have a good one. He figured talking the
sheriff out of turning his twin thirteen-year-old nieces over to the Juvenile
authorities would earn him a get-out-of-jail-free card, but ego wouldn’t let
him play it. The psychologist said the
girls were just acting out and they’d get beyond it. Fine for him to say—he didn’t have to ride
herd on the heathens. Who knew two
pint-sized females could bring a grown man to the point of complete
surrender? Nico snorted at his own
weakness.
“You think this is funny?” Specter’s voice rose enough to turn heads as
the meeting broke up and Nico’s friends filtered out of the meeting room. When Nico ignored the sheaf of papers,
Specter pulled them back and began rolling them into a tube, his agitation
poorly hidden.
“No, sir.” Nico avoided making eye contact as he fought
to get his temper under control.
“There’s a lot more to life than making wine, Mr. Specter.”
“Not while you’re on my payroll.”
Specter had no children of his own,
and that thought alone reassured Nico that there was indeed a God. But it also made arguing with the man
futile. So he argued with himself. He had sold out. Lowered his standards. And he couldn’t shake the feeling it was
going to bite him in the ass.
“You wanted to talk to me about a
report?” Nico asked even though he knew all about it. Avery Specter might need a report to learn
what had been painfully obvious for years, but Nico didn’t. Hell, he could’ve written the damn thing
himself—he’d been saying as much for a long time now to anyone who would
listen. It didn’t take some government
expert to know the baby boomers were transitioning to fixed incomes, their
penchant for high-end wine taking a hit along with their lifestyle. The next generation, whatever they were
referred to—the Millenials, the Me generation, the Y generation? Nico couldn’t remember, but whoever they
were, they didn’t yet have the disposable incomes or the sophisticated palates
to support the high-end wine industry at the current levels. Something had to give.
Wineries had to reposition
themselves.
Keeping his eyes lowered, Nico managed to
avoid the few stragglers just now leaving the meeting room. It was bad enough being called to heel by his
boss, but having his colleagues witness it threw gasoline on the embers of his foul
mood. A few greeted him, and he nodded
but didn’t invite conversation so they didn’t stop. Out of the corner of his eye, Nico caught
the looks many flashed at Avery: contempt, thinly veiled if they tried to hide
it at all.
Avery wasn’t stupid … anything
but. His barely contained frustration
and worry pulsed from him like light from a dying star making his hands shake
as he unrolled then re-rolled the sheaf of papers into a tighter tube. “Cult
wines are coming under economic pressure and there’s nothing we can do about
it.” His reedy voice screeched like
notes played by a fourth-grade clarinetist.
Nico crossed his arms and glowered
at his boss. Cocking an eyebrow he
feigned interest.
Avery didn’t wilt when he ran
headlong into Nico’s scowl. “They say
that the number of Boomers, the population segment solely responsible for the
record profit of the cult wine industry, is shrinking.”
“Age attrition. People die, Mr. Specter.” Nico’s voice was flat, hard.
Avery’s mouth pulled into a thin
line. His backbone straightened. But at six feet he was still several inches
shorter than Nico, so he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I like being talked down to about as much as
I like tardiness. You’re property bought
and paid for. You’d be wise not to jerk
my chain.”
“And you’d be wise to show a bit
more respect. You need me, Mr.
Specter. Without a winemaker making
wine’s damned difficult. And you want
high-priced juice, so you need a man with my CV—and, to my knowledge, there is
only one.”
Heels firmly dug in, both men stared
at each other. Neither wavered.
Finally, Specter shrugged as his
gaze slithered to the side, focusing over Nico’s shoulder. “I know what people think of me around
here. You people think I haven’t paid my
dues. I don’t have wine running in my
veins, filling my soul.” His derision
leaked from each word. “You think I’m
the worst kind of blight since phylloxera—a businessman thinking he can buy his
way into making great wine. And you know
what?” He stepped back and slapped the
rolled-up report into Nico’s chest.
“That’s exactly what I am.” He
shot Nico a grin. “Working pretty good
so far, don’t you think?”
Nico grabbed the papers before they
could unfurl like the white flag of surrender in the heat of battle. A tic worked in his cheek as he watched the
bastard saunter away. Avery Specter
didn’t deserve much, he thought. Perhaps
a grisly, lingering, painful death and a pine box, but not much more than that.
Nico felt someone step in next to
him, but, wearing the blinders of pride, he resisted looking to see who.
“He’s wrong, you know. To me he’s more like Pierce’s disease. Kill a vine in less than five years and no
cure in sight. Phylloxera we got under
control.” Billy Rodrigues clearly had
been eavesdropping, a fact that would make Nico mad if Billy wasn’t his best
friend.
At the sound of Billy’s voice, Nico
felt himself relax. “Quatro, you do have
a way with words. Let’s hope he and his
friends don’t kill the wine business.”
Nico called Billy “Quatro” as did many others, because he was William
Xavier Rodrigues IV. His father was
Tres, same logic. Nico called him “Sir.”
Through the years, he and Quatro had
witnessed many of each other’s indignities; one more wouldn’t matter. “But there is another side to all of
this. And maybe I’m justifying,” Nico
said, his temper dissipating. “God, I
hate to give the guy any credit, but without money it’s damn hard to make a
truly great cult wine. When you and me
scratched our way up the ranks, making wine was like voodoo, a bunch of wine
drinkers relying on folklore and playing around with a kid’s chemistry
set. And the growers were nothing more
than hobby farmers. But now, with
property values through the roof, international distribution agreements,
hundreds of wineries in this valley alone, it’s big damn business. ” Nico shot
his friend a serious look minus the scowl he’d used for Specter.
“I still can’t figure whether that’s a good
thing or a bad thing.” Quatro was thick
and solid, his hair and skin different shades of brown, his eyes black, and his
smile pure mischief. He’d been working
the fields so long his hands were a mass of callouses permanently stained from
red dirt, and red grape skins, and scarred by the brutal work. As if remembering his manners too late,
Quatro swept his sweat-stained broad-brimmed straw hat from his head then raked
his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. When he was done, he set his hat back in
place, low over his brow.
“Both. More money to go around, but long-time
residents are being priced out of the game.”
Nico stuck the tube of papers in his back pocket. “All of us are in this together, the whole
Valley. If we don’t figure out how to
distinguish ourselves, the economic contraction is going to squeeze us all back
into oenophilic oblivion.”
“All your awards—”
“Couldn’t save the family vineyard
or keep my brother from dying.” Nico
snarled as his brows snapped into a frown.
The emotional tempest dissipated as fast as it had arisen. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Sorry.
Got a lot on my mind.”
“You made a 100-point wine from
Beckstoffer grapes. And we all know they
are the best.”
“I made the wine. My employer makes the money.” Nico didn’t voice his fear that now, without
his brother, his wine wouldn’t be as good.
They’d been a team. Was half
really as good as the whole? And, his
worst fear, could he even make wine without his brother? “What I need is something new, something
better than Beckstoffer.” Nico raised
his hand before Quatro could get a word in.
“Not better, that was the wrong term.
Just different, but not too far a reach for the discerning but limited
American palate. Something amazing that
we can produce at a reasonable price point.”
“Amazing yet accessible. The Holy Grail. Well, if anybody can do it, you can. But God knows where you’re going to find
those grapes. And I know you’re a Cab
guy, but, if I were you, I’d be thinking about something white or rosé.”
“Yeah, short or no aging, quick to
market. I got an MBA in the family who’s
been singing that song for years. We
just haven’t found the grapes.”
“I’m pretty sure if you start making
wine on the side, Mr. Specter will have no problem dragging you into court. As
I recall his lawyers spent a lot of time crafting your non-compete. He’s got you tied up pretty good.”
“Given time and conviction all knots
can be loosened.”
AUTHOR BIO:
My
mother tells me I was born in Texas a very long time ago, but I’m not so
sure—my mother can’t be trusted. She’ll
also tell you I was a born storyteller.
That I believe—I have the detention notices and bad-conduct reports to
prove it. However, the path from minor
hyperbolist, or as I prefer to think of my former self, Grand Master of the Art
of Self-Prevarication, to the author of the New York Times Notable Crime Novel
and double Rita ™ finalist, Wanna Get Lucky?, the book that launched the
bestselling series, was a bit tortured.
Someone
once told me I lived a peripatetic life—yes, I had to look it up. And he was right. I’ve been everything from a mom, business
owner, accountant, wife, pilot, flight instructor, lawyer …worse, a tax lawyer…
to a writer. The three personas I’ve kept suit me the best: mom, flight
instructor, and writer. And the other personas I’ve tried on then shrugged out of
and discarded like an itchy coat were great grist for the story mill.
Chasing
stories keeps me busy and out of jail…for the most part. Researching in Vegas
can be a bit… sketchy.
Prodded
by the next adventure and the police, I keep moving. Right now I have a house
in Texas, but that will change soon. I lived in Vegas for 15 years—the longest
I’d stayed anywhere. And I get back there often. But other places, too, are
calling.
Someone
asked me the other day where I lived. The question stopped me cold. Finally I said, “On Southwest Airlines, third
row, window seat, either side.” Always in search of a story. And the adventure would be perfect if they
could just stock a split of nice Champagne.
Giveaway:
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