Dandelion Dead (3 page)

Pure was the perfect venue for a party. The main area below Simon's office felt expansive and was impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows on the side that faced the back lawn, a high beamed ceiling, a black bar with silver trim, polished hardwood floors, elegant black tables with white tablecloths, and a large black Steinway piano in the corner, where the pianist was warming up.

We lugged the boxes into the kitchen, which was behind the bar, while I texted Simon to let him know that I was here. He replied with a “thumbs-up” emoticon.

We went back and forth to the van several more
times until we finally had all the boxes and supplies in the kitchen, which was a chef's dream—new, modern, with all the gadgets and shiny appliances you could ever need. Simon had spared no expense since he had planned from the outset to host events at Pure to raise its profile in the wine community.

Merrily and Lily quickly went to work and spent the next hour and a half preparing several choices of
amuse-bouche
—bite-size hors d'oeuvres—and the appetizers that would follow. Meanwhile, I focused on the dining room. The tables had been set, but I wanted to add little pumpkins to each table, and pots of locally grown yellow, orange, and pink mums to add fall flavor.

I'd just about finished when Jackson arrived with the first wave of guests, who oohed and aahed at the room and the view. They headed for the bar, or the servers Ivy had hired who were circulating with glasses of Pure wine while classical music was played on the piano. Other servers offered tasty
amuse-bouche
, including broiled oysters with lime butter, shrimp seviche with mint and mango, and cream-cheese pancakes with smoked salmon.

Jackson looked handsome in a crisp aqua-blue dress shirt, black cords, and boots. It had only been a few hours, but I felt so happy to see him again, the same way I'd felt when we first started dating. That's something.

“You look nice.” He gave me a quick kiss. I'd changed into a black cotton turtleneck and a long gray skirt, with a brown vegan belt and vegan boots. I resembled my late aunt Claire, and like her I was tall
and slender with long blond hair, high cheekbones, and good teeth. The teeth of the tiger, my aunt would always say.

“You do, too,” I said, handing him a seltzer with lime. Jackson had been a member of AA for over ten years now. He'd realized he had a drinking problem after his back injury on the job and had luckily sought help and recovered. “How are the dogs doing?”

“Like they've been together forever. How are things here?”

Before I could answer, Nora Evans, the editor of
Wine Lovers
magazine, pushed past us, wearing a long magenta cape over a burgundy-colored dress, and thigh-high boots, along with Ramsey Black, the head of the East End Wine Council. The three other judges, including one from the New York Wine Council, followed them to the bar.

I quickly texted Simon to tell him that the judges had arrived, and he emerged from his office and hurried downstairs. Moments later, David Farmer and Gerald Parker, the assistant winemaker, exited the tasting room.

But Gerald was scowling. In his late thirties, Gerald had a mop of blond hair and an athletic build and was dressed casually in jeans, a Henley shirt, and flip-flops. He came from Oregon and had moved here to take a job at Vista View Vineyards, now renamed Pure. He said something to David, who reacted by storming off to the bar.

Simon went over to calm David down, then walked over to Nora Evans and the other judges and introduced himself. They chatted for a few minutes, and
then Simon led them back to meet David. Crisis averted.

But only temporarily, because Ivy and her identical twin sister entered the main area from the tasting room. Both women were striking, with cupid-shaped faces, pert features, and big blue eyes. Ivy had changed into a sleeveless satin trompe l'oeil designer dress with a cropped pink popover top and a gray skirt with a flared hem, her hair twisted up into a French braid.

I'd learned about high-end clothes when I'd lived with Simon in L.A. He liked to buy them for me, and I didn't mind wearing them then. Now, I dressed more like Amy, who wore a simple but pretty halter dress with a beige, red, navy, and turquoise Southwest print, smocked bodice, and skater skirt, under a comfy-looking denim coat. Her makeup was minimal, except for bright red lipstick, and her hair was up in a loose ponytail.

The two women were arguing. “I wear what I like,” Amy said. “I'm sick of you trying to control me, and my money.”

“If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have any money left. Now smile, Nora Evans is here.”

“There you go, trying to control me again. Stop it!”

Simon left David and the judges and scurried across the floor to break up the fight by separating the two. He took Ivy over to meet Nora, and Amy went to the far end of the bar.

“Simon's going to wear himself out breaking up fights,” Jackson said.

“If he doesn't keep the peace, the event will be a big
bust. They need Nora Evans to enjoy herself, and to love Falling Leaves, Pure's entry in the competition.”

Several other vineyard owners moved in for introductions, including Camille and Carter Crocker of Crocker Cellars, Derek Mortimer of St. Ives Estate Vineyards, Harrison Jones of Wave Crest, and Carla Olsen of Sisterhood Wines. Maybe they were here to charm Nora Evans, spy on the competition, or also get some face time with Ramsey Black, who had moved in to chat with Ivy.

Slender, tall, and lanky, and an aficionado of handmade Savile Row suits, Ramsey Black had been an easy choice to be head of the East End Wine Council because he came from a region in southern France that produced wine similar to ours. With his vast knowledge of wine and winemaking, even though he was only in his early thirties, and his flare for promotion—it had been his idea to team up with
Wine Lovers
magazine for the competition—he was widely liked and respected.

“Wonder what that's about?” Jackson said, and nodded to Ivy and Ramsey, who had taken her hand and was whispering in her ear as she smiled and giggled like a little girl.

“Me, too,” I said. “But it may indicate that Ivy's marriage is in trouble. That and the argument she and David had this morning that I happened to overhear.”

“Sure you weren't eavesdropping?”

“Me? No way.” I gave Jackson a Cheshire-cat grin.

The group by the bar chatted for a few moments more, and then David led them to the tasting room. Simon spotted us and waved us over.

But before we could join him, a short, bald man with glasses hurried up. He and Simon had a brief conversation, and then the man walked off, not looking too happy.

“Who was that?” I said when Simon walked up to us.

Simon made a face. “Leonard Sims, the former owner. He keeps hassling me about selling. He wants the place back, now that he's flush again.”

“That's not going to happen, is it?” I said.

“Are you kidding? No way. Listen, David and Ivy are giving Nora, the editor of
Wine Lovers
, and the other judges a guided tour of the barn and our winemaking process, and a tasting of Falling Leaves. Thought you'd want to come.”

All the servers were circulating, and people were chatting, enjoying the selection of
amuse-bouche
and glasses of wine. Merrily's appetizers would come out next. I could take a quick break.

“We're good.” I took Jackson's hand. “Let's go.”

•  •  •

After a tour of the
winemaking operation, we turned to the tasting room. As opposed to the main space, this room was all wood—the walls, the floors, and the barrels of wine. Simon had added seven large canvases of local nautical and farming scenes in wooden frames by Richard Fiedler, a favorite local artist, which added to the rustic ambience.

Once we'd gathered at the large circular mahogany bar, David uncorked a bottle of the vintage that would be entered in the contest, a pinot noir named Falling
Leaves. The tension and anticipation in the room were palpable as David poured a glass each for Nora Evans, Ramsey Black, and the three other judges.

They sniffed, they sipped, they savored, then Nora Evans pronounced, “Your best yet, David.”

“Agreed, well done, David,” Black said, smiling.
“C'est magnifique!”

The rest of the judges smiled and gave it a thumbs-up.

David burst into a big grin, and Simon slapped him on the back. “That's my boy! Way to go, David!”

But Gerald Parker, the assistant winemaker, sulked. The scowl he'd had on his face earlier had turned into a frown. He threw David a nasty look, but quickly assumed a neutral facial expression once he noticed that I was looking at him. He obviously wasn't happy about being demoted from head winemaker under the previous owner, Leonard Sims, to David's lowly assistant.

The other vineyard owners, including Carla Olsen, Derek Mortimer, and Camille and Carter Crocker, weren't happy about Evans's opinion of the vintage either—although our friend Harrison Jones of Wave Crest seemed pleased for David and Simon—but they all plastered on fake smiles. Next, we were all given a taste of the vintage. I had to agree that it was good. I was no expert, but it seemed crisp and clean and tasted, if this was possible, like fall and was indeed evocative of falling leaves.

Once the tasting was over, Evans and Black needed to go to another event, so David and Simon escorted them and the other judges to the door. When the two returned, both of them felt like celebrating and went over to the bar along with Ivy, Amy, and Gerald to ask
that bottles of Falling Leaves be opened so everyone could enjoy it.

As I walked past to check in with Merrily and Lily on the ETA for the appetizers, David and Gerald were arguing again.

“I am sick and tired of you taking credit for my work,” Gerald said, downing a glass of wine, and promptly grabbing another from a passing waiter.

“You're drunk, Gerald,” Simon said. “Time to go.”

Instead, Gerald stepped closer and poked David in the chest. “Not until you admit that Falling Leaves was my creation.”

“Not true,” David said, pushing him away. “And why don't you try showing some gratitude instead of this poor-me act.”

“For what?”

“For the fact that Simon, Ivy, and I kept you on when Sims sold to us, when it would have been really easy to get rid of you.”

“But we still can,” Ivy said. “So don't push it, Gerald. You're lucky you have a job.”

“I had an unbreakable contract, and you know that. So cut the bull.”

“Try to calm down, Gerry, please,” Amy said.

“Don't start, Amy, or you either,” he said, giving Ivy a nasty look. “My contract isn't up until next month, and you can't do a damn thing about me until then.”

“That's enough,” Simon said. “Time for you to go and sober up. We'll talk about this later.”

“Screw you, Simon.”

Worried that the fight would escalate even more, I waved Jackson over. While Simon had all the physical
conditioning of a bunny rabbit, Jackson, a former cop, kept in shape and was fit and strong, and much more formidable.

“What's going on, Simon?” Jackson said. “Need help?”

Gerald sized him up and decided to back down. But after he did, he turned and said to David, “Screw you! Screw you all!” He downed the rest of his glass of wine and stormed off.

•  •  •

Thankfully, Gerald Parker did not
return, and we were able to begin serving appetizers to the guests, a mix of seafood, vegetarian, and vegan appetizers, including freshly caught broiled scallops, stuffed garlic mushrooms, double tomato bruschetta, citrus shrimp cocktail, oven-roasted cauliflower bites, eggplant wontons, and vegan veggie quiche. Between the
amuse-bouche
and the appetizers, Merrily had outdone herself today. At first David and Ivy had wanted a more conventional menu, but I'd convinced them that this mix was truer to the concept of their vision at Pure: natural, organic, and sustainable. The menu was based on my personal preferences—I'd gone vegan last year, after being a vegetarian for most of my adult life—and to try to entice others to adopt a more plant-based lifestyle by exposing them to tasty alternatives. But instead of my being able to enjoy the guests' reactions to the food, Ivy and Amy were arguing again, loudly enough to be heard from across the room.

“I was trying to support you, Ivy,” Amy said. “Chill out.”

“I don't
need it. I can handle Gerald, and everything else.”

“Oh, I know, that's why Grandfather left you in charge of all his money and holdings, because you've always been his favorite, so together, so responsible.”

“And if you'd ever acted like a grown-up, he would have changed his mind. But we see what happened with that.”

“I never had control over my own life, so how could I do anything but go along and be what you and Grandfather wanted? So just shut up!” Amy turned and tried to grab a glass of wine from Lily as she went by. Lily was doing double duty in the kitchen and on the floor. But as Lily stopped abruptly, the tray tipped over and the glasses fell to the floor, shattering into tiny pieces.

“You are an idiot,” Ivy snapped. “You know that?”

“No, Ivy,” I said. “You do not speak to my servers and friends like that.”

“I'm paying you, Willow, so stay out of it.”

“I absolutely will not.”

“Stop it, Ivy. Be nice,” Amy said, turning to Lily. “It was my fault. Please be careful when you clean this up. I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

“I'll go get the broom,” Lily said, visibly upset.

I hurried ahead of her into the kitchen and grabbed one along with a dustpan, and handed it to her. “If you take care of that, I'll get the drinks. Don't worry. It wasn't your fault. You're doing great. If she says anything else like that to you, find me, and I'll take care of it. I'd like to walk out, but I can't do that to Simon.”