Kissing Under the Mistletoe (10 page)

“I was talking about the town’s public perception,” ChiChi clarified with a laugh that let Regan know just how bad she appeared at the moment. “We need to modernize our image without losing all of the tradition that makes this town special. Prove to the people that we aren’t a bunch of crazy old bats. Those pushy PTA moms are driving us nuts with social media this and twatting that. The minute they figure out the only thing we know how to do on the Interweb is shop for men—”

“And book trips to Vegas,” Pricilla added with an excited nod.

“Not to mention how we lost Randolph...” ChiChi trailed off and made the sign of the cross.

“There’s already whispers of impeachment. Our mothers founded the Community Action Committee over seventy years ago, and this silicone, nannyfied, yoga pants–wearing posse—” Lucinda stopped, her hands shaking. The cat hissed. “This is war, Regan, and we need a secret weapon.”

Regan scooted to the edge of the toilet. She could be their secret weapon. Last year she had consulted part-time with a high-end kids clothing boutique in Portland, helping them grow their social media presence and attract new clientele. Even though the contract had only lasted six months, she had quickly become a Twitter goddess, creating a black book filled with blogging mommies who could help spread the word, and she hated yoga pants on design alone.

“Hang on, honey,” ChiChi said. “I see that got your attention, but before you begin dreaming of Fendi and fittings with Valentino, the actual budget for the position is...well, nonexistent really.”

“That damn PTA took away our hiring power after we offered the summer dance instructor position to a stripper we met on one of our trips to Vegas.” All three women went dreamy-eyed at Pricilla’s words. “He had a marvelous cha-cha.”

“PTA or not,” ChiChi said, “without us the school’s art program would have died out when the dot-com industry went into the crapper. So all we can offer you is a nonpaid position, but according to our bylaws, members of the Community Action Committee gain free tuition for all of their offspring. You could build your résumé, and Holly would be able to stay here at St. Vincent’s.”

“This is so wonderful, but,”
I slept with your grandson-in-law!
“I don’t have a job or a place to—”

In went another truffle, this one milk chocolate and rum, cutting off all her reasons for why she couldn’t stay.

“I would hire you back if I could,” ChiChi said, wiping a chocolate smudge off Regan’s cheek. “But the family made a decision and I was outvoted. No matter how much I adore you, we are Italian, after all.”

Regan wished she was Italian. It sounded safe and warm.

“So I got on the e-mail this morning,” Lucinda said proudly. “My cousin, Perkins, says you can rent his place. He owns the St. Helena Corkery.”

“You want me to move my daughter into a corkery?”

“Goodness no, that would be silly,” Lucinda said, stroking her cat. “He renovated the upstairs into an apartment for when Ruth kicks him out. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, within walking distance to school, and available immediately.”

“What happens when Ruth kicks him out again?”

“He’d sleep in the corkery,” she said as if Regan were slow-witted. “Plus, we’re Baudouins. The second Perkins heard that Gabriel was giving you a hard time, he offered the space. No credit check needed.”

“But she’s a DeLuca.” Regan pointed her chin at ChiChi.

“I, my dear, am a Ryo. The second oldest family name in the Valley.” Her tone told Regan to
never
make that mistake again. “And as such, I never took my husband’s name. Created quite a stir in town. Although my husband loved my independent streak.” She eyed Regan carefully, her expression turning thoughtful. “You remind me of myself when I was your age, which is why I’m telling you that there is a job at the Napa Grand Hotel with your name on it. Just say the word.”

There went the tears again because, God, how long had it been since she’d felt like she had someone in her corner? Not since her mom died.

She closed her eyes and took in the moment, knowing that this feeling wouldn’t last. Because they still didn’t know who she was—the real reason Gabe had fired her. Not that she got to voice her concerns, because Pricilla shoved another truffle in her mouth.

“Don’t fall to your knees yet,” ChiChi said. “I believe it’s in the house management department.”

And just like that, Regan’s heart started to ache, either from too much chocolate or from the fact that she was a single mother, homeless, with three hundred dollars in the bank and had just been offered a job as cleaning lady. Just like her mom.

Regan had worked hard not to become a statistic, to build a better life for herself. And here she was looking at a future of sore feet, backaches, and—she glanced down at her glossy nails, trimmed cuticles, soft, clean skin—chapped hands.

Her mother’s voice played in her head.
Work is work, mija. As long as it’s honest, puts food in your belly, and a roof over your head, there is no reason to feel shame.

Could she do this? Sacrifice her hard-won dreams to clean toilets?

Yes
, she thought without hesitation. For Holly, she could do anything. She would just invest in rubber gloves. Rubber gloves and masks, she amended. The risk of being mistaken for an H1N1 carrier didn’t outweigh the exposure to all of the chemicals.

The one thing she was not willing to sacrifice, however, was her integrity. And she knew that she had reached the place in the agenda for her to pull on her big-girl panties and fess up.

“Did you know that Gabe fired me because I had an affair with your grandson-in-law?”

ChiChi snorted, waving her hand dismissively. “Of course, child. Richard always was fond of playing hide the sausage. Interns being his favorite opponents. Now, do we have a deal or not?”

A motor roared and sputtered, then kicked in from right behind Gabe. It was followed by a lot of pounding, banging, and finally Barry Manilow singing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Gabe rolled over, his face sticking to the leather, and almost fell off the couch.

“Crap,” he muttered, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Language,” ChiChi scolded from fifteen feet away. The pantry door slammed to punctuate her disapproval.

“It’s Sunday.” Gabe took in his slacks, button-down, the godawful time of the day and sighed. “And seven. In the morning.” Which meant that he’d achieved less than three hours of sleep.

Between figuring out how to get Regan to stay while making sure Abby was insulated and dealing with the marketing disaster that was quickly becoming Ryo Wines, Gabe was spent.

“Which is why I’m baking my famous fruitcake.”

Gabe cringed. ChiChi’s fruitcakes were famous, all right—famous for causing heartburn and bringing fear into the digestive tracts of thousands.

There went the motor again. Giving up on sleep, and in desperate need of coffee, Gabe pushed himself up and ran a hand through his hair, which from the feel of it was a pretty epic case of bed head. He padded into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

ChiChi stood at the island, elbow deep in dough. She immediately began tutting when Gabe leaned against the counter and she saw what he was wearing. Her white coiffed crop shook in judgment while she mumbled something about him needing a wife.

ChiChi had two goals in life: getting her some great-grandbabies and irritating the hell out of her grandkids.
Often they worked in conjunction. She also was known as the town busybody, meaning she was busy being in everybody’s business. And if she was here, in his kitchen, on a Sunday morning, then something was up.

“What are you doing here, Nonna?”

“I already said, making a cake.” She paused, her penciled brows disappearing into her hairline. “Well, not for you with that look.”

“What look?” Gabe forced his face to relax. It wasn’t working; just the smell of those candied cherries was messing with his gut.

“The look of horror you get every Christmas when I pull out
the
pan.” ChiChi shot him the look that had been able to silence him and his brothers since they were babies. “Don’t you believe for one minute that I don’t know you toss out my fruitcake when you think I’m not looking. Now Marco”—ChiChi dumped a bowl of flour into the blender, a cloud of white dust covering everything—“he loves my fruitcake.”

Marc hated her fruitcake. He fed it to his dog one year and had to get the poor thing’s stomach pumped. “Then why don’t you cook
that
over at
his
place?”

ChiChi stopped. She had flour on her cheek and molasses dripping all over his counters. “Are you saying you would rather I leave?”

Gabe walked over to his grandma, pulling her in for a one-armed hug and making sure to hold his breath since she had already opened the prunes. “Nah, Nonna. I was just surprised to see you here so early.”

“I figured I’d cook you a nice breakfast and we could talk about Christmas. I miss my grandson.”

“That sounds nice.” Gabe kissed her forehead, not caring that she tasted like rum and cinnamon.

ChiChi smiled and went back to her cake. “Plus, if I made this at Marco’s he would think it was for him. I’m making it for that nice young woman, Miss Martin.”

Gabe choked on his coffee, the hot liquid scorching his throat.

This was exactly why he’d told his brothers that keeping Regan here was a bad move. The last thing they needed was ChiChi taking Regan under her wing only to be crushed when she discovered who she really was.

“I heard she’s leaving town,” he said casually when he’d recovered. “Probably won’t be here for Christmas.”

“That’s a shame. I really like her.”

“You like everybody.”

ChiChi stopped folding in the currants and gave him a pointed look. “I don’t like you all that much right now.”

“What?”

He must have looked as shocked as he felt because ChiChi placed a hand on his cheek. He could feel the batter stick to his stubble.

“Oh, Gabriel, don’t look so hurt. Even though you are a difficult person to like at times, I love you like you’re my own.”

“I
am
your own.”

“I know.” She patted his cheek and went back to those prunes. “Which is why I set you up with—what was her name?—the snobby girl who had the fat pumped in her lips and her—”

She gestured to her breasts, batter splattering on the floor, and Gabe closed his eyes.

Snobby? “You like Isabel.”

“That woman is entitled and elitist.”

Gabe held back a smile. Under her “One Hot Nonna” apron, ChiChi wore a designer pantsuit, diamond bracelet, and earrings that cost more than Vixen’s car.

“I see how you are looking at me and stop it. I work hard and love hard, and I have earned every penny I have ever spent. That Isabel is a terrible mother and everyone in town knows that she’s just looking for a father for her kids and a last name that will bring credibility to her daddy’s plastic cork company.”

ChiChi was the most independent, hardworking woman Gabe had ever met. Even though she’d married into the DeLuca family, she had worked that field every crush, and when Gabe’s grandfather died, she’d stepped in to take over as head winemaker for DeLuca until Nate was old enough. To this day her opinion still reigned supreme when it came to creating new blends.

“Then why did you sucker me into taking Isabel to the company Christmas party?”

“Because she’s had her eye on you since even before she lost that wedding ring of hers.” ChiChi gave one final mix and then scooped the batter into the pan. It landed with a loud thwack. “I was afraid that she’d corner you when you were alone and use her synthetic wiles to get into your bed.”

Her synthetic wiles had already been in his bed after husband number two walked and before number three entered the scene. And that was not something he wanted to relive anytime soon. Sure she was hot in that pampered socialite kind of way, but Gabe was looking for a good time and the last thing he wanted was an instant family. He’d already
raised one and had no intention of signing on for another. “So you set me up with someone you don’t like? That makes no sense at all.”

ChiChi slid the cake in the oven, washed her hands, and, ignoring the disaster she had made of his kitchen, took a seat at the table, gesturing for Gabe to do the same.

“I wanted you to see what your life would be like if you didn’t pull your head out of your backside. To show you how being selfish can spoil you.”

Selfish? That pissed him off. If anything he was self
less
. The fact that his family kept overlooking what he’d given up really hurt. Normally it didn’t bug him, but lately, ever since Regan had come into town, he’d started to resent it.

“When Mom and Dad died—”

ChiChi closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. When she was done with her “God blesses” and “Lord rest their souls,” he continued.

“I stepped into a position that I never asked for.” Or wanted. “I walked away from art school, my friends, everything, so that this family could keep functioning. I became a parent to Abby, Marco, Trey, and, to an extent, Nate. I stepped in as president of a company that Dad had mismanaged for so long it was barely turning a profit, and lost—”