“Meat loaf and mashed potatoes. When’s the MRI?”
“Tomorrow at four.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“Always. Oh, you mean the MRI? Nah. But I do want that meat loaf.”
“Nasty boy!”
We had dinner, some of the most phenomenal sex in the history of the world, and somehow lying with my head on his shoulder made everything seem like it was going to be okay. I sort of said a prayer for him and for Nonna and then realized that I had said a prayer for the first time in many years. But like every lousy sinner on the planet, I would admit that I called the Big Guy in the penthouse when I was afraid. And whether I could further admit it or not, it almost always made me feel better.
The next morning we didn’t speak of Michael’s MRI. We were the kind of denial specialists who would talk about it when it was about one minute to four. I knew that any conversation about it would only increase his anxiety, and what was the point of that? Besides, we didn’t know any more today than we did last night. We had to wait for the facts.
All I said was, “Hey, if you need me this afternoon, just give me a call.”
He kissed me on my forehead and said, “You worry too much.”
Yeah, sure.
The morning was a blur. The afternoon was a blur. Around three I started fidgeting. Bomze breezed into my office with a stack of wine-country books and saw me cleaning out my desk. I almost never cleaned out my desk. If I was missing an earring, I might restack the clutter. But to actually check the two thousand or so Post-its and then copy the information to a permanent home and toss the notes? Only for a photo shoot, never for the sake of cleanliness or organization.
“Grace?”
“Oh, hi, Bomze. What’s up?”
“Is there an impending nuclear attack? Are you quitting?”
“Very funny. I just decided to reorganize a little, that’s all.”
“Yeah, sure.” He sat on one of the chairs in front of my desk. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, God. You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do or I wouldn’t ask.”
I looked at him and thought about it for a minute and then decided to tell him because I needed to tell somebody. “Michael’s having an MRI in about thirty minutes. That’s all. We went out to dinner last Friday and he…” That was it. I lost it. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. “Sorry. I just…I’m so scared, Bomze. I’m just so scared.”
Bomze’s face, always animated, became somber.
“Well, you’ve had a helluva time lately, haven’t you? First your grandmother, now this?” He got up and came around my desk to give me a hug. “I know you could file a complaint with the EEOC for this inappropriate behavior, but screw them, you need a hug.”
“You’re right. I do.”
He patted my back as he gave me a hug and I thought it was about the sweetest thing anyone had done for me in a long time. I was always such a rock. I never got upset. I was the wise guy with some sassy remark to suit any occasion—the tough Jersey girl. Now I thought I might dissolve from worry. Then Bomze held me by my shoulders and looked at me so seriously he hardly looked like himself.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No. Yeah. I don’t know.”
“Start at the beginning, Grace, and let me help you.”
I told him everything, and when I was finished he walked to the window and looked down at the street.
“So what do you think?”
“You really love this guy, don’t you?” Bomze squinted as he spoke and his words were deliberate.
“Like no other. Ever. He’s it for me, Bomze. He’s all I want. What do I do?”
Bomze sighed, looked away from me for a moment and then faced me. “I think…I think that when you see him tonight, you put on your most fearless face, you throw your shoulders back, and you make him a strong drink. Make one for yourself, too. And then I think you tell him that he shouldn’t worry, that he’s going to be fine and that you’re in this with him. You’re a team. It could be something very simple, Grace. Sometimes people have a seizure and it doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“Or it might.”
“Yes, it might. But if it does, there are so many advances in medicine. Shoot, every time I pick up the paper there’s some new discovery about some darn disease.”
“Well, there’s no point in being pessimistic until there’s a reason for it, right?”
“A friend of mine used to say that worriment was like paying the toll twice—wait till you see if there’s a toll on the bridge before you start digging around for change.”
“That’s a popular saying, but it’s excellent advice anyway. Thanks, Bomze.”
“You’re welcome, Principessa. I hate to see you with this concern on your pretty face.”
“Thanks, Bomze. I mean it.”
We were quiet for a moment and then he said, “Okay, then. Now, are you all set for Napa? I brought you these books to look over, thinking they might give you some other things to talk about. It’s a long flight, after all.”
“Good idea. Thanks.”
The afternoon crawled by at glacier speed. Michael had not called. I suspected the test was taking a while, or maybe they were running late, or who knew? I just kept checking my watch, and when it was five I was out the door and on the way to pick up Chinese food for supper. I had zero desire to cook.
When I walked in Michael was asleep on the sofa and the afternoon news was on. I tiptoed around until he finally woke up.
“Hey!” he said, coming into the kitchen, scratching his stomach. “They gave me something to make me relax and I feel like I could sleep till next week.”
“Hey, baby.” I kissed his cheek. “How did it go?”
“Stupid. Disgusting. The guy who invented that machine must have a thing for jackhammers.”
“What do you mean?”
He poured himself a glass of water. “Well, they tell you it’s claustrophobic, but they don’t tell you how noisy it is. They give you Valium or something like it, earplugs, an IV to shoot in the dye, and just when you’re all cozy on this sliding table, the banging starts. It is so loud you almost can’t stand it.”
“Humph. I didn’t know that either. So what did the technician say? Anything?”
“Are you kidding? They don’t tell you jack. The radiologist has to read it and it’s like, I dunno, fifteen hundred images? Anyway, they said I’d know something Monday or Tuesday of next week. They’ll call me. What’s that? Lo mein?”
“Yeah. Pork. Jeesch. And beef with broccoli. Monday or Tuesday? That’s a long time to wait. Want me to fix you a plate?”
“Yeah, I’m starving.”
“Of course you’re starving. You’re a man. Men are always starving.”
I smiled at him and he ran his hands through his hair, smiling back. “I’m gonna go wash my face.”
We ate and pretended there was nothing to worry about. That weekend we went out for dinner a couple of times and saw a movie and pretended there was nothing to be concerned about. Monday morning I left for Napa as though there wasn’t an entire set of steak knives stabbing me in the heart. I knew, and don’t ask me how, but I knew that this was the last time I would leave him with our lives still intact.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NAPA
We arrived in San Francisco, touching down so gently it was as though the pilots knew they had a bunch of sissies on board. During the flight, I had chatted up the clients and their spouses. They were a great group, wise to the ways of the world, all of them well turned out. In fact, three of the women had the exact same Burberry cotton quilted jacket lined in the same plaid. I made a mental note to burn mine.
We took up most of the Business First cabin. Once the flight attendants saw that we were together, they asked questions and, deciding we weren’t going to be a heavy burden, gave us more generous servings of wine, help with the crossword puzzles and extra cookies.
The driver from Liberty Limou
sines—a smiling fellow named Geraldo Sanchez—was there in the baggage claim holding up a sign with Bomze’s name on it. Fortunately, everyone in this highly efficient crowd had carry-on luggage. No one wanted to keep the grapes waiting.
In the time it took to say Cabernet Sauvignon, we were headed north toward Napa Valley. Geraldo was polite, congenial and anxious to share with us something of what he knew about the area.
“I’ll tell you a little something about the wine country if you would like to hear…”
“Of course!” I said. If Geraldo wanted to be the tour guide for the moment, that was fine with me. After all, he lived in this neck of the woods. I did not. “Would you all like to hear some history?” I asked the group.
“Sure! Please!”
Geraldo cleared his throat, winding up for the pitch. “All right, then. Well, the history of Sonoma and Napa goes way back to the Wappo Indians, who had been here for who knows how long? 2000 B.C.? They named it Napa, which is a Wappo word that means ‘land of plenty.’ Plenty of scary animals, that is. The archaeologists have found the bones of grizzly bears and panthers from a long time ago. Elk, too.
“Anyway, sometime during 1823, a priest, Padre José Altamira, came out here to Sonoma and built a mission. That didn’t last too long because the famous Mexican patriot General Vallejo thought Sonoma would be a good outpost for his government.”
“So that’s why all these places have Spanish names?” someone said.
“Yes. But California wasn’t destined to be part of Mexico. No, not at all. There was an uprising called the Bear Flag Revolt when thirty or so men arrested the general and his men without one bullet! What did they do? They drank wine to mark the surrender!”
“I love it,” one of the group, Alan McGregor, said. “They drank wine!” He was a little tanked from the flight, and as if on cue, his wife burst into laughter so enthusiastic and large that I had to open a window.
McGregor was the largest wine and liquor distributor in the Carolinas. He and his wife, Patsy, were slightly loud, to put it kindly. It was not going to be the Alan and Patsy Show. No, no. To send out a warning shot, I gave them a smile that had a little chill around the edges.
Even in the darkened light of the van, Patsy caught my drift and elbowed Alan. They settled down for the moment. Now, on a curious note, you might have thought they would have been the ones to engage my services in the first place, but they weren’t. I would have thought that the guy making the most money would have wanted to arrange this trip for the pleasure of his best clients, right? After all, he made his living selling wine and spirits to the restaurants that were owned and supported by the other guests on our trip. Although I had only known them for a few hours, it was abundantly clear that Alan McGregor didn’t think he needed to do anything to secure his business with anyone. Like Nonna always says, pride comes before the fall.
It was actually Charleston magazine’s food editor, Mark Jennings, who had called Bomze Platinum Travel. Mark’s idea was to take some of Charleston’s leading taste buds and sensitive noses out to California and see what new trends there were and then to write a feature article about it. He and his wife, Julie, had a genuine interest in food and wine. It always amazed me that people like Mark and Julie could remain so thin and fit—all that eating and drinking. If I had their job, I would be as big as a cow.
Geraldo continued talking. “So these priests who came out here decided to raise grapes, for sacramental use, of course.” He blessed himself and we smiled at his humor.
“I’ve never met a member of the Roman clergy who didn’t like his cup to runneth over!” McGregor said, and laughed loudly at his own very stupid joke. His dutiful wife cackled, caught my eye again and became subdued. There were little moans from the others.
I could see Geraldo’s eyes twinkle with good feelings and he politely waited for a signal to continue again.
“Come on, Geraldo, give us some more,” I said.
“Okay. Well, they convinced the Native Americans to help—read: they turned them into slaves—and so they worked in the vineyards and winegrowing began to flourish. But the wine business really took off when this Hungarian named Haraszthy came along. He brought all kinds of varietals from Europe which did very well in Sonoma because we have great dirt. He was the founder of the BV—the Buena Vista, which is the oldest winery out here.”
“Hmm, how about that? And I never knew there were Indians out here,” I said. “I mean, I just never thought about it. What happened to them?”
“Smallpox,” Geraldo said. “Just about wiped them out.”
“Whew! I never heard that either!” I said.
“And you know Mount St. Helena used to be loaded with silver—hence the Silverado Trail, and then of course there was the gold rush. Anyway, some of those folks who were unlucky in gold or silver turned to forestry and built sawmills all over Napa Valley. They would ship the timber down to San Francisco on the Napa River. And there was a railroad between Vallejo and Calistoga. They still use it today, but it’s for tourists who ride it to have lunch or dinner and roll up and down the valley.”
“That’s the Napa Valley Wine Train, isn’t it?” someone said.
“Yep. Did you folks know that Robert Louis Stevenson took his bride on that train?”
We shook our heads.
“Well, he surely did. This place is what inspired The Silverado Squatters.”
“Hmm. Humph. Well, how about that?” said George and Leigh Murray, extreme foodies from the Lowcountry and wealthy friends of the rich-as-Croesus Josie and Steven Hughes, who owned several restaurants and legendary cellars.
I leaned against my window to rest for a moment. I was tired and, of course, my personal issues kept crawling to the front of my thoughts. It was an unexpected bonus that Geraldo was so personable. Just as Geri Post had done in Sardinia, it looked like Geraldo would add that extra element of knowledge and wit to our trip to the wine country. I was relieved and delighted at the same time. I loved planning logistics and being in charge. I didn’t crave the limelight, nor did I possess the soul of a lost professor who loved to lecture and inform. The perfect trip for me was one that ended without one snag and with the clients finally realizing I had been there in the first place.
I would guess I fancied myself to be something like a director on a film. I set everything up in advance and then watched the action unfold. That’s not all there was to it, though. Here’s the ugly truth: I most especially loved vicarious living.
I knew all too well who I was and, even more, who I was never going to be. I wasn’t rich or powerful, a genius or some great talent. If I hadn’t been involved in this particular side of the travel business, I probably would never have known anyone as interesting, gifted, funny, chic or wealthy as most of my clients were. Or as peculiar. Or as grandiose. Or as immature and petulant, selfish and arrogant, pugnacious and demanding…Were the very rich any different from the rest of us? You don’t have the days left in this lifetime and the next ten for me to tell you how many ways we differ from them.
I loved traveling, eating and drinking like they did, but I also seriously clung to the wide gulf between us. Hell would have been to be born with the supercilious personality possessed by half the wives I met or with an overblown sense of self like half the husbands Bomze Platinum Travel squired around the globe.
But they weren’t so bad either. They could be uproariously funny one minute and unlock the secrets of Dubai’s politics in the next breath. I enjoyed them for all the unexpected things they were because their great wealth gave me the chance to learn and see things I otherwise never would have glimpsed. But once again, here was the critical difference. Working for Bomze may have produced the keys to the chalet that once was home to the shah of Iran, but these people had actually partied with the shah.
We were almost at the Meadowood and I willed an adrenaline surge. There was plenty of work to do before I could put my head on a pillow that night.
Geraldo and the bell
captain quickly unloaded the luggage in the lobby while I checked us all in. Alan and Patsy McGregor immediately discovered the wine bar by the fireplace and drifted over to it with the others. I separated their luggage by couple, looked at them all once more and assigned their rooms.
“The Jenningses will take a Tree Line Cottage, as will the Adens, the Greenes, and I will, too. The Murrays and the Newtons will share the Hillside Terrace Suite, the McGregors will take the Tree Top Suite, and Josie and Steven Hughes will occupy the Oakview Suite,” I said to the desk manager, who ticked the names off on her list.
“Very good, Ms. Russo, and welcome to Meadowood. If there’s anything I or my staff can do to make your stay more enjoyable, just let us know.”
I took a moment to join the group at the wine bar and told them we would have thirty minutes to change or freshen up before dinner at the Martini House.
“Your luggage will be in your rooms, some small tokens of appreciation from Bomze and the Baroness, and oh! I almost forgot. The Meadowood has a fantastic spa, you know. They have generously donated a Cabernet Crush massage for everyone, which is a body polish and massage done with grape seeds and grape-seed oils. All you have to do is call for a time.”
The crowd was atitter over this bit of information and they suddenly couldn’t wait to see their rooms.
“I love it!” Patsy McGregor said. “No point in wasting any grapes!”
“Right. Okay, so…There are golf carts outside with attendants ready to take you to your rooms whenever you are ready.”
I handed each couple their keys and an envelope with my room number and cell number on the front. In the envelope was the itinerary with all the information they needed. I tried calling Michael from my room, but there was no service for my cell phone. Big surprise. We were in the middle of the woods. Rather than pay the premium to use the landline, I decided to wait until we were in St. Helena and try again.
By eight, we were seated around the table and prepared for a feast. The chef appeared from the kitchen and tapped Hampton Greene (the chef from Bailey’s in Charleston) on the shoulder.