Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
DANNY
I should be used to it by now – feeling like the odd one out, the dumb one, the laughingstock. No matter how well I do in life, what I achieve is never going to be respected by my family. I mean, I’ve just ended a call with a producer who’s raving about me as a new TV talent. He says I’ve got real screen presence, like a preppy James Dean – which I’ll take as a compliment. Most car shows are hosted by guys with fat mustaches and tattooed biceps, or Jay Leno. I’ll be the first to appeal to a young female audience as well as the dudes. The producer’s managed to get a pitch date with Netflix. He’s talking big time worldwide syndication. I could be famous. A global celebrity. A “ Car -dashian”, lol.
But even if I was on the cover of every magazine and hordes of adoring fans followed my every move, my nearest and dearest would still find a way to put me down. My dad would call me out for my inflated ego – a Durant can win, but you’ve gotta stay humble. Nate would nag me about fame being fleeting, and when I’m no longer flavor of the month, he’d say he told me so. Ava would probably troll me on social media and undermine every compliment I receive. Izzy and Max wouldn’t even notice because they’re too busy with their own amazing achievements. Mom? She’d worry about me like she always has. Mom’s a kind person but it’s always been obvious that I was the one kid she lacked confidence in. The one with no discernible talent except making jokes. The one who could never keep up with his siblings. The one who left home with no qualifications or prospects, at least none that would sound good in the Durant family Christmas newsletter.
Fuck it. I have to shake myself out of this funk and focus on what’s good for me. I have to be my own cheerleader, my own best friend. I have to keep trusting my instincts because they’ve served me well so far. I can’t let myself be rattled by anyone, especially not Frankie Armstrong. She’s spending too much rent-free time in my head at the moment, and I need to evict her. Best way to do that is to find another pretty girl to take my mind off things. Might spend this evening at Bartons Hotel. Even if there’s no one to hook up with, I can guarantee I won’t run into family there. Nate’s too much of a homebody now; Ava, too. Frankie’s a beer girl and the only beer they serve at Bartons is top drawer, such as a German fermenting lager for forty-five bucks or a vintage Danish brew that costs a hundred. I doubt even Frankie loves beer that much.
Now I have something to look forward to, I feel better about returning to the fray. I walk back from the workshop. Being among the trees and vines clears my head. Living in L.A. has all the advantages you’d expect from a big, vibrant city, but I make a point of getting into nature whenever I can. I have a place in Santa Monica, and from there I can get to Topanga State Park, hike, or run the trails. Keeps me fit, blows away the cobwebs. Think I’ll look up the best trails around here. It’ll give me an excuse to get away on weekends. If Nate allows it. Or rather Frankie, seeing as she seems to have appointed herself boss.
She’s in my head again.
Focus on the trees, Danny. Smell the summer air. Feel the sun on your skin. Look how the light bounces off that chrome bumper…
That’s a 1967 VW Karmann Ghia convertible. On the far side of the winery pick-up. I jog over to take a closer look. It’s in mint condition, not a speck of rust. Original pale blue paintwork. Dark blue soft top. Pristine white interior. Two doors, four-speed stick shift and a capable 1500cc motor. A perfect example of its kind, and still coveted by a certain type of buyer. Those who love that retro vibe.
Shit. This is Frankie’s car. Hastily, I check to see if she’s watching. Cars are my area of expertise. It’s natural for me to show interest. But I don’t want Frankie to think she has leverage over me because she owns a car that’s desirably tradeable. Best thing to do is pretend I’m only mildly impressed, as if mint classic Karmann Ghia convertibles are a dime a dozen in L.A. Besides, even if Frankie was tempted by my offer, she’d refuse it on principle. Principle being that it will be a cold day in hell before she allows me anything I want. Including my dignity.
Time to meet Nate at the winery office. I have a lot of skills with admin, so I can be useful to him. Plus, the office fits two people maximum, and Nate, I hope, will be off most of the time doing wine-making stuff and caring for Shelby. With luck, I’ll have the place all to myself.
* * *
As I’d hoped, Nate shot the gap after a couple of hours and left me to it. It was fun getting under the hood of a different type of business. Pun intended, of course. Nate’s got systems up the wazoo, so it was simple enough to get a picture of how Flora Valley Wines operates. Nate was right about the skinny profits. They rely on a solid, loyal base of customers, who in good years, take everything they’ve got and don’t quibble too much about price. In bad years – well, it looks like there’ve been a few of those.
Nate and Shelby do have plans. Shelby’s going to make a special higher-end wine for Bartons Hotel, but that will take another year to perfect. Nate and Shelby would love to build a wine tasting space, so they can be part of the whole Sonoma county experience. But construction costs money. The fifty grand Shelby inherited from her aunt would have helped, but now they’ve got a kid on the way, so my guess is they’ll want to put that money into a college fund. No kid of Nate’s will be deprived of a first-class college education.
But those are problems for the coming days. Right now, I’m back in my cramped quarters getting spruced up to go to Bartons. They have a strict dress code, but I’m in the mood for pushing it a little, so I ditch my usual preppy style and adopt a Euro-look, a light-wool double-breasted blazer and matching pleated pants, with a classic white T-shirt. The blazer and pants are light gray with a subtle crosshatch pattern and pale green buttons. White leather sneakers and a pair of vintage Armani sunglasses and the look is complete. No tie, but I think they’ll let me in.
In case you’ve been wondering, I didn’t drive up here in a classic car. They’re fun but can be unreliable over long journeys, so I’m here with a 2009 BMW M3. Rear wheel drive with a 420-horsepower V8 engine. Goes like greased lightning. This evening, however, I will be leaving it at the workshop and going by Uber. As I said, the cops around here are pitiless, and as I’m currently dressed like the kind of guy they’d love to throw in jail and strip search, I don’t intend to take the risk.
The doorman at Bartons lets me in without fuss. Nate says he finds the interior like being in a David Lynch movie, and it is pretty surreal. Blue and gold velvet, subtle concealed lighting, and artfully arranged twigs. Booths for privacy, tables for those who want to gawk. No seats up at the bar so everyone has a clear view of the bar staff at work. They have flawless good-looks, and their movements are weirdly precise. After a few drinks, you might start to believe they’re androids.
One charming young android shows me to a table. Being a good salesman means you know how to size up a room quickly and unobtrusively. Mainly an older crowd tonight. A business vibe, and by business I mean the petrochemicals and diamond mining kind. Numbers with more zeros than seem possible. Who knows how these people get in and out of Bartons without being spotted anywhere else. Teleportation? Secret tunnel system built for international espionage?
“Danny Durant, as I live and breathe.”
Speaking of espionage. At my elbow is Chiara, one of Shelby’s two best friends. Chiara knows everything about everyone. According to Nate, that’s why her name includes the letters C.I.A.
“I heard you were in town,” she says. Of course. She probably knew I was coming to Flora Valley before I did.
“You’re looking good,” she adds. “Extra kudos for the green buttons.”
Chiara works here at Bartons as a hotel receptionist, but she’s obviously not on duty now. She’s wearing a shimmery gray rib-knit dress. Because it’s high-necked and maxi length it should look demure. Because it’s skintight it does not.
Now, before there’s any misunderstanding, I do not want to hook up with Chiara. She’s as beautiful as a model, her looks a striking combination of her Italian father and Afro-Caribbean mother. She’s also made it very clear that she has aspirations beyond Verity, and even beyond the rarefied atmosphere of Bartons and the obscenely wealthy connections she can make here. In a couple of years, when she’s saved enough to give her parents a decent nest egg, she’ll be jet-setting away. I admire her ambition, and I enjoy her company. But I also like to keep her at a safe distance. Who knows what dude with a private army might take exception to me horning in? Chiara knows martial arts, so she can protect herself. Me, not so much.
“You aren’t waiting for anyone,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Nope,” I reply. “You?”
“Probably,” she replies, but slides into the chair next to me, anyway.
“Am I going to get a poison dart in the neck if you sit with me?”
She smiles, which isn’t reassuring. The android waiter slides up beside us and dispenses two glasses of sparkling water.
“Good evening,” they say. “Our feature cocktail tonight is an homage to Moorish Iberia, with vintage Armagnac, Dutch jenever, crème caramel tea, vermouth, an acorn infusion, and a cacao leaf tincture.”
“Two, thank you, Aubrey,” says Chiara.
“No octopus milk? I’m disappointed.”
Chiara ignores me and my lack of class.
And says, instead, “So – you and Frankie. When will you accept that you have a thing for each other?”
PSA: never take a mouthful of sparkling water before Chiara plays her opening gambit. Some minutes later, after I’ve stopped coughing and the last bubbles have drained from my sinuses, I’m able to speak.
“What the actual?” I say. “Frankie Armstrong hates me!”
“Yes, I gather you’ve been bickering like cats,” says Chiara. “It’s always fun when a relationship starts off that way. Spices it up no end.”
I’m goggling at her, mouth open like a fairground clown.
“You’re insane,” I manage. “Frankie and I will never have a relationship. For one, I’m not attracted to her.”
“Is that the smell of pants on fire?” Chiara says, with a smile. “It could be woodsmoke birch spirit, but I think not.”
I give up. I know when I’m beaten. Even Ava bows down to Chiara’s skills.
“Okay, so she’s gorgeous,” I admit. “But come on, she’d rather see me tarred and feathered than naked in her bed.”
Of course, that’s exactly when the waiter appears with our cocktails. This being Bartons, not a flicker of surprise crosses their face. They’ve probably overheard plans for world domination, so rough justice with a hint of nudity is a mere trifle.
“You know that for certain, do you?” Chiara asks, after the waiter has glided away. “Without a shadow of a doubt?”
“I don’t suppose I can ask you to confirm or deny, can I?” I say. “It would save me a lot of time, and potential humiliation.”
“I’ve got you this far—” Chiara removes an entire ikebana arrangement from her glass. “You now accept the possibility of an alternative perspective. That a relationship with Frankie Armstrong is a viable goal. A point to which you were very easily led, might I add. I thought we would have needed at least two cocktails to get you to cave.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But now the baton is in your hand, and you need to run with it.”
She sips her cocktail. Seems to find it palatable. I suspect that even if it were pure cyanide, she’d have trained herself to overcome its effects.
“Why do you do this?” I ask. “Get involved in people’s love lives?”
“Because they need me to.” Chiara clinks her glass on mine. “Bottoms up.”