Chapter 6
Raffi
Raffi was at home—a town house that was a recent build, modern and sleek inside—after a fabulous lie-in until ten.
He was about to brew his first cup of sourj for the day to cure himself of the hellish hangover he’d gotten after a night out with Chris and way, way too many martinis.
It was a few days after Ani and Sanan had come to the winery, and he and his father had gotten into one of their famous rows after his dad tripped but luckily caught himself—although Raffi had suggested, again that his father get a cane.
His dad must have been in a foul mood from something else because he lost it on Raffi, threatening to take back the winery and revoke his inheritance, blah blah blah.
Raffi, not feeling like backing down, told his dad he didn’t need any inheritance, could make it on his own, and as for the winery, he was running it beautifully, thank you very much.
The truth was, the wine itself was good, maybe even great, but no one had heard about ?.
They were too new, there was too much competition, and Raffi was having trouble selling bottles.
Every trick he’d picked up from his MBA courses fell flat.
All the retailers seemed to have their relationships with suppliers set.
People said they’d look into it and call him back but never did. Raffi was, actually, panicking.
Thank God for the wedding, even if it was Kami’s, Raffi thought as he scooped the finely ground Armenian coffee into the jezveh. He had enough runway that he could wait for the wedding to happen and hope for the PR to work its magic.
But he still wanted to do something else in the meantime.
One of the main skills he’d picked up in his MBA program was how to party, although he had already been a dab hand at it.
Still, his fellow business-degree earners loved to organize and throw parties of all themes.
He should do that at ?. Invite them all, his book club, too, of course, plus the more rager-y types who would guarantee the function wouldn’t be a bore—and buy bottle after bottle.
He resolved to get a date on the calendar and contact them.
As he watched the coffee begin to bubble, he remembered Ani saying something about picking out stone tile for the flooring.
He gave the wedding planner a call.
“Ani jan,” he said, suddenly in a good mood, although he hadn’t had his first sip of coffee yet.
He heard her voice over the phone’s speaker.
“Raffi, what’s up?”
The sound of her reminded him of the shed.
The two of them locked in together, Ani shivering to herself, pretending she wasn’t freezing her ass off.
She’d been so shocked when he put his coat on her; it was like no one had ever done something nice for her in her life.
That, or she thought so little of him that she couldn’t believe he’d give up his warmth for her.
When she had handed his coat back, he picked up the faintest scent of orange blossoms. For some reason, long after she left, he kept catching the phantom scent of it.
“Today’s stone-picking day, right?” he asked.
“Something like that, yes.”
The coffee foamed, threatening to boil over. Perfect. Raffi lifted it off the burner, turned the stove off, and began to pour.
“You know I’m coming with you.”
“Raffi, I am well qualified to select stone tile on my own.”
“Ani jan,” he said, privately reveling in adding that jan, that little appendage of admiration to her name, “I told you I need to approve every last nail, plant, and piece of tape that gets put up at my winery. I’m coming.”
There was silence on the other end, and he wondered if he had pushed too far, reminding her of their first unfortunate interaction. He took the moment to sip his sourj. It was excellent, just the right amount of sweetness.
“Fine. I was going to go to a place near SF, but since you’re coming, too, there’s an even better warehouse just outside Napa. Richland Tile Company.”
Raffi noted that he was still in his pajamas.
A very fine silk set from Paris, a gift from his mother—the only type of love she bestowed these days, if he could even call it that.
After Sevan died, Raffi’s mother absconded to Europe and Beirut, where she stayed the vast majority of the year.
She came back for Christmas and Nor Dari…
sometimes. Always with bags and bags of presents, with smiles and stories of her friends, like she hadn’t actually abandoned him.
He’d tried to press her on it once, years ago, and at first she waved it off, saying she came back, didn’t she?
Raffi had his own life, and Moush was always working, so why couldn’t she have a little fun?
And when he pushed further, his mother burst into tears, saying her only remaining son hated her, why had God been so cruel? And on and on.
And Raffi agreed. Fate had been cruel, but his parents’ responses to the tragedy…
they could have controlled that. They could have risen up at some point, eventually, and noticed there was still another kid who was missing his absolute best friend in the world, who needed his parents more than ever. But they never did.
He plucked those thoughts from his mind and looked up this tile place. Fifteen minutes north of him. She’d have quite a drive.
“Why don’t we carpool? It’s far from you. I have this company van, and if we need to pick up any materials, we can throw them back there.”
There was momentary silence.
“Fine. See you at the winery.”
He hadn’t meant that they should meet at the winery, but he was suddenly sheepish at the thought of suggesting she come to his place.
So they met at the winery.
Ani showed up looking fine as hell in a power business dress that clung to her every curve. Raffi tried not to think about any of them and focused on the task ahead.
She locked her gaze with his when they said hello, and he was momentarily awed again at the beauty of her large doe-like eyes.
“Shall we?” he asked, and held open the van door for her.
It was one of those white industrial vans for couriers or serial killers.
A tad creepy but useful for hauling materials.
One of his employees had convinced his dad that it was a necessary purchase.
Certainly not the type of vehicle Raffi would roll in.
No, he preferred the understated elegance of his vintage Jaguar.
But again, he was here trying to exude professionalism, so shady delivery chic it was.
“Thanks,” she replied, but it sounded like a curse.
“What should we listen to?” he asked, then answered his own question. “Harout, obviously.”
“Nothing like the original Armenian pop star himself shuttling us on our way to buy tiles for the soon-to-be-greatest Armenian winery in Napa.”
Raffi fiddled with the screen, scanning to find the perfect Harout song for this moment. The right vibe, something light and celebratory. She’d called his winery the greatest.
They listened to a collection of Harout’s top hits and did not speak much on the drive over, Raffi finding himself strangely nervous and wanting to impress Ani.
“Have you seen him in concert?” he finally asked.
“Once, I think, at the Armenian school, such a long time ago.”
“Weird, me too. I must have been at that same concert.”
Raffi kept his eyes on the road, but he heard a smile in Ani’s voice as she said, “Funny to think about little-kid versions of us jamming to Harout Pamboukjian on the Armenian school’s dance floor.”
“I went hard that night,” Raffi said.
“Didn’t we all?”
“Of course,” Raffi ventured, hoping it wouldn’t sound too braggy, “that wasn’t the only time I saw him. Dad hired him to play at his fiftieth birthday party.”
Ani rolled her eyes with a smile. “Of course he did.”
“What Moushegh wants, Moushegh gets,” Raffi said. Except for rerouting Kami’s wedding elsewhere. This one? This is what Raffi wants.
“You guys, uh, close?” Ani asked.
He remembered now that she’d overheard Dad with his little comment about him never becoming a man. He cringed at the memory, shame prickling under his collar, and inwardly winced.
“Not really. But I don’t know—I’m hoping with me running the winery, which was his dream, not mine, maybe that might change.”
“I see,” she said. Raffi wanted to ask her what exactly she saw, because he was afraid he’d shown too many cards once again and needed confirmation.
What was it about this woman that made him divulge his thoughts, ones he believed he had kept balled tightly in his fist?
She loosened his hold on them. To avoid further spillage, he kept quiet.
Then she unexpectedly said, “You know, there’s this legendary nursery not too far from Richland Tile. Small family-run place that sells the most stunning blooms. I bet we could snag some eye-catching shrubbery for your winery. You interested in checking it out afterward?”
“Of course,” Raffi said, sounding overeager. Ani nodded, seemingly pleased.
Soon after, they reached the tile store. When they entered, a statuesque brunette woman greeted them.
“Hello, welcome to Richland Tile. Happy to help you with anything.”
“Great,” Ani said, taking the lead. “We’re looking for poetry stones for outdoor landscaping.”
The woman clasped her hands. “Wonderful! Are you two remodeling your home? Newlyweds?”
“Oh, no,” Ani said, with way too much horror in her voice.
“Oldlyweds,” Raffi joked, clapping Ani on the shoulder.
He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him, but it may have been that look from earlier, the look in Ani’s eyes when he opened the van door for her.
The way she’d riffed off him in the van, the thought of their little selves dancing the night away to Harout so many years ago.
“Wow, you two must have gotten married young,” the sales rep said.
“Sure did,” Raffi said. “High school sweethearts.”
Ani stared at him, a naughty smirk picking up. “I hated him at first. He was such a spoiled jerk.”
The sublime curve of her neck. That smile.