Miranda
“You know, you need a different truck,” she told him after savoring the last delicious mouthful.
“I was under the impression that you enjoyed this truck,” he said with heat in his voice, referencing the several occasions they’d made out and more in these very seats, and once while lying in the flatbed, covered in blankets and quilts while they watched for a supposed comet to streak across the sky.
They’d missed the comet, but the sky had been positively crowded with stars, and the sex had been as spectacular as any astronomical event.
“You can keep it for dates,” she acquiesced. “But for anything work related, you need something used and beat up.”
“This is too flashy?”
She nodded. “No one trusts you.”
“You’re just telling me this now?”
“In my defense, I didn’t know how long this, we, were going to last. And I wasn’t sure how serious you were about the vineyard. We get a lot of city slickers blowing through town.”
He guffawed. “City slicker?”
“Yessir.” She put on her best cowgirl accent.
He laughed and leaned over to kiss her. “So after six months you’re ready to let me in on the Napa Valley code of conduct?”
“Has it been that long?”
He kissed her again, and this time the familiar bloom of desire opened inside her.
“We have to get back to work,” she said.
“Shaking information out of you is work for me.”
“Then I’ll have to be more careful,” she replied before making a show of closing her mouth—as a joke, since she was long past the worry that he’d shake winemaking secrets out of her.
They were pursuing totally different kinds of wine, and anyway, among those who were serious about good wine, the valley had become quite fluid, with winemakers and growers moving between vineyards.
Because they were men, Mike Grgich and Warren Winiarski were regarded as the oracles of the valley, having worked pretty much every field by now, and their wines from Stag’s Leap and Chateau Montelena were very special.
Winiarski had invited her along with Tom for a tasting recently, and even mid-aged and prebottled, pulled right out of the oak barrels with a wine thief, the cab and chardonnay had been exquisite.
It was the other family secrets she was worried about him digging up.
“Don’t ask,” Winnie said to Miranda when she arrived at the bus station on Christmas Eve morning, clearly already drunk and without Lincoln.
When she started rolling a joint in the car, Miranda said, “Can’t you wait till we get home? I don’t want the car to smell skunky.”
“No, I can’t wait. I want to be good and high before I get home.”
“Mom’s in a perfectly good mood though. And I want you to meet Tom.”
But Winnie only closed her eyes, set her head back against the car seat, and held smoke in her lungs for a long while before blowing it out. “This will help me be a good daughter and sister,” she said.
When they walked into the house, it was all hugs and merrys with their mother, and Miranda’s nerves settled a bit.
If Joan knew why her younger daughter smelled like she’d been sprayed by Pepé Le Pew, she didn’t say a word.
“How can I help in the kitchen?” Winnie asked right away.
Joan handed her an apron and put her to work scrubbing and prepping vegetables, though Miranda noted that Mom did not hand Winnie a knife.
Miranda had a few loose ends to tie up in the lab, so she left her mother and sister to the meal.
When she came back in the early afternoon, the two of them were laughing so hard, their faces were red and they were clutching their sides.
Everything smelled amazing, like meat, herbs, wine, and yeast headily mingled together.
Joan was tackling Julia Child’s beef Wellington with brioche crust. Last year it had been cassoulet, and the year before that it had been French onion soup followed by coq au vin, all of which had been out of this world and a tradition had begun.
Joan’s two volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking had softened with use, and she was an avid watcher of Mrs. Child’s television show.
She tried easier recipes throughout the year, tinkering with variations on dishes like boeuf bourguignon and sole meunière while psyching herself up for a showstopper at the holidays.
Seeing her mother and sister together like this didn’t bother Miranda as much as it had a few years ago.
Maybe because she had Tom now. Maybe because Winnie had chosen to leave Hartley what seemed like for good.
Maybe it didn’t matter. She was glad the two of them were okay together for the holiday.
And yet, the amount of wine they’d consumed unnerved her. Her mother only drank this much with Winnie, and Winnie always seemed to drink this much these days. “Hey, you two,” she couldn’t help saying, as she started corralling dishes into the sink. “Tom’s getting here in an hour.”
“You go relax and get ready for him,” Joan said, wiping tears from her eyes with both hands as Winnie tried to get a hold of herself. “Emilio is arriving soon, too. Winifred and I will clean up a bit.”
Miranda had her doubts about this plan, but remarkably, when she returned to the kitchen after a long shower, everything had been completely tidied up.
The dishwasher was running, a large pot was simmering with some kind of sauce on the stove, a partially cooked roast covered in bacon was sitting on the counter, and she could see a bowl of pillowy, bubbly dough covered with a towel rising next to it.
The empty wine bottles were gone, and the counters had been wiped clean.
Miranda was about to make a fire in the living room when the doorbell rang.
There was Tom, wearing her favorite black sweater with the collar and cuffs of a festive red-and-black tartan shirt peeking out.
He was wearing bright red corduroys. “Well hello, Santa,” she said, kissing him and pulling him inside.
“You look gorgeous,” he growled, nudging down the collar of her unusually formfitting turtleneck and kissing her neck.
“I brought this,” he said, handing her a bottle of Chateau Lafite and another of Moet.
“Thank you,” she said, “though it’s possible we should save the Lafite for another night. Mom and Winnie are already too drunk to appreciate it. Or they were an hour ago.”
“So, we’re behind,” he said. “We should catch up.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. They usually drank about the same amount, which was to say much less than one might expect of vintners. But it was a holiday. A little indulgence sounded pretty good.
“Okay,” she said, “but not with this.” She put the Moet in the fridge and the Lafite on a cool lower shelf of the pantry with some canned fruit. Spotting a jar of hand-packed cherries from a local orchard, she said to Tom, “How about old-fashioneds?”
“Only if I get to play Bing on the record player.”
“Have at it.”
The first round had begun to loosen her up by the time Bing had finished crooning “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” and Emilio showed up with two bottles of Bob Mondavi’s best unlabeled cabernet, which he only gave to friends—a perfect choice for the dinner table.
Miranda opened them both so they could breathe, and put them on the dining room table that her mother had set the day before with the silver flatware, gold-rimmed china, and Waterford glasses.
It was actually, finally, beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Then Joan and Winnie floated into the kitchen, both in dresses and not as silly as before, though Winnie’s hair smelled like cold air and skunk if you got too close.
She and Tom shook hands for the first time, and Miranda’s heart burst at the warm smiles they gave each other. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” they both said at the same time, and all three of them laughed.
“Seriously, though,” said Winnie. “Miranda’s never been happier, and for that I’ll forgive the fact that you’re in the same business.”
“Forgive?” he asked with a smile.
“I’m sure she’s told you that if I had my way, she’d spend less time obsessing over the winery, not more.”
“Ah yes,” he replied, as if recalling something of great importance. “Not to worry. We get out as much as we can. I’m not an all-work-and-no-play kind of man.”
Winnie raised an eyebrow at Miranda, and Miranda raised hers back.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Tom.”
“By all means,” he replied, and Miranda knew in that moment that she loved him.
As Bing, then Frank, serenaded them, the Sullivans arrived with Clare and Raul, followed by the Wilsons, who handed Joan a hamper full of locally made goodies like lavender and sage soaps, hemp lotion, red and green hand-dipped candles, and pomelos from Pasadena.
Within minutes, Mr. Sullivan rang a silver spoon against his glass and announced that Raul and Clare had gotten engaged that morning.
The girl blushed and leaned on Raul, who looked like the happiest man in Napa.
Emilio beamed, and Miranda was so happy for him, that the kindness and patience he’d shown his nephew had led him to a better place.
Even Joan applauded the couple, then kissed them both on each cheek and said this called for champagne.
Miranda was amazed to recall that just a few years ago her mother had been against Emilio taking Raul in.
It was Winnie who looked on Raul and Clare seethingly.
Her sister had always claimed that marriage was an outdated institution whenever anyone asked when she was going to make an honest man out of Lincoln. She’d sounded convincing, too. But the daggers she was throwing in the direction of the glowing young couple told a different story.