Chapter 4
FOUR
MAX
“You are going to be late.” A man’s voice chided Max through the doorway of the back office, tucked away in a little hallway off the main tasting area.
It was Jack Norwich, the head winemaker at Norwich Vineyards, with that stupid-looking, dopey grin on his face.
“But seriously, doesn’t your shift at the club start in five minutes?
” he asked, entering the small, disorganized office space shared by far too many people, casually leaning against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest.
“My dog is having a medical emergency,” Max said flatly, still looking at the schedule she was fine-tuning on the computer screen in front of her.
Jack grinned, deep dimples appearing as he shook his head, his dark, perfectly floppy hair shifting with the movement. “You don’t have a dog.”
Max tapped a few keys, shifting Jerome’s shift from Tuesday to Thursday and moving Kennedy into his place. With a flourish, she tapped the return key. All done.
“Sure I do.” Max caught Jack’s eye as she stood, reaching for her faded leather messenger bag that she preferred to cart all of her daily belongings in.
She refused to use a purse on principle.
Something about them had always felt a little too patriarchal for her.
“Well, at least to anyone at McCallum-Windsor, I have an eleven-year-old beagle named Daisy.” She grinned conspiratorially.
“I made her up when they hired me. She’s been a great excuse to have in my back pocket for days like today when I knew I would get tied up working on something. ”
Jack looked at her skeptically. “You’re joking,” he said, his uneasy grin wide across his face.
“I’m not. It works like a charm. Daisy has a litany of ‘health’ issues that take us to the vet from time to time.
And who’s really going to be the dick that questions me about needing a little time here and there for a sick dog?
” She laughed, jingling her keys in her hands.
“The key is not to overuse the excuse.” She winked.
“You know, just when I think I know everything about you, you drop something like this…” Jack followed her out of the little office, flicking the lights off behind him as he pulled the door closed.
Standing next to her, Jack looked like he could be her older brother: jet-black hair and pale blue eyes.
Winery patrons had made that mistake more than once, and Max could understand why.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you’re juggling too much? ”
“Not once,” Max said dryly, glancing at her phone, face falling as she scanned a panicked text from Chloe. “Bills, bills, bills,” she muttered.
“If it’s about money, I told you, I’m happy to talk to my dad about your salary,” Jack offered earnestly, which Max appreciated more than she knew how to convey to him.
It wasn’t about that—not really. Yeah, a pay raise would definitely help out, but Max had always liked earning things on her own.
She didn’t need any handouts. She was more than capable and had learned long ago that she was the only person she could truly count on.
“And become a wine nepobaby like you? Never,” she joked.
Jack grumbled what sounded like “I’m not a nepobaby” under his breath, and Max’s smile grew.
“I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”
Again, Jack grumbled his response. “Norwich.”
“And the name of this vineyard?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Norwich Vineyards. Point made. It’s not my fault that my parents own a vineyard and I love making wine.
I still did the grunt work. I worked the harvests and spent my twenties flying all over, learning how to make wine.
Hell, I make all the creative decisions for the wine Norwich produces now. I’m award-winning,” he protested.
Max reached out, patting Jack’s muscled bicep.
“I know you do. And you do it so well. I retract all nepobaby remarks, okay?” Her phone vibrated in her hand, Chole’s name popping up on the screen.
“Shit, I need to take this. I left Chloe in charge and she’s not the sharpest crayon in the box…
” She adjusted the messenger bag over her shoulder, pushing through the large rustic wooden doors leading to the parking lot, hurriedly speaking into the phone. “Hey, Chloe, what’s up?”
“Are you still coming over tonight?” Jack called after her as she headed toward her car. “Drew and I are hanging out. I was going to crack open a 2010 cabernet franc I’ve been sitting on.”
She turned to respond, giving him two thumbs up, mouthing, Count me in.
She had just finished talking Chloe off a ledge, something about an unexpectedly large party coming in and not knowing how to accommodate them.
God, sometimes it would be nice if Chloe could access the same part of her brain that enabled her to graduate a year early from MIT to problem solve even the most basic work obstacle, but unfortunately, that seemed like too much to ask.
Her phone buzzed again from its holding spot in the slightly sticky cup holder.
Max glanced down at the number, only to see UNKNOWN CALLER listed in white text.
She wasn’t totally sure what made her answer this call out of all the unwanted and overdone spam calls that seemed normal to receive these days.
“Hello, this is Max,” she said, her tone short.
“Hello!” An excited voice came through the speaker of her car. “Is this Maxine Martin?”
“Yes. Who is this?” she asked, still with that lingering air of coldness as she turned onto the main drive leading to the employee entrance of the McCallum-Windsor Country Club.
“Hi, yes, Miss Martin. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I’ve sent several letters about—”
Click.
The car was silent, Max’s thumb still hovering over the end call button as her heart beat rapidly, the rush of her pulse in her ears filling the silence in the moment between the call ending and the music kicking back on.
But as soon as it started, the music faded out again as another call came through—those same white letters spelling out UNKNOWN CALLER mocking her.
She would one hundred percent NOT be answering the call this time; she let it ring through to voicemail.
Whoever was on the other end of the call tried once more before assuming defeat, something Max was exceptionally grateful for.
Logically, she knew she couldn’t keep avoiding these calls forever.
She had unfortunately learned that with the letters when they had started showing up six months ago.
Every time she’d receive one in the mail, she’d open it, scan it, and promptly chuck it in the trash.
But then more would show up. And now the phone calls?
That was a new and, frankly, unwelcome piece of communication.
That evening, the dining room at the country club was buzzing with chatter.
From the salacious gossip exchange happening between the bridge club ladies to the highly suspicious “it’s not insider trading, it just sounds like insider trading” happening between the gentlemen at table ten, everything was going smoothly.
Max even managed to sell a few bottles of their more expensive wines over the course of the evening, which she planned to add to her proposal to Willis Windsor, illustrating that her trial season as the McCallum-Windsor in-house wine expert had been a success.
Compared to the previous year, Max had increased the club’s average bottle purchase from $130 to $450. And while she wasn’t always the best with numbers, she knew that an over two hundred percent revenue increase had to mean something…right?
“Hey, Max, table fifteen is interested in hearing about the wine selections. Can you swing by when you have a sec?” one of the other waitstaff asked on her way past the computer where Max was currently inputting an order.
“Yeah, sure thing. Let me wrap this up.” She tapped a few buttons, straightening her shirt, checking each of the pockets on her dark green apron to make sure she had everything she needed.
Two women were seated at table fifteen and as Max approached, she started preparing her wine recommendations in her head. From sweet to dry, mostly whites, as she had learned were extremely popular with the women who frequented the club’s restaurant.
“Good evening, ladies,” she began, selecting the voice she used with the club patrons, the one that was slightly peppier than her usual tone.
Still, she faltered when her gaze landed on a familiar face—more specifically, a familiar shade of blue because who could forget eyes like Annie Dillinger’s.
“Oh, it’s you.” Max grinned, but Annie didn’t reciprocate.
The woman sitting opposite Annie—a very pretty, albeit stuffy-looking brunette with perfectly laminated brows, perfectly filled cheeks, and perfectly shaped lips—raised an eyebrow. If one could call the subtle, Botox-restrained movement a raise.
“Max,” Annie finally said, tilting her head in acknowledgment.
Max waited for a moment, unsure if Annie was going to say anything else, but she didn’t, gaze fixed on the menu clutched in her hands.
“What wine, in your opinion, pairs well with deep conversation?” the brunette asked, the slightest hint of a sneer ghosting her facial features, one that instantly made the involuntary wall inside of Max rise up.
But Max didn’t let that get to her. Couldn’t let that get to her. Not when she worked on commission. “We have a few great options. My personal favorite would be the 2018 Pointe Malbec. It’s full-bodied and now that it’s a little chillier out, that peppery bite really settles nicely on your tongue—”
“No reds, what are your white selections?” the brunette said over her.
“You’re being rude, Caroline,” Annie muttered under her breath, eyes still on the menu.
Max looked from Annie to Caroline, taking a breath and continuing. “Absolutely,” she said, feigning upbeatness, her polite smile firmly in place. “We have a really delightful dry riesling—”