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“Indigo Blue. It sounds like a streetwalker’s name.” A chalkboard-squeal voice drifted from the first row of teak lockers.
“The only reason anyone invited her to parties at all was because she had Harry wrapped around her ring finger. How do you suppose she did that?”
“See? We’re back to the streetwalker thing.”
Blood pounded up Indigo’s neck, flooding her face with heat. She eyed the exit, but her car keys were in her locker. Tightening her stomach muscles, she walked on. Coming abreast of the lockers, she glanced to the two underwear-clad plastic surgery billboards. “Monica, you may want to stick with those voice lessons.” She covered the bitchy words in fake-sincerity syrup. “You’re still strident, dear.”
That shut them up. She grabbed her stuff and got the hell out.
* * *
TWODAYSLATER, her Louis Vuitton luggage open on the bed, Indigo stood before her walk-in closet, which was bigger than her childhood bedroom. She surveyed the yards of satin, spandex and sequins, seeing her Hollywood life recede like the view in the long end of a telescope.
That’s how it felt—as if, at twenty-seven, she’d already led three separate lifetimes: the tomboy who’d grown up wild on the Humboldt County commune, the star-struck yoga instructor and the celebrity wife of an aging Hollywood icon.
Thanks to her mom and Harry, two of those lives had turned out well. The one in between, the one she’d been in charge of? Epic fail. She turned away from the closet. Whatever lifetime came next, she sure wouldn’t need this wardrobe.
Mom wanted her to come home to People’s Farm, but her experience at the spa had taught her that going backward didn’t work. Thanks to the skills she’d learned there, she could put her portable massage table under her arm and start her next lifetime almost anywhere.
And in the ass-end hours of last night, she’d decided to begin that life at the winery—the one remnant of this life that was truly hers. Maybe she’d find Harry’s spirit where they’d been happiest.
Closing the luggage, she glanced around the bedroom, listening one last time for a whisper of Harry. All she heard was the whine of the pool pump through the open French doors. She now understood the phantom pain that amputees felt for a missing limb, because of the gaping hole in her that Harry had left. What would happen to her now, without his steady guiding hand on her shoulder?
Everyone believed she’d married Harry Stone for his money. Still, she’d thought she’d made a few friends in the four years they’d been married. But the past two months proved that all the naïveté hadn’t yet rubbed off of Indigo Blue. She shook her head, picked up what was left of this life and walked downstairs.
Claws on marble echoed in the two-story vestibule, getting closer. She dropped the load and knelt as Harry’s basset hound, Barnabas, careened around the corner, huge feet pistoning until he gained traction and barreled into her.
“Oof. Well, hello to you too, big guy.” Avoiding drool, she knelt to pet him from soft ears to whipping tail. “The Wicked Witch of the West will be here soon. Let’s spare ourselves that drama, eh?”
“Well, I may be a witch, but that’s not Toto.” Brenda Stone swept in on stilettos instead of a broom. “And you are no Dorothy.” She flipped her salon-perfect blond tresses over her shoulder and strutted over on shapely, tanning-bed-brown legs. “Give me your house key, and open the suitcases.”
Indigo stood, fists clenched at her sides. “You think I’d steal something?”
“Listen up, bitch.” The diva waved a carmine talon in front of Indigo’s nose. “Daddy’s gone. I don’t have to put up with your shit for one more second.” She planted a fist on her hip. “Now, are you going to open up? Or do I call the cops?”
They were once “friends.” That was before Indigo understood the Hollywood definition. She would have accepted Brenda’s aversion to having a stepmother her own age, but Brenda had made it clear that the competition wasn’t for Harry’s love—but for his money.
Indigo spread her arms. “If I’d wanted any of this, I wouldn’t have insisted on a prenup leaving all of it to you.” The only things she wanted from this house were Barney, her wedding rings and a few of Harry’s T-shirts to sleep in.
“Yeah, like anybody believed that story.” Brenda sniffed, her eyes crawling over the luggage. “Open them. Now.”
Indigo bent and popped the locks on the first suitcase, tasting bitterness in the back of her throat. Sure, Brenda was all about money. But Indigo knew that deeper in her hate-shriveled heart lived an insecure, jealous little girl, and that was Indigo’s unforgivable sin. Not that Brenda was that little girl—but that Indigo knew it.
A few minutes more, and you’re done with all this forever.
She flipped open the suitcase. Slapping the drama queen silly would sure feel good but would only supply more fodder for the gossip rags. Harry deserved better. Guts churning, she gritted her teeth and opened the next.
Ten minutes later the inspection was over, leaving Indigo feeling as violated as a cavity search.
“Just because I’m a nice person, and since you didn’t try to steal anything else, I’ll let you keep the Vuitton.” Brenda raked a proprietary gaze over the marbled entryway and the Tara-style staircase, then back. “You were less than nothing before you met my dad. You’re now free to go back to that.” She flicked a hand in Barney’s direction. “You’re taking that filthy animal, right?”
Indigo snapped the last lock shut and looked into Barney’s droopy eyes. “Are you ready?” Taking his tail wag as assent, she stood, grabbed the handles of the suitcases, and left this lifetime behind.
* * *
“I WASSORRY to hear about your baby girl, Danovan.” Reese Winters sat across the executive desk at Winter Wines. His wrinkles were set in nervous lines, as if waiting to get a root canal. With no Novocain.
Danovan DiCarlo felt the same but knew if it showed, this interview would be over. He shut his mind to the words that delivered the brass-knuckle punch to his chest. “You’re aware that I have a degree in agribusiness from UC Davis, and that I worked my way up at Bacchanal Winery to become one of their trusted vintners. But what you may not know is that I single-handedly took their sauvignon line from ten percent of—”
“Danovan.” Reece’s fingers drummed the edge of the desk.
“Yes, sir.” He leaned forward, anxious to make his next point. He was just getting to the good stuff.
“Spare me the résumé. You know I can’t hire you.”
“But, sir, I’m an excellent manager.”
“My respect for your abilities is what got you this meeting. I’d wager you haven’t gotten many others. Am I right?”
“Well, I’m just now starting to—”
“Son, I don’t believe the rumors the family is putting out about you.” He leaned back in his burgundy leather chair. “But that doesn’t matter. They buy my grapes.”
“You’re going to let the Boldens dictate—”
“I am. And so is every other winery in the area. What’s more, you knew that when you set up this appointment.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t mean to stand in as your daddy, but it seems somebody needs to.” He put his knuckles on the desk and leaned in. “You got a bad deal. But you have to admit, you had some...input into your situation.”
Danovan shot to his feet. “I didn’t come here to—”
“So, I have to ask you.” He squinted across the desk. “Did you learn anything?”
Heat pounded up Danovan’s neck until his face throbbed, engorged with it.
“No one ever choked to death swallowing his pride, son.”
Sanctimonious sonofabitch. If Winters hadn’t been old enough to sell wine to King Tut, Danovan would have pulled him across the table by the collar of that polo shirt and vent his frustration. Instead, he snatched the file folder of documentation from his chair, retrieved his résumé and dropped it in the folder. Even if all Danovan had left was a string of dynamite-rigged bridges, he couldn’t afford to burn any. Anger drained out of the hole that opened in his guts.
He looked across the desk and saw the truth in those mournful blue eyes. In his own twisted way, the old man was trying to help.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Winters.” He squared his shoulders, did an about-face and marched out of the office, through the huge tasting room and out the front door of the winery. Finally, standing beside his car, he let out the breath he’d been holding.
I’m firmly and durably screwed.
He slammed his hands on the hood. When Winters agreed to see him, he’d had a glimmer of hope that one grower in the valley had a big enough set of balls to stand against the Boldens. But apparently they’d stopped making them that size.
He unlocked his Land Rover with a click. He pulled the door open, and the smell of almost-new car washed over him as he settled into the seat. If he didn’t find a job soon, he’d be forced to sell this last sweet perk of his old life. He inserted the key and fired the engine.
Sure, he could widen his search. He probably should. Napa Valley had more prestige, anyway. But there still would be the issue of a recommendation from his last employer. Who would an owner believe—the largest winemaker in central California, or a prospective hire? He pounded his fist on the burled wood dash, startling a passing tourist.
Besides, dammit, he liked it here. He may have chosen the Central Valley right out of school because it was a small pond he could make a big splash in, but sometime over the past five years, he’d become attached. He liked the quaint small-town feel of downtown Widow’s Grove. He liked the prissy Victorians that lined the King’s Highway into town. But mostly, he loved the land. The rolling, golden hills dotted with live oaks quieted his edgy restlessness.
But not his drive.
Throwing the car into Reverse, he backed out. Goddammit, he wasn’t leaving until he’d interviewed at every winery he could get through the door of. The colossal screwup with Lissette might have trashed his ego, and his daughter’s death, his heart, but the Boldens were not taking his career, too.
It was all he had left.
* * *
INDIGOWANTEDTOgo out the way she came in, so she chose Pacific Coast Highway. It took longer, but she and Barney weren’t in a hurry.
The heavy mantle of Hollywood lightened with each mile of road that passed under her tires. This town wasn’t just a geographical location, but a state of mind—and she was delighted to change states. She played Harry’s favorite CDs, singing along with Van Morrison as the sun tipped over its summit to begin its descent to the sea.
“What do you think, Barney? Are you ready for an adventure?” His woof was hopeful, but his doleful eyes gave her guts a wrench. They were leaving Harry behind.
But the moment of doubt didn’t stay. They were only leaving the Harry that belonged to Tinseltown. Her Harry was still with her—in his wisdom that lingered in her mind, and in his love that would always be in her heart.
At the Topatopa Bluffs of Ojai, she began looking ahead instead of back. Maybe she’d return to her roots and become a “gentlewoman farmer,” helping with the vines. She pictured herself in a floppy hat and canvas gloves, bending to snip fat bunches of grapes and putting them in a basket.
Or maybe she’d use the grand hostess skills Harry had taught her, welcoming customers and pouring wine. After she learned more about wine, of course.
She’d loved Harry’s Uncle Bob. His winery outside Widow’s Grove had been their favorite getaway between Harry’s projects. They’d sit sipping wine on the porch of Bob’s cozy log cabin, watching the sun sink into the vines. It was timeless and peaceful—the only place Harry was able to really relax.
Bob was a spare raisin of a man, as if he’d been left too long on the vine in the late summer sun. She supposed she felt so instantly at home around him because he reminded her of her mother in the way he seemed inseparable from the land.
It was Bob who had finally resolved the stalemate that delayed her and Harry’s marriage for two years. Ever aware of their age difference, Harry had wanted to be sure she was cared for after his death. But she’d refused to marry until Harry signed a contract leaving her nothing.
It had been easy to stand resolute through all of Harry’s rants, because it didn’t matter to her if they ever married. All she ever wanted was Harry. Uncle Bob informed his nephew that if he remained stubborn, he’d lose everything. Bob’s respect and acceptance was balm to her singed soul following the tabloid firestorm that erupted over news of her and Harry’s courtship.
Uncle Bob’s death two years ago had come as a shock to them both, but Indigo had one more—he’d left the winery solely to her. Apparently Harry wasn’t the only one who worried about her future.
She and Harry had traveled together to the winery once after Bob’s death, but the magic had vanished with its owner. Harry hired a manager, and the winery became just another line on their tax form.
Now she was going to see if it could be more.
She watched the surf racing to keep pace with her car, realizing her future was in an odd sort of balance. Her first lifetime in northern California as a free-spirited earth child had been the polar opposite of her lifetime in the other end of the state. Like Goldilocks, she could only hope that this one, in the middle, would be just right.
With Santa Barbara in the rearview mirror, champagne bubbles of excitement rose in her chest. As the car blew out of the Gaviota Tunnel, the sun and land exploded in a blaze that burned onto her retinas. The hills flowed away in golden waves and the road wound between them, lazy as a snake in the sun. Old red barns nestled at the bottom of the valleys, and cattle wandered along paths that their forebears had etched into the hillsides.
Peace blew in on the wind, brushing her face, settling on her skin. She smiled.
Almost there.
A little while later she was rolling into Widow’s Grove—and it was like visiting an old friend.
There’s a new antiques shop where the hardware used to be. Oh, Harry, look, there’s Hollister Drug where we got those great strawberry shakes. Remember that waitress with the crystal in her tooth and the ’50s waitress uniform and hot pink hair?
She turned onto Foxen Canyon Road, the precision straight rows of winter-barren grapevines undulating over the hills that she and Barney passed. The basset’s long ears flapped out the open window as he sniffed the air. Indigo tried it, too, pulling in the scent of dirt and growing things. “You remember this, don’t you?”
“Woof.”
“Well, this time we’re here to stay.” She drank in every hill, every landmark and every mailbox on what was, as of today, her road home.
They turned in at the sun-faded sign that read, “Tippling Widow Winery. Home of distinctive wines since 1978.”
“We’ll have to get that sign repainted,” she said. “It doesn’t make a very good impression from the road.” Dead leaves blew across the asphalt as they drove up the wide drive, unpruned denuded vines keeping pace on either side. “I wonder how the harvest was this year.”
The drive opened to a small, deserted parking lot that ended at the tasting room. The steel-roofed wooden building, painted in buff and redwood, was shaded by a wraparound porch. Square wooden tables and chairs rested in its shade. She pulled up and parked.
The place was so empty it seemed abandoned. Weeds grew among the rosebushes at the base of the porch, complete with wind-blown trash accents. What was the manager thinking? This would look awful to potential customers.
Where were the customers? The place should be bustling with tourists this time of year. Warning bells jangled in her head.
When Barney whined, she got out, gathered him in her arms and lifted him down. He wandered off the sidewalk, sniffed, then watered some weeds. As she closed the car door, the fecund scent of fermentation—a sure sign that the crop was being processed—calmed her unease a bit.
Until she walked closer and spied the cobwebs gracing the tables and chairs of the porch. And they were not fake Halloween leftovers.
She pulled the handle of the glass door—it was locked. She cupped her hands and looked in, though she couldn’t see much of the shadowed interior.
What the hell is going on? “Barnabas, come.”
He stopped sniffing and, collar jingling, trotted after her around the building, along the nine-foot-tall solid wood fence, to the working side of the winery. She pulled the metal door at the back of the pole-barn building. At least it was unlocked, and the lights were on. Barney followed her in, and she let the door close. No genteel trappings here—just concrete floors, stainless steel wine fermentation tanks, skylights and industrial lighting overhead.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed off the high steel ceiling. “Anyone here?” She held out her hand, palm down. “Barney. Stay.”
He sat, plump feet splayed.
She walked farther in, peering around raised fermentation vats and stepping over hoses.
In the last row, a pair of jeans-clad legs stuck out from under a vat, several wrenches spread on the floor beside them. “Hello?”
The legs didn’t move. Had he hit his head? Had something collapsed? Alarm skittered up her spine and scurried along her nerves. Jogging over, she knelt beside the legs and bent to peer under the vat. An old man lay, eyes closed, a tonsure of curly gray hair wild around his head. No blood. She reached out and touched his leg. Then shook it. “Hey, you okay?”
His lips parted, belching a snore.
“What the hell?” She snatched a wrench from the floor and banged it against the metal tank.
With a snort the man woke, jerked and smacked his head on the tank. “Jaysus!” He put a hand to his forehead and glared at her through one bloodshot eye. “Why’d you go and do tha’?”
A miasma of stale wine breath unfurled. She recoiled and stood, then backed up a step.
“Cantcha’ see I’m workin’ here?” The man rolled out from under the vat. “Who the hell’re you?”
“Indigo Blue. The owner.” The remnants of adrenaline in her system congealed to a sticky wad of anger. “You’re not working. You’re shit-faced.”
It took some precarious butt balancing and grunting, but the man eventually sat up. “I’m not. I was resting my eyes. This work isn’t easy, you kn—” He scratched his scalp. “Who’d you say you were, again?”
She didn’t want to ask her next question—didn’t want to know. She put her thumb and forefinger to the ticking bomb behind her eyebrows. “Please. Tell me you’re not the manager.”
