A Taste of Merlot (4 page)

T
he next day was like Mark's birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. Nothing could faze him—not the jump in the price of gas as he filled up, not the stop-and-go traffic on the Bay Bridge. Since he'd hung up the phone yesterday, he'd been counting down the minutes until he would finally come face-to-face with the artist known as Gilty.

It was insane. Meri Peterson was a rank beginner. A nobody in the business. Most buyers he knew would play on her lack of experience, offer her a pittance for her work, and mark the hell up on it, profiting outrageously at her expense.

An inner censor warned him to keep his perspective. Meri Peterson hadn't even finished school. Not a good sign. Gloria would tell him he was making the same mistake he made last year.

Aunt Gloria kept track of the numbers. She was the one who approved all the purchase orders. She knew he was holding money in reserve. She didn't micromanage—how could she when Dick was always dragging her off on three-day weekends? All that mattered was that sales were up at the end of the accounting year.

But Mark had been holding out until he found just the right line. It wasn't just about redeeming himself, making up for last year's mistake. It was bigger than that. Mark had a hunch about Dick. Against all logic, the worse Harrington's sales were, the happier Dick seemed to be. What he'd give to see Dick's reaction if they didn't just meet last year's sales, but blew them out of the water.

Harrington's had fifty-some mall leases across the country. Everyone knew that malls, in general, were declining. Mark had been trying to tell Gloria that for a couple of years, but she'd been slow to adapt. If she would only close the non-performers, their overall bottom line might improve. But she didn't want to hear that, and Dick, who knew better (or should), wanted to stay on her good side, so he refused to come to Mark's defense.

Pulling into the diner fifteen minutes early, Mark backed his top-of-the-line Audi into one the spaces farthest away from the restaurant, the way he always did when he wanted to downplay his affluence. When the time came to leave, he'd pull out last, so no one would notice his one concession to the interest earned on the nest egg his mother had left him. His design obsession spilled over to cars. Hey, he was a guy. And his mom's bequest could potentially be dwarfed by his share in the stores . . .
if
they picked up traction soon.

Besides, that space gave him a good view of the whole parking lot. He switched the ignition off and sat listening to the insulated silence, waiting. The brown leather case holding his tablet, downloaded with his purchase order forms, lay on the seat next to him, ready to go. He lifted his wrist to scan Granddad's gold Patek Philippe. Nine-forty-six.

He exhaled through pursed lips. Tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Picked up his phone and double-checked the address, then took another glance at the time. Twelve minutes 'til ten.

He thought about checking his e-mail when the glint off a stack of metal encircling a slender arm that was emerging from the cab of an older-model pickup had him leaning in to the windshield, holding his breath. There couldn't be that many young women coming to a diner alone, at the exact time she was supposed to.

He scrutinized her hard. Those ratty jeans and that bright floral halter top were right out of the seventies. Only a model-shaped body like that could make it work. Mark wondered where the tats were. Because there
would
be tats. It was a given.

Unbuckling the Philippe in a move that had become routine since the breakup of his marriage, he lifted his hips to access his front pocket, all the time keeping his eye on her as she walked around to the truck's jump seat. There she pulled out a red plastic tackle box and a small artist's portfolio.

He let her get a head start and then followed her into the restaurant, watching the sway of her narrow hips. Just inside the entrance, he held back while she lifted the flap of the portfolio and pulled out a folder, laying it on the Formica tabletop.

“Meri?”

Round eyes that glittered like polished green glass in a perfectly oval face looked up into his. She was clearly nervous.

Then she smiled.

Oh, no.
Oh, shit
. Criminally talented
and
a babe. He was nowhere near ready for that. He'd vowed to steer clear of pretty women—relationships, anyway—for one solid year, to focus on the business. He still had four months to go.

Worse, he could tell from the truck and her clothes that she wasn't high on the income ladder, either. And he was definitely not getting taken by another bloodsucker, no matter how beautiful.

“I'm Mark.”

With her right hand she reached out to meet his, while her left bumped her folder. It slid to the edge of the table, transparent sheets of vellum slipping out, drifting about his feet like pale leaves onto the crumby linoleum.

“Oops!” She immediately lowered herself to the floor to retrieve them. Mark bent to help her. Their heads were inches apart as they squatted, reaching in all directions for what were clearly painstakingly drawn renderings. He took advantage of their close proximity to watch her as her eyes dipped to the floor, thick tawny lashes brushing lightly freckled cheekbones. When she blew some dirt off one of her designs, he caught a faint whiff of peppermint.

They rose as one and she reorganized the papers, her stack of bracelets tinkling with her movements.

Without thinking, he reached for her wrist and raised it to inspect the layers of silver, rose, and yellow gold running halfway up to her elbow. She stood rooted to the spot, allowing him to turn her pliant limb over, exposing the paler, inner epidermis and the faint blue veins traveling up through skeins of precious metals. When he found the one he was seeking he ran a finger across its clasp.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, barely glancing at the bracelet.

“Is this what you've been looking for?”

His eyes moved from her wrist up her arm and her swanlike neck to her heart-wrenchingly naive expression. No way could he ever take advantage of that face, even if he were the type of cutthroat buyer who operated that way.

“This is it.” At long last, his finger was on the Purchase Prize—his quest for the past three months—only to discover that the jewelry was eclipsed by its maker.

“I made all of these, too.” She slipped three or four off. “Here's how you can tell. See? I burnish set one-point-five-millimeter, diamond-cut peridots on the inside of every piece.”

There was a belief system that held that all gemstones had unique qualities that were transferred to the wearer. But for them to work their magic, the stones had to be touching the skin, where they were hidden from public view. A secret indulgence, known only to the wearer.

“Why peridot—other than the fact that they match your eyes?”

She lowered her lids briefly, giving him another glance at her sweep of lashes. When she looked up again, her expanded pupils all but obscured her irises and her cheeks glowed a soft, contrasting cherry.

“Peridot clears the heart. Helps connect us to our destinies and to an understanding of the purpose of existence. It's also said to attract love.”

Their eyes locked together, he gently lowered her arm. They were still standing in the aisle next to their booth. The other diners were beginning to stare.

Mark tilted his head toward hers and whispered, “I think we're causing a ruckus.” He motioned toward her side of the table, and they slid into the vinyl booth, facing each other.

They each picked up a greasy, plastic-coated menu. “How did you find out about my work?” Meri asked.

From staring at the bracelet photo for the last three months, he already knew Meri Peterson, in an abstract way. He had to keep reminding himself that prior to yesterday, he hadn't existed for her.

“I went to your college's student show last spring.”

While the waitress got them coffee, he went through the chain of events leading up to his phone call—leaving out the part about the witchy woman down the hall at the co-op.

“So, you originally from the city, or here in Vallejo?” Casual as he tried to appear on the outside, inside he was dying to know everything about her, from the size of those sexy jeans she wore to the brand of that minty toothpaste on her breath.

It was a simple, run-of-the-mill question. So why'd she seem caught off-guard? Her arms went straight as she clutched the sides of her vinyl seat.

“Um, I went to high school back east. Now I live a little north of here.”

The woman was a basket of nerves. Talented as she was, she obviously didn't have any experience with selling her work. He had to think of a way to make her relax.

The waitress set down her substitute latte, apologizing for the diner's lack of a cappuccino maker, and poured his black coffee. He took a sip, winced, then dumped cream and sugar into his mug to camouflage its bitterness.

“North—the wine country. It's a ton of fun going up there. Think I've been to every winery in Napa. Mondavi, Ferrari-Carano . . . hey, you ever been to the Domaine St. Pierre Estate? It's the best of the best. You go down a long, gravel drive, where they've got this massive fountain out in front of the mansion. Do you like flowers? You'd love the gardens. And you're not going to believe this, but they actually play classical music for their grapevines! During the day, that is. At night, they turn it off so the vines can sleep, of course.” He chuckled. “Listen, I could take you there sometime. . . .”

She had grown suddenly pale, like she might be sick. This tack wasn't working, either.

“Well.” Mark cleared his throat. “We've got a lot of ground to cover. Let's see what you've got.”

The array of sketches she fanned out represented the foundation of a collection that was the very definition of easy elegance.

Mark found it hard to contain his enthusiasm. “We can sell the hell out of these, wait and see. How about samples?”

Now he'd found it—her comfort zone. Meri lifted the lid of her tackle box and withdrew five small flannel drawstring bags from among the tangle of wire and tools and tiny plastic bags of findings and bits of metal. She yanked some napkins from the dispenser, unfolded them, and spread them out. Then one by one, she dumped the contents of the bags into her palm before arranging a ring, a necklace and the bracelets from her wrist on the creased white paper.

The curious show caught the attention of the elderly pair in the booth across the aisle, and they exchanged discreet words and heavy-lidded glances, communicating the way ancient couples do.

Mark wasn't sure if he was more amused or shocked. He was accustomed to buying from suited sales reps in plush showrooms equipped with illuminated stand magnifiers and black velvet display stands—not on a scratched, ketchup-stained table in a third-rate diner, smelling of bacon. But even in this modest setting, he could see that his instincts had been on the mark. Her work was exceptional.

He picked up a ring and examined it with his loupe. “Do you have any help?”

By the way she replied, “Help?” he knew she didn't.

He sat back, still examining her ring. “We'll need to get you hooked up with a workshop.”

She frowned. “But I already have a workshop. Besides,” she said proudly, “my pieces are all handmade.” Her expression translated as,
Hello? Gilty
Artisanal
Jewelry?
As if
he
were the naive one.

He smothered a smile. The last thing he wanted was to risk insulting her by sounding patronizing. “Here's how it works. You'll still do all the designing, but you'll need help with the execution. Otherwise, you'd never be able to fill Harrington's orders all by yourself. The work gets contracted out to other, highly skilled artisans.”

A pink glow of embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Mark pretended not to notice.

“Don't worry. I know people. Plus, we have to talk about a timetable. . . which pieces and how many of each for the spring collection, a catalog, shipping and pricing, how many lines you'll want to design per year . . .”

“Oooh, now aren't those pretty?” said the waitress, back to refill his cup. She leaned in to look at the necklace lying farthest away. A drop of coffee fell from the lip of the pot. It splashed onto a rendering of an earring, where it quickly spread to the size of a dingy dime.

Meri gasped and reached for a napkin.

“Oh! I'm sorry, honey! So clumsy of me. Here, let me get a rag—”

“No, no, no, that's okay,” said Mark, spreading his hands protectively over the sketches as Meri carefully dabbed the spot with the napkin.

A male voice barked from behind the counter and the waitress scurried away, trailing apologies.

Meri held up the ruined sketch to the light in the window to ascertain the extent of the damage.

“Why don't we stop here, for now? I'll go back to my office and work out a plan. But then, I'd really like to see your studio. You can tell me more about your process, and we'll discuss my orders.”

Trepidation filled her eyes. Wasn't she happy that he wanted her work? Excited? Maybe he hadn't made himself clear.

“Meri, you don't have to impress me. I'm already sold.”

“It's just that this is all happening so fast. . . .”

“I know it seems fast to you, but I've been thinking about it for months. And I'm under a deadline to spend my money. We have to get going on this right away if we want Gilty in stores for spring. In fact, I'd like an exclusive. I'll work up some numbers, get Gloria—my boss—to sign off on it, and give you a call tonight—tomorrow morning, latest.”