Christmas in Wine Country (8 page)

Taking another sip of tea, Lila wished she could feel mad. It would be so cathartic to burn letters he’d sent her and such. Of course that would have meant that there were letters. Sexy text messages—sexting she believed it was called—sure. Lots. But hitting delete on something electronic had no bite to it.

The problem was, she didn’t want to delete any of them. Even the stupid ones, full of type-os and incomprehensible abbreviations. She wanted more, with her little phone buzzing.

Instead, there they were in her mind’s eye: Phillip and
Axelle
. In Phillip’s perfect apartment, thoroughly modern. No color to speak of, just shades of monochromatic black, white and gray. Mirrors and postmodern found art. She’d never exactly felt comfortable there, but it sure put anything she’d grown up with to shame. Featuring flowered curtains and lace doilies under knicknacks on coffee tables, her Gram kept quite an embellished house.

There they’d be, sipping sidecars and listening to soft jazz.
Axelle
would have picked out the music
herself
, instead of Phillip having to once again express dismay at Lila’s lack of musical knowledge. He didn’t count knowing all the words to Van Halen’s greatest hits. In fact, he’d seemed vaguely embarrassed by her extensive knowledge of 80s pop hits, so it was easier to let him play DJ whenever they spent time together.

Which they never would again.

With a frustrated sigh, Lila decided to put an end to the whole tea-by-the-window-gazing-at-the-surf idea concept. Better to plunge into all those boxes than engage in a maudlin Phillip Fest.

Punching on her iPod she defiantly chose an 80s mix. At least she could do that now without worry. She knew liking cheesy retro pop wasn’t particularly cool; Phillip hadn’t been the first to take issue with her unsophisticated tastes. Freshman year she’d
mistakenly found her way into an art class in a misguided attempt to broaden her horizons. When the teacher had asked the class to journal about where they found inspiration, Lila had gone straight to her happy place. Then they’d all had to share. After hearing about the enlightenment her classmates found through creating collages with razor blades, gum and real teeth; watching YouTube videos of maggots; and the ever-popular (3 classmates!) sifting through trash, Lila had volunteered, “dancing around to 80s music?” Crickets had chirped in the ensuing silence. “OK then,” the teacher had moved them on and away from her lack of coolness. 

She guessed listening to Mr. Mister was the silver lining on her cloud of being alone. 

*
             
*
             
*

             
The line stretched far out the coffee shop door into the foggy cold morning. Knowing this morning, the first at her new job, absolutely required coffee and not just any coffee but a large non-fat mocha, Lila climbed out of her car. Annie had warned her: the small, locally-owned coffee shop on Main St. had recently gone out of business so the Peets a mile down the state road was overflowing with displaced caffeine addicts. After living and working in the city where she honestly felt annoyed if she had to walk a block without hitting a good coffee shop, this was going to take some adjusting.

Curling her toes into her cozy, furry boots and her chin into her gray-blue cashmere turtleneck, she had to admit that she did feel rather deliciously well taken care of while she braved the outdoors. January off the northern coast of California
seemed to consistently serve up driving rain, persistent drizzle or heavy fog threatening the former two conditions, always with a thick side-helping of raw chill.

             
In the fog, even the cars parked at the far end of the lot appeared fuzzy, but she had a nice, clear view of her mates in line. A couple of guys in thick, heavy workboots and paint-splattered Carhart jackets, clearly off to a work site. A solid-looking woman of indeterminate age, probably 50s, in a long, black skirt, clogs, and an old wool sweater who’d look right at home behind a potter’s wheel. A thirtysomething mom in sweats and a baseball cap with a toddler wearing pretty much the same thing. What was this strange feeling, Lila wondered? Must be the distinct lack of hipsters—no aviator sunglasses, no skinny jeans, no ironic nod to retro fashion.

             
Finally inside the store, Lila rubbed her arms and basked in the warm lighting and the rich and welcome smell of brewing coffee.
             

“Who’s going to get this one?” a young guy behind the counter refreshing pastries called out to the patrons in line. “It’s a toughie.”

             
“Free small coffee for the first one who gets the answer,” added another guy scooping coffee beans into a bag.  

             
Lila looked up at the chalkboard on the wall and saw a posted Trivia Question: What’s the smallest country in the world? All those years in fine Massachusetts public schools and then a fancy private college and she’d never once really studied geography.

             
“The Bahamas,” one of the construction guys called out. His answer spurred a chorus of cheerful “nos” and “try agains.”

             
“What do you think?” the pottery woman turned around to ask her. “It’s probably an island.”

             
“I’m not sure…maybe Malta?” Lila wondered. She’d represented the tiny country once at a model United Nations conference in high school. After discovering that she had neither Security Council voting rights nor a real voice in her political bloc, she and a friend had spent most of the time passing notes about international hotties: “Check out Latvia, three rows over on the right.”

             
“What about Malta?” the woman called out, to another round of “nopes.” Turning back to Lila, she added, “I would have given you the coffee.”

             
“Oh, that’s fine,” Lila laughed, caught up now. “Monaco!” she found herself calling out.

             
“Nice.” One of the construction guys gave her a nod.

             
“Good guess—but not it!” a woman behind the counter said.

             
“It’s the Vatican.” The voice came from behind her. Low, authoritative, it ended the game. The store fell silent.

             
“Yeah, that’s it,” the guy behind the counter confirmed. 

             
“Really?” the woman in front of her asked, disappointed. “I liked the island idea.”

             
Lila looked back to check out the source of everyone’s displeasure, the man who’d so carelessly and abruptly ended the fun. In a long, tall, black coat looking stern and un-amused stood Jake Endicott.

             
Turning with what she hoped was a softly whispered swear, acute embarrassment heated Lila’s cheeks to a rosy pink. It was the first day of her new job. Did she really need such a vivid reminder of how spectacularly she’d gone down in flames in her old job?

What the heck was he doing there, anyway? Clearly, he lived close by with the whole vineyard and all, but why was he standing in line at a coffee shop? Didn’t he just have his minions at his Tuscan mansion do his bidding, bringing him his specially-prepared cappuccino, biscotti and five international newspapers on a silver tray? Actually, no one really read paper anymore, so what did rich guys do to demand ridiculous service these days? Maybe he had a Situation Room with a wall-sized monitor divided into quadrants so he could oversee the state of his business: grapes growing in one corner, investors in another. Drunk girls singing 80s karaoke right in the middle.

             
“What’re you having today?” Looking up into the expectant face of a barista, Lila realized the line had advanced.

             
“Yes, um…” She fought to regain a sense of what she wanted, a fresh wave of embarrassment washing over her as she felt a cold stare to her right. “One of those…” she gestured indeterminately in the air.

             
“Latte?” the guy prompted, hopefully.

             
“With the…” What did they call it when you added chocolate? “Mocha!” She nearly yelled as she finally remembered. “A large non-fat mocha.” 

             
“All rightie then. And you, sir?” he asked, turning to Jake beside her. “Well, you’re getting your free coffee now aren’t you?”

             
“No,” Jake waved his hand, gloved in black leather, dismissively. “Double cappuccino. Medium.”

             
“You don’t want your free coffee?” The guy behind the counter sounded somewhat hurt. The woman working beside him stopped what she was doing and looked up.

             
“No,” Jake repeated, offering no explanation.

What a huge buzzkill. First he ends all the fun, then he doesn’t even claim his prize. What was up with this guy? Lila wondered. Pretending to look down into her oversized tote bag, Lila snuck a look to her right. Nondescript black dress shoes. Probably stitched by hand by child laborers. Dark gray trousers. He was likely on his way to a super-fancy business meeting, she guessed. Where they’d talk about how much better they were than everyone else—particularly lowly bookstore clerks and her fellow construction guys and potters, working for a living.

             
“Ahem.” Lila froze, staring straight ahead at the floor. Jake had just cleared his throat. What did it mean, though? Stop peeking at me? Pay attention, the line’s moving
and you’re not? Lila took a step ahead. Maybe he had a sore throat; it was cold and flu season as her Gram had warned her on the phone yesterday. He couldn’t possibly recognize her and be trying to get her attention. The party had been over a month ago and he probably had, like, a hundred a month. Plus, she’d defiantly dyed her hair back to its natural brown and she had it down, loose, instead of shellacked up into an angry blonde tornado. She hadn’t been that memorable, had she? 

             
Up at the register, she distinctly felt him watching her as she fumbled around in her bag. Stylish it might be, but she had a hell of a time finding anything inside its voluminous pit. Pushing past her umbrella, scarf, lip balm—she was prepared for the elements on this first day of work—she finally located her wallet buried underneath her chunky, hand-knit green mittens. They looked perfect for a 12-year-old, which, essentially, they were; Gram had knit her a pair when she was back in middle school. Lila had loved them so much that Gram had continued to knit her replacement pairs throughout the years.

             
After paying, Lila tucked herself into the far back corner of the store to wait for her drink. Why hadn’t she ordered a drip coffee? She would have been out the door by now. 

“I believe you dropped this.” Jake stood beside her, her mitten looking absurdly fat and green in his sleek, black, gloved hand.

“Oh, mrmph,” Lila made a few incomprehensible sounds before managing, “Thanks.” Damn that oversized bag. Jake nodded and continued to stand, silent, next to her.

What, were they harvesting the coffee beans by hand in the back room? Lila was sure she’d been waiting for at least two hours. 

Finally hearing her name, followed almost immediately by Jake’s, Lila whisked away her coffee only to be confronted by a mass of people teeming around the sugar/milk/stirrer station which she was sorely tempted to skip but now that she’d gone this far she was damn well going to have her mocha just the way she liked it. He probably liked his coffee unsweetened, anyway. But there he stood next to her, again.

“I’m trying to place where I know you.” He looked at her quizzically as if to silently add, “I’m not sure where but I know it’s not good.”

“It’s the holiday party,” she mumbled, reluctantly. “At your vineyard.”

“Ahh,” he nodded slowly with recognition, adding, “You wanted the tarp.”

“Yes, well, I’m very safety conscious.” Lila hoisted the strap on her bag higher up on her shoulder, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and wondered if the woman in front of her could take any longer stirring the sugar into her coffee?

“Were there any accidents that evening?” he asked in a wry tone. “Any falls?” The image of herself on YouTube came flashing, vividly, to mind. Up on stage,
spectacular in her stilettos as she gave her karate-chop kick ‘hi-yah!’ She hoped that guy’s forehead had healed by now.

“Nope. No. Not at all.” Thank god she finally was able to break into the mob at the station where she quickly put her mocha down to grab a stirrer, a napkin, and a packet of whatever
sweetener
was directly in front of her. She’d show these people how it was done, city-style. In and out. 

             
Dashing out of the coffee shop she all but ran to her silver Honda Civic. It had started raining now in driving gusts, and, of course, she had to fumble once again in her bag for her car keys. Had she really moved to a town so small that she couldn’t even get a coffee in peace without running into the village creep? And did it have to happen on the morning of her first day of a new job when she was already plenty nervous?

             
“Ah…excuse me.” Unmistakably, she heard Jake’s voice behind her once again. Wishing for a frantic moment that she could hurl herself through her car window Dukes of Hazzard style and speed away, she, reluctantly, turned around. He held two coffee drinks.