Chapter 27
Ryder steeled himself as he rang the doorbell of the St. Pierre mansion.
“I’m returning Chardonnay’s car,” he said to the uniformed housekeeper who opened the door.
For a moment she seemed to think he was some sort of deliveryman. Then, in a flash of recognition, her eyes widened and a smile almost burst her Gallic cheeks.
“Mais oui! Hello, Mr. McBride! I saw your movie!” She stepped aside. “Come in. I will tell mademoiselle you are here.”
“No, thank you, ma’am. Er, I came to see Mr. St. Pierre.”
The woman’s smile ebbed, but she nodded him in. “Of course. Please, sit down. I will find him.”
The time ticked by. Those were some of the longest minutes of Ryder’s life, trapped there in that Architectural Digest of a house, waiting for the man who was responsible for—or at the very least, involved in—his father’s death.
Restless, he got up and wandered around the elegant room, haunted by Dan’s words of warning about the legendary St. Pierres. If Dan were here now, he’d point to this palace as proof that Char’s dad was one of the biggest vintners in the valley. It didn’t automatically follow that he was crooked, but stack that kind of clout up against the lives of two illegals and a no-name firefighter. If St. Pierre had been negligent, what attorney would’ve mounted a case against him?
Ryder took the edge of his seat again. He rested his elbows on his knees and matched his fingertips together, thinking. Where was the man, anyway? Could be out in the caves or even in the vineyards. Where, coincidentally, Ryder had ravaged his daughter only the night before.
Ryder rubbed his damp palms on his pants. He swallowed, the sides of his throat grinding together like sandpaper.
What was he going to say to the guy when he finally showed up? Is it your fault that my dad’s dead?
When St. Pierre arrived, Ryder stood, relieved. Anything was better than sitting there waiting, reliving bad memories and dreading the coming showdown.
“Ryder!”
Char’s father smelled like cigars and spices. A few short years ago, Ryder wouldn’t have recognized St. Pierre’s aftershave as several notches above the bug spray that passed for department store colognes. But his time in Hollywood had exposed him to some of life’s finer things.
At his side the older man held a faded yellow envelope.
“Such a pleasure to see you again. My apologies for keeping you waiting. I was searching for something to show to you. Come, sit by the pool. We will be more comfortable there.”
On the shaded patio, Xavier opened a glass-fronted cooler. “I have wine.” He grinned ironically.
It was surreal. Like watching George Hamilton in a TV commercial for wine, pulling a bottle of homegrown from his own cellar. Except that this homegrown went for around a hundred bucks a pop.
“I’ll have a glass.” It was only midday. But there was a first for everything. Might help his nerves.
Xavier seemed clueless as to why Ryder was there. Apparently, he didn’t keep up with the tabloids, either. After ceremoniously cutting off the foil, pulling the cork, and pouring the wine, he inserted his nose into his glass.
“Ahhhh.” He inhaled audibly. “Fresh.”
Pinching the stem between his index finger and thumb, he tipped it to his lips.
“Sharp and petrolly, with the tang of cat pee.”
Ryder’s surprised expression made St. Pierre throw back his head with laughter. “Is a good thing.”
He looked from Ryder’s face to his glass and back expectantly, willing him to drink.
“D’accord? You like?”
What could he say? It tasted like white wine.
“Good.” Ryder nodded, licking his parched lips.
St. Pierre opened a lacquered box on the side table.
“Cigar?”
More smoke—that’s just what he needed.
“I’ll pass.”
“Bien.”
Xavier sat back in his thickly padded chair and crossed his linen-clad legs with the air of a man of means.
“First, I will tell you why it is that I cannot speak the good English. People assume I have lived in the United States all of my life, but this is not the case. Of course, I was born in California. But my parents, they were often preoccupied with making the business of wine, here in the valley. So it was better for them if I went away to school in Paris, where we yet have family. When I was finished, I was already eighteen years old. Too late to lose the accent.”
Ryder opened his mouth to reply, but St. Pierre held up a halting hand.
“Now. While I am very happy for your visit, I am not so stupid as to think it is for the pleasure of my company. You have been talking to Chardonnay . . .”
Ryder’s head jerked up and his eyes locked on St. Pierre’s steely gaze for a few pregnant seconds.
“And you would like to know about the fire at the Southside Migrant Camp,” he said, calmly lighting his stogie.
The youth that had had to grow up way too fast yearned to jump up and run out of that room, through the huge house, and out the front door, only stopping when he was well off St. Pierre terroir. But the man that he’d become kept Ryder firmly planted on his lounge chair. He drained half his glass in one swallow, surprised at how well it quenched his thirst. Maybe he should drink more wine.
“I’ve waited a long time. Tell me what happened.”
Xavier leaned in. “First, I want to say how sorry I am that your father’s life was lost in this terrible tragedy. I am looking, but I cannot find the right words to make you understand my compassion. Even though it was seven years ago, it still seems like yesterday to you, no?”
The question didn’t need a response.
“I have thought of your family many times,” Xavier said, tapping his temple for emphasis. “Please—tell me about them. Then I will tell you the rest.”
He refilled their glasses.
When Ryder considered where to start, St. Pierre gave him a prompt.
“How was it that you have become an actor? Is it true what they say . . . that you were discovered by an agent in the church at Yountville?”
Ryder told him how it had all gone down at Saint Joan’s, after the mass commemorating the three-year anniversary of Dad’s death. Mom and the kids had already left, but Ryder had lingered behind when the agent had approached him with her business card.
Talk about a game changer.
St. Pierre smiled then. “This LA angel. She is Amy, no?”
Ryder nodded. “I think you know what happened after that.”
“Yes, well, everybody who loves the films knows the name of Ryder McBride. You are to be commended for your success. As you know, I too am a father, and I can tell you that your papa would be proud of you. Very proud. And your family today—they are well?”
“They are. My brothers are in college. My sister’s going into middle school.”
“And your maman?”
He nodded again. “She’s good, too. I’m hanging out at home this summer, trying to help her fix up the place. Thanks to the profits from my last film, she’ll own it free and clear before long.”
“Encore. For this, you have my greatest respect.”
He sliced the foil off another bottle of wine. Ryder knew it wasn’t a good idea, yet when he covered his glass with his palm, St. Pierre appeared to take offense.
“But we must drink to the health of your family.”
The cold liquid felt so good—nice and soothing—going down.
When that was done, St. Pierre filled their glasses yet again and went over to sit next to him.
“And now I believe it is my turn.”
He drew a dramatic breath.
“Today, when the workers come up from the Michoacán, many bring with them their families. They rent the apartments, the houses. Many want the citizenship. Everywhere in the valley, there is great change in the way that migrant workers live.
“Seven years ago, these things were very different. The Southside Migrant Farmworker Camp was only one of many camps created especially for the migrants. As you know, there are thousands of acres here, and not enough men to do the work. It has always been this way. Many single men were coming from Mexico for tilling, tying up the vines, irrigation, and of course to pick the fruit—often by hand. Before the camps, sometimes they were sleeping outdoors . . . in tents . . . anywhere they could find.
“We—some other growers and myself—pooled our resources to provide places for the workers to sleep, to eat. Because they work many hours each day for only a few months, they are only spending nights in these camps before returning south of the border.
“The growers cannot oversee these camps alone, because we must supervise all the tasks that go into the making of the wine, from deciding which grapes to plant through marketing the final product. We hired what is called an ag management company to operate the camps. They provide an on-site manager, housekeeper, maintenance worker, et cetera.
“These camps are like motels. The men who live there are prohibited from cooking in their rooms. There is a separate . . . how do you say . . . mess hall for meals. But, as we all know, some people, they do not obey the rules.”
Funny that, coming from a man with a reputation for never playing by society’s dictates.
“This terrible fire . . . he was an accident.” Xavier placed a hand on Ryder’s arm, shaking it for emphasis. “A cooking flame that got out of control in the room of the workers who died.”
After all the talking, there was an awkward silence while the man eyed him expectantly.
Ryder blinked to clear the blurry edges surrounding St. Pierre’s face.
“What do you want me to say? That I swallow your version of what happened, just like that?”
“The insurance company had to do their own investigation. The fire marshal, too—by law. As you know, they are in the business of saving people. They don’t like when people die, and they especially detest losing one of their own . . .”
A slight understatement.
“So they were very thorough. The flames from the prohibited cooking stove spread to some extra containers of liquid fuel stored in the room, which caused a number of explosions. The two Mexican pickers died instantly. The blaze spread quickly. It was the middle of the night, and the others were sleeping. By the time the fire department arrived, the whole camp was on fire. Your papa, he became trapped when a wall collapsed as he was saving another man.”
Ryder had heard that part of the story, somewhere in time. But with all his more pressing obligations, he hadn’t dwelt on it. He couldn’t afford to. Or maybe, he’d let his more concrete problems—family, finances—distract him from the pain of imagining his father’s last moments. Now, visualizing them, his head dropped to his hands.
St. Pierre picked up the yellow envelope from where it lay on the side table and handed it to Ryder.
“I would like to give to you the reports, for you to read yourself.”
With an effort, Ryder raised his head. His headache was coming back with a vengeance. And the wine was clouding his thinking.
He scowled. “How did you know I was coming here today?”
“I kept these, knowing someday you will come. I did not know when.”
Ryder reached tentatively for the envelope.
Simultaneously, the door to the house opened. There stood Chardonnay, wearing a white cotton dress and a quizzical expression.
“Papa? What’s going on?”
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“Ryder, your brothers are in the foyer. They said they expected to hear from you about an hour ago. . . .”
Ryder set the envelope aside, stood, and took a step in her direction. The room spun. He staggered backward, barely catching himself on the chair’s arm before landing back in it.
“Ryder!” Char lunged toward him.
That’s when the lights went out.