Chapter 11
Esteban fingered a flower on the scarf he held. He brought it to his nose to smell Savvy’s perfume, then stuffed it into his back pocket. Who was the chameleon who lived next door? A cold, conniving lawyer who’d do anything to cut a deal? A cock-teasing wine princess? Or an innocent chica?
He meandered among the comforting familiarity of his precious plants, checking moisture levels, taking note of comparable degrees of bloom, giving her time to say her good-byes to his parents and himself time to recover before locking up the greenhouse for the night. He’d so hoped that this would be the year one of these strains would take root outside the protected environment of the greenhouse, in the truck gardens. So far, it didn’t look good.
After a while, he stepped out into the cool night.
When he reached the house, Madre sat in her woven lawn chair on the narrow front porch, an old serape thrown around her shoulders. A cat weaved in and out of her ankles.
“Esteban. Is everything okay?”
“What are you doing, sitting out here in the dark?”
“I always sit out on the porch in the evenings.”
“In the summer. It’s only March.”
“What happened with Señorita?”
He was a grown-ass man. Was he supposed to report to his mami every time he kissed a woman?
“Nothing.” He started toward the front door.
“Then why was her hair all messed up when she came in to say good-night?”
He halted mid-step. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Tell me what’s going on. At supper, Padre says he’s waiting for an answer on his counteroffer, and Señorita doesn’t know anything about a new offer. Why do you pit them against each other?”
Esteban sat down in the chair that was Padre’s and rested his elbows on his knees, grateful it was dark. Hanging out on the porch was characteristic of his parents’ generation, something an immigrant might do.
“It wasn’t a lie. Padre made an offer that no one would accept. It’s just another way of saying he doesn’t want to sell.”
“How do you know this offer is too much?”
“Two million dollars? No one’s going to spend that much money on this property.”
Madre was no expert on real estate. She couldn’t argue. “What about you, son? Do you want to stay here?”
He’d never considered that question before, and now it had come up twice within days. There’d always been an understanding: the son would take over for the father. To reject that was to reject everything. He owed it to his family to continue the Plan Familiar. What other choice did he have? He was lucky to be here, even if sometimes he felt like just a cog in the wheel.
“Mami. Don’t talk like that.”
“I’m hearing your words, but I’m not feeling them here”—she tapped her substantial breast—“in my heart.”
Had he upset her? Maybe he hadn’t grown up rich, but he’d always known he was loved. He had a deep appreciation for all his parents had given him. He didn’t want to disappoint them. “Yes, I want to stay here. Maybe not do everything exactly like Padre . . .” Even that small concession felt epic, for a family as tied to tradition as theirs. “But yes.”
They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the peepers down by the creek.
“Let me ask you something.”
Madre rocked and waited.
“Whatever happened between Padre and Xavier St. Pierre?”
She looked out into the night. “It was so long ago, I can hardly remember. There was a meeting in town. All the growers, big and small, were there. It started out Señor St. Pierre and your padre were on the same side. But after the meeting, they got into a argument over who was first to bring winegrapes to the valley. St. Pierre said the French. Padre asked how he could forget it was Spanish monks who introduced grape vines to California, long before the French.”
Esteban opened his palms. “And?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it? Two decades of bad blood over that? ”
“That’s what I told you. In the beginning, it was nothing. But you know how bullheaded your Padre can be. Must be, Señor St. Pierre is the same way. Neither one can let it go.”
Esteban shook his head in disbelief. He vowed never to become that stubborn.
“Maybe it’s a growing-up lesson for you. The past is important. But it’s not good to get stuck in the past by pride. Better to move forward.”
He turned to examine his mother. He’d thought she was all about the past. She certainly led her life in the traditional way, going along with whatever Padre wanted.
“How is the lavender today?”
He scrubbed his hand over his face, suddenly bone-tired. “I’ll find one that works sooner or later. Soon as it dries out.”
He rose and stretched. “Buenas noches, Mami. Thanks for supper. It was good.”
Lying on his side in his bedroom, his feet hanging off his mattress, he couldn’t stop staring at the limp heap of Savvy’s scarf on his nightstand.
He’d told her “no more offers.” What if Savvy took his lie to heart and he never heard from her again? Was he fated to remember her by the few times she’d warmed his kitchen chair? The sight of her perfect oval face behind her dorky glasses? The feel of the material covering her peach-like breasts, never knowing the real thing?
What had he expected? Cristo, she was Sauvignon St. Pierre. Did he really think he, an immigrant truck farmer, could ever matter to her?
He rolled over to keep from seeing the nightstand, kicking at his tangled sheets in frustration. He had to see her at least one more time. That scarf was his ticket.