The Napa Wine Heiresses Box Set

Opening day. The day his family worked toward all year long. Madre always arranged their harvest in a way that made the Moraleses’ stall look more colorful, more luscious than everyone else’s. She chatted with the women, exclaiming over their cell phone photos of their growing children, and upsold the men with their meager grocery lists. Once people tasted the Moraleses’ tasty products, they almost always came back for more.

Esteban pitched in wherever he was needed, loading and unloading the crates of produce, helping sell when Madre got too busy, emptying the cashbox into the bank pouch when the stack of ones started spilling over, same as he always did.

This year’s opening day felt different, though, thanks to the GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign that Esteban had scribbled and stuck in the ground. The news quickly spread that the Moraleses’ first market Saturday of the year would also be their last. Madre still smiled for the customers and Padre still hung out quietly in the background, but Esteban knew that deep down inside, they harbored the same confused feelings he did.

He had to admit, from a purely practical standpoint, Savvy was right. It made sense to take the two million and walk away. No more money worries, no more aching backs. Still, this market was a part of them. They were saying good-bye to a whole way of life.

Just like Bodega, the market was a melting pot of Napa Valley. Its packed stalls were a feast for the eyes as well as the palate. Especially on opening day, it was hard not to run into someone you knew. Esteban was toting another case of bags from the truck about mid-morning when he spotted Shane, sauntering shoulder to shoulder through the alley with a gang of guys from downtown. One of the guys, Justin Thompson, was okay, but most of the others were the type who bounced from job to job, earning just enough to get wasted most nights. If it weren’t for the free live music and festival atmosphere of opening day, they probably wouldn’t be at the market.

Esteban nodded, his face half hidden behind the large box in his arms. From the corner of his eye, he saw Shane elbow the biggest man—Steve something, his name was. Years back, Steve had given Esteban the stink eye at a bar over a girl they both were hitting on. A girl so insignificant Esteban couldn’t even recall her face.

“Dude. What happened to your hair?” prodded Steve with a cocky grin.

“Oh, yeah, thanks a lot for dumping me at Salt Point a couple weeks ago,” said Shane, throwing up gang signs with his hands.

What Esteban wanted to say was how ballsy the slightly built Shane was when he was surrounded by a pack of thugs. But he had better things to do.

“Thinks he’s better than everyone else since he’s humping one of the St. Pierre sisters,” called out Shane to his back.

He felt his jaw set. Let them have their fun. They weren’t worth the trouble of wiping blood off his knuckles. But he couldn’t resist a glance.

“What?” Shane spread his arms innocently, walking backward, his eyes flickering left and right for moral support. “Everyone’s talking about it. They’re all like, what’s he doing with her? And I’m like, happens all the time. Everybody knows those wine princesses love to go slumming. Hook up with the help.”

Esteban kept on walking, his temples beginning to throb with his blood pressure.

“You seen her? The brunette one with the glasses? I’d tap that,” said an unfamiliar voice.

“You know how it goes,” said Shane, raising his voice even louder so Esteban would be sure to hear. “It never lasts.”

Esteban was almost to the stand when he heard their parting comment.

“Gonna be a kept man, now that ol’ Xavier St. Pierre bought out the Moraleses, lock, stock, and barrel.”

He stopped in his tracks then. Set down the box. Turned. The others were now hastening away with wary backward glances.

Not Shane. Printed boxers bagging above the waistband of his jeans, still counting on the half dozen larger men to stand up for him, he continued to taunt.

“Didn’t know that, huh? Look at him. He looks so surprised. It’s a bitch when you’re the last one to know, isn’t it, E?”

How he got there, he’d never know, but Esteban found himself on top of the smaller man, fist poised above his face. “That’s where it ends,” he growled.

Shane covered his face with his hands. “Hide your crazy, man! Don’t blame me—ask Hector! That’s who told me!”

Hector, Shane’s cousin. A wine distributor.

“Everyone knows. Tell him.” From where Esteban was trying not to bash his face into the pavement, Shane’s neck craned behind him to his gang, who had stopped some feet way. Too brave to run, not brave enough to enter the fray.

Esteban peered up at them too, searching face after face, the question plain in his eyes.

“It’s true, man,” Justin Thompson said, his voice holding a twinge of regret. Justin’s mom had worked in a winery since before God was born. She knew everybody and everybody knew her.

Esteban let go of Shane, rose and stood over him, unseeing. There was one way to find out for sure. When Savvy got there, she’d refute what they’d said. She would.

Shane scrambled to his feet and strode away brushing the dirt off his sleeves, cocky as ever.

Esteban turned to see Padre standing white-faced at the rear of their market stand. Sweat beaded on his forehead.