Chapter 31
Everybody in the elegant lobby of the Gold Rush Resort looked up when Char dashed in at seven fifteen, slightly breathless. The jog from the far end of the parking lot wasn’t easy in four-inch heels, even for a runner.
Meri and Savvy had been at the resort for hours, taking care of last-minute details on her behalf.
As for Papa, she’d firmly banned him from being within a five-mile radius of the gala.
Papa. She sighed. He was a disaster. Growing grapes was the only thing he did right. Who knew what message Ryder had taken away from their wine-soaked talk?
After her shower, Ryder was gone, the only sign of him a messy bed, an open bottle of vitamins, and the envelope. Not even a note. Not that one was needed. Cutting loose without so much as a good-bye said it all. It was just as she’d told her sisters. Apparently, nothing she or Papa could ever say could atone for his loss.
And now, she had to find a way to live with the knowledge that the Southside Migrant Camp fire had also scarred Juanita and her children.
Juanita said she’d forgiven her, but she’d had seven long years to digest the facts. Seven years to come to grips with her emotions. Maybe, given time, Ryder might be able to give absolution, too. But not many people had it in them to be as gracious as Juanita.
In the meantime, what could Char do with her whipsawed emotions? How could she get through this night?
Compartmentalize. Put all the pieces of her shattered heart in a box and set it on a shelf, to come back to later when she could have a proper breakdown. But it wasn’t that easy. Tears kept threatening to overspill her eyes.
Char swallowed the giant lump in her throat and pasted on a smile at some passing acquaintances.
Nothing about this summer had turned out as planned. Even her personal best in the half was tainted by the bar fight that had ruined Ryder’s team’s chances. If it weren’t for Wendy smacking Dan, knocking his team out of the running . . .
No. It had started way before that. If it weren’t for Papa, sharing ownership in the camp . . .
She tossed her head, as if doing so could shake her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order.
If only.
Instead, she summoned the willpower to focus on the cool elegance of the window-lined ballroom, to bring herself back to the present. Soon it would be dark outside, and the panoramic exterior view of manicured grounds would contract to the details of its chocolate brown interior.
White-clothed tables were piled with a stunning array of auction items collected by the contest participants. From across the room, Char watched Meri put the final touches on her artistic vision, turning Char’s donations into a sensational-looking spread. Just as Char had imagined, there were the colorful baskets overflowing with fruits and vegetables, tied up in bows. Sparkling wine bottles nestled in straw-lined wood boxes. All the gift certificates had been framed in silver, then set on easels. And Meri’s one-of-a-kind necklace sat mounted on black velvet.
She wove through the tables to her sister. “Meri, you’ve outdone yourself. I can’t thank you enough. The jewelry, the displays . . .”
A quartet brushed by Char, openly scrutinizing her Grecian goddess gown paired with Meri’s gold chandelier earrings, as they offered their congratulations for winning the half.
“Ever have the feeling you’re in a zoo?” whispered Meri.
“They’re looking at you, too, you know. It comes with the terroir.” Their names and faces had attracted the spotlight even before all the buzz about Char and Ryder started. That couldn’t be helped; it had always been that way. And granted, the race had earned Char even more recognition. That was fine, too. She’d worked hard for that.
What wasn’t fine was notoriety for its own sake. Char had never asked to be a rock star. If people admired her, let it be because she wanted to help those less fortunate. Or because she was a tough competitor on the athletic field. But not because her father was rich or because she’d been seen hanging around town with this year’s Mr. Napa—kissing, running in skimpy shorts, even arguing in public. She’d only been back in town a month, and instead of improving her reputation, she’d made it worse. How could she blame anyone for believing she was just another branch of the most off-the-chain family tree in the valley?
None of it would’ve mattered, though, if Ryder cared for her as deeply as she did him. His acceptance was all the approval she needed. But the chances of that happening were close to nil now. It was useless to dwell on it.
How had she ever, even for one day, been brash enough to dream she could have it all: a stable family, romantic love, and the chance to give back?
Papa was out of control. Her chance at romantic love was ruined. Now, all her hopes rested on one last thing, the only dream she had left: her professional goal of helping others. The grand prize.
Ryder held the lobby door for Amy as Xavier St. Pierre’s black limo pulled under the awning of the resort entrance.
Xavier stepped out himself while his driver dashed out to get the door for his companion. “Ryder! Une seconde. I would like a word with you.”
Ryder froze. Now what? And who the hell was that young chickadee with St. Pierre? Miranda? Jeezus. She must be a third of his age. How much weirder could this day get?
Amy looked back. “Miranda, isn’t it? Why don’t we go inside?” she said, extending a hand to her. “Let them talk.”
Sometimes Amy Smart actually lived up to her name. To Miranda’s questioning look, Xavier gave a curt nod. She swept by Ryder with a flirtatious smile before disappearing through the door, Amy close behind.
“My daughter scolded me after our little talk this afternoon,” said St. Pierre, peering down his nose. “She said I gave you too much wine.”
You did. Still, Ryder took responsibility for his own actions. He was a man. He should’ve exercised more self-control.
“Do you remember the things that I told you?”
Some. “Which things, in particular?”
“About the fire. The camp.”
Disjointed fragments. An illegal cookstove. Extra fuel sitting around. A yellow envelope. Ryder was having a hard time piecing them all together.
“If you remember anything, remember this. Nothing we talked of is the fault of Chardonnay. She was an innocent child when it happened. Seventeen. In school, in the east. So please, if you must blame someone, blame me. Do not punish my daughter.”
He started toward the door, then paused.
“Read the reports. It’s all there.”
Char had just sat down at the table reserved for her team when she caught movement near the double doors across the ballroom. She looked up, and in walked a radiant Ryder McBride. If he felt anywhere near as good as he looked, his nap had done wonders. A million watts of electricity ricocheted through the room. Tablemates nudged and whispered. Necks craned, heads dodging left and right to get a better view of Napa’s biggest star.
More tuxes and flashy gowns materialized, packing into the space until it vibrated with movement and conversation. Men reached out to slap Ryder’s back or shake his hand. Moon-eyed women stood on their tiptoes to touch their cheeks to his in air-kisses. If Char thought she’d ever been the center of attention, that was nothing compared to the stir he was causing. But unlike her, Ryder seemed to take it all in stride, as he made his way to his team table.
She wished she could be more like him, accept celebrity with aplomb. But then, why shouldn’t he? Ryder had nothing to be ashamed of. His mother hadn’t abandoned his family to run off with a strange man and died in a car crash. His father wasn’t a serial philanderer. And as far as she knew, no one in his family had ever done time. Ryder got attention for all the right reasons, whereas she, on the other hand . . .
Char forced her gaze away. She looked down at the table without seeing the gold-banded china and massive floral centerpiece. Her mouth was dry as the desert. She reached for her water glass, but she could only choke down the tiniest sip. Then she sensed his presence grow stronger, drawing her like a magnet. Her heart pounded, the roaring in her ears drowning out the buzz of conversation. She fought and lost a powerful urge to look up again, and there he was, mere feet from her. Her eyes sank into his, her breath coming fast and shallow. When she’d had him on her bed just hours ago, wasted, she’d bared her soul to him. Her face warmed, remembering. She’d told him she loved him. Did he care? Had he heard a word she said?
Ryder maintained steady eye contact with Char even as he leaned over to listen to a seated woman in a red dress whose hand held his forearm captive. This close, Char saw a certain sadness beneath his public smile. The longer he looked into her eyes, the blacker his pupils grew, till they eclipsed all their hazel color. Char’s burning eyes blinked first, and just that quick, someone was taking his other arm and pointing to a distant table, and he allowed himself to be led away.
He didn’t want anything more to do with her. He couldn’t have said it louder if he’d shouted it from the podium.
It seemed like forever until the waiter came to clear the plates in preparation for the live auction.
“Was your meal all right?” he asked. “Looks like you barely touched your food.”
“Just nerves.” She managed to maneuver her lips into a polite smile.
“I understand. Anxious for the outcome of the contest,” he said, swooping her plate away.
The majority of the auction articles were part of the silent bidding. Before dinner, bidders had written their best offers down on a slip of paper next to the displayed item. That part was over now, and the winning bids were being tallied behind the scenes.
Next on the agenda was the live auction. Only a few of the more extravagant items—trips, spa stays, and the like—were included in that. An FRF-donated helicopter tour of the wine country roused a lively bidding war, and Char’s stay at a well-known Yountville bed-and-breakfast drew a good price, too.
Then the music began again for dancing, while the McDaniel Foundation staff added up all the money.
“I brought you something.” Meri plopped down next to her with a plate. “Chocolate mousse.” She strained to be heard over the orchestra.
Char shot her a questioning glance. “Dessert has already been passed out. White cake with strawberry filling.”
“I went back to the kitchen and pleaded a strawberry allergy.” Meri winked.
What would she do without her sisters? Char picked at her mousse with her spoon. She didn’t want to seem unappreciative, but under the circumstances, she couldn’t even stomach her favorite food.
Even so, she forced down another bite. Anything to distract her from the random glimpses of Ryder she’d been catching on the dance floor. No one had asked her to dance—not that she wanted to. All she wanted was for this night to be over.
She checked the time on her phone to see it was only ten minutes later than the last time she’d looked. She sighed. Counting up the money was taking forever.
And then, finally, the end drew near. Dr. Nicole Simon took the podium, and the music stopped.
The atmosphere was supercharged. Everyone was out of their seats, in anticipation of the results. Even the waitstaff had come out from the kitchen, hugging the walls to be among the first to hear who won the challenge.
Char blew on her freezing hands, until Meri took one and Savvy grasped the other.
Dr. Simon’s opening remarks barely registered on Char’s ears. It wasn’t until she got to the important part that Char started paying attention.
“I have the winner of the half-marathon, based on the handicaps. As you know, the individual prize is fifty thousand dollars.”
Nicole fumbled with the envelope.
“And the winner is: Stephen Fuller of the Wine Country Community Group.”
Char’s supporters sent her sympathetic smiles. She joined in the applause for Stephen when he went up to accept his award.
“There’s still the grand prize,” whispered Meri in her ear.
Char smiled wanly. All she was waiting for now was the chance to congratulate the big winner and slip off quietly into the night. She’d already begun racking her brain for alternative funding options for her foundation.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the news we’ve all been waiting for: the winner of the challenge and one million dollars.”
Dr. Simon paused for effect.
Char’s sisters captured her hands once more and clenched them tight enough to break the bones in her fingers. Meri, the youngest, shimmied in her excitement.
“While this year’s winner is a first-timer in our contest, its founder is an experienced fund-raiser and volunteer. This person has ladled soup, washed and folded donated clothing, and swept floors at a homeless shelter. Five years ago, this individual came to me and told me she intended to participate in the next challenge. She was only an ambitious teenager at the time, and I wouldn’t have thought any less of her if she’d recanted. But in the intervening years, she earned a degree in public service from the University of Connecticut . . .”
But Char didn’t hear what came next, because Meri was squealing and Savvy had a death grip on her arms, and then her whole team was on top of her, jumping up and down, whooping and yelling. Dr. Simon raised her voice to be heard, and as Char’s full name was broadcast, the entire room erupted.
After all the ups and downs of the past forty-eight hours, Char thought she might burst. While her mouth bowed in a huge grin, her chest heaved, as one after another of her family, friends, and teammates embraced and congratulated her before passing her like a soggy beach ball toward the stage to collect her prize.
Papa appeared from out of nowhere, disobedient as usual, but for the first time, she was glad. The fact that Miranda was draped across his arm didn’t even faze her, what with everything else she was attempting to absorb.
“I could not abandon you. Not again,” he said, his expression more poignant than she’d ever seen it. “Never again.” He kissed both her wet cheeks.
How much more could a girl take?
Papa steered her to the base of the stage steps.
Char gazed up to where Dr. Simon glowed with dignified pride.
Lifting her dress, she picked out the steps in her towering heels and glided to the mike. From up there, the applause sounded deafening.
Somehow, the content of her speech took precedence over her emotions. She thanked her family, her team, and her contributors, and then took advantage of those crowded around to lay out her plan for her foundation.
“Chardonnay’s Children are truly the children of the vineyards. They are the sons and daughters of immigrants. These children are, in a sense, victims, here through no fault of their own. In many cases, they suffer from fear, isolation due to language barriers, an achievement gap, and poor housing options.
“Here in Napa County, only twenty-two percent of Latinos go on to college, versus forty-two percent of Anglos. My foundation will educate parents on the importance of education, fund ESL and civics teachers at our new after-school center, and encourage community involvement to lessen isolation. We will also work for more affordable housing. And this is only the beginning.
“But immigrants are not the only ones who need our help. There is no shortage of suffering in our county or of victims.”
Where had that statement come from? That wasn’t part of her prepared speech. From her spot on the dais, she glimpsed Meri and Savvy exchange an “uh-oh” look.
Char dug down deep and found an inner well she hadn’t known existed. She waited for the confused murmuring to die down. Finally, she knew what had to be said to let the healing begin. Her healing. She couldn’t control anyone else.
“While all of the worthy organizations represented here tonight deserve our admiration and support, there is one particular cause that is close to my heart. That cause is fire prevention and victim assistance.”
From the epicenter of the room, Ryder’s line of vision found hers. He shook his head and mouthed the word no. Instinctively she knew: He didn’t want her to squander her moment in the spotlight on him. She tore her eyes away from his. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to go on.
“In some ways, our causes overlap. Half of all the people who die in fires had no smoke alarms, despite semiannual public service announcements to install fresh batteries. But these reminders only work if people understand the language they are given in.
“Yet there is another, more personal reason that this cause is so important to me. And that is because of my connection to some very special friends.
“Seven years ago, my father owned an immigrant worker camp. It was built to give farmworkers—hardworking men, far from home—a safe place to sleep and to eat.”
The buzz began again, down on the ballroom floor.
“Though that camp may seem inadequate now, it was a product of its time. Despite responsible oversight, and to the everlasting regret of my entire family, the Southside Migrant Farmworker Camp was the site of a tragic, accidental explosion in which two migrant workers and one firefighter lost their lives.”
The crowd hushed in disbelief that the ugly, open secret would be dragged out here, in this high-class setting, with Xavier St. Pierre in attendance—and by his own flesh and blood.
“I am not here to make excuses. But it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t take this opportunity to honor the memory of the men who died that night. Their names are Mateo Perez, Gabriel Garza, and Roland McBride.”
A tentative smattering of applause reached her from dark pockets of the room. And then she spotted movement. The crowd, parting to make way for Ryder, weaving toward the stage. Toward her.
As mysteriously as it had arrived, Char’s self-assurance crumbled, stranding her there on quaking knees with a trembling lower lip, exposed before the eyes of the entire Napa Valley. With Ryder’s every step, the applause swelled.
He leaped onto the stage. Like a movie in slow motion, he strode toward her. She no longer heard the ongoing sound of clapping. Of the hundreds of faces in the room, the only face she saw was his.
When he reached her, he took a moment. But it wasn’t a put-on. It was real. Ryder McBride acted as though they were the only two people in that room. Because to him, they were.
Finally, he pulled her into his embrace. He rocked her back and forth while she released pent-up tears of regret and desolation. Filled her up again with love . . . hope . . . redemption.
Suddenly she could hear again. The earlier cheers were eclipsed by the current bedlam. His embrace and the uproar of approval seemed like they would go on forever.
At stage right, Dr. Simon attempted to fan away her emotions. And then up climbed the others. Papa. Her sisters and Ryder’s family. And dozens more, flooding the stage, all wanting to get close to her and Ryder, to be part of their reconciliation.
Over the heads of the crowd, a designer-clothed arm waved like that of a film director and Amy’s voice could be heard above the din, supervising some unseen photographer. “Are you getting this? Do we have video? I want video!”