Christmas in Wine Country Read online

“I don’t care what it’s replicating!” Lila’s panic rose in direct proportion to the degree to which it was ignored. “People will fall on the way from the parking lot!”

  “What, exactly, do you propose we do about it?”

  “I don’t know! That’s your job!” Her hands flew up once again in exasperation. “Put some bubble wrap down over it!” Immediately hearing a popping soundtrack accompanying the imaginary scene of chaos, Lila revised, “No, throw a tarp over it! Yes, that’s it! A nice tarp.” She looked out over the courtyard, wondering what exactly a nice tarp would look like. Black? Could they find one with some shimmer?

  “You want me to put a tarp down over the cobblestone?” he repeated, incredulous. “Or, I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers and Lila looked up for a moment in hope. “I could carry the guests. I could be a shuttle. They could hop on my back and I could run them into the ballroom.” Lila’s mouth opened in shock at the rudeness.

  Then, to her complete disbelief, he turned and simply walked away. Not in a hurry, no angry huff, the same nonchalant pace he’d assumed prior to learning about the crisis. Appalled, she watched him in stunned silence as he headed down a paved path along the side of the building. It was a flat, safe, handicapped accessible path that she’d somehow missed before, leading directly to an adjacent parking lot.

  As a hot flush of embarrassment flooded her cheeks, Endicott’s event coordinator appeared once again at her side. “Now about the margarita maker. It’s in a wagon being pulled by a plastic donkey.”

  Looking inside the French doors, Lila found herself locked in a gaze with a large and unrepentant ice giraffe.

  * * *

  Phillip was not looking at her. That much was obvious. Lila had been standing in a clean line of his vision chatting—or more listening while her co-worker, Allison, chatted—for at least 20 minutes now. Other than a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and a distracted “Don’t you look nice,” he’d been MIA.

  Actually, it was worse than that she thought with a grimace and took a big sip of champagne. He was totally in action, just not with her. He’d been wrapped up with Axelle, the Parisian director who worked out of the New York office. Effortlessly glamorous Axelle, so tiny she could just about fit in your pocket. There they were, in a small circle with the board chair, a vice president and a giant man in a tux and cowboy hat. Just now Axelle was leaning into Phillip with laughter. And there he was, debonair and gorgeous as always, inclining his head toward hers, his hand resting oh-so-casually on the small of her back. Her bare back.

  Lila took another sip of her champagne and wondered how Axelle pulled it off—wearing a red, backless dress to the company party and still managing to look sophisticated and professional. In her black off-the-rack Ann Taylor dress Lila felt like a 50-something career nanny. The red-dressed stick laughed again, this time leaning back and flipping her long, honey-streaked hair in a cascade. Lila wished she could take hers down from what now felt like a schoolmarm bun, but she’d pretty much shellacked her hair up into a fire hazard.

  Looking at her watch, she realized dessert was due to be served in 15 minutes. Here’s hoping that Endicott crew was great at fixing up microwave brownies. Before the party began, she and the waitstaff had had time to take down the Mexican flag, dismantle the Baby Jesus piñata, deflate the cacti and send home the Mariachi band with a nice tip for their troubles. Nothing could be done, however, about the Mexican flag sheet cakes large enough to serve 100. About 150 less than the number of guests.

  “Oh my God! Karaoke!” Allison squealed next to her. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have karaoke!”

  “We’re not,” Lila said, turning toward the dance floor. Where the DJ was announcing the next portion of the evening’s entertainment: Karaoke! Pressing her fingers against her forehead, Lila made a direct line toward the DJ. She thought she’d cleared it up: light jazz as guests filtered in, swing standards as people dined at buffet stations and milled about, moving into 70s/80s classics to top off the evening with some dancing. No open-mike invitations for drunks bellowing out “Only the Lonely” or, worse, ranting against rumored company lay-offs.

  “Excuse me,” She cleared her throat behind the DJ. Garnering no response, she tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Oh, ho!” he chortled into his microphone and turned down the music. “We have our first volunteer!” What seemed to be a good half of the party guests turned their heads expectantly in Lila’s direction to watch the DJ ask, “And what’ll it be?”

  “No!” Her horrified reply reverberated throughout the tent, sending a ripple of laughter through the guests. Backing away, she raised her hands as if to ward him off.

  “Still deciding. I get it.” The DJs voice glided back into the mic, adding, “Here’s a little something to keep you all hot while we’re waiting for her to warm up.” The speakers started pumping out the opening beat to “Disco Inferno.”

  “Ohmygod, are you not going now?” A rush of excitement grabbed Lila’s arm. Two company interns fresh out of college pressed in close. “Because we have the perfect song.”

  “Seriously. It’s. Going. To. Rock.” The other intern grabbed her other arm.

  Lila tried to untangle herself as she asked the DJ, “Hey, why are you doing karaoke?”

  “What, babe?” The DJ looked up, giving her a sliver of attention as he readied the karaoke machine.

  “No, why?” She tried to sound more authoritative than plaintive. “Why karaoke? You’re not supposed to.”

  “What’s that, babe?” The DJ was now surrounded by the interns who were jumping up and down like 3-year-olds in anticipation of their favorite song.

  “The contract! It’s not in the contract to do karaoke!” Lila nearly yelled, adding with desperation, “I’m the party planner!”

  “Good, good,” the DJ slipped his hand around her waist and added, conspiratorially, “We’re gonna kick this party up a notch. DJ Daddy’s in the house.”

  Lila’s groaned “oh my God” went unheard as DJ Daddy turned his attention back to the 22-year-old interns.

  “I can’t believe you just jumped right in!” Lila’s co-worker, Allison, appeared at her side, eyes wide with surprise. “I never knew you had it in you! Need some help picking a song?”

  “I’m not—

  “OK, so if you really want to do some vocal stylin’…” Allison nattered on as Lila grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray, catching the steely eye of a partner as she did. It was one of the top guys in the Chicago office. A pretty conservative guy. He was probably wondering why the hell a couple of 22-year-olds had now taken over the annual corporate gathering’s entertainment singing about how their milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.

  Not a good night to be Lila’s nails. Or cuticles. Bit to the quick.

  Heading away from the show and searching desperately for Phillip, Lila scanned the crowd. Maybe he was making his way over to her right now to check in and see how she was doing on the big night.

  Or maybe he was in a far corner leaning into that wee slip of a thing in red and murmuring in her ear.

  The next passing waiter lost two champagne glasses to Lila, one of which she emptied in about five seconds. Out the window, the vineyard’s expansive grounds beckoned. Would anyone notice if she vaulted over the hedge never to be seen again?

  “You are totally not going to believe who’s here!” Allison squealed by her side. “I just did a little recon and had it all confirmed.” Fuzzy, Lila wondered how long Allison had been gone with her ‘recon’ while she’d had another two—or was it three?—glasses of champagne. “Now, you have to promise not to look when I tell you where to look.” After a dramatic pause, Allison stage-whispered, “Jake Endicott!”

  “Jake? Endicott?” Lila echoed, not sure why the names rang a dim bell as she scanned the crowd.

  “Endicott!” Allison nodded, “As in, Endicott Vineyards! Where we are right now?” Exasperated at Lila’s lack of reaction, she added, “His
family owns all this! He’s, like, the hottest bachelor in the entire Bay Area.” Resuming the momentum of her monologue, Allison continued, “I can’t believe he’s here! I mean, I’d hoped but I never really expected…” Lila scanned the crowd which had all started looking like a smudged pastel painting. “He’s at 3 o’clock behind me,” Allison added. “I mean, no, 9 o’clock.”

  There, in a cluster with the CFO and two members of AdSales’ board, stood the dark-haired groundskeeper she’d yelled at earlier about the cobblestones. In place of the Fisherman-knit sweater he now sported a sleek black dinner jacket. He looked right at home in it.

  “Lila, you’re starring at him!” Allison hissed, turning around herself. Her eyes widened as she added, “And he’s staring right back at you!”

  “That’s Jake Cotton…End?” Lila asked, wondering how the surly groundskeeper had somehow turned into the heir to the vineyard hosting the party. There he was, hob-knobbing with some of the most powerful and important people in her firm. Giving her a decidedly disapproving frown.

  “Endicott,” Allison corrected. “How many glasses of champagne have you had, anyway?”

  Turning toward a passing waitress, Lila grabbed some more. As she did, she detected a distinct glower in her direction from the Heir Apparent. Turning away, she found herself staring at the lovebirds in yet another ‘I touch your chest, you touch my back, You’re So Hilarious’ laugh. Over in the corner, a small plastic donkey sat patiently next to his Margarita wagon.

  The snap that happened within Lila wasn’t the sort that you could hear. It had the silent sound of a tiny card slipping out of place at the bottom of an elaborately constructed house, nay tower of cards. Or, perhaps, the sound of letting go, hands opening up and off the bar that Lila had been clinging to with such determination.

  Over toward the dance floor, the karaoke machine beckoned with a siren’s song.

  She looked down at yet another empty champagne glass.

  Game on.

  * * *

  Lila’s bedroom was dark but not dark enough. Light pierced through a crack underneath the shade and Lila wondered what could be done about it. Theoretically, it was just a few feet away from the bed and easy to reach, but that would require movement which was completely out of the question. She wondered if she could text one of her roommates to come in and pull the shade down for her, but then she’d have to find her phone and press all those buttons. With a groan, she sank deeper into the pillows and pulled one more firmly over her eyes.

  A few hours later, Lila found herself conscious again and managed to squint at the clock. 1:33. AM or PM? Focusing on a crack in the ceiling of her apartment she hazily remembered that it was the morning after the party. Or the afternoon after the party. She vaguely recalled being in the backseat of her car as Allison drove them home. And getting sick in the backseat of her car.

  Hand to her mouth with another groan, Lila rolled to her side. Thankfully, the wave of nausea passed and she found herself contemplating the black dress balled up on the floor next to the bed. And the red slingbacks next to it—or at least one of them… Lila’s curiosity gave her the energy to reach down and grab a second bit of red, pulling it out from under the bed. What was it exactly? It looked like half of a chopstick.

  With another groan she lay back, realizing it was the stiletto heel from her second shoe. Oh God, she thought she remembered that now, the heel breaking off, but when, exactly? Hoisting herself into a sitting position, she dangled her legs off the bed and realized that her left ankle was sore. Throbbing, actually. Left ankle, left shoe—Lila did remember limping around as the evening progressed. She attempted to run a hand through her hair. It got stuck in a mass of sticky stiffness like frozen cotton candy.

  Cursing hairspray, stilettos and most of all champagne, she sank back down again onto the bed vowing she would never drink again. Never. Ever. Again.

  After the lapse of another couple of hours, Lila finally made it out onto the futon in the main room of the apartment. She used all of her remaining power to pull up a blanket from the floor and wondered where her roommates were. They were pros at this kind of thing, making quick work of the most vile hangover with vitamin water, cigarettes and a shopping expedition.

  But it seemed as if Lila was alone with memories from last night relentlessly playing in her head like a bad movie.

  There she was, up at the karaoke machine. A star in the making, lurching around and belting out a Pretender’s song: “Gonna make you, make you, make you notice me!” Not so much singing as really sticking it to the audience. Sort-of an angry yell, really, as she warned them all, “Gonna use my style!” Hand on her stuck-out hip, she’d FELT that song. She hadn’t even needed the teleprompter. “Gonna use my sas-say!”

  And there it was—the memory of how she’d broken her heel right off her stiletto. Her attempt at a super-sexy karate kick had become an enormous twist and crash to the floor, taking an intern down with her. It was the same intern she’d grabbed the mic from earlier, slurring “Lemme show you how it’s done.”

  Lila pulled the blanket over her head. But, still, the memories found her. She and the intern had gone down with the karate kick. Her stiletto heel hadn’t. It had sailed smack into the forehead of the CEO of a hot new Silicon Valley tech company, leaving a dark, red welt.

  Scrunching further down on the couch, Lila wondered again where her roommates were when she needed them? Not that they were ever “there” for each other the way it happened in made-for-TV movies, but they were, at least, a great distraction. Valeria—whose biggest contribution to the apartment was the careless shrug of her tanned and silky shoulder as she dismissed all cleaning with “I am Venezuelan” (emphasis and a lispy “th” on the third syllable)—and Venice—straight out of LA, or San Bernadino to be exact—loved to engage in competitive party recall.

  “I was sooo wasted last night,” one would begin.

  “I was totally wasted,” the other would echo, adding “I think I did, like, four tequila shots.”

  “I did, like eight.”

  “I remember licking salt off some guy’s fingers.”

  “I totally licked salt off some girl’s boobs.”

  And so on. No doubt Lila’s drunken karaoke would sound like innocent preteen play. They’d make it all sound totally normal that she’d not only sung “Hungry Like the Wolf” but acted it out. Lots of pawing at the air, clawing and hissing. Making angry yowls. A bit more like a cat, she realized.

  Her phone rang. “Sweetie, is that you?” Lila’s Gram’s voice reached through, sounding crackly and close all at once.

  Lila bit back a sob at the homey, welcoming sound. “Hey, Gram,” she managed. It was Sunday night, time for their weekly call. Lila could picture her Gram sitting on her overstuffed floral sofa. The saltbox cottage where she’d grown up in Hyannis, MA was tiny and Lila, her mother and her Gram had all had to compete for limited space with a variety of figurines, doilies and a rotating pack of dogs taken in with various war wounds. Depending on the time of day and year, a Red Sox game might be on the radio. As much as she’d fled it all, Lila wished she could transport back for the night to hang out on the couch with Gram, snacking on popcorn and watching an old Erroll Flynn swashbuckler.

  “How was the big night?” Gram asked.

  “Um,” she hesitated. She was almost positive that her Gram had never both verbally and physically assaulted people with drunk, angry karaoke. After realizing that Phillip had left the party without her but very much with Axelle, Lila believed she remembered launching into a screechingly ironic rendition of the Pointer Sisters’ “It’s Raining Men! Hallelujah!” Screaming to your company’s top executives, board members and VIP clients about being absolutely soaking wet with men…she was pretty sure that was a party “don’t.”

  “I twisted my ankle?” Lila offered.

  “Oh dear! Badly?”

  “Can’t really tell. I haven’t done much walking on it yet.” Lila stretched her leg out and proppe
d her ankle up on a cushion. She really should be icing it but the freezer was all the way 10 feet over in the kitchen.

  “Put some ice on it and prop it up,” Gram instructed. “And wrap an ace bandage around it just in case.”

  “Gram, it was so awful!” she found herself admitting, her Gram’s care and concern breaking her down. “Everything went wrong. There was all this Cinco de Mayo stuff like a plastic donkey pulling a Margarita cart and a Mexican flag cake and the DJ set up karaoke even though he was just supposed to play music and my hair feels like—” Lila paused to give her shellacked hair a feel. “Like an angry pineapple.”

  “Lila,” Gram laughed not unkindly. “What’s this about sinks?”

  “Cinco de Mayo.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  “I kicked my shoe off into a guy’s forehead.”

  At this, even Gram had to pause. “Did he need stitches?”

  “No.” But they’d closed down the karaoke afterward, sidelining Lila and returning the DJ to light jazz standards.

  “Dear, how is it you came to be in charge of this again?”

  “Mariana had her baby.”

  “Oh! How lovely! Boy or girl? How’s she doing?”

  Giving Gram the baby facts, Lila mentally added ‘unsympathetic’ to her long list of personal flaws. Last night, especially while stuffing what seemed to be thousands of tortilla chips into garbage bags as they dismantled the nacho cheese dipping fountain, she’d devoted a good deal of energy to silently cursing the new mother for her failings.

  “At any rate,” Gram continued, “I’m sure you looked lovely. The black dress you described sounded so tasteful and elegant.”

  Lila gave a decidedly un-tasteful and inelegant snort. “I don’t know what happened, Gram. In the store it was perfect but at the party I looked so…Nanny 911.”

  “Someone called 911?”

  “No, I mean I felt all buttoned down in some sort of shapeless black sack. There was this French partner there in this tiny little red thing.”