1
Ani
You’re not desperate.You’re a professional.
Well…you’re a little bit of both, but you can absolutely nail this.
Ani told herself these words as she stepped out of her car and took in the Tuscan-inspired winery before her.
So this was Ô.
Two weeks ago, when the email had hit her inbox, when Ani saw the bride wishing for a winery wedding, when she saw the massive six-figure budget, she knew her wedding planning business might be saved. And now she was here. Ready to make it happen, if she could calm her nerves.
Ani had seen photos of Ô online, but the Napa winery was far more breathtaking—and intimidating—in person. The stone villa towered over the plot, while well-manicured cypresses flanked the property like sentries, followed by miles of vineyards stretching out on either side.
The time was 11:20 a.m., ten minutes before her meeting with her prospective clients. Bab always said if you’re on time, you’re late! She wouldn’t mind pacing the grounds, takingthem in and using the meditative moments to relax her racing heart before meeting the new brides. The weather was perfect—mid- to high sixties—lucky for February, although not unheard of. She had painted her nails burgundy with a matching lip and wore her one silk shirt, pencil skirt, and heels. She hoped the look would bolster her confidence, bring out her inner 2001 J.Lo in the greatest movie of all time—The Wedding Planner, just like her—and, most importantly, wipe clean the memory of the last three months.
Then her phone rang.
Mom. Ani thought about not answering but then thought better of it and picked up.
“Parev, Ani jan,” her mother’s sweet voice sang.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I am here, too!” her father chirped.
Naturally he was. Her parents were always together, constantly together. It was like they were allergic to being apart.
“Is today the day you are going to Ô?” her mother asked.
Ani had told them about the new winery wedding she was hoping to land, just as she told them about everything, usually.
But she did not, would not, could not, tell them about the debt.
“Just arrived, but I’m early, so I have a couple minutes,” confirmed Ani, gravel crunching under her feet as she walked toward the open vineyards.
“I still cannot believe that Raffi Garabedian is the owner now,” her mother mused. “I must ring Nora and get the details on how this happened.”
“Raffi Garabedian,” her father wondered aloud. “Was he not the doctor? Moushegh’s son?”
“Yes, hokis,” her mother answered, with that term of endearment she used most often for her husband: “my soul.” “That is why I am wondering how he came to own a winery.”
“Well,” her father trailed, “his fatherisa member of the Armenian mafia, so if his son wants to abandon his Hippocratic oath and open a winery, he can.”
“Mob business!” her mother cried, and Ani heard the smile on her mom’s face. She could imagine her mother playfully slapping her father’s arm.
But therewererumors.
Ani had wondered about the new owner, although he wasn’t her main focus today. She’d heard about Raffi Garabedian all right. Her friend Nareh had warned her way back—it was about five years ago, before Ani became a wedding planner full time—that he was a total playboy skeeze despite his status as Northern California’s most eligible Armenian bachelor. A fabulously wealthy and handsome doctor—what more could you want, the aunties would say. Her friend had said differently. He’s gorgeous, yes, Nareh had told Ani, but vapid and misogynistic. Ani’s sister, Talar, had warned her similarly, but now Ani couldn’t remember what she’d said. She hadn’t had time to catch up with Talar before the meeting today.
But one thing was clear: Raffi Garabedian was to be avoided at all costs.
Ani had seen him on the periphery at this or that banquet, and he’d even shown up at a family friend’s wedding. Although she was mesmerized by his dark-set eyes, elegant height, and broad shoulders, she had kept her distance. The word of her crew was far greater than the pull of his hotness.
Today, however, she might have to interact with him. Shehad no idea how huge the operation at Ô winery was—the grounds were vast, she realized, wandering through the bare branches of the winter grapevines. Maybe Raffi had staff to meet wedding planners and potential couples, so it was possible she wouldn’t see him at all. She’d emailed the winery and someone had emailed back, setting up the time today, but it had been a generic [email protected] address. No name was signed. Despite Raffi’s apparent unsavoriness, Ani was excited to go to the winery and support an Armenian business, even if the owner was a playboy and his father a possible mob boss. There were so few Armenian-owned venues, it was a bit of a treat to get to visit one.
Her mother’s voice changed suddenly. “You must keep your heart open, eh, Ani?”
