I’d always wanted to go, but Mitch had always turned his head to one side and said, “Eh, I’m more of a beer person.”
You should’ve invited Rachel.
Well, Rachel would have to be speaking to me for that, now wouldn’t she? I was probably lucky Suja took my texts.
Parking at Hartsfield-Jackson was better than usual, a good omen. I treated myself to a spot in the garage, since I’d eventually be reimbursed for my parking. Even better, the plane ride to Oakland was uneventful and the car rental process much smoother than I could’ve hoped. Soon, I was driving in the direction of wine country, disconcerted by how much day I still had left thanks to traveling west.
It was so sunny and warm. I almost wished I’d ponied up extra for a convertible.
Almost.
The wine people had paid for my subcompact, so it would have to do. Once I’d made my way out of the city, the countryside opened up into swells of mountains and hills. I turned off the main road at some kind of amusement park and civilization encroached, but then that civilization faded. I was surrounded by vineyards.
Sunshine, balmy temperatures, lush scenery—this could be my idea of heaven.
At least it would be heaven if I were speaking to my mother and knew my cat was safely inside. My heart hurt. I thought about stuffing my feelings into one of my now empty emotional drawers, but I didn’t have the energy or the inclination.
I sat in my feelings instead and said a prayer that God would send my cat home. I’d ask for help with my mother, but the whole thing seemed beyond even God’s ability.
Look at this beautiful country and that gorgeous sky, Vivian! Enjoy this. You can always be sad later.
My pep talk wasn’t as effective as I might’ve hoped.
The robotic voice of my GPS announced my destination as a hotel beyond Napa, not heaven.
Or so I thought, until I saw the charming hotel of stucco, tiled roof, and exposed beams. I was pretty sure I would never leave until I saw the room rate on the back of my hotel door.
Vivian, you’ve earned this relaxation. Enjoy this time away.
I flopped backward on the crisp white linens of the bed and closed my eyes. This was it. I would somehow convince Busy Mom Cosmetics to take me on as a sponsor. Lucky would come home while I was gone. Mom would accept my apology. I would make things right with Abi and Rachel. It would all be okay.
I sat up before I fell asleep. It was five in the evening here, but my body thought it was eight. I was starving, but I still needed to register in the courtyard outside, where there would also be the first of many wine tastings and a meet-and-greet of sorts before we walked to supper.
I chose a new outfit with care, wearing my new Louboutins since the walk to our restaurant was about a tenth of a mile, no more than a minute according to Google Maps. My red sweater might be a bit warm now, but it was supposed to cool down significantly. As for makeup, I applied my new stash from Busy Mom Cosmetics. I’d need to rep them even if their damn mascara smeared worse than axle grease.
Now, Vivian, Busy Mom has been good to you.
True. I took a couple of deep breaths.
I paused at the door.
I was about to head outside and sell myself.
Back in New York, it had been easy to pretend that I’d simply won a contest, that I didn’t really have to impress anyone. This time, I didn’t have Abi and Rachel to bolster my confidence. In fact, Busy Mom Cosmetics would be watching me. How I did here might affect whether they offered the sponsorship Deborah had dangled in front of me.
No one knows you here. It’s like a blank slate.
For once in my life, this was good news. I would be who I wanted to be. I would make friends. I would make the most of this opportunity.
I left my second-story hotel room, and a glance at the courtyard below told me I was overdressed. I hesitated, but in the end went ahead. I didn’t have that many outfits, and it was better to overdress than underdress. In one corner of the small courtyard, a lady stood behind a table covered in a white tablecloth. She had bottles of wine in front of her—one red and one white. Behind me at a wrought iron bar table sat a woman with name tags and folders. I approached her first.
“Hi, I’m Vivian Quackenbush.” I had a hard time getting the word out, but everything was still under Mitch’s name, so using my maiden name would have to wait.
“Vivian,” she said warmly, the easy-breezy California version of New York’s Deborah. “I’m Donna, and we are so glad you are here to learn more about Vine Friends. Welcome! Here’s your name tag and a folder with a schedule of events. We’re just going to hang out here and have a little wine before formal introductions and dinner.”
“Thank you,” I said, not sure what to do with the folder. Should I take it back upstairs? It wouldn’t fit in my wristlet of a handbag.
Three women sat in front of the courtyard’s outdoor fireplace, their folders beside them as they chatted and drank their wine. I got a chardonnay from the lady in the corner and steeled myself to talk to them.
