I took the money, started a foundation, and went to Africa, where I spent almost ten years traveling around, building schools and infrastructure. My foundation still provides vaccines for thousands, and we work tirelessly to provide small villages the proper resources to get plumbing and clean water. That is my passion. I spend several months a year there.
The winery is my escape. I’ve also used it to test clean energy theories, but mostly it’s a home to me. I am single and live alone. My hobbies are typical. I am very close to my father, who lives in Portland. He’s a retired Boeing engineer. My mother was killed in a traffic accident four years ago. She was hit head-on by a girl texting on her phone. Because of that, I spend very little time around the technological gadgets I helped to invent. My mother’s death tore me up so badly that I needed to find something to focus my energy on, and that is why I bought the winery. I have one sibling, a younger sister in Boston. We’re not close. I think that about wraps it up.
Again, I’m sorry for yesterday. I hope that experience didn’t taint your view of the winery.
Kind Regards,
R.J.
And there it was. I had my story. I didn’t need to write an article; R.J. had basically done it for me: philanthropist, genius, douche bag with a heart. That was going to be my angle. The tragedy of his mother’s death drove him to buy the winery and escape into the hills of Napa Valley, leaving the tech world behind. I wanted to spotlight the winery in the article as well as the good he was doing in Africa with his organization, but I struggled with how R.J. had treated me during our meeting. I wondered if he really needed his ego stroked any more.
I glanced at the clock. It was three fifty. I showered in three minutes, threw on a coat of lip gloss and mascara, and got dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and flats. When I got to the stairway, Jamie was there at the bottom. I reached for the banister but saw him slowly shaking his head back and forth.
“What?”
He pointed toward my door. “Back in there, lady. You need sneakers and a sweatshirt.” I huffed and rolled my eyes like a teenager before turning and heading back to my room. When I came down the stairs, he was leaning his back against the banister with his hands in his pockets, looking relaxed and delicious. He was wearing jeans, a thicker black jacket, and his plain black baseball cap. He looked dangerous, and then he flashed me a dimple and it all went poof. No more danger. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Everyone who?” he asked without turning to look at me. We passed the front desk and Jamie shot his hand up in a wave. “See ya, George.” The same man who was working behind the desk the night before waved to us.
“Who all is going sailing?”
He stopped in the parking lot as we approached his truck and turned toward me.
“It’s just you and me.” He hesitated, searching my face. “Is that okay?”
“Yes, I just don’t understand why you made such a big deal about dinner if you already had plans to sweep me away tonight?” I said, fluttering my eyelashes coquettishly.
“Dinner is intimate. This is sport. It’ll be fun.” He opened the passenger door. I hopped in. Chelsea sat on the sidewalk, glaring at us. He turned and spotted her. “You have to stay here, girl.” And then he pointed toward the inn. “Go lay down on your bed.” Her head dropped as she walked away slowly. She knew exactly what was going on.
As we turned onto the main road, I rolled down the window and stuck my head out, letting the wind dry my hair. Jamie turned up the radio.
“Who is this?” I shouted.
“The Amazing. It’s a song called ‘Dragon.’ ”
“It sounds old.”
“It’s not. What are you doing, crazy girl?”
“What does it look like, genius? I’m drying my hair.”
He laughed, shaking his head. I closed my eyes and felt the wind whip my long hair all over. I listened to the music and let the lowering sun beat down on my face. When my hair was adequately dry, I rolled the window up and Jamie turned down the music.
“All right, Katy, we need to talk about a few things.”
“Yes, because I have questions, too.”
“Well, first of all, I need to talk to you about the diabetes.” There were two rectangular canisters sitting between us on the truck seat, one orange and one black, both about the size of a sunglasses case. “The black case has my meter and insulin, and you won’t need to worry about that because I can do that myself. When my blood sugar is high and I need insulin, I’m usually alert. When it’s low, I can take these glucose tablets or drink some juice.” He held up a bottle of glucose tablets. “If it gets really low, I get groggy. If it gets too low, there’s a chance I could pass out.” My eyes got huge. He glanced over at me. “I’ve never passed out, but I’ve gotten really low. If I pass out, you’ll need to give me that shot in the orange case. It’s a glucagon kit.” He looked over quickly and then returned his gaze to the road. “Kate, are you okay?”
“Yes. Where do I inject you?” He pointed to his ass and grinned. “Of course it would have to be there.”