Kissing Under the Mistletoe

chapter 5





At precisely 1:50 p.m., Regan pulled into Holly’s school. Situated just east of the main part of town, behind St. Helena Corkery, and on the south side of one of the DeLucas’ vineyards, St. Vincent’s Academy looked more like a winery than a private school. The main building was faced with hand-shaped stone and boasted two massive wooden doors at its entrance and a front lawn that could easily host an RV-and-boat fair.

It was Friday and raining, and that meant that the parking lot was packed with high-end cars and moms wielding designer galoshes and matching umbrellas. Regan had just finished her second tour of the parking lot when she gave up and parked down the street by the school’s Performing Arts Building.

“He’s just one man. His opinion doesn’t matter,” she said, flipping down the visor. She gasped when she saw her face. Eyes red, nose even redder, she looked like a woman who had spent the last seven blocks bawling her eyes out. Which she had. Because no matter how many times she told herself that she could do this, that she wouldn’t let some man hurt her again, it didn’t stop the tears from coming.

After a good blow of the nose and a new layer of cover-up, Regan stepped out of the car and, dollar store umbrella in hand, ran down the block. The wind blasted her, causing her umbrella to bend backward.

By the time she made it inside the school, she was officially drenched and reality had set in. All she could do now was find the bathroom, transform herself into some believable form of successful mommy, and then face ChiChi. No matter what the older woman wanted to talk about, Regan understood that she would have to withdraw Holly from the school. She was jobless, practically broke, and, come Sunday, homeless. Talk about humiliating.

She passed the front office, the glass display case that was filled with photos of last year’s graduates in front of the Arc de Triomphe, and had just opened the bathroom door when something caught her eye.

Full-color flyers hung on each stall, one after the next, all the same, spanning the entire length of the bathroom, and making Regan’s palms sweat.

“Missing: Randolph and Christmas Cheer. A $5,000 reward for the safe return of St. Helena’s most beloved mammal.”

It even had the heart-melting photo of Gabe when he was a boy hugging the ceramic statue. Dropping to her hands and knees, she checked to ensure that every last stall was empty. Coast clear, she scrambled to her feet and went to work, ripping down one, then the next. She got to six when she noticed that Randolph’s sad little face was also plastered on the insides of the stalls. They must have been posted by the high school basketball team because some were taped to the ceiling, dangling like banners.

Hiking up her skirt, she closed the lid on the first toilet, crawled on top, and, teetering dangerously on her heels, gave a hard tug on the flyer just as someone cleared their throat.

Frozen, hand in mid-rip, Regan turned to find herself staring down at not one but three gawking grannies. Besides their clothes, they looked like a trio of Mrs. Clauses: all with white hair. All with little round glasses perched on their noses. And all looking up at Regan like she had lost her mind.

Regan did what any grown woman would do when caught committing a crime. She stepped off the toilet, shoved the flyers behind her back, and slammed the stall door. Then she sat on the toilet lid and pulled her legs up to her chest.

Maybe if she closed her eyes and waited long enough they would forget that she was in there. And leave.

The seconds ticked by. Regan heard the squeak of someone’s orthopedic shoes, followed by the clicking of kitten heels, getting closer. She shut her eyes and rested her head against her knees. She would wait until the Mrs. Clauses left, grab Holly, and e-mail ChiChi with the sad news. They could be halfway back to Oregon before the humiliation of the day’s events even hit.

Then what? She had no job or house there either. No real support system. And she would be no closer to securing Holly’s Christmas wish.

The stall door flew open, slamming against the wall with enough force to shatter the tiles. Regan opened her eyes and looked at the Mrs. Clauses, who were, surprisingly, smiling.

“Hi, ChiChi,” Regan began, wondering how, if at all, she was going to get through this conversation. She had lost her last hope of finding gainful employment in this town. Holly was going to be devastated to lose her forever home with a kitty of her very own and a best friend.

And now Regan was a wanted deer-napper who had, for the second time in so many days, vandalized the property of the one person in the DeLuca clan who had treated her with kindness.

She opened her mouth to apologize, fess up, drop a ten in the Dirty Jar for her sins, when the smaller and rounder of the three, who was holding a basket of pastries and treats, pulled out a truffle and shoved it in Regan’s mouth.

“Don’t talk, dear, you might say something stupid,” she said. And based on the Hasselhoff T-shirt, red boa, and life-altering truffle, Regan assumed that this was Pricilla.

“Oh. My. God,” Regan moaned around a mouthful of chocolate and peppermint. “What’s in this? It’s incredible.”

“If I told you, then I’d have to—” Pricilla sliced a finger across her neck, punctuating the gesture with added sound effects.

Regan smiled at her joke. The other women didn’t.

The one on the left of ChiChi was dressed in a pair of sexually ambiguous pants and a green men’s button-down. She studied the wadded-up flyers in Regan’s hands while clutching a scraggly cat, who had an elf hat Velcroed to its head, against her ample bosom in a protective gesture. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

Regan felt the tears well up again.

“Lucinda, don’t make the poor girl cry,” ChiChi said. “She’s had quite a day. Haven’t you, dear?”

Regan nodded and wiped at her face with one of the flyers. Lucinda frowned at the pile of crumpled Randolph posters at her feet.

Regan gave an apologetic shrug.

“Yes, well, next time use toilet tissue.” Lucinda reached into a denim fanny pack and offered up a gingham handkerchief. “It took us hours to make those flyers.”

Regan accepted the cloth, relieved that the older woman was questioning her possession of the flyers and not Mr. Most Wanted himself. After a sniffle, she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, ChiChi. I know you wanted to meet with me about a favor, but—”

“Yes, I had assumed you would come to my office, though.” ChiChi’s maternal stare locked on Regan, who suddenly felt like she had been given a test and failed.

“Yeah, well”—Regan glanced at the flyers—“I got distracted, and I apologize.” She swallowed. “For everything. I know you took a risk hiring me and an even bigger risk recommending Holly to the school. They were already at full capacity and made an exception because of you.” She shifted on the toilet seat, the motion causing it to flush. “But things didn’t work out,” she yelled over the rushing water. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard I was fired, and so Holly and I won’t be staying in St. Helena. So, if you could e-mail me the total costs accrued, that would be great.” Just great.

All three women exchanged a meaningful glance that Regan couldn’t decipher. Then they all smiled and walked closer. Regan wanted to lean back but was afraid she would set off the auto-flush again.

“Let us get this straight—” Pricilla said.

“You want her to bill you for two weeks that you assumed would be free.” Lucinda poked Regan in the shoulder. She had surprisingly bony fingers for such a muscular woman.

“It was a perk of working for Ryo, but you intend to pay it back in full?” The corners of ChiChi’s lips twitched with something Regan didn’t understand, but somehow it reminded her of her mother.

Her fingers strangled the snotty flyers. She hated owing people money, but under the circumstances she saw no other choice. “To be honest, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to pay you back, but if we could set up some kind of payment plan...I know that this is probably not a request you receive often, but if you could make an exception.” Her throat closed on the last word, making it come out strangled.

“Quite the moxie,” Pricilla said.

“Stubborn and honest.”

“It’s refreshing.”

“I won’t take up any more of your time.” Regan stood, smoothing down her skirt, leftover rainwater trickling out the toes of her pumps.

“Sit,” ChiChi ordered.

Lucinda’s cat hissed, sending a reprimanding glare from beneath the fuzzy white ball at the end of his hat.

“Now, Mr. Puffins,” Lucinda cooed, her voice dropping to a soothing singsong.

Over their blue-haired haloes, Regan looked around the room, taking note of the sole exit. Knowing the only way she could escape would be to take out a granny, she grunted and plopped back down on the toilet. Her heart plopped with her.

As if understanding her need to run, the three ladies fanned out, blocking the opening of the stall. So this is what timeout feels like, Regan thought, taking in how ridiculous she looked cowering on the too-small toilet.

“Because my bullheaded grandson acted so incredibly out of character—” ChiChi paused to smile, as if she found her words incredibly amusing. Apparently everyone but Regan saw the amusement, because even the cat was grinning.

Regan could think of a few select and more accurate words than bullheaded to describe Gabe but settled on a nod.

“You are out of a job. And we”—ChiChi glanced at her two friends, who appeared equally as worried—“are in desperate need of a new look.”

Regan looked at the St. John’s–wearing granny, then down at her own wrinkled and wet suit, and frowned.

“I was talking about the town’s public perception,” ChiChi clarified with a laugh that let Regan know just how bad she appeared at the moment. “We need to modernize our image without losing all of the tradition that makes this town special. Prove to the people that we aren’t a bunch of crazy old bats. Those pushy PTA moms are driving us nuts with social media this and twatting that. The minute they figure out the only thing we know how to do on the Interweb is shop for men—”

“And book trips to Vegas,” Pricilla added with an excited nod.

“Not to mention how we lost Randolph...” ChiChi trailed off and made the sign of the cross.

“There’s already whispers of impeachment. Our mothers founded the Community Action Committee over seventy years ago, and this silicone, nannyfied, yoga pants–wearing posse—” Lucinda stopped, her hands shaking. The cat hissed. “This is war, Regan, and we need a secret weapon.”

Regan scooted to the edge of the toilet. She could be their secret weapon. Last year she had consulted part-time with a high-end kids clothing boutique in Portland, helping them grow their social media presence and attract new clientele. Even though the contract had only lasted six months, she had quickly become a Twitter goddess, creating a black book filled with blogging mommies who could help spread the word, and she hated yoga pants on design alone.

“Hang on, honey,” ChiChi said. “I see that got your attention, but before you begin dreaming of Fendi and fittings with Valentino, the actual budget for the position is...well, nonexistent really.”

“That damn PTA took away our hiring power after we offered the summer dance instructor position to a stripper we met on one of our trips to Vegas.” All three women went dreamy-eyed at Pricilla’s words. “He had a marvelous cha-cha.”

“PTA or not,” ChiChi said, “without us the school’s art program would have died out when the dot-com industry went into the crapper. So all we can offer you is a nonpaid position, but according to our bylaws, members of the Community Action Committee gain free tuition for all of their offspring. You could build your résumé, and Holly would be able to stay here at St. Vincent’s.”

“This is so wonderful, but,” I slept with your grandson-in-law! “I don’t have a job or a place to—”

In went another truffle, this one milk chocolate and rum, cutting off all her reasons for why she couldn’t stay.

“I would hire you back if I could,” ChiChi said, wiping a chocolate smudge off Regan’s cheek. “But the family made a decision and I was outvoted. No matter how much I adore you, we are Italian, after all.”

Regan wished she was Italian. It sounded safe and warm.

“So I got on the e-mail this morning,” Lucinda said proudly. “My cousin, Perkins, says you can rent his place. He owns the St. Helena Corkery.”

“You want me to move my daughter into a corkery?”

“Goodness no, that would be silly,” Lucinda said, stroking her cat. “He renovated the upstairs into an apartment for when Ruth kicks him out. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, within walking distance to school, and available immediately.”

“What happens when Ruth kicks him out again?”

“He’d sleep in the corkery,” she said as if Regan were slow-witted. “Plus, we’re Baudouins. The second Perkins heard that Gabriel was giving you a hard time, he offered the space. No credit check needed.”

“But she’s a DeLuca.” Regan pointed her chin at ChiChi.

“I, my dear, am a Ryo. The second oldest family name in the Valley.” Her tone told Regan to never make that mistake again. “And as such, I never took my husband’s name. Created quite a stir in town. Although my husband loved my independent streak.” She eyed Regan carefully, her expression turning thoughtful. “You remind me of myself when I was your age, which is why I’m telling you that there is a job at the Napa Grand Hotel with your name on it. Just say the word.”

There went the tears again because, God, how long had it been since she’d felt like she had someone in her corner? Not since her mom died.

She closed her eyes and took in the moment, knowing that this feeling wouldn’t last. Because they still didn’t know who she was—the real reason Gabe had fired her. Not that she got to voice her concerns, because Pricilla shoved another truffle in her mouth.

“Don’t fall to your knees yet,” ChiChi said. “I believe it’s in the house management department.”

And just like that, Regan’s heart started to ache, either from too much chocolate or from the fact that she was a single mother, homeless, with three hundred dollars in the bank and had just been offered a job as cleaning lady. Just like her mom.

Regan had worked hard not to become a statistic, to build a better life for herself. And here she was looking at a future of sore feet, backaches, and—she glanced down at her glossy nails, trimmed cuticles, soft, clean skin—chapped hands.

Her mother’s voice played in her head. Work is work, mija. As long as it’s honest, puts food in your belly, and a roof over your head, there is no reason to feel shame.

Could she do this? Sacrifice her hard-won dreams to clean toilets?

Yes, she thought without hesitation. For Holly, she could do anything. She would just invest in rubber gloves. Rubber gloves and masks, she amended. The risk of being mistaken for an H1N1 carrier didn’t outweigh the exposure to all of the chemicals.

The one thing she was not willing to sacrifice, however, was her integrity. And she knew that she had reached the place in the agenda for her to pull on her big-girl panties and fess up.

“Did you know that Gabe fired me because I had an affair with your grandson-in-law?”

ChiChi snorted, waving her hand dismissively. “Of course, child. Richard always was fond of playing hide the sausage. Interns being his favorite opponents. Now, do we have a deal or not?”





A motor roared and sputtered, then kicked in from right behind Gabe. It was followed by a lot of pounding, banging, and finally Barry Manilow singing “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” Gabe rolled over, his face sticking to the leather, and almost fell off the couch.

“Crap,” he muttered, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Language,” ChiChi scolded from fifteen feet away. The pantry door slammed to punctuate her disapproval.

“It’s Sunday.” Gabe took in his slacks, button-down, the godawful time of the day and sighed. “And seven. In the morning.” Which meant that he’d achieved less than three hours of sleep.

Between figuring out how to get Regan to stay while making sure Abby was insulated and dealing with the marketing disaster that was quickly becoming Ryo Wines, Gabe was spent.

“Which is why I’m baking my famous fruitcake.”

Gabe cringed. ChiChi’s fruitcakes were famous, all right—famous for causing heartburn and bringing fear into the digestive tracts of thousands.

There went the motor again. Giving up on sleep, and in desperate need of coffee, Gabe pushed himself up and ran a hand through his hair, which from the feel of it was a pretty epic case of bed head. He padded into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

ChiChi stood at the island, elbow deep in dough. She immediately began tutting when Gabe leaned against the counter and she saw what he was wearing. Her white coiffed crop shook in judgment while she mumbled something about him needing a wife.

ChiChi had two goals in life: getting her some great-grandbabies and irritating the hell out of her grandkids. Often they worked in conjunction. She also was known as the town busybody, meaning she was busy being in everybody’s business. And if she was here, in his kitchen, on a Sunday morning, then something was up.

“What are you doing here, Nonna?”

“I already said, making a cake.” She paused, her penciled brows disappearing into her hairline. “Well, not for you with that look.”

“What look?” Gabe forced his face to relax. It wasn’t working; just the smell of those candied cherries was messing with his gut.

“The look of horror you get every Christmas when I pull out the pan.” ChiChi shot him the look that had been able to silence him and his brothers since they were babies. “Don’t you believe for one minute that I don’t know you toss out my fruitcake when you think I’m not looking. Now Marco”—ChiChi dumped a bowl of flour into the blender, a cloud of white dust covering everything—“he loves my fruitcake.”

Marc hated her fruitcake. He fed it to his dog one year and had to get the poor thing’s stomach pumped. “Then why don’t you cook that over at his place?”

ChiChi stopped. She had flour on her cheek and molasses dripping all over his counters. “Are you saying you would rather I leave?”

Gabe walked over to his grandma, pulling her in for a one-armed hug and making sure to hold his breath since she had already opened the prunes. “Nah, Nonna. I was just surprised to see you here so early.”

“I figured I’d cook you a nice breakfast and we could talk about Christmas. I miss my grandson.”

“That sounds nice.” Gabe kissed her forehead, not caring that she tasted like rum and cinnamon.

ChiChi smiled and went back to her cake. “Plus, if I made this at Marco’s he would think it was for him. I’m making it for that nice young woman, Miss Martin.”

Gabe choked on his coffee, the hot liquid scorching his throat.

This was exactly why he’d told his brothers that keeping Regan here was a bad move. The last thing they needed was ChiChi taking Regan under her wing only to be crushed when she discovered who she really was.

“I heard she’s leaving town,” he said casually when he’d recovered. “Probably won’t be here for Christmas.”

“That’s a shame. I really like her.”

“You like everybody.”

ChiChi stopped folding in the currants and gave him a pointed look. “I don’t like you all that much right now.”

“What?”

He must have looked as shocked as he felt because ChiChi placed a hand on his cheek. He could feel the batter stick to his stubble.

“Oh, Gabriel, don’t look so hurt. Even though you are a difficult person to like at times, I love you like you’re my own.”

“I am your own.”

“I know.” She patted his cheek and went back to those prunes. “Which is why I set you up with—what was her name?—the snobby girl who had the fat pumped in her lips and her—”

She gestured to her breasts, batter splattering on the floor, and Gabe closed his eyes.

Snobby? “You like Isabel.”

“That woman is entitled and elitist.”

Gabe held back a smile. Under her “One Hot Nonna” apron, ChiChi wore a designer pantsuit, diamond bracelet, and earrings that cost more than Vixen’s car.

“I see how you are looking at me and stop it. I work hard and love hard, and I have earned every penny I have ever spent. That Isabel is a terrible mother and everyone in town knows that she’s just looking for a father for her kids and a last name that will bring credibility to her daddy’s plastic cork company.”

ChiChi was the most independent, hardworking woman Gabe had ever met. Even though she’d married into the DeLuca family, she had worked that field every crush, and when Gabe’s grandfather died, she’d stepped in to take over as head winemaker for DeLuca until Nate was old enough. To this day her opinion still reigned supreme when it came to creating new blends.

“Then why did you sucker me into taking Isabel to the company Christmas party?”

“Because she’s had her eye on you since even before she lost that wedding ring of hers.” ChiChi gave one final mix and then scooped the batter into the pan. It landed with a loud thwack. “I was afraid that she’d corner you when you were alone and use her synthetic wiles to get into your bed.”

Her synthetic wiles had already been in his bed after husband number two walked and before number three entered the scene. And that was not something he wanted to relive anytime soon. Sure she was hot in that pampered socialite kind of way, but Gabe was looking for a good time and the last thing he wanted was an instant family. He’d already raised one and had no intention of signing on for another. “So you set me up with someone you don’t like? That makes no sense at all.”

ChiChi slid the cake in the oven, washed her hands, and, ignoring the disaster she had made of his kitchen, took a seat at the table, gesturing for Gabe to do the same.

“I wanted you to see what your life would be like if you didn’t pull your head out of your backside. To show you how being selfish can spoil you.”

Selfish? That pissed him off. If anything he was selfless. The fact that his family kept overlooking what he’d given up really hurt. Normally it didn’t bug him, but lately, ever since Regan had come into town, he’d started to resent it.

“When Mom and Dad died—”

ChiChi closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. When she was done with her “God blesses” and “Lord rest their souls,” he continued.

“I stepped into a position that I never asked for.” Or wanted. “I walked away from art school, my friends, everything, so that this family could keep functioning. I became a parent to Abby, Marco, Trey, and, to an extent, Nate. I stepped in as president of a company that Dad had mismanaged for so long it was barely turning a profit, and lost—”

Jasmine. After all these years, Gabe couldn’t even say her name out loud. It wasn’t that he was still in love with her, it was that the one person who he’d counted on, had pictured building a future with, had walked. At the most difficult time of his life. Taking with her every dream he’d created for the future.

ChiChi patted his hand, her eyes soft with understanding. “We know what you sacrificed, how unhappy you are. You may never say it, but you wear it on your sleeve as a badge to remind us daily.”

Did he? Gabe tried so hard to fill his father’s shoes, to be the kind of man his mother would have been proud of and the kind of man his siblings could depend on, but he’d never meant to make his family feel guilty.

ChiChi walked to the fridge, and when she returned she had a glass of milk in one hand and was balancing a plate full of Pricilla’s pastries—including his favorite, a mascarpone cheese danish—in the other. As with all Italian grandmothers, food was her solution to everything.

“Do you know when I fell in love with your grandfather?”

Gabe couldn’t help but smile. He’d heard this story a million times. “When Grandpa stole that Merlot blend you were secretly making in your dad’s cellar and placed it in the Summer Wine Showdown.” Because even in those days a woman couldn’t enter. “And when it took first place, he told everyone that it was yours.”

“That”—ChiChi sighed, clutching her locket that held a photo of Grandpa DeLuca—“and he deflowered me the same night. Your great-grandfather Ryo threatened to shoot his balls off if he didn’t make an honest woman out of me.”

Gabe swallowed his bite whole.

Her expression fell serious. “That was why I married him, Gabe. But I fell in love with him when he ate my fruitcake and asked for seconds.”

“Grandpa liked your fruitcake?”

“Don’t sound so horrified.” ChiChi laughed. “And no, he hated it. But he loved me enough to let me fail, and believe it or not, over the years it’s gotten better.”

Gabe’s respect for his grandfather just quadrupled.

“What I’m saying is, stop smothering your siblings. Let them fail and find their way through the pain on their own. You’re so busy running everyone else’s lives that you’re missing your own.”

Gabe didn’t think of it as running his siblings’ lives so much as avoiding avoidable disasters. Nate, trying to pick up the slack after losing Regan, had hired a marketing team out of Chicago that was determined to make Ryo Wines appear like they belonged in a box. Marco was in over his head with his new hotel. Trey had made a life of new day, new country, new girl, and if he wasn’t careful he’d wind up in an early grave. Abby was so trusting and sweet that she attracted every SOB in a pair of slacks and loafers. And now, with Regan in town and—

“See, there you go again. You’re already plotting out how to save the family.”

“I just don’t want them to get hurt.”

“And you think running Richard’s mistress out of town will help Abigail?” ChiChi picked up a scone and, pinkie raised like a lady, took an enormous bite. “That sister of yours needs to own up to the fact that Richard was a cheat. She knew it and married him anyway. Can’t spend her life blaming the sheep when she watched her wolf get clothed every day.”

“You knew that Regan was Richard’s mistress?”

“It’s why I sent her the job offer. Poor girl deserves a second chance at happiness.” She reached over and pinched his cheek. “Just like you do.”