Summer in Napa

chapter 5

It was official. Marc was a stalker.

It had started out innocently enough, a quick glance out his office window at the precise moment that a light flickered on across the alley. He’d never noticed before that his office window, situated on the northwest corner of the hotel, afforded him a perfect view of Pricilla’s apartment, and if he angled his chair just so, he could see directly into her kitchen. If he stood he was able to steal peeks through the breakfast nook area and get a great view of Pricilla’s dining table. And if he stood up and pressed his face to the window, he could see all the way through to the family room and partway down the hall toward the bedroom, which was currently housing a tight little ass that he had the pleasure of watching swish its way around the house.

That night, he should have packed up his things and gone upstairs to his suite. Instead he’d watched her move through the kitchen, her bare feet and legs dancing around the room to Louis Prima as she took out nearly every pan and utensil in the house and spent hours cooking enough food for a large dinner party, only to take a single bite, dump it in the trash can out back, and start over.

That had been six days ago, after she’d been served, after she’d posted a note on her door canceling their dinner, and after she’d refused to return his calls.

That look on her face when she’d been handed those papers still got to Marc. She’d been shocked, then confused, then hurt, which made Marc equal parts confused and pissed—at himself for not making sure Jeff had handled his shit. Marc assumed that Jeff had made it clear to all involved that after the divorce the menu would remain an asset of Pairing. He’d also assumed that when he finally saw Lexi again, the sexual pull between them would be gone.

He’d been wrong on all accounts.

Marc paused for a moment, just watching her. Elbows-deep in a saucepan, she whisked for a good three minutes, her forehead scrunching when she took a little taste with a spoon. Quickly she opened the cabinet to her left, reaching up on her tippy toes and tugging this morning’s ensemble of choice, a dark-blue tank top and striped cotton boxers, high enough up her body to expose a tiny strip of torso and a whole lot of leg.

Nope. The pull was still there, and he was still watching.

Marc swore and angled his chair so that he would be forced to stare at his computer, as though she wasn’t right behind the window, whisking her flambé or whatever, with her breasts gently swaying because she’d decided to roll out of bed this morning and forgo a bra—again.

The movement startled Wingman, who was sleeping under Marc’s desk and awoke with a grunt. He grunted again before rolling over to offer up his belly for a rub.

Marc gave it a valiant effort, staring at an e-mail from Natasha outlining exactly why she would be a brilliant pick to cater the Summer Wine Showdown. He’d put off his reply, hoping to find a solution that didn’t involve a clingy woman—a clingy woman he’d slept with.

He’d called every chef he knew and a few dozen he didn’t. Either they were booked or too damn expensive. His own chef, who was pissed that Marc still hadn’t hired him a sous chef, refused to do the event, claiming it wasn’t in his contract.

The easy solution would be to call Jeff, ask him to recommend someone local. More than a thousand spectators, members of the media, and celebrities were due to start arriving in just under a month, but no food had been ordered, and he didn’t have enough staff to handle the event—and he still hadn’t been able to call.

At first he told himself that it was because he didn’t want to interrupt Jeff’s honeymoon; his friend deserved a little alone time with his new bride after a hellish year. Then Marc watched, day after day, as Lexi struggled to find peace in the one place she used to thrive, and his reason for not calling was out of sheer preservation—of his and Jeff’s friendship.

Every time she stood and stared blankly at her ingredients, every time she sat at the table alone, only to leave her meal untouched and turn in early because he could tell she didn’t know what else to do, he formed another question for Jeff. Questions that, Marc knew, had answers he’d hate.

His only option was to hire Natasha. The more he thought about it, the more logical it seemed. She was talented in the kitchen, and although a little experimental for his taste—culinarily speaking—she was a simple solution to his professional problem.

Marc had wasted the past week staring out the window, accomplishing jack shit, and he knew that the town council and his brothers were going to be all over him if he didn’t nail down the food. And soon. All he needed was for Gabe to find out he’d turned down a reputable caterer because he hadn’t been able to keep his dick in his pants.

With a heavy sigh, Marc made his decision. Natasha wasn’t the perfect fit, but she was the best option he had. He’d opened her most recent e-mail and had read through most of it when a door slammed closed and echoed through the alley.

Wingman buried his snout under his front paws and whined.

“I know, buddy,” Marc said, ruffling him behind the ears and going to the window.

He and Wingman both watched as Lexi slowly made her way down the alley, feet bare, garbage bag in hand, and shoulders slumped in defeat. She opened the lid to the trash can and ceremoniously dumped the bag, most likely containing the entirety of what she’d been cooking up for the past two hours, inside. She was about to replace the lid when her back went rigid. She stopped, slowly turned her head, and—looked right at him.

“Shit.”

Marc jerked to his right, plastering his back against the wall. The sudden movement and elevated energy sent Wingman into a barking fit.

“Shh,” he hissed, sounding panicked, and not wanting to draw any more attention to his window. “Sit.”

Wingman obeyed and sat at his feet, waiting, with big doggie eyes, for his reward. Marc reached in his pocket, and Wingman inhaled the bribe without even chewing.

She’d seen him. He’d been spying on her like some kind of pervy teen, and she’d caught him. This was worse than the summer when he was supposed to build Mr. Weinstein a new shed and instead had spent most of his time watching his new trophy wife do her morning laps—naked. He’d been fifteen. Mrs. Weinstein had known he was there. And it had been thrilling.

This felt like an invasion of privacy, though. Which was why, instead of pretending it was a coincidence and waving like a normal neighbor would do, he slunk into the shadows. Now, on top of everything else, he was going to have to come up with an excuse, one that wouldn’t get him arrested, to explain away his behavior.

“Last boy I caught doing that found himself one peanut short,” Grandma said. Not his grandma, but Lexi’s.

Marc thunked his head against the wall because Pricilla wasn’t smiling and she wasn’t alone. No, all three grannies stood inside his office door, each silver coif shaking while they tutted simultaneously, their expressions ranging from amusement to threatening eternal damnation. But all of them seemed to imply the same thing: Marco DeLuca had been caught checking out the neighbor’s wears, and he was in trouble.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Marc said, casually walking around his desk to hug ChiChi and company, but going the long way so he didn’t have to pass in front of the window.

“Of course not, dear,” ChiChi said, giving him a peck on the cheek and taking her seat. “You were too busy peeping on the new neighbor.”

“I was not peep—” was all he got out before Pricilla pulled a piece of fudge out of that crocheted bag of hers and shoved it into Marc’s mouth.

“I don’t take well to lying either,” Pricilla said, penciled eyebrows arched so high they all but disappeared into her hairline.

Marc couldn’t respond. One, he didn’t want to lie, and two, the fudge was incredible. He wondered if this was one of Pricilla’s originals or if it was a Lexi creation. A smoky hint of bacon teased his tongue while a bite of cayenne warmed the back of his throat. Marc smiled—savory. Definitely Lexi’s, then.

“What can I do for you ladies?” Marc mumbled around the melting chocolate even though he knew he’d regret the question.

These grannies were professional busybodies with only two things on their corporate agenda: their grandkids’ business and the business of getting some great-grandbabies. Most of the time one goal overlapped the next, and when that happened everyone in town was bound to suffer. So if they were here before the lunching hour, something was up. And it wouldn’t bode well for Marc and his siblings.

“We hear you’ve gotten yourself into a fix,” Lucinda Baudouin said, taking a seat and opening her enormous bag. She pulled out a fluffy white cat wearing a sailor suit, complete with hat, neckerchief, and irritated growl, and set him in her lap.

Wingman jumped to attention, his ear going up and his eyes going wide. He lowered his body to the floor with his tail standing straight up, and then he went completely still.

Mr. Puffins’s tail, on the other hand, puffed out like a porcupine’s, ready for battle. Wingman barked once. The cat’s eyes narrowed on a low growl. Wingman ran behind Marc’s desk and hid.

“Harrumph,” Lucinda tutted, handing Marc a printed-out copy of an e-mail.

He took one look at the e-mail and almost asked Wingman to move over. The e-mail was one that he’d drafted and sent to the dean of the Napa Valley Culinary Academy, asking for a temporary chef for the Showdown. An e-mail that was supposed to remain confidential.

“How did you get this?”

All three women straightened with pride, but it was Lucinda who spoke. “Broke into Janice’s work computer. Regan helped us.” Two more things that Gabe never needed to hear about.

“What were you thinking, sending this,” ChiChi chided, grabbing the e-mail and waving it in his face, her head shaking in disappointment, “to that woman? You want the whole town knowing that you don’t have a chef for the Showdown?”

“I sent it to the dean. How was I supposed to know a Baudouin would get her hands on it?”

“Janice has been working there for over twenty years,” Lucinda said, as though Marc should be up on every damn Baudouin in the valley.

Marc ran his fingers through his hair. He should be. Just like he should have known this would happen.

Although Lucinda was a Baudouin and ChiChi had married a DeLuca, neither was willing to throw away a lifelong friendship over a silly feud. That didn’t mean Lucinda was above using her family ties to the academy’s associate dean to gain information, especially if ChiChi asked.

“Does anyone else know?” Please say no. The last thing he needed was Gabe up in his business, going all big brother for the next few weeks. Or worse, old man Charles finding out and, like ChiChi said, somehow using it against Marc with the town council.

“Not even Janice,” Lucinda clarified, straightening Mr. Puffins’s neckerchief with a tug.

Marc raised an unconvinced brow.

All three ladies exchanged panicked looks. Pricilla pulled out a truffle and handed it to ChiChi, who took a nervous nibble before giving a defeated nod.

Lucinda patted ChiChi’s knee, much the same way as she did her cat, and said, “Janice has been having online relations with a man.”

“A man who had, up until last month, been having relations with me,” ChiChi snapped, lips pursed into a tight line.

“Sweet Jesus,” Marc murmured, wanting to cover his ears. He looked at his sweet nonna with her white hair, designer churchwear, and little round reading glasses hanging from a diamond-encrusted chain and grimaced. Then he turned to the window, judged its size, height, and drop to the ground, and quickly determined that a broken leg would be far less painful than finishing this conversation.

“Marco DeLuca,” ChiChi scolded, making the sign of the cross. “I raised you on a vineyard, not a farm.”

“Sorry, Nonna. I just…Can we not—”

Pricilla pulled out another square of fudge, eyes narrowed in warning.

“Put it away, Pricilla. We didn’t come here to talk about whoopee. We came here because we have a proposition,” ChiChi said with an innocent smile that had Marc looking at the window all over again. The only thing stopping him was the thought that Lexi might still be in the alley.

The last time ChiChi and her friends had a proposal that involved his hotel, it had ended with a drunken bachelorette party, a small bedroom fire, and a confused group of firemen who’d come for a convention on fire safety and left with wadded-up bills in their jeans.

“The Daughters of the Prohibition is about to be hijacked,” ChiChi said. “Isabel Stark and that woman you’ve been keeping company with have been asked to head up the junior league. They think that just because Natasha’s good at lighting your fire that you’ll hire her to heat up your kitchen too.”

“For the Showdown,” Pricilla added.

“I’m not sure who I am hiring.” Marc snapped his laptop, and the e-mail to Natasha, shut. “And just because Natasha and I are friends—”

Mr. Puffins let loose a low and gravelly growl that vibrated his hat.

And Pricilla waved the fudge in his face.

Right, lying.

ChiChi released a breath, her shoulders sagging just a bit, and for the first time Marc saw just how old his nonna had become. She looked small and fragile and so unlike the bold force that had molded his life.

“It is important to this town that this year’s Showdown remains true to the founding fathers’ ideas. That we abide by the traditions that were set before us. A lot of people’s dreams have come true at this event.”

“A hundred years of dreams that those ladies are willing to overlook to make room for newer, shinier things,” Pricilla added, her hand clutching her chest.

“The Summer Wine Showdown was always about family and friends and community,” Lucinda said. “We understand that you need a little flash to get the celebrities and media. That they bring in more money for the hospital and school. But some things, the ones that seem silly to your generation, matter because they are the heart of the event.”

“And you think if they have a say in the catering that it will change the event?” Marc asked, because he heard what the grannies were saying, but he didn’t understand how something as simple as a caterer would affect the bigger picture.

“This town is a family, Marco.” ChiChi leaned across the desk to take Marc’s hand. “Family is about sharing wine, breaking bread, remembering the past. Your grandfather and I met at the Showdown. Your parents, God rest their souls”—and there she went with the sign of the cross again—“had their wedding there. Along with a few dozen other people over the years, who are all looking forward to reliving those moments, remembering those who have passed.”

ChiChi broke off with a sad shake of the head.

“If the junior league gets their way,” Pricilla stepped in when it appeared that ChiChi couldn’t finish, “there will be deconstructed this and imported that. The Showdown will turn into one of those celebrity events you see on TV. It won’t be about the people of this town and celebrating their appreciation for food and wine and agriculture; it will be about how far up the exclusive places to live list we can move.”

“Are you asking me not to hire Natasha?”

“No, we are asking you to let us pick. Let the Daughters of the Prohibition hold a tasting where we invite local culinary artists to showcase their appreciation of local cuisine and culture. You get to focus on the rest of the event, and we can make sure that the people of this town are represented in the food chosen.”

Meaning his brothers couldn’t blame him for thinking with the wrong head, no matter who got chosen. It also meant one in a long list of problems disappeared. Normally he wouldn’t even consider entertaining any brainchild of the granny brigade, especially if it meant bringing them into the middle of something that could potentially sink his entire career, but he was rapidly running out of solutions.

“Deal,” Marc said, wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake. He figured that everyone had to have at least one brilliant idea in their lifetime, right? Maybe this was theirs.





Lexi stared up at Jeffery with his bedroom eyes, easygoing smile, and adorable dimple marking his right cheek, and then she sucked in a deep breath and blew. A wad of tissue paper splatted with force across his left nostril, particles breaking off and speckling his upper lip.

Lexi smiled, tore off another piece of tissue, and rolled it around in her mouth, letting it soak up the spit.

“You shouldn’t have chosen a head shot. Then you can’t do this,” said Abigail DeLuca, resident spit-wad champion and fellow woman scorned, putting the straw to her lips and aligning it with lethal accuracy before hitting her estranged husband, Richard, in the goodie bag.

Abby, with her olive skin, big brown eyes, and perfect white teeth, was a miniature version of her brother—only with a bunch of curves and a cute, pert nose. Although compact, she had the body of Ginger, the face of Mary Ann, and, when riled, the same capacity for total destruction as Scarface. She was also Lexi’s oldest and dearest friend.

Abby tucked a stray auburn curl behind her ear and smiled. Picking up another perfectly rounded ball of tissue from her arsenal, she dropped it in her mouth for a second before aiming and—

“Nailed him! God, that feels good.” She pointed her chin toward the two blown-up pictures of their cheating spouses, each hanging from the bakery rack like shooting targets. “If you want I can print off another picture for you. Full body.”

“Nah.” Maybe it was the fact that for the past few years she and Jeffery hadn’t been on the same page, sexually speaking, but nothing about Jeffery’s full body screamed feel-good to her.

“I talked to Tanner yesterday.”

“Hard-Hammer Tanner,” as he had been aptly named, was successful and sexy and very single, which made his company the number-one choice for the women of wine country when it came to additions and remodels. Something Lexi had discovered after Pricilla hired him. When he’d walked in, all muscles and impressive tool belt, Lexi hadn’t known if he was a stripper or the real deal.

“I called him to see if he got the new blueprints. I had them sent over a week ago and never heard back.”

After winning an award for designing Ryo Wines, a boutique winery that Abby and her grandmother had opened last year, Abby started talking about branching out, working on other kinds of projects. When she heard Lexi was moving home, she offered to design Lexi her dream eatery—and Lexi jumped at the chance.

Abby was also a classically trained pianist and one of the most sought-out piano teachers in the town. Okay, in a town this small, she was the only piano teacher. So when she began angrily tapping out “Flight of the Bumblebee” on the bakery table, Lexi knew her friend was mad.

“Imagine my surprise”—taptaptaptaptap, taptaptaptaptap—“when he told me he’d been fired.”

Lexi’s heart did some tapping of its own. “I didn’t fire him. I merely changed the timeline.” To sometime in the unforeseeable future.

“Yeah, well, you should have told me! I’m not only the designer, Lex, I’m your friend. We used to share everything.”

Talk about laying on the guilt, Lexi thought. She and Abby had met the first day of freshman year when Abby stuck a wad of grape gum in her hair because Lance Burton had offered to walk Lexi to second period. Lexi cut out the gum, stuck it to Abby’s chair and consequently the butt of her designer skirt, exposing a side of the DeLuca Darling that wasn’t so darling or demure and landing them both in the principal’s office. Two weeks of detention later, they were as close as sisters—and they sometimes still fought like ones.

“As for Hard-Hammer Tanner, I think he was afraid you fired him because he was a man,” Abby added.

“A man?”

“As in single, potential date material. Or in your case, potential blind date, fixed up by grandmother, unwanted-bachelor material.”

“Oh God,” Lexi groaned, sticking her finger into a fruit tart and licking off the filling. She was so pathetic that she couldn’t even fire a man without people thinking it was about dating.

“So, you want to explain how you went from kicking Jeffery’s ass to putting the bistro on hold?”

Lexi shook her head.

“God, he can’t even get his cake to rise. There’s no way he can claim those recipes are his,” Abby fumed.

“Jeffery never claimed that he created anything. He argued that a menu is a crucial asset to any restaurant. And since the restaurant was only ever in his name and I never executed an agreement stating exactly what I was bringing into the business and therefore could take with me when I left, the judge agreed.”

“Bullshit! Contract or not, you were the reason that restaurant was a success.”

“No, my menu was the reason it was a success.” It was the main reason she had decided to not fight him for the recipes.

The past few months had been filled with several difficult realizations. For one, Lexi was embarrassed at just how trusting and stupid she’d been in assuming that “to honor and cherish” extended to all aspects of her and Jeffery’s marriage. When they’d opened Pairing, he’d only put his and his mother’s names on the papers, claiming that it was his mother’s equity that afforded them to open the doors, and promising that when they could stand on their own he’d replace his mother’s name with Lexi’s. God, if that hadn’t been a sign to run, she didn’t know what was.

Time and again he’d discounted the amount of sweat equity Lexi had put into making their restaurant a success—or that she was supposed to be the Mrs. Balldinger in his life. Yes, his last name should have been another red flag. Instead of pressing the issue for her name to be added to a silly piece of paper, she’d naively assumed the marriage certificate was enough, and, not wanting to risk a confrontation in an already stressful time, she had nodded politely, thrown herself into creating the best menu on the West Side, and sat back while Jeffery made one bad decision after another. The worst being a year ago, when the restaurant began to struggle and she’d agreed to borrow a significant amount of money from Pricilla.

When she lost the restaurant, it was as though she had lost a part of herself, the part that made her fearless in the kitchen. That she couldn’t pay Pricilla back only made the situation worse.

“So you aren’t going to fight him?”

“And risk Pairing going under? No way. I mean, I lost the menu and it sucks, but if Jeffery lost the restaurant he would default on the loan and Grandma would lose everything.”

“I thought you paid off the loan.”

“The equity from the house wasn’t enough because Jeffery insisted on going with the bigger meat supplier and nearly sank us.”

“Imagine that,” Abby said, rolling her eyes. “Jeff suffering from meat envy.”

Yet another ongoing problem for her ex. But this time his need to measure up nearly put Pairing out of business. Insisting that to become a five-star eatery they had to act like a five-star eatery, Jeffery ignored that the fake-it-till-you-make-it theory had never really gone well for them and dumped their local meat supplier to go with a larger, more prestigious one.

Bo Brock’s meat man, to be exact.

In theory it had been a smart move, but since Jeffery was, well Jeffery—and not superstar chef Bo Brock, with his thirteen Michelin stars, cable network, and Emmy-winning primetime show—the supplier required a six-month advance purchase. What Jeffery didn’t know was that Brock was boycotting the supplier because they were under investigation for maintaining unsanitary and inhumane conditions of their stock.

When the story broke, Lexi was stuck with more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of grade-A meat, and a grade-A ass of a spouse who didn’t understand why serving factory flesh in a city where PETA reigned supreme was a bad business decision.

“It gets worse.” Lexi took a breath. “When Pricilla offered her help, I only agreed because I thought she was just going to cosign a loan for us. Turns out the bank just approved us for a partial.”

“Shut up!” Abby jerked to the end of her seat. “That rat bastard son of a bitch borrowed the rest from Pricilla?”

“Out of her retirement account.” Even saying it made Lexi’s stomach churn. “We managed to pay off a huge chunk of it when I sold the house, but we still owe Pricilla around twenty-five thousand dollars, and the bank at least sixty.”

“Oh, Lex,” Abby said, patting her hand.

“Yeah, so now you see that I just need to come up with a new menu. A better one,” she said, as though it was that easy. It had taken her years to compile enough five-star recipes for Pairing, and although she knew it was possible to do it again, she didn’t know if she had the fight left in her.

She’d attempted to alter them, put a different spin on her favorites, but nothing had tasted right. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, superior ingredients would go into her kitchen and chain-style entrées would come out. It had been that way since the separation. Jeffery hadn’t just stolen her menu; he’d turned her palate bitter.

“So, what’s your backup plan?”

“You don’t want to know,” Lexi said, dropping her head to the table with a grimace.

“Oh, I’m sure I already do. It probably includes you”—Abby jabbed a pointy finger into Lexi’s forehead—“slaving away in that kitchen and baking macaroons for the rest of your life.”

“Just until I get Pricilla paid back and Jeffery pays off the loan, which he assures me will happen over the next twenty-four months. I figure it’s smarter to take the cash I set aside for the bistro and put it toward what I still owe Pricilla, then start saving again once the bakery is turning out a higher profit.”

“I have a better plan. One that isn’t dumber than you marrying him in the first place.”

Abby had never liked Jeffery. In fact, she had declared war on him in the fourth grade when he used her Barbie collection to stage a lifelike reenactment of Hiroshima—Barbie being on the losing end of a blowtorch. But when Lexi fell in love with the rat, Abby set aside her severe dislike and tried to make nice for her friend’s sake.

“Want to hear it?”

“No.” Lexi realized that her friend had been building toward this moment the entire evening. She’d come here with an agenda in mind and, if history served, Lexi was about to get pressured into doing something she’d regret, that would land her in jail, or that would leave her with Q-tip–length hair and orange skin. Or quite possibly all of the above.

“The Daughters of the Prohibition are in charge of the food for the Summer Wine Showdown’s wine-tasting event, and I may have told them that I have a friend who is an excellent cater—”

Lexi crammed an entire petit four in her friend’s mouth, silencing her. “Don’t say the C word. You know it gives me gas.”

Catering was something Lexi had promised herself she’d never do again. She had done it early on in her career to help pay the bills while Jeffery was still in grad school.

“Cater—” Abby slapped her hands over her lips, blocking Lexi from shoving another minicake in her already full mouth. “It would generate income, and you would have an audience to try out your new ideas on.”

It would also be a huge step in the wrong direction. Call it pride or ego, but going from having her own kitchen and staff and creating one-of-a-kind plates for customers back to carting around chafing dishes and serving poached salmon on a bed of asparagus was not going to happen.

“Think about it, the Daughters of the Prohibition, Garden Club, PTA—they are all the same women, and they dictate the social scene of St. Helena. If one hires you, they’ll all hire you, claiming that they single-handedly discovered your talent. Not to mention all of the press that comes with the Showdown. It’s a win-win, Lex, and you know it.” Abby clapped her hands as though the conversation was over.

“Let’s say, just for a second, that I am actually considering it…which I’m not…but let’s say, baking food in Costco-sized quantities for mass consumption was something I was interested in pursuing. I don’t have a kitchen big enough to handle it.”

“Prepare to be dazzled.” Abby shoved the plates aside and rolled out a set of blueprints, almost identical to the one on Lexi’s computer except this set was color coded and labeled. “We alter the redesign, building it in stages as money comes in. See right here.” She pointed to a green section labeled “Stage 1.” “We would build out the back storage space here and add the secondary kitchen like we had originally planned. It would give plenty of room to cook and prep, and you could be up and running in two weeks, tops.”

“That fast?” Lexi asked, surprised; the original timeline was six weeks. She looked at the blueprints, and her heart pinched. God, she wanted to see this come to life. She wanted to cook with her grandmother in this kitchen. More importantly, catering would buy her the ability to pay Pricilla and the bank back, even if Jeffery flaked.

But there was still one big problem. “I don’t have the time to oversee the remodel and come up with a menu for the Showdown.”

“I do.”

“What? No.” Lexi shook her head. “You are so busy with Ryo Wines.”

“ChiChi has it handled. Plus, I don’t want to run a winery. I’m a designer, and I want to design—your bistro. And I’m not letting you just give up!”

“I’m not giving up, Abs.” She wasn’t. In fact, she had already created a new schedule that placed her in the bakery kitchen to increase production and had reached out to a few farmers’ markets to boost sales.

“You are so. I can see it in your face,” Abby accused through bits of cake and fondant. “You’re going to let that rat bastard son of a bitch win. You’re going to let him steal your dream of opening the bistro just like you let him do after high school.”

“I repeat, am not. And did not.” Lexi snatched her straw and started rolling spit wads. “I went to culinary school after high school, just like I said I was going to.”

“Yeah, but you went to school in New York even though there is an internationally recognized one right here in St. Helena. Which offered you a full scholarship, by the way.”

“New York is the mecca for culinary arts.”

“You didn’t care about that school. From the day I met you, all you ever talked about was opening a bistro with Pricilla, what it would look like, what you would serve. Then Jeffery got into his dream school in New York and you were about to start your dream career here. A few well-placed comments about how long-distance relationships don’t last, a calculated breakup after graduation, and you started packing.”

Lexi opened her mouth to argue and immediately shut it. Was that true? Was that how it had looked to everyone else?

“God, Lex, you were so determined not to be your mom and have an entire fleet of exes that you clung to the first guy who showed interest and gave up everything you wanted to keep him.”

Lexi wanted to scream that Abby was wrong, that she had left St. Helena behind and married Jeffery because they were soul mates and that’s what people in love do for each other. But soul mates didn’t divorce. And Jeffery had never once considered staying in the Bay Area for school. In fact, every move or decision in their relationship had been the one that had most benefited Jeffery.

Tears burned at her throat. She’d had so many people float in and out of her life as a child that she’d thought there was something wrong with her. That she was missing whatever it was that other little girls, whose mommies and daddies never left, had that made them lovable. Even as an adult, she’d tried to convince herself she wasn’t lacking some kind of crucial trait, and that she was enough. So she’d dedicated herself to Jeffery. Then he left.

Lexi covered her face with her hands. “Oh God, you’re right,” she sniffled through her fingers. “I’m a total pushover. Just like my mom. A man shows the slightest bit of interest and I drop everything to please him—even my family. What kind of person does that?”

“A person who doesn’t want to give up on someone because she knows what it feels like to be walked away from,” Abby said, licking the top off one of Pricilla’s passion-fruit-and-pineapple petits fours. “Don’t give up, Lex. Don’t let him win.”

Abby leaned in and dropped her voice. “Do you remember that time we went skinny-dipping?”

Lexi did remember. It had been a few months after Abby’s parents died. “Jeffery was so mad when he found out. He never believed me when I told him that I didn’t really want to do it.”

“I knew you didn’t. You’re way too uptight for that.” Abby ignored Lexi’s protest and continued, “But I did. And you knew it. You also knew that the only way I would ever get in a car again after the accident was if it meant doing something wild and irresponsible. So you stole your grandmother’s car, picked me up, and we went skinny-dipping in the lake.”

Lexi gave a chuckle. “I kept my underwear on, and we broke into Mr. Patterson’s pool because you couldn’t wait to get to the lake. Thank God he didn’t report us.”

“He lived on Lake Drive, and if you hadn’t been laughing so hard he would have never caught us.” Abby went serious. “The point is, we did it together. I got over my fear of cars, and you did something crazy, like grand larceny and showing some skin in public, a totally unvaledictorian thing to do.”

Lexi shifted in her seat, mushed a piece of icing with her fingertip, and waited for Abby to go on.

Abby sat back, arms folded, a cocky smile curving at her lips.

“Wait?” Lexi said, wiping at her tears. “That’s your big plan: go skinny-dipping?”

Abby nodded. “Our plan is to go big. Together. We go forward with the new kitchen. And by we, I mean that I will handle most of the remodel while you cater your way to a full grand opening. By next year you’ll have a bistro, a new menu, customers, and Jeffery doesn’t win.”

Abby looked at her expectantly. What she’d outlined was not only plausible, it was brilliant.

“Think about it, Lex. You get the chance to reinvent yourself. Your life, your cooking, your career, everything would get a clean slate. You can be Alexis Moreau instead of Lexi Balldinger.”

Lexi had been Mrs. Balldinger for so long, she was afraid that Alexis Moreau no longer existed. Or worse, what if she didn’t recognize her? But the idea of rediscovering that girl who loved to laugh and cook and had dreams, big dreams, was less terrifying than living the rest of her life as a failed Balldinger.

“All right, I’m in. I’ll go big”—Lexi threw air quotes around the last two words—“if you agree to file for divorce.”

“What?”

“If I have to spend the next six months alternating between dating and cater—” She shivered, unable to finish the sentence. “If I have to win, so do you, and that means flipping Richard the finger and taking your life back.”

Her friend’s face went completely white.

She placed a comforting hand on Abby’s shoulder. “I’m sorry that the bank account in the Caymans turned out to be a dead end. I know how badly you needed this to be over so you could move on. And I get it, divorce by publication would mean that you would have to put an ad in the local paper stating what a bastard he is and that he walked out, but at least you could finally start over. Maybe even go out on a date.”

“A date?” Abby snorted. “He’d better not scare easily.”

A big part of the reason Abby had fallen for Richard was that he was the first guy her brothers didn’t threaten, maim, or scare away.

“Fine.” She flapped her hand nonchalantly. “You find me a man who can handle the DeLuca four, and I’ll go on that date.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. Abby wasn’t only a Roman Catholic, she was also a DeLuca, which meant that she, just like her brothers, took their vows seriously. Oh, the DeLuca men didn’t live like monks in any sense of the word, but the moment they found the one, it would be forever. Of that, Lexi was certain. Just like she was certain that until the divorce was official, Abby would conduct herself like a married woman.

“I’m serious, Abs. We both go big, and we both win our lives back. Together.”

Abby shrugged noncommittally.

Lexi picked up two chocolate éclairs, one for each of them. “Swear on the éclair.”

“What are we, in middle school?”

Lexi, eyes never leaving her friend’s, kissed both éclairs before offering them up.

“Fine.” Abby finally leaned in, kissing both pastries before grabbing one and cramming the entire thing in her mouth. “I’ll call Hard-Hammer Tanner tomorrow.” She forced the words through a half cup of cream filling and chocolate glaze. Lexi froze, éclair halfway in her mouth. “To set a new start date for Monday. Jeez, just because I’ll soon be divorced doesn’t mean I’m going to start dating. And if I did, it would not be with a guy like him.”

Lexi was too busy licking her fingers to point out that every time her friend mentioned Hard-Hammer Tanner she got agitated—and really pissed.