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“Nah, no one wants to hear from me these days.”
“Are you kidding? You’re the only one with a sense of humor.”
Used to be. I used to have a sense of humor, but after my marriage imploded, I don’t find the world so funny.
Not to mention that I feel our business teetering on the edge of something that could tank us. It bothers me that I haven’t been able to find funds to prop us up, and despite my dad’s cryptic reference to Hayden Lanes, I haven’t been able to track down a vineyard with that name. Or any company, for that matter.
Fortunately, the owner of Magpie Vineyards catches Mallory’s eye when she comes back from the restroom. He’s been rumored to be interested in her property, so she’ll let him talk her ear off for as long as he wants, which grants me a few extra minutes without her by my side while I scan the room.
My strategy at these things is always to get in, talk to the necessary people, and get out.
Regardless of having Mallory on my arm, I have the same plan tonight. The only problem is that I’m not sure who the necessary people are anymore.
“You looked miserable in every one of those shots,” My sister’s voice tsks over my shoulder as she hands me the glass of scotch I desperately need.
“I am miserable. That woman is a nightmare.”
PJ laughs. “I know. I’m sorry.”
I look at her, face alight with mischievous glee. “You’re so not sorry. This is your jam, all this social media crap, and honestly, I don’t know how you can stand it.”
“You’re lucky it’s my jam because otherwise you might have to do it.”
I hold up my glass in a toast. “Amen to that. Just tell me I’ve done my penance for the night, and I can send Mallory off to harass some other billionaire.”
“Crabby face aside, yes. You’ve done what I need.”
“Excellent.”
We’re silent a moment, taking in the several hundred people mingling through the room, munching on caviar blinis, ahi tuna on wontons, and sparkling wine. We’re sizing up the crowd for different reasons. PJ is judging the success of the event while I look around and wonder if anyone in the room is from a vineyard named Hayden Lanes.
“Have you ever heard of the vineyard around here called Hayden Lanes?” I ask.
“Is it new?”
“I’m guessing. Or it’s a shell company. But it’s screwing with our business. Dad said the name to me in a moment of sort-of clarity.”
“Yeah, Trix told me the nurse is optimistic about the new meds.”
I shrug and take a sip of my drink. “Cautiously optimistic. It’s still in trial phase, but yeah, if he has more moments of sort-of clarity, it’ll be a great thing.”
PJ pulls out her phone and scans a couple screens. “Not a single vintner from Napa, Sonoma, or even Paso Robles named Hayden Lanes. But you already knew that.”
I nod. “I already knew that. Checked the business database as soon as Dad said it. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone here from that place, if it exists. Half these people I’ve never seen before.”
PJ scans the crowd again. I watch her eyes dart from face to face as she registers recognition, but then she grimaces. “A lot are plus-ones, and people don’t tell me who they’re bringing. We’ve never required it. There was never a need.”
“I know.” It’s always been a handshake and a smile business up here. “But I think things may be changing. At least where Dad’s business deals were concerned.”
“How worried are you?” she asks in a hushed voice.
I look around again. The couple dozen people in our immediate vicinity talk and laugh in groups, drinking sparkling wine from flutes and nibbling artichoke croquettes and Wagyu sliders from cocktail napkins with the Buttercup logo emblazoned in gold leaf. “Enough that I want the photographer to take pictures of everyone here and hand them off to me tomorrow with names attached. Can you make that happen?”
“For sure.” She voice texts instructions to the photographer and slips the phone into her pocket. “Hope it gets you what you need.”
“Probably won’t come to anything, but at least I’ll have the information.”
Nodding, she claps me on the arm and flashes a smile at a silver-haired man in a gray suit. “Calvin, the man of the hour!” My sister fawns over the keynote speaker who runs a winery in Sonoma, and I half-listen to his story about brush fires and the information he plans to tell the room once everyone’s seated for dinner.
