Page 6 of Wild Abandon

“Hello, Scarlet. You’ve gotten so big! I keep picturing you as this itty-bitty thing.”

“The average child between the ages of six and twelve grows approximately two and a half inches per year. It would be scientifically impossible for me to shrink,” Scarlet states matter-of-factly.

“Scar, what did we just talk about?” Naomi chastises.

This causes Scarlet to roll her eyes and talk from the back of her throat, “No one likes a know-it-all.”

Naomi’s mouth tightens as her brows go up in that way moms do when they are reprimanding their children. Even though she’s been a mom for over half a decade, it still baffles me that the girl who used to climb out of her building, using the fire escape, to party at clubs is rearing a daughter.

“Come on, let’s get you home.” Naomi grabs my suitcases and puts them in the trunk along with my cello.

I open the passenger door and climb in. Thank goodness for that because the hair on my legs was starting to grow from the goose bumps I was forming out here. I rub my hands together and blow hot air into them.

Naomi slams the trunk and then walks over to the driver’s side of the car. When she gets in, she looks at me with a laugh. “Cold?”

“No one told me to pack a parka.” I lean over to blast the heat. “It is August, right?”

“The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

I turn around to eye the little girl who is staring back at me as if all eight-year-olds quote literary giants.

“Mark Twain?” I ask.

Scarlet looks back at me as if I should know the answer. “While the quote is often attributed to him the actual author is unknown. I refer to it as the coolest quote Mark Twain never said.”

See? Precocious.

We drive over the Bay Bridge, the fog rolling away as the sun appears. Gone is the cold of San Francisco. Now, we are in glorious, warm wine country.

Driving up Highway 29, I can see why Naomi and her husband, Jeremy, decided to move to the West Coast when he got a job at E. & J. Gallo Winery. A stunning countryside of lush green with rows and rows of grape vines lines both sides of the road. In the distance, on each side of us, are glorious mountains and rolling hills that surround the valley, making it a place of beauty and serenity.

The farther we drive up the valley, the wineries seem to get larger and more beautiful. Domaine Chandon, Cakebread Cellars, Robert Mondavi Winery are the highest caliber of wine created here in the valley, and my eyes try to keep up with reading the signs on the road. I always thought of wineries as factories, but these structures are gorgeous, each one unique with stunning architecture. Some look like palaces while others are grand estates.

“Have you done work for any of these companies?” My voice rises over the loud wind passing through the open windows.

“No. I’ve found a niche market in some of the boutique establishments. Business has been good,” Naomi replies, her eyes covered by aviator sunglasses.

Naomi recently started her own home-based business, so she could be more available to Scarlet. As a graphic designer, she creates anything from wine labels to logos for merchandising to website design for local wineries.

Her company is diVine Design.

Cute, right?

“Speaking of which,” Naomi continues, “I have an interview lined up for you. A small winery I started working with needs an image overhaul. I’ve been working on the branding, but the place needs ambiance on-site. I suggested the owner hire you to play during the wine tastings.” She takes a small breath and then adds, “I have to warn you, he’s a bit of a curmudgeon. He came down on some hard times and let the place go. He’s doesn’t seem to adapt well to change.”

I twist my mouth at the idea. Working for an old man at a dilapidated winery is not what I had in mind. I pull my hair back from my face and hold it in my hand, resting my elbow on the door. It’s not every day you quit your job, sublet your apartment, and hop on a flight to the other side of the country.

You know what? I left New York for a reason. A change was needed, and a change is what I am going to get.

“I’ll check it out.”

Naomi sits up straighter with a big grin, and we continue to drive through the town of Yountville and up into St. Helena.

As we pull into the driveway of their ranch-style home, Jeremy is making his way outside to greet us, wearing a red polo with his company logo on it.

When I exit the car, he is at my door. “If it isn’t the world-famous video vixen.”

“You are never gonna let me live that down, are you?”