Nowhere but Here (8 page)

Kneeling in front of me, he carefully cleaned every bit of grape from the bottoms and tops of my feet and between my toes. When he hit a ticklish spot, I jerked. “Ah, Kate Corbin, the always serious investigative reporter, first on all the breaking news,
is
ticklish!” He grinned impishly.

“No, no, no!” I shouted as he began a brutal assault on my feet, pulling me toward him off the bucket. I fell to the floor and began rolling around, tossing and turning like a freakin’ animal. “Stop, please!” I began mock-crying. At this point I was lying on the concrete warehouse floor, flat on my back. He stopped immediately and leaned over me, a knee on either side of my hips, his hands planted on each side of my head. He was on top of me, essentially, and he was searching my eyes. There were tears in my eyes, but not sad tears.

“Are you seriously crying?”

“More like laugh-crying. I hate being tickled.” He jumped up to his feet and held his hands out for me.

“You scared me, Katy. I thought I had hurt you.”

“No, it’s just a little embarrassing to be tickled by an almost-stranger.”

“We’re friends, remember? We decided last night.”

“Oh right, friends,” I said hesitantly.

His eyes were trained on my mouth. “Friends,” he said again.

I nodded quickly and then looked away in embarrassment. I could feel red splotches appearing all over my face. My thoughts had gone way beyond friendship with Jamie, and I had only just met him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at his watch. He was wearing a plain black Luminox, the kind Navy SEALs wear.

“Are you a diver?”

He looked at his wrist again. “No, I got to hang out with the SEALs once and they were all wearing these watches. I thought it was cool, so I got myself one.” He smiled a really boyish and innocent grin.

“Why were you hanging out with the SEALs?”

“It was one of those school field trip things a long time ago,” he said quickly. “It’s eleven thirty, I need to go get cleaned up before we meet Chef Mark. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at noon?” I nodded. “Can you get back okay?”

“Yes, I’ll see you over there.”

Walking through the vineyard, I fantasized about what might’ve happened in those next few moments on that warehouse floor with Jamie as he hovered over my body. I would reach up and take his hat off, watching his hair fall to the sides of his cheeks. I would run my fingers through it, and then he would lean down to kiss me.

Just when his lips were about to touch mine, I was jolted from my daydream by the buzzing of my phone. It was a text.

Stephen:
I had the super open ur apartment so I could return some of ur stuff.

What the hell?
I thought.

Kate:
STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY APARTMENT AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE

The cursor rested just after the word “alone” before I hit
SEND
. Staring at it, I thought about my life in Chicago, and it made my stomach ache. I thought about Stephen with another woman. I thought about Rose and my mother and Just Bob, all alone, all their lives. I wondered what hurt more: the kind of loneliness you feel when no one is around, or the kind of loneliness you feel when the person who is supposed to love you doesn’t care at all, not even enough to fight with you, let alone fight for you. Have you ever felt lonely in a crowded room? Have you ever felt alone when you are not? It hurts far more, and I didn’t ask for that pain. I realized in that moment that Jamie made me feel that I could be, at the very least, at the bare minimum, worth coming home to.

I hit
SEND
Almost immediately, he responded.

Stephen:
AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE A WRITER? IS THE F-BOMB THE BEST YOU CAN DO?

Kate:
GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.

Would Stephen fight for me?

Stephen:
HAVE A NICE LIFE.

Guess not.

Page 7

Poetry

While visiting my room and cleaning up, I decided to go back to a blazer and flats instead of heels. Heels somehow seemed out of place here. I headed toward the restaurant and caught Jamie standing in the doorway of his truck. Hearing me come toward him¸ he turned. “I have to meter really quick before we eat.” He was wearing a clean white T-shirt and black jeans with Converse. His hair was damp and slicked back. The growth on his face was thicker than the day before, and I wondered what it would feel like to brush my cheek against his.

I stood next to him and watched as he popped open a small container with test strips and then inserted one into the meter. He took a smaller device, a lancet, I assumed, and pricked his finger then smoothed the drop of blood over the strip extending from the meter.

“One hundred exactly. I’m good to go.”

“What do you do when it’s too high or too low?”

“Well, my ever-curious little kitten, I’ll tell you all about that tonight when we go sailing. You’ll need to know.” He winked.

That little tidbit made me nervous. “Why will I need to know?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the restaurant, ignoring my question. “Come on, I’m starving.”

The restaurant had a bar stretching around the open kitchen. Jamie explained that it was designed so guests could get an up-close experience with the chefs, who prepared their signature dishes and offered the guests wine pairings. The restaurant, called Beijar, was finely decorated and lit, with dark, rich booths and muted lighting against the stark light from the kitchen. The effect highlighted the clean, stainless-steel counters and drew my eyes to where the magic happened. I had no doubt Beijar was an experience as much as it was a meal.

We took our seats on the stools at the kitchen bar. Before Chef Mark came in, I swiveled toward Jamie. “Where did they get the name from?”

“It means ‘kiss’ in Portuguese.” When I was with Jamie I forgot about everything else. Just the word “kiss” coming out of his mouth could freeze time.

“Oh.”

“Food is like love, you know?”

“Yes,” I said breathlessly.

“We need it to stay alive.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And wine is like poetry.”

His words, his warmth, were like a stun gun to my brain. I was conscious of nothing but his words. “Oh?”

“If it’s good wine.” He revealed his dimple. “If not, then it’s a tragedy.”

I realized that he had dimples on both cheeks, but his smile was always just a little crooked so it only showed up one side. Adorable.

“Is it Portuguese food?”

“Not really. There’s a little inspiration, but it’s traditional American, farm to table.”

Chef Mark entered. “Hi, Kate.” He reached over and shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Chef.” He wore the standard white chef’s shirt and a black bandana across his hair, tied at the back of his neck. He was an average-looking guy of forty, at least, but his presence was strong. I imagined that he could command a busy kitchen of chefs and servers.

Jamie reached over, shook his hand as well, and said, “Chef.”

“Hey, buddy.” Clapping once, he suggested, “Why don’t we start with a salad trio?”

“That sounds fabulous.” Jamie got us glasses of water and opened a bottle of the Pinot while Chef Mark got to work. He poured me a glass but only poured himself a quarter of the amount.

“Why so little for you? Are you sick of the wine?”

“No, I love the wine, but I can’t have too much because of the diabetes. I can taste it, though. I’d like to have some with you later, so I’m saving up.” My heart did a somersault.

Chef Mark set a plate in front of me, describing each of the four salads as he pointed them out. “Heirloom tomatoes. Avocado and corn in a light vinaigrette. Quinoa with mango and red peppers. And, finally, beet and kale with goat cheese. Enjoy.”

I took a bite of the avocado coated in dressing. Jamie watched my mouth as I chewed.

“What do you taste?” he asked.

“Shallots and lemon and avocado.” I took a bite of the tomato. “That is perfection.”

“We grow those in a hothouse on the estate. The big tomatoes are harder to grow outside in this region.”

Chef Mark asked me how I was enjoying the salads. He mentioned that there weren’t a ton of vegetarian dishes on the menu but that he would try his best to make accommodations.

“Well, I eat seafood, too.” Jamie and Chef Mark both jerked their heads back.

Leaning in, Chef Mark spoke in the gentlest voice. “You are not a vegetarian, sweetie. You’re a pescetarian.”

“That sounds like a religion.”

Jamie laughed and looked over at me with a pitying expression. It was funny how I had berated Stephen on the very topic of being a vegetarian, but here I was getting lectured myself.

“This opens up many possibilities for us. Halibut or salmon, which would you prefer?” Chef Mark asked.

“Surprise me.”

“This opens up possibilities for me, too,” Jamie said, turning his body toward me.

“How’s that?”

He took my fork and stabbed the last piece of avocado off my plate and held it to my mouth. I opened for him. “I like feeding you. I want to take you into the city tomorrow night for dinner. Will you let me do that?” I had swallowed the avocado and now my mouth was hanging open. I must have looked like a moron. He shook his head and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “There’s no more. It’s all gone, angel.” I shut my mouth and shook my head, inhaling through my nose deeply to clear my head. I still couldn’t believe his effect on me.

“So, will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow?”

“Okay.”
Positively, undeniably, absolutely, emphatically, definitely, one hundred percent YES!

We finished the lunch, which I could only describe as erotic, although I don’t think Jamie was intentionally trying to make it that way. He fed me the last little bites off my plate, clearly a stickler about wasting food, but it was the attention that he gave me that lit my insides on fire. Never in my life had anyone given me that kind of attention. I sat there trying to commit each moment to memory so I could relive it later when I was . . . alone. Ahem.

Jamie was still a mystery to me. Even though it felt like I had known him forever, I hadn’t asked him one real question about his life, his family—nothing. I made a mental note to do that and then I scolded myself for getting tongue-tied around him. I could not let that happen anymore. He practically hypnotized me with his looks alone. Add to that his words and his sweet mannerisms, and he fully entranced me. I thought about his thumb on my lip and how at ease I was with him. When we parted ways after lunch, I glanced at my phone and calculated the hours until I would see him again.

Susan and I met in her office for the facility tour. She basically took me through each of the buildings and explained the inspiration for the architecture and décor. She informed me that the inn and restaurant were legally on a separate piece of property from the winery itself. She said R.J. had gone to great lengths to make sure that the entire operation abided by all of the strict rules handed down by the Napa County Board. She said that he had paid more than the winery was worth, and it wasn’t a matter of him throwing his money around so much as it was his passion to give the pleasure of this beautiful place to others. She referred to the winery as his escape. I couldn’t see that at all. He seemed barely involved. When I tried to pry deeper into the dynamic between the employees and R.J., she skirted the issue.

“I just didn’t see one redeeming quality in him, but I keep hearing about all of the wonderful things he’s done. Jamie called him a ‘douche’ on the first day and you said yourself to forget about him.” She studied me intently as I spoke.

“Let’s just say he was having an off day. I would recommend that you focus on the winery and operations, not whether or not R.J. is living up to his reputation. If he wants anonymity, what’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not in my nature to give anyone anonymity. I came here to get the story on him.”

“I can see that. I left his e-mail address on a note in your room. You can send him any more questions you have, but I really believe you will get the best information here, on the grounds.”

We left each other abruptly. I got the sense that Susan liked me but was perhaps frustrated with R.J.’s distance and lack of participation.

I went back up to my room and began to draft an e-mail to R.J.

Dear R.J.,

I’m sorry our first interview didn’t go as well as we both hoped. I think e-mail will be a better platform for us. I’ve listed a few questions. Please answer at your discretion.

All the best,

Kate Corbin

Chicago Crier

1. Can you give me any details about your personal life? Are you single? Do you live alone? What are your hobbies? Is your family involved in your business ventures?

2. Why did you decide to buy a winery?

3. Why did you sell J-Com Technologies?

When I hit
SEND
, an error message popped up reminding me that I still wasn’t connected to the Wi-Fi. I fiddled for twenty minutes with it before finally resorting to typing the e-mail on my phone and sending it. Within half an hour, he responded in complete narrative form.

Kate,

I’m really sorry about yesterday. I didn’t conduct myself professionally and I apologize. I’m trying desperately to keep my personal life private. I’ll give you some background and then try to answer your questions as efficiently as possible. I was in the public eye from the age of thirteen when I graduated from high school. By sixteen, I had a degree from MIT and a brand new company, J-Com Technologies. After patenting new server technology, I was coined “The Boy Genius” in the media. It was a tough role to live up to. I was under a great deal of pressure, even with the unwavering support of my father, who essentially ran the company.

Although my love for discovery and science never died, my interests and focus began to change back then. There was a night when I realized that all of the glory of my early success translated into money, but the money only made me feel empty. I had to teach myself to look at it differently, to look at the money as representing something more basic: clean water, food, vaccines, shelter, and for the very lucky, education. It was the realization that a third of the world’s population is poor, hungry, and dying of preventable diseases that pushed me to sell J-Com. I did not want to waste my time on what I felt were frivolous things, and that’s why I got out when I did.

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.