Wild Abandon Page 11

  He holds it out to me. “I went to the pharmacy down the road. Got you a toothbrush.”

  I lean forward and grab the bag before peering inside. He also got me a hairbrush and hair ties.

  “You’re nicer than you look, Nathaniel Teller.” A smile spreads across my lips, and I turn around and head back into the bathroom.

  chapter NINE

  As we’re driving up Highway 29 in Nate’s truck, I play with the radio in search of 101.3, the only station I seem to like out here. It is seriously the coolest station. One minute, I can be listening to Lionel Richie and then Beyoncé the next. Right now, Justin Bieber is crooning. I was not a fan of the Biebs in his teenybopper days. But, lately, I’ve become a Belieber.

  Nate reaches over and changes the station.

  “What are you doing?” I put my music back on.

  “You like that crap?” He switches it back to a station playing hard rock.

  “It’s not crap. It feeds my soul.” I put my music back on and hold my hands over the radio, so Nate can’t change it again.

  “Justin Bieber feeds your soul?” He has his baseball cap on backward right now and is eyeing me in disbelief.

  “Yes.” I raise my chin at him in defiance.

  The side of his mouth turns up, and his eyes crinkle. “You do know your soul-feeder has tattoos.”

  I move my hands from the radio and lean back into my seat. “I didn’t say I wanted to sleep with him.” That’s actually a lie, but Nate doesn’t need to know that.

  He shakes his head and drives us into the town of Yountville. He turns onto a drive for Domaine Chandon. We get out of the car and walk toward a parklike area covered in gorgeous trees that branch out closer to the trunk than the oak trees I’m used to back home. Irregular, twisted, and light-gray branches lead to lanceolate-shaped leaves that are whitish on the underside and bright green where they face the sun.

  “They’re olive trees,” Nate says from beside me, his hands in his pockets. “Come on.”

  He starts walking toward a trellis, so I follow him, a grin on my face.

  The entrance to Domaine Chandon looks like a grotto. The archway opening is covered on all sides by greenery. If it wasn’t for the two large double doors that lead inside, I would have thought this was a secret cave. Through the doors, the corporate vibe of the facility is front and center when we walk through a gift shop. Champagne bottles the size of my suitcase are for sale as are many other delicious-looking beverages bottled in gorgeous packaging, ready to be taken home for consumption.

  I follow Nate up the stairs to the wine-tasting room. Wood-planked ceilings give the room a warm feeling against the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Along one side of the room is an ultra-long bar that lights up like a chic nightclub with bottles and bottles of sparkling wine.

  Nate and I walk up to the bar and order a tasting. The server places two menus in front of us with the four wines we’ll be trying today. He explains the first and then pours two glasses for us.

  I lift my glass to my nose and breathe in the aroma. “Red cherry,” I say before taking a sip. “And strawberry.” I savor the taste.

  Nate drinks his as well. He is a whiskey guy through and through, but there is no denying that he’s enjoying the crisp, seductive taste of the rosé.

  “You’re good at that,” he states, referring to my wine-tasting expertise.

  “I’ve been practicing. Let’s take our next drink on the terrace.”

  We walk out the side doors and onto a terrace in the gorgeous sunshine. There are tables and chairs that look out onto trees. Spying a small hill to the left, I start walking up it, my heels making it a little difficult. Nate grabs my elbow and helps me keep my balance. When we get to the top, we are staring down at the valley.

  “When you said we’d go wine-tasting, I wasn’t expecting champagne.”

  “Sparkling wine.” He raises his glass in correction. “I wanted to start with something classy.”

  “Where are we gonna end? Henley’s?” I joke.

  Based on his shrug, I wonder just how far off I am.

  “You told me last night that you wanted to be a total tourist. So, today, we are tourists.” Nate takes out his phone and holds it up. “Say cheese.”

  I put my hand in front of his phone. “Stop that! Not when I look like this.”

  He thinks I’m joking, but I am serious. I might have tamed my hair into a braid, but I still look like I spent last night bathing in Jack.

  “You look fine,” he chastises, the phone still in his hand.

  “I don’t want to look fine. I want to look hot and sexy. Not for you. For me. I want to look good. And I don’t unless I’m wearing bronzer. And some eye shadow would help. I feel naked without it.”

  Nate lowers his phone and just stares at me for a moment. “I think you look pretty. You have freckles on your nose. They’re cute.” He puts the phone back up in the air. “Now, I’m taking a picture.”

  I certainly don’t need blush anymore because I can feel my cheeks redden. I roll my eyes and give him a smile. He takes the photo.

  I say, “Just don’t post that anywhere.”

  “Trust me, I won’t. I don’t want anyone to think I’m hanging with a hag.”

  I stick my tongue out at his lame joke, and we head inside for our final two tastings.

  We walk back to the car and head to our next stop—Sterling Vineyards.

  Further up Highway 29 and onto St. Helena Highway, we pass the road I turn on to go to Naomi and Jeremy’s house, and we drive up into Calistoga. The entire drive, we listen to my pop music and take in the views around us.

  Nate fills me in on Napa history, including the Judgment of Paris, an event that put Napa winemaking on the global map, and about the illustrious Robert Mondavi Estate that is 11,570 square feet with an indoor swimming pool, two tennis courts…and one bedroom.

  “One bedroom?” I shriek-laugh. That sounds impossible.

  “They liked to throw parties but, apparently, didn’t like house guests.”

  I can only imagine how the late Robert Mondavi would feel about me sleeping on Naomi’s futon.

  We’re about to get out of the car when Nate suddenly turns to me and asks, “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “No. Why?” I ask cautiously.

  I am not given an answer as Nate just walks out of the car, and I follow. I’m looking for an entrance to Sterling Vineyards but do not see one. Instead, there is an aerial tram, and looking at Nate’s back, I see him walking straight for it.

  “Where’s the winery?” I ask when I catch up to him.

  “Only one way up,” he says. Then, he turns to face me. “I thought you’d like the view.”

  “Oh,” I answer.

  I stop behind a couple who is waiting in line to get on the gondola.

  To the right is a giant chalkboard with the words, Before I Die, written in giant font on the top. Below it are places for people to write in what they want to do before they die.

  I grab Nate’s hand and walk him over to the board. I pick up a piece of chalk and hand it to him. He walks to the opposite side of the board, looking for an open spot to write.

  With my own piece of chalk in hand, I look for a free space where it says Before I die, I want to with a long line next to it for me to fill out. I think about what I could write. There are so many things I want to do—see the pyramids, run a marathon, write a novel. I lean down and write in pink chalk, make a difference.

  Nate walks up behind me and takes a look at what I wrote. “That’s a dumb answer.”

  “Why is it dumb?” I put my hands on my hips, getting pink chalk on my skirt.

  “Because it’s not what you really wanted to write.” He grabs an eraser and erases my writing.

  I clench my teeth at his audacity to think I don’t want to actually make a difference. He takes the chalk out of my hand and holds it up to my face.

  I grab it, lean down, and write an honest th
ing I actually want to do before I die—fall in love.

  Satisfied, Nate grabs my hand and walks me over to the gondola line that has died down. There is only one couple in the line in front of us.

  “What did you write?” I ask, looking back at the board where he was writing.

  “Have another drink,” he answers.

  I turn around and squint my eyes at him. “You did not write, Before I die, I want to have another drink?” I’m skeptical, and I know he’s full of it.

  “I would have written kiss a redhead, but you’d have just gotten ideas.”

  “My hair is not red.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Next.” A gentleman ushers us over to where we should stand to wait for our car to arrive.

  A cable car arrives, and Nate and I get in—him facing up hill, me downhill. When the car starts to move, my stomach drops a notch. I’m not afraid of heights per se. It’s more a slight fear of being lifted in small objects. Put me in a 747, and I’m fine. Ask me to go parasailing. No, thank you.

  Nate leans forward and rests a hand on top of mine, which is clutching my knee. I look down at his hand and follow it up his forearm to his bulging bicep, his defined chest, across his chiseled jaw, and along the freshly shaven face, accentuated by strong cheekbones and long-lashed eyes that are so close to me in a confined space. And, instead of those eyes bringing me unease or uncertainty, I find only comfort in holding them.

  I let out a long deep breath and thank him with a smile for easing my anxiety.

  As we climb up the mountain, the ground below us is farther and farther away, but the views of rolling hills and spacious landscapes around us are more spectacular than I could have dreamed. Our car feels small as we climb higher and take in the vastness of the valley. And the sound? Silent. Just us, soaring above the world.

  We get to the top and are greeted with a glass of wine. We stroll through art galleries, overlooks, and elevated walkways. Taking the wine tour, we learn the winemaking process from grape to glass. Motion-activated television screens provide detailed explanations of what we see. It’s amazing what a facility of this caliber can produce in a year.

  We head outside and take a moment to appreciate the glorious architecture of the winery. With brilliant white stucco, the winery has a Mediterranean feel to it with towers that house bells that sound on the quarter hour. And the view? The Mayacamas, Vaca Mountains, and Mount Saint Helena—all of which Nate points out.

  “When I was a kid, my window overlooked Superstition Mountains. My whole world was surrounded by them. No matter where I looked, there they were. I could never live somewhere I couldn’t see mountains.”

  “I’ve lived near water my entire life. I could never imagine living somewhere without seeing the ocean.”

  “I guess that means you’re not staying here.” Nate is leaning on the railing, his body facing mine. “No ocean.”

  I sway my head from side to side. “I don’t know. I’m just taking it one day at a time. Seeing where the wine takes me.” I wink at my own joke, but he’s not laughing. “So, did you really come out here for a girl?”

  “I came to San Francisco to look for my dad. I guess you can say, I came here for my dad, but I stayed for a girl.”

  “She must have been pretty special,” I tease.

  “She is.” He turns his body away from mine and stretches his arms out on the railing while looking down at the ground, a pensive expression on his profile.

  He’s giving us both a moment to absorb that little tidbit of information. Nate still talks to the girl who stole his heart. Maybe she broke his heart, and that’s why he hates love so much.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

  I slowly nod my head.

  “Do you enjoy playing the cello?”

  Okay, that is not what I thought he was going to ask.

  I take an uncertain tone. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “Last night, you said it’s something you’re just good at. It seemed like you only play because you’re good at it. Not because it’s something you love.”

  I shrug my shoulder and twirl the glass in my hand. “I didn’t have much of a choice. Playing comes naturally to me. A teacher told my parents that I was gifted, so they enrolled me in a school for the performing arts, and then I went to college to pursue it as a career. It was never a question of what I’d do. When you’re that good at something, you just do it.” I turn my back to the view and cross my arms over my chest, looking over to Nate. “I don’t live and breathe it like others do. My friend Emma is a composer. She creates these incredible pieces of music, and your jaw drops at the sound. She’s that good. But me? I can play any song without sheet music. The harmonica took a while to learn, but that was because I wanted to learn it. The cello though is just something I do. It’s not who I am.”

  “Who are you?” he asks simply.

  I take a deep breath and think about the question. “I think I’m still trying to figure that out.” I lift my chin at him. “Are you doing what you love? Working in a bar?”

  Nate shakes his head and looks away, pondering the question. “I don’t have a college degree, so I’m pretty limited in what I can do. Bartending pays really well, and the hours are perfect for my lifestyle. I have a full plate and need the flexibility.”

  I examine the way he’s holding his glass and recall how well he’s been explaining the wine to me today. “If you could do something else though, what would it be?”

  He looks back at me, almost studying my face. “This. Running a winery.”

  I’m not surprised. “You’re in the right place. Why aren’t you working in a winery? I just started working at one. I’m supposed to play the cello for wine tastings even though they don’t have wine tastings yet. They’re not producing wine at the moment either, but when it reopens, I know we’ll need the help. Or my friend Jeremy can get you into Gallo. He’s an—”

  “I don’t want to work for someone else. I had my own place, but I lost it.” He takes my empty glass from me and places it on a table. “The bar works for me. The guy who owns it got married and moved down to San Diego. He handed me the keys last year along with the apartment upstairs, rent-free. All I have to do is run his business and send him a check once a month.”

  “Sounds good, but it’s not your own. Have you thought of opening your own bar?”

  “I don’t have the equity. Money is pretty tight. I don’t know if owning a bar is what I want to do.”

  “You don’t think about the future?”

  Nate gives me a solemn shake of his head. “Sometimes, planning for the future only leads to disappointment. It’s what we do with the present that matters. And, right now, I’m really enjoying today.”

  I smile at the compliment and then catch sight of three hot air balloons as they appear off the mountain range. I silently give him a head nod, asking him if he’d be interested in going on one.

  “I said I’d be a tourist, but a hot air balloon was not on the agenda.”

  “Oh, come on! It looks like fun.” I’m acting braver than I am. While I’ve always wanted to go up in a hot air balloon, I’d never step foot in one. They look dangerous.

  “You were clutching on to me on the gondola. There’s no way I’m taking you up in the air.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “Jeez, Nathaniel, you’re so drab.”

  We make our way down the mountain on the aerial tram. We get off and walk back toward the parking lot. As we pass the black chalkboard, I sneak a glance and look for the spot where Nate was writing his Before I Die response. If I’m looking at the right place, then Nate wrote, Before I die I want to, have peace.

  World peace? Inner peace? Did he mean get a piece?

  “You hungry?” he asks, pulling my attention away from the board.

  “Famished,” I answer awkwardly as we reach the car and climb in. I wonder if he’s annoyed at me for looking.

  He doesn’t show it though. Instead, he turns the car on,
looks at me, and smiles. “I have the perfect place.”

  Back in the town of Yountville is a roadside burger joint that looks straight out of the 1950s. Gott’s Roadside isn’t the type of place you get a garden salad. This is a straight-up grease-filled, calorie-loading, cheese-sauce-dipping, eat-at-a-picnic-table-while-looking-at-the-passing-cars kind of place.

  And I am so looking forward to it.

  After the eight tasting glasses I’ve had this morning, I surmise I’ve drunk a pound of wine. I don’t feel more than a light buzz though. Between the long distances we’ve been driving and the copious amounts of water Nate has been feeding me, I feel relatively refreshed. Refreshed yet starving.

  We get our food and take a seat at a table already occupied. We sit side by side on the end. I steal his fries, and he takes one of my onion rings.

  This place makes us nostalgic even though neither of us grew up in the fifties nor did we have a place like this where we came from. We share high school stories—I, as a drama geek, who went to a high school for the performing arts, while he was a skateboarder and a loner. When you are into music and the arts, like I was, you are always surrounded by people of like interests. Nate, on the other hand, had few friends, and he said they weren’t worth keeping.

  “How did you end up the world’s greatest baseball fan? I thought the skateboarder kids were too cool for sports.”

  “I wasn’t goth. I was just a lonely kid. I always loved baseball. I think it’s because I didn’t have a dad. It’s something I would picture us doing together if he were around.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  He shakes his head. “I used to dream he would show up and say, Nathaniel, you’ve been lied to. I never left you. I was on a secret mission by the US Government, sent to find a cure for cancer. Now, I’m back to rescue you from your heinous mother.” Nate looks down at a fry in his hand, like it’s the memory he’s recalling.

  I snatch the fry out of his hand and pop it into my mouth. This makes him look up at me with a confused expression that relaxes when he sees my smile.