Page 9 of The B!tch is Bad

Chapter Three

Creed

“There. That’s perfect. No, wait. Two inches to the left. It’ll balance better that way. Cinco centímetros a la izquierda.”

I was a bit irritated the way Oliver Klozov took charge of decorating my bedroom. Well, he was the vineyard manager, second in line only to me. But my bedroom?

“How’s that?” asked Oliver, eyes gleaming. He sure threw his entire being into every task, no matter how menial. He made it clear he knew everyone who was anyone, and for right now, I needed him.

I rose from the cushioned chaise, cocking my head. “Yes, I think this is good. The setting sun will warm her.”

Oliver grinned crookedly. “You think she’s a bit cool? Sean said she’s as hard to get into as an Alice in Chains concert.”

“Pearl Jam, I think he said.” I walked a few feet to get a fresh view of my St. Louis vixen.

Oliver pressed on. “You agree with Sean?”

I frowned with irritation. “How would I know? I only talked to her for a few minutes. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be running some truffle hunt? I see a lot of cars in the tasting room parking lot.”

“Yes, the truffles,” agreed Oliver. “We’re going to start by tasting some Tiny Dancer. Get ‘em all in the right spiritual mode.”

As if demonstrating, Oliver went into his meditation space, maybe to calm himself before greeting the crowd. Closing his eyes, he breathed in through his nose, flexing and unflexing his fists. I looked at the painting. Patience Bedford was a cunning, sly, and sexy animal. A little checking the day after I met her confirmed she was about 35, a good age for my 50. I repeated my request for her to come to Pictures of Lily, funneling the message through Pippa. All Pippa told me was that Patience was from St. Louis, starting a new life afresh.

Just like me.

I had a vague, trusting and upbeat idea that the two of us could become one. I hadn’t messed with anyone since the death-defying shock of discovering my girlfriend naked in my kitchen, pouring herself two glasses of wine. She could’ve at least gone to that motherfucker’s house. Leave my place alone.

Although Oliver was still performing his Breatharian techniques from his illustrious time in Sausalito, I butted in. “And you’re going to the warehouse later, right? The entire ’03 vintage of Ghost Riders has to go there.”

The deep breathing did its work, and Oliver looked at me with bright rabbit eyes. “On it. I’ll give the members the family story. That sells. A story of determined people making stellar wine from these unique hillsides. Nothing sells better.”

“And is the truth,” I reminded him. Seemed I had to remind him of that quite often. “Show them the purple cab grapes peeking from under those bright green leaves.”

“You’re not coming with us on the hunt?”

“No. I’ve got a ton of bookkeeping to catch up with. I’ll taste that Tiny Dancer with you, though.”

With reluctance I left the portrait of Patience Bedford, her nascent sexuality connected to classical and unsoiled purity.

Five minutes hadn’t passed since our meeting that I didn’t think of Patience. If she didn’t come to me, I determined to go to her at the bud and breakfast. My recognition of her from my dream had cast a spell over my psyche. That she had dreamed of me too only nailed the premonition deeper into my future path. Patience was my destiny. I expected her to walk in the door any day now, with that adorable Monstro to fill my life and floors with giant dog fur.

I’d dragged myself out of the dregs of Modesto to shine in Silicon Valley. I joined the secretive all-male Bohemian Club, where I was elevated enough to turn my back on Newt Gingrich and share martinis with Neil Young and Bob Weir. Branching out into films and jazz, I formed my own record company. Now the adventure into the wine country led me to Patience. The powers that be finally allowed me to put my grief aside, my horror at the double losses of my dog and Chloe, which both occurred in the same month. My whole life I’d been running like a jackrabbit before a prairie fire. Meeting Patience made me stop and think. To feel zen a few times.

If only I could see her again.

I schmoozed with the group of about twelve patrons—one of them the manager of The Weeknd—and we swirled the Dancer wine in our mouths like “bottled sunshine,” as Oliver said. It was truly mind-boggling how sacred this wine quest was to some people.

The expansive tasting room also contained tables and chairs, seating for the many dinners I planned to hold. We sold the usual tchotchkes with our logo—coasters, thermometers, pocket flasks, spittoons, spices and barbecue sauce from other Seeker Valley businesses. One wall of solid windows lent brightness to the room with reflected sun from thousands of lacey vines heavy with ripening grapes. The sky was a biblical dark blue, as though a god had layered a filter on it.

“Back in the day,” Oliver orated, “there were only a few Italian families making wine. You could fill this bottle for fifty cents. Wines weren’t rated in points. In the old days it was all we had, and we liked it.”

One of the husbands asked Oliver what I was going to ask. “I thought you came to this valley three years ago.”

Oliver blinked, his grin frozen. “Well, I started out in the Napa Valley. I won the citywide fishing derby off the Berkeley pier. That’s when I went to Sausalito and got into wine.” He poured an inch into empty glasses emblazoned with our logo. “Now this claret is a living breathing entity. Here. Swirl and sniff.”

I sniffed my glass. “Yes, I was told it evolves with age. It really deepens how far your senses go to examine it.” The oenophiles crowding around the tasting bar said mmm and smelled their garnet drink. Lifting my glass to Oliver, I wordlessly demanded more, and he complied.

“I’ll take this to my office,” I informed him, and turned to leave.