Mulled to Death, page 3
To keep from fidgeting I fold my hands on the table, although my knees continue bouncing underneath, hidden from view.
Over the past year of owning Vino Valentine, I’ve learned people taste wine in different ways. There are the overly verbose, those who like to recite every whiff or flavor they detect, no matter how subtle. There are those who offer meager scraps of observations as they process, forcing you to piece together their opinion. And then there are those who say nothing at all.
Annmarie falls into the latter category, and I know better than to push. Instead, I study her—her smooth motions and unflappable face.
I remember watching her in the Olympics from the den of my parents’ house, Liam and I excitedly cheering on a fellow Colorado native. To the chagrin of our neighbors, we’d run outside, ringing cowbells and whooping loudly after each of her medal-winning runs.
Annmarie is older now, obviously, and more sophisticated. But she has the same spark and complete focus I recall from the television screen.
Suddenly, while I’m watching, her eye twitches. It’s just once at first, and Annmarie seems not to notice, but then it happens again. She takes another sip of mulled wine, touching the corner of her eye with her free hand, calming the spasming muscle.
“Well,” Annmarie says, setting her glass down with a forceful clunk. “I think Akira will agree with me when I say your mulled wine is excellent and will be the perfect addition to our menu.”
“One hundred percent,” Akira supplies, happy to provide her opinion now. “Great flavors, especially considering it’s a younger red.”
I let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders slumping. “And it will only get better with age,” I add with a wink.
Annmarie gives me a bemused smile and then turns to Akira. “You’ll put an order in tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” Annmarie continues. “And make sure Cash has this recipe.” She gestures to the dish of nuts.
Reid for the win, again. Not that I’m surprised.
Akira flinches, so brief I almost think I imagined it. Then she nods, her ponytail swinging, her friendly demeanor back in place. And yet, she grits her teeth as she says, “Cash will be thrilled.”
I wonder at her reaction, because from what I could tell, Cash will be thrilled. He’s a bona fide food nerd.
Annmarie gets to her feet and I do the same, hungry (in more ways than one) to close this deal. She’s taller than me—not uncommon given my five-foot-four-inch frame—but she must be near six feet, even without her heels. “In the meantime, I hope I’ll see you on the slopes in the morning.”
“You’ll be skiing?” I ask, unable to keep the starstruck wonder from my voice.
Annmarie’s phone buzzes with a text message. Her eye twitches again as she reads the screen. “Excuse me.”
“Oh, wait,” I say, snagging one of the extra bottles and spice packets from the box at my feet. I brought them along for just this instance. “A complimentary bottle and spice packet.”
Annmarie kindly takes the gifts, tucking them under one arm, and mumbles, “I can tell I’ll need it later.” She purposefully strides through the doorway leading back to the lobby just as the first guests appear for dinner service.
“Well done,” Akira says, clapping her hands together in a tiny applause before accepting her own bottle and spice packet. “Annmarie isn’t easily impressed.”
“Thank you,” I say like it’s no big deal, but inside I’m beaming.
Chapter Three
Toasting is universal. There’s cheers in English, santé in French, kanpai in Japanese. Around the world, people come together to celebrate by clinking glasses. Just as my friends and I are doing now.
We’re at the same table at the hotel restaurant where I pitched my wine, only now as guests, which I suppose makes us VIPs. Or airheads who didn’t think to make reservations.
“To your success,” Reid says, meeting my gaze over his own glass, his grin mischievous and his eyes twinkling with pride.
Reid’s face—along with Liam’s and Sage’s—is flushed from the heat of the restaurant after the plummeting temperatures on the slopes. They were able to sneak in a couple of runs before dinner, which were apparently a blast. The snowstorm may have been hell to drive in, but it resulted in a layer of fresh powder, ideal for cutting down the mountain.
“I honestly had no idea if it was going to work out.” I take a hard-earned sip, flavors of honeydew, nectarine, and, oddly, brioche bursting on my tongue. Akira recommended this white, a little-known varietal called Albariño, which has a delightful palate. She was spot on with her suggestion. “I mean, can you believe Annmarie Bauer—of the Bauer Power—sat in on my meeting?”
Bauer Power was what all the announcers used to say about Annmarie. Think she’ll bring the Bauer Power? they’d banter while Annmarie dug her poles into the snow, rocking backward and forward at the starting gate. There’s the Bauer Power, they’d say as she flew down the mountain, masterfully maneuvering every turn and mogul. The Bauer Power, they’d say, shaking their heads in disbelief at whatever record she’d set or race she’d dominated. She’s fearless.
The nickname stuck.
Now it refers to her business acumen and financial boon in the hospitality industry rather than the slopes. Although I suspect she’s still a force to be reckoned with on skis, which I very much look forward to verifying.
“The Bauer Power?” Liam asks sarcastically from across the table, widening his eyes in feigned surprise. “Because you haven’t told us in the last thirty seconds.”
“Oh, you’re just jealous you didn’t get to meet her,” Sage says pointedly.
“There might be some truth to that,” Liam admits with a wave of his hand. He had a mega crush on Annmarie back in the day as a hormone-charged adolescent. “Would it have killed you to send me a text?”
“No, but it would’ve been horribly unprofessional.” I take another sip of my wine, the bouquet of flavors growing even more complex as it warms. “Besides, she mentioned she’d be skiing tomorrow morning so there’s still a chance you’ll get to meet her.”
Liam perks up at this. Guess we never quite outgrow our childhood crushes.
“She is pretty awesome.” Sage snags a piece of the dark-brown bread dotted with oats and slathers it with a generous portion of house-churned butter. “For a skier.”
“I’ll say cheers to that,” Reid says.
It should be noted that Reid and Sage are both snowboarders, loyal to their sport, while Liam and I are devoted skiers. Not that I haven’t tried snowboarding. I spent one very uncomfortable day in a lesson where the instructor tried to convince me it was like a leaf falling from a tree, a gentle zigzag across the run. Leaf, my ass. Which is coincidentally where I spent most of that day.
Liam scoffs and then takes a large swallow from his glass of cab. “I’ll give snowboarders props for style, but what skiing has is speed.”
Unlike me, Liam actually knows how to snowboard; he just prefers skiing, arguing that it’s a skill that takes time to master. This is ironic on many counts, mainly because Liam has rarely stuck with anything in his life.
A reformed hobby-hopper who used to dwell in our parents’ basement, Liam has only recently joined the ranks of adulthood, with a steady job working for the city and a passion he’s ardently pursuing: photography. He even started his own freelance photography business, Valentine Photos, which has been getting some local buzz. I attribute his about-face to Sage and wanting to make himself worthy of her.
“Only because you haven’t boarded with me,” Reid says.
I turn to him, my foot hooking with his beneath the table. “Seriously, have you tried skiing?”
He leans in, so close I can smell the mint-and-pine aroma of his body wash. “It’s like food—I’ll try anything once to know if I like it.”
“And?”
His lips twitch as he says, “I found it a little bland for my taste.”
“I have to agree with my former client,” Sage says, selecting another slice of bread.
Last year, when Reid was wrongfully accused of a murder and locked in the pokey, Sage came to my—and his—rescue, acting as his legal defense, something I don’t think either of us will ever forget.
“And Sage is the smartest person I know, so . . .” Reid trails off with a faux grimace aimed at me and Liam.
At the compliment, Sage turns a shade of red that rivals her hair, which is artfully bedazzled with her favorite green lightsaber pin (Luke Skywalker’s blade, Sage is quick to impart).
“Not that she isn’t brilliant,” I start, “but we all know that if Wonder Woman took up skiing, Sage would abandon her board in an instant.”
“You’ve got me there.” Sage nods and munches. “Luckily she has more important things to do, worlds to save, yada yada yada.”
“And we have dinner to eat,” Liam says, glancing at something over my shoulder. He rubs his hands together gleefully. “Good sir, your timing is impeccable.”
I’m surprised to see it’s Cash who deposits dishes in front of each of us, finishing with my shrimp scampi. The angel-hair pasta is coated in a delicious sauce and topped with succulent shrimp. Heavenly aromas of lemon, garlic, and Parmesan waft from my plate.
“Why, hello again,” Cash says, lingering near my chair, a charming grin fixed on his face. I’m not sure if he usually delivers food, but the way our server stands behind him nonplussed tells me no.
Reid stretches his arm over my shoulder and clears his throat.
Cash takes in Reid’s arm and then his face. If possible, his grin grows even broader—Cheshire. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
As if on cue, the resort kitty, Madeline, struts through the entryway to the dining room, swishing her fluffy tail. She plants herself near one of the pillars, an advantageous location to scope out tables. Her nose twitches as she lifts her whiskered face to better sniff the delectable aromas. It’s clear she’s hankering for a stray bit of food. She and Zin would get along.
Fleetingly, I think of my feline counterpart. I can practically picture her snuggling up with Reid’s cat, William, who’s bunking at my apartment. My dad, whom cats are oddly fond of, agreed to stop by and check on them—and no doubt ply them with extra kitty treats.
“Cash Thiessen. I heard you were still here,” Reid says, the cocky smirk that drives me crazy on his face. “I was gonna wait until after eating to track you down. That way I’d know how much flak to give you over the lack of seasoning.”
The moment turns tense and I wonder what exactly transpired between these two. Reid worked as a sous chef in the kitchen here over one winter, right after he moved from New York City and before he landed in Boulder. I assume he must have worked with Cash, although whether they were nemeses or friends remains to be seen.
“And you’re clearly still an arrogant jackass,” Cash says, shaking his head, but then starts laughing. He gestures to Reid’s tenderloin and roasted fingerling potatoes covered in butter and chives. “By all means.”
Reid nibbles and ponders, an expression I’m accustomed to seeing spread across his face. I sit back and wait for his professional assessment. “Perfect. I expected nothing less.”
The tension defuses and Reid and Cash do one of those handshakes that shifts into a shoulder hug.
“How are you, man?” Cash asks.
“Getting by,” Reid says, although he’s being humble, given his restaurant, Spoons, is all the rage in Boulder. “You?”
“Oh, you know,” Cash says, shrugging. “Executive chef now.”
“Congrats,” Reid says, meaning it. “Who else is still here?”
While they descend into what’s sure to be a lengthy conversation about the old times and what became of everyone, I tuck into my food, twirling a generous forkful of noodles. I’m munching, savoring the delicate angel hair and succulent shrimp, elevated by the garlic and citrusy flavors in the sauce when something brushes against my leg.
I look down to find Madeline, peering at me with pleading eyes that tug on my heartstrings. A master manipulator, this one. She’s obviously decided my dinner is the crème de la crème.
Liam slouches over the table. “Psst,” he hisses, his features shockingly earnest.
Reid is still occupied with Cash, so I glance at Sage, puzzled. She shakes her head, equally perplexed, her fingers wrapped around a giant turkey burger, pinky raised (we are ladies, after all).
“Do you need something?” I ask.
“I feel like it’s my brotherly duty to warn you that Reid got you something for Valentine’s Day.”
“I’m aware.” I spear another shrimp and gesture broadly with my fork. “This weekend, time together.”
Liam holds my gaze. “But that isn’t all. He got you something else.”
“I’m sure Parker knows better,” Sage says, shooting a warning look at Liam.
But the damage has been done. A seed of doubt takes root in my mind, tendrils of uncertainty creeping through my psyche like a strangling vine. I dab my lips with my napkin, my eyes cutting to Reid. He’s laughing at something Cash said, oblivious to my mounting discomfort.
Reid doesn’t know what Valentine’s means to me. Correction, used to mean to me. And honestly, I’d prefer to keep it that way.
You see, my last boyfriend wasn’t so understanding when I told him I didn’t want to—nay, couldn’t—celebrate Valentine’s Day. This was two years ago, a few short months after my aunt’s death, when I was struggling to process my grief, let alone explain it. We’d gotten into a huge fight because supposedly I wasn’t appreciative enough of the candy and kitschy stuffed bear he’d given me. It was the first of many signs that we weren’t meant to be, but the memory still stings.
Emotions well inside me, fighting against my carefully constructed dam. Worry, guilt, and sadness gnaw at my stomach, ruining my appetite. My chest squeezes and my face grows hot.
Come on, Parker, I tell myself, it’s just a holiday. You can do this—be romantic—for Reid.
But the thing about logic is: it only goes so far.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say, my voice hoarse. I down the rest of my wine in one gulp.
Plucking a shrimp from my plate, I stealthily lower it to the ground, where a very patient Madeline has been waiting, as if sensing my emotional demise. She practically pounces on the morsel, which gives me a modicum of satisfaction. At least someone is enjoying the succulent shellfish.
* * *
* * *
The next morning, I fill my caffeine quota at the local café, a charming place called Chloe’s.
The interior is homey with mismatched tables and chairs smooshed together between armrests and love seats. Specials are listed on a chalkboard in pinks and reds, complete with tiny hearts to dot the i’s and j’s, and cheery watercolors line the walls. The barista sports a frilly apron and chatters with customers, exchanging pleasantries about the weather forecast and the various hometowns of patrons.
It’s not as eclectic as my haunt in Boulder, the Laughing Rooster, which is conveniently located next door to Vino Valentine. But my skinny vanilla latte is rich and delicious and perks me right up.
Like the pop of a cork coming out of a wine bottle, there’s something distinct about the sound of snow crunching beneath a ski boot. It starts with a high-pitched squeak as your heel first meets the ground and transitions to a grating baritone as the rest of your foot follows. And, take it from me, there’s no graceful way to walk in ski boots.
With my skis propped over one shoulder and poles clutched in my other gloved hand, I waddle through Silver Creek Village toward the base of the mountain.
It’s a different culture here, completely acceptable to wear your gear while you munch on breakfast and sip coffee in the village’s quaint café, as we did, or test equipment in one of the many sporting-goods shops, and wagons are totally a thing. Red wagons wait outside hotels and condos and near parking lots, free of charge, to help guests lug their stuff—or offspring—to the main event.
Even though I’m wearing thick snow pants over long underwear, a bulky winter coat, a neck warmer, gloves stuffed with hand warmers, and a hat with flaps that cover my ears, the bite of cold still makes me hiss under my breath.
The sun has just emerged from behind the mountain peaks in a blue-sky panorama, and while it’s below freezing, I know in no time, I’ll be sweating from exertion.
Reid walks beside me, looking decidedly more suave than I feel despite his equally clunky snowboard boots and gear. Tromping behind us, Sage and Liam are chatting about a show they binged the night before, something to do with a teleporting phone booth.
We join the throng heading toward the chairlift, a futuristic structure strung with benches that loop through a pulley system overhead. Adjacent to the lift is a bungalow that houses the controls, the operator of which is standing in the doorway, barking out a running commentary for those waiting to be whisked up the mountain.
“Parker?” a cheery voice asks from my left.
I spin around, careful not to accidentally whack anyone with my skis, to find Annmarie raising an arm in greeting, poles clutched in her hand. Her face is fresh and unadorned with makeup, and her trademark golden locks are in a braid down her back. She’s emanating a glow of confidence that acts like a gravitational force.
“Good morning,” I answer.
Reid, Liam, and Sage turn to see whom I’m speaking to, each stunned into silence as realization dawns.
Reid recovers first. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I used to work here.”
“Is that right?” Annmarie asks.
“I still remember a lunch I made you once.” He breaks out the dimples. Oh, what I wouldn’t do for those dimples. “Don’t think I’ve ever been that nervous.”
