Chapter One
Hallie Welch tipped down one corner of the comics section and peered across Grapevine Way, her stomach sinking when yet another group of locals bypassed Corked, her favorite, sleepy little wineshop, in favor of UNCORKED—the new, flashy monstrosity next door that advertised hot sauce and wine pairings in the window. The exterior of UNCORKED was painted a metallic gold that caught the sun and blinded passersby, giving them no choice but to stumble inside or risk vision loss. From Hallie’s position on the bench, she could see through the front window to their state-of-the-art wine fountains and wall of stinky cheeses, the cash register lighting up like a pinball machine.
Meanwhile, the peeling white wrought-iron tables in the front courtyard of Corked sat empty and forgotten. Hallie could still see her grandmother at the far-right table, a modest glass of Cabernet sitting in front of her. Everyone would stop to say hello to Rebecca as they passed. They would ask her what flowers were in season and which bulbs were best to bury in the soil a particular month. And even though she was always reading a bestseller, she would carefully lay her silk-tasseled bookmark in the crease and give them her undivided attention.
The newspaper in Hallie’s hands sunk lower, crumpling slowly at the vivid memory and eventually landing in her lap.
On the front patio of UNCORKED was a literal dance floor and a disco ball hanging from the eaves. It spun all day long, casting light refractions all over the sidewalk and turning people into apparent zombies who preferred wine out of a vending machine. At night, that ten-by-ten square patch of wood was packed to the gills with tipsy tourists, their purses full of overly pungent Rochefort, no one sparing a thought for Corked next door. Or outraged at the mockery of their very name by the overzealous newcomers.
When the shop opened a month ago, Hallie almost felt sorry for the young couple from downstate. Poor dears, sinking their hard-earned money into a gimmick. It would never attract the loyal Napa locals who honored tradition and routine. She’d been wrong.
UNCORKED was thriving. Meanwhile, Lorna, the sweet elderly owner of Corked, didn’t even emerge at sunset anymore to light the candles on her outside tables.
Hallie looked down at the shatterproof wineglass in her purse. She’d been bringing it into Corked for tastings every day this week in an attempt to support the failing institution, but she needed a better game plan. Continuous day drinking had started off fun, but the days were beginning to blur together, and she’d found her car keys in the microwave this morning. Supporting Corked with only the help of a couple friends wasn’t going to keep her grandmother’s favorite table from vanishing off the sidewalk. And it needed to stay there. Far too many pieces of her grandmother seemed to float away into the wind lately, but not that table. Not the place Hallie had gone with Rebecca every single Sunday evening since high school and learned the art of gardening. It had to stay.
So, all right. Time to play offense.
Very carefully, Hallie folded up the funnies and tucked them beneath her arm. She scanned the sidewalk for any friends or clients, then walked briskly across the street toward UNCORKED. They’d added two potted ficuses on either side of their door, beautifully pruned into the shape of an ice cream cone, but there would be no brownie points awarded to the UNCORKED crew for proper plant maintenance. Not even for lush, well-loved greenery. And if Hallie Welch, proprietor of Becca’s Blooms and St. Helena’s premier gardener, didn’t warm up to someone for diligent care of a plant, that’s when they’d really pissed her off.
Besides, the plants weren’t her current focus.
She paused outside of UNCORKED and eyed the disco ball, shifting in her rubber slip-ons.
Here comes trouble, said her grandmother’s voice, drifting in somewhere from the great beyond. How many times had Rebecca taken a look at Hallie and said those words? Hundreds? Thousands? Now, in the reflective window of UNCORKED, she could see how her grandmother might make that prediction based on her facial activity.
Two round spots of color on her cheeks.
A firm set to her chin.
Expression . . . diabolical?
Let’s go with “driven.”
Mrs. Cross, owner of the coffee shop across the street, walked out of UNCORKED with a bottle of some celebrity’s wine in hand and a paper bib around her neck that read Sip Sip Hooray on the front. She skidded to a stop and bowed her head guiltily upon spotting Hallie. “I don’t know what happened,” started Mrs. Cross, quickly tearing off the bib. “I let them add me to their text alerts just to be polite and this morning . . . I woke up to a message about wineglass rims dipped in chocolate and my feet just sort of brought me here for the three o’clock session.”
“How was the wine?” Hallie asked, feeling winded. Another one bites the dust. “Robust, with a betrayal aftertaste, I’m guessing.”
Mrs. Cross winced—and had the nerve to lick some chocolate from the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, hon.” She slunk past Hallie and into the crosswalk, clutching her bottle of duplicity. “Have to run. I’m working the evening shift . . .”
Hallie swallowed and turned back to the disco ball, the glaring light forcing her to squint.
After a too-short second of debate, she retrieved a piece of bark that had been used to pot the nearest ficus—and reached up, jamming it into the top motor of the disco ball, halting the eyesore’s next revolution. Then she bolted.
Okay, maybe “bolted” was an exaggeration. She jogged.
And she quickly realized she was not dressed for fleeing the scene of her first act of vandalism.
Rubber shoes were for plodding around in soil and grass, not for potentially being chased by the 5-0. Her colorful woven cross-body purse slapped against her hip with every step, her array of mismatched necklaces bouncing up and down in solidarity with her boobs. She had a teal scrunchie in her pocket, which she’d planned to use later to fashion a blond knot on top of her head while working. Should she stop and put her hair up now to make running easier? Curls were flying into her face, fast and furious, her gardening shoes making an embarrassing squawk with every step. Crime clearly didn’t pay.
When a familiar face stepped into her path on the sidewalk, Hallie almost collapsed with relief. “Without asking me any follow-up questions, can I hide in your kitchen?”
“Fuck sake, what have you done now?” asked her friend Lavinia, donut artist and British transplant. She was just about to light a cigarette, a sight that wasn’t all that common on Grapevine Way in St. Helena, but lowered the lighter to her thigh when she saw Hallie rushing toward her in a flurry of necklaces, curls, and frayed jean shorts. “Behind the standing mixer. Be quick about it.”
“Thank you,” Hallie squeaked, catapulting herself into the air-conditioned donut shop, Fudge Judy, speed walking past a group of gaping customers, and pushing through the swinging door into the kitchen. As advised, Hallie took a spot behind the standing mixer and embraced the opportunity to finally pull her curls up into a bun. “Hello, Jerome,” she called to Lavinia’s husband. “Those bear claws look beautiful.”
Jerome tipped his head down to observe Hallie over the rim of his glasses and offered a slightly judgmental hum under his breath before going back to glazing donuts. “Whatever this is, don’t drag my wife into it this time,” he drawled.