A Taste of Merlot Read Free

back of her throat. Her accent—like that of all the girls’—was dead-on.
    â€œA workshop,” Char translated unnecessarily, in her enthusiasm for making sure everyone was always on the same page.
    â€œAll I need is a little place I can work out of.” Meri got up and padded in bare feet across the Spanish tiles to a cabinet. “Something with electricity, a sink, and good ventilation.”
    â€œWhere’re you going to find that?” asked Savvy, taking another sip of tea.
    â€œI don’t know yet,” she said, returning with a scant handful of almonds. “I haven’t really started looking.” The truth was, she didn’t have a clue where to begin. But there had to be something out there. The St. Pierres lived less than an hour north of San Francisco. There must be dozens of possibilities. She just didn’t know where any of them were.
    â€œWhat will Papa say?” Char fretted.
    â€œHe won’t say anything! He won’t even care!” Meri’s bravado abandoned her, while her anxiety, never far from the surface all summer, returned full force. What Papa would say was exactly what had been nagging her since June. And now August had come, and she couldn’t hide from it any longer.
    Char got up from the table to slide an arm around her. “It’s all right.”
    â€œYou know Papa, ” Meri cried. “He doesn’t pay any attention ’til our hair’s on fire, and then he practically drowns us trying to put it out.”
    Char gave her a squeeze while the kitchen fell silent. Even her sisters couldn’t deny it. The whole of their tangled lives, the three had been alternately pushed and pulled, ignored and controlled. The shared experience had lashed them together tighter than a French braid.
    Then Char had an idea. She raised an index finger, as if to gauge how the wind blew. “Bill Diamond.”
    Meri wiped away a solitary tear, forest-green mascara staining her white linen napkin. Celine, the housekeeper, was going to kill her.
    â€œWho?”
    Â 
    Bill Diamond held the door of his compact car for Meri, distorting the image of the real estate logo plastered from headlights to tailpipe.
    â€œI can’t tell you how much I appreciate you spending a couple of hours with me,” she said as they headed out toward Highway 29 South. “Char told me this kind of deal is small potatoes to you.”
    â€œSmall potatoes? How ’bout tater tots?”
    She blushed, and he laughed good-naturedly. “There are worse ways to spend a fine Saturday morning than a road trip down to Vallejo.” He pushed a button and the convertible top retracted to reveal a sapphire sky. “Let me know if that’s too much air. Did your sister tell you how this works?” he asked, picking up speed.
    Just this year, Bill had helped Char with her office building. Char had explained it all to Meri. Once they found a space, the building owner would pay Bill a commission for bringing him a tenant. It wouldn’t be much. But simply being known around the valley as the St. Pierre sisters’ go-to real estate guy made it worth Bill’s while. Relationship-building was everything in his business. Small deals often led to bigger ones.
    â€œSo you think I can find something that’s not too expensive?”
    â€œA workshop outside the city in a converted warehouse? If it’s out there, we’ll find it. Excuse me for asking, but is price really an issue? I mean, to be frank . . .”
    Meri held up a halting hand. “I don’t want Papa’s help with this.”
    â€œChill.” He smiled gamely. “I’m only asking the same questions I’d ask any client. It’s called ‘qualifying the buyer.’ Or in your case, the lessee. After all, Char said you quit school.”
    Meri started. Apparently Char had forgotten to mention Bill Diamond’s bluntness. Was this how it was going