What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(19)

Her pistol leaped into her hand. She turned and pointed it, straight-armed, into the back seat.

Rae sat there, a bruise on her cheek, eyes wide, trying to smile through trembling lips. “Mommy, I came to bond with you.”



9


Arthur Waldberg sat across the polished table from Max in the tasting room’s private dining room and sipped from each of five glasses. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Please do.”

Arthur pulled a small leather notebook out of his shirt pocket, removed the miniature stainless steel pen from the loop that held it closed and meticulously marked 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 on the sheet.

Max watched in amusement and some relief. If this man had the slightest knowledge of wines, and his résumé claimed that he did, he was their new wine room manager. They needed someone who was organized, precise and who understood how to hire and supervise the personnel necessary to run a busy and successful winery tasting room. Max had been handling everything since their last manager had been lured away by the rival Whistling Winds Winery, and it had eaten into the time Max needed to be spending with Kellen and Rae.

If he could somehow figure out how to bring those two together, he knew they would relate as mother and daughter. He saw the similarities between them every day and saw, too, that fear Kellen so carefully hid; to fall in love with a man, with him, would leave her vulnerable, but to fall in love with her own child... Nothing could hurt so much.

Arthur tasted again, clearing his palate between each sip with a sliver of bread, finished his notes and said, “This glass—” he pointed “—is a classic Italian blend. Sangiovese, cabernet sauvignon and cabernet franc. This glass is, not surprisingly, pinot noir. This wine has cork taint.” He pushed it away. “The white is Arneis, a wine I haven’t tasted since my last visit to Northern Italy. And this last is a quite insipid rosé.”

Max met his eyes steadily, sternly. “What if I told you I blended the rosé?”

“Then I would tell you to keep to the organizational part of the winery.”

“That’s what my vintner says, too.” Max sighed. It took a special knack to blend wines, and he had proved time and again that he didn’t have it. For a man who was used to being good at everything, it was a lowering experience. “Your references are impeccable—” for a relative unknown in the wine world “—but at this moment, I can safely say I’d like to discuss the conditions of your employment.”

“I’m not worried about salary. You have a reputation for being openhanded with your employees. Insurance is important, of course. But my only real condition is that as the positions open, I’d like the opportunity to bring in some of my people.”

Max was taken aback. “Are you saying you’d run off the current employees to bring in your friends?”

“Not at all! I have the greatest empathy for those who are gainfully employed and are willing to work to stay that way. But inevitably in this business, there is a turnover. Young people go back to school, better job offers come along, the chance to travel becomes irresistible.”

“Is that why you’re here? You wished to travel beyond European wineries?”

“I wish to take a good winery to a great winery. I wish to grow a label from regional renown to world dominance. It takes the right wine for that kind of success, and the Oregon Di Luca wines are capable of making the transition.” Arthur preached like an old-fashioned evangelist who had found his audience. “Are you interested, Mr. Di Luca, in that opportunity?”

“Hmm. Sure.” Max scratched his cheek. “How?”

“You’ll see. You’ll be the person interviewing my friends, so of course the final decision to hire permanently or not would be yours. But I can safely promise that if you’re on board with the idea of expanding Di Luca wines into a greater market, you will be satisfied with my suggestions.”

Max stared at the prissy, exacting man across the table. Max knew he was good—anyone employed by top-end wineries in Germany, Spain and France had to be good. He’d proved his expertise with the wine tasting. But the man was frankly odd and something struck him as not quite right...

The door opened, and his mother stuck her head in the door. In an impatient voice, she asked, “Max, where is Rae? I’ve been waiting in the car. She’s going to be late for camp.”

Max looked up without surprise.

Arthur got to his feet and bowed formally from the waist.

“Mother, this is Arthur Waldberg. He’s interviewing as winery manager.”

Verona looked at Arthur in disbelief. “Are you?”

Max knew why she was surprised. Most wine room managers were younger, disheveled in a trendy way and very aware of themselves. Arthur Waldberg looked as if he was sixty, thin, clean-shaven, wore an expensive tailored black suit, white shirt and discreet blue tie with a diamond tie pin. To Max, he was as fussy with his dress as he was with his tasting, totally uncaring of what was trendy, and those were more points in his favor.

Verona came forward to shake Arthur’s hand. “Where have you previously worked?”

“Mostly Europe.” He cradled her hand.

“Dove sei vissuto in Europa?” A test; she spoke Italian fluently.

“In Francia, Germania, Spagna. Ovunque creano vino.” His dark eyes glinted as he answered just as fluently.