John Lescroart - The Hunt Club

Carol turned away from him, then faced forward. Her mouth was set, her jaw clenched, the eyes hardened down. She snapped open a pair of sunglasses and put them on, looked at Ward as if she were about to say something, then thought better of it, and lapsed into a brooding silence.

Wine lovers mingled,schmoozed, grazed, and drank on a flawless gem of an afternoon in the elegant expanse of the Meadowood Resort. The croquet lawn/putting-green area was a sea of humanity. Woodsmoke hung in a fragrant cloud amidst the oaks and the pines. Celebrity chefs plied their wares on enormous open grills while equally famous winemakers freely poured their best libations into the Reidel crystal glasses of their colleagues and the other assembled guests-the sports heroes, movie stars, industry captains, and other notables from all over the world who shared both a love of all things grape and extravagant wealth.

The young couple chatting with the Manions were well dressed, articulate, charming, and obviously very much at home in the rarefied Napa culture. Making their acquaintance at one of the white wine tables under the enormous tent that shaded the first fairway at Meadowood, Ward Manion had taken the gentleman under his wing, and the two were now in deep conversation about the stunning recent popularity of Rhône-style varietals in California-syrah, mourvedre, carignane-and what it all meant to the local industry, which was so heavily invested in cabernet, chardonnay, pinot noir, and merlot. "Frankly, if you would have asked me to name the new hot varietal, say ten years ago," the young man named Jason was saying, "I wouldn't have even looked to the Rhône. My bet would have been on sangiovese."

Ward broke a satisfied smile. "Don't sell that idea short," he said. "I took that bet just about at that time." Ward was always happy to talk wine, especially in a setting like this one. "Now I've got nearly seven acres of sangiovese to blend with my cabernet."

"California Super Tuscan," Jason said. "Good way to go."

"It's hardly original," Ward said, "but it beats ripping out my good vines that are finally producing and guessing wrong on granache or some other damn thing."

The men clearly would be able to go on in this fascinating vein for a while, but even here and now on her second glass of chardonnay, Carol Manion seemed to be fighting herself to remain engaged, half-smiling in a vacant way, her mind clearly elsewhere, in a self-contained universe of her own.

At Carol's elbow, her own champagne in hand but untouched, Jason's young woman moved a step nearer to her and spoke in a confidential whisper. "It's really so wonderful to be here. It's our first time, and I must say we feel a bit like crashers, though. We shouldn't really be here at all technically, but we're kind of close to Thomas, and he got us in."

In this context, it went without saying, Thomas could only be Thomas Keller of the French Laundry, überchef of the valley if not, according to many, of the civilized world. "But if you happen to be lucky enough to get offered a couple of tickets on a fabulous day like this one, I say you go, n'est-ce pas ?"

"Oui. Sans doute." Carol dredged up a smile that for all of its weariness seemed genuine enough. "I'm sorry. I'm a little distracted. What did you say your name was?"

"Amy."

The well-bred society manners were kicking in, as Amy had hoped and Hunt had assumed they would. Carol Manion, they both knew, spent a good deal of her time at charity events and benefit dinners. Social patter would come to her as easily as breathing, and now the very banality of it all offered an apparent respite from what they believed would be her overriding preoccupation.

"Well, Amy," she said, "it's very nice to meet you, even more so if you won't be in competition with us when the bidding begins."

Amy laughed appreciatively. "I don't think you have to worry about that. We're just regular working stiffs."

"Are you involved in the wine world? Your husband seems quite knowledgeable."

"Jason? Actually, we're not married until September. And it's not just wine, he's knowledgeable about everything. It's kind of a curse."

"I know what you mean. My Ward's a little like that, too. He sees something once, or hears about it, or reads it in a book, it's locked in his mind forever."

"That sounds like Jason, too. But we're not really involved at all in the wine business, except that we like to drink it." Wu shifted her footing, moving them both back, cutting them away from the two men. "In real life," she said, "we're both attorneys."

Carol Manion's mouth barely twitched, and so quickly that Wu would have missed it if she hadn't been watching closely. In an instant, the practiced smile had returned, but in that second or less, the older woman also seemed to lose half a step somehow, and a silence held between them, until Carol finally stammered, "I'm sorry?"

Amy saw no harm in hitting her with it again. "I said we were both attorneys." Chattering on. "We're both so lucky that we work in San Francisco. Jason's with the District Attorney, and I'm about five years now with a really good firm. I love the work, although people say such terrible things about us sometimes. All the lawyer jokes, you know. But I find that my colleagues are generally way much nicer than most people think. In fact," as though she just remembered it, "it's so funny that Jason and I should have run into you of all people here, because I think we have a mutual friend." Wu's face fell, and it wasn't an act. "Or had, I should say, until this week. Andrea Parisi?"

The surface of Carol Manion's glass of wine shimmered as though a tiny temblor was shaking the ground under their feet. "Andrea…yes, the television-anchor person?"

"And one of your own lawyers, wasn't she? If I'm not mistaken. Am I?"

"No, no. Although we never actually met. I just…well, it's such a tragedy, what's happened. I mean, they still haven't found her yet, have they?"

"No. But I don't think anybody's holding out much hope on that account anymore. It's the worst thing. She was such a great person. We were really good friends." Amy was somewhat surprised to feel real tears begin to form in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. I don't want to put a pall on a nice day like this. But you and she…I really was under the impression that you knew her well, too. If she was going out to your house…"

"No! She never did that."

"Well, that's right. I knew that. I talked to her just after you called her from the Saint Francis and suggested you meet at her office. She was worried it might mean that you were getting cold feet."

"About what?"

"Her representing you."

"But she wasn't representing me. She was…" Abruptly, she stopped as another thought struck her. "Did you say she called you?"

"Uh-huh. Just after she talked to you. She and I were supposed to have dinner together out in the Avenues that night, and we decided to move it to downtown since that's where we'd both be working. God, was that just last Wednesday? It seems like forever ago." As though she'd just realized it, Wu said, "But if you've never met her, that means she must have missed her meeting with you, too."

Carol Manion's eyes took on a furtive cast. In a quick pass, they scanned the length and breadth of the tented area, then came back to Wu. "Yes. I mean, no, I never did meet with her. I," she paused, stuttered, "I had to cancel at the last minute."

"That's a shame," Wu said. "I'm sure you would have liked her. I can't believe she's gone. She was just terrific…a terrific person."

"Yes, well…" Unsteadily, Carol Manion moved a few steps forward, toward her husband. "I'm sure I would have. Now if you'll excuse me, I think it's getting to be time for us to start looking at these lots. It was very nice talking with you. Ward."