Read A Taste of Merlot for Free Online Page B

off-guard? Her arms went straight as she clutched the sides of her vinyl seat.
    â€œUm, I went to high school back east. Now I live a little north of here.”
    The woman was a basket of nerves. Talented as she was, she obviously didn’t have any experience with selling her work. He had to think of a way to make her relax.
    The waitress set down her substitute latte, apologizing for the diner’s lack of a cappuccino maker, and poured his black coffee. He took a sip, winced, then dumped cream and sugar into his mug to camouflage its bitterness.
    â€œNorth—the wine country. It’s a ton of fun going up there. Think I’ve been to every winery in Napa. Mondavi, Ferrari-Carano . . . hey, you ever been to the Domaine St. Pierre Estate? It’s the best of the best. You go down a long, gravel drive, where they’ve got this massive fountain out in front of the mansion. Do you like flowers? You’d love the gardens. And you’re not going to believe this, but they actually play classical music for their grapevines! During the day, that is. At night, they turn it off so the vines can sleep, of course.” He chuckled. “Listen, I could take you there sometime. . . .”
    She had grown suddenly pale, like she might be sick. This tack wasn’t working, either.
    â€œWell.” Mark cleared his throat. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
    The array of sketches she fanned out represented the foundation of a collection that was the very definition of easy elegance.
    Mark found it hard to contain his enthusiasm. “We can sell the hell out of these, wait and see. How about samples?”
    Now he’d found it—her comfort zone. Meri lifted the lid of her tackle box and withdrew five small flannel drawstring bags from among the tangle of wire and tools and tiny plastic bags of findings and bits of metal. She yanked some napkins from the dispenser, unfolded them, and spread them out. Then one by one, she dumped the contents of the bags into her palm before arranging a ring, a necklace and the bracelets from her wrist on the creased white paper.
    The curious show caught the attention of the elderly pair in the booth across the aisle, and they exchanged discreet words and heavy-lidded glances, communicating the way ancient couples do.
    Mark wasn’t sure if he was more amused or shocked. He was accustomed to buying from suited sales reps in plush showrooms equipped with illuminated stand magnifiers and black velvet display stands—not on a scratched, ketchup-stained table in a third-rate diner, smelling of bacon. But even in this modest setting, he could see that his instincts had been on the mark. Her work was exceptional.
    He picked up a ring and examined it with his loupe. “Do you have any help?”
    By the way she replied, “Help?” he knew she didn’t.
    He sat back, still examining her ring. “We’ll need to get you hooked up with a workshop.”
    She frowned. “But I already have a workshop. Besides,” she said proudly, “my pieces are all handmade.” Her expression translated as, Hello? Gilty Artisanal Jewelry? As if he were the naive one.
    He smothered a smile. The last thing he wanted was to risk insulting her by sounding patronizing. “Here’s how it works. You’ll still do all the designing, but you’ll need help with the execution. Otherwise, you’d never be able to fill Harrington’s orders all by yourself. The work gets contracted out to other, highly skilled artisans.”
    A pink glow of embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Mark pretended not to notice.
    â€œDon’t worry. I know people. Plus, we have to talk about a timetable. . . which pieces and how many of each for the spring collection, a catalog, shipping and pricing, how many lines you’ll want to design per year . . .”
    â€œOooh, now aren’t those pretty?” said