Undisclosed

UNDISCLOSED

Book Two in The Winemaker’s Daughters Series

By Nan Alexander

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Connect with Nan Alexander

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Undisclosed

Published by Nan Alexander

Smashwords Edition

© 2014 Nan Alexander

All rights reserved.

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Dedication

To Joe, who miraculously fits in all my bends and hollows.

Chapter One

I hit the brakes hard when I turned into our long driveway, barely avoiding the unmarked black Suburban parked by the house. A messenger stood on the front porch, his back to us and finger on the doorbell. He had the lanky look of a just-graduated high school basketball player, uneasy in his starched uniform and impatient with the wait. Standing guard at the foot of the steps and barking—though without menace—was Scout, our golden retriever.

Kate and I exchanged looks. FedEx and UPS would have known no one was home during the day—they always drove down to the very back of the property where our family winery’s offices were housed. I stopped the car behind the Suburban and hopped out.

Hi there. No one’s here at the house…we all work back there, I said, motioning to the tasting room. Can I help you?

Oh, OK. I have a delivery for a Sophia Whitman. He held out a large, flat box.

Cool. That’s me. I signed the receipt and took the box. It didn’t weigh much.

Have a nice day, the kid said in a monotone. He could have said, Fuck you, lady, in that same voice with no more effect. I was still examining the receipt by the time he got into the Suburban and drove off: The name of the sender had been left blank.

I climbed back into the car and handed the box to my sister.

Who’s it from? she asked.

I shook my head. I couldn’t see a return address or company name on it. Do you? I put the car in gear and drove to the parking lot in back, gravel crunching under my little BMW’s tires, Scout loping behind.

Nope. Nada. No return address.

Let’s open it in the tasting room, I said.

Lucy, can you bring over some scissors? Or the box cutter is even better. My assistant, Lucy, had an eager personality not unlike Scout’s. She disappeared into my office to fetch. In the corner of the tasting room, two men, likely a couple, sat nursing glasses of wine and examining a map.

When I slit its edges, the box opened easily and elegantly from the top. The three of us gasped simultaneously. Inside, in a lovely bed of pink paisley tissue paper, lay a dress. I removed it and held it from the shoulders so we could all see. The proverbial little black dress, but taken up a notch. Sleeveless. Short. A band of faux jewels at the waist, where it was cut tight and sexy. I peeked at the tag: Size 6.

Oh my god, it’s gorgeous. And your size—it’s like Cinderella’s slipper, Kate said.

Who’s it from? Who’s it from? Lucy asked, as if she had a tail wagging.

A tiny card dropped to the floor, and I stooped to pick it up. Even the men tasting wine seemed to be motion-stopped, waiting to hear. But I already knew what the card would say when I read it out loud.

I can’t wait to see you in this tonight. R

Another round of gasps from Kate and Lucy. But I frowned. Robby Galleon, my former high school boyfriend, had asked me out to dinner in a text earlier in the day.

What’s wrong? Kate asked. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.

"Really, then maybe you should go out with Robby!"

Kate looked confused and slightly wounded.

OK, ladies, I said. Take a look at this dress. Does this say ‘Sophia Whitman’ to you at all? No way. Not even close.

Wow. A little black dress can speak volumes about where a relationship went wrong apparently, said Kate.

"Well, now you know. And it’s not a relationship." I threw the dress back into the box and stomped out of the room, well aware I was creating a little scene. The guys in the tasting room, no longer interested in their map, tracked my exit with curious interest. I went outside and caught my breath in the cool air, unlocked the car, grabbed a shopping bag from the back seat—the outfit I’d just bought to wear tonight Robby—and marched over to the house. I heard Kate follow me but would not let her catch up.

I get it, I do, Kate said later when I finally let her into my bedroom, where I had been ruminating for an hour. But what are you going to do about tonight? He no doubt paid a lot for the dress. Even if it’s not your style, it’s admittedly beautiful. How do you not totally insult him?

I’m not sure I care.

If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have been sulking here for the last hour.

Unfortunately, she was right.

OK, I’m going to thank him, under the assumption that his intentions were good and generous. But I’ll wear what I like.

Kate twisted her lips that way she does when she’s thinking something over. Are you calling him?

I thought about it. I was afraid my anger would bubble up if I called. Texting would be better.

I gestured by holding up the phone, then typed. Thanks for the gorgeous dress. I already have something for tonight, but I appreciate your generosity. I read it out loud to Kate, she gave a nod of approval, and I hit Send. About 60 seconds later my phone chimed.

Oh. Well, you’re welcome. Really looking forward to reconnecting.

Reconnecting? Kate said, in the same way she used to tease me in high school. "He wants to reconnect. You know what that means…."

"I will not sleep with him."

She raised her eyebrows.

I mean that.

"How can you say that before you’ve even had a chance to reconnect? You know you have chemistry."

We have some history, too, history that means it’s not going to work. I’m not interested.

Never say never. I’ll bet he’s even more handsome than when you last saw him. And probably more sophisticated, too, given his dress choice. And romantic.

Romance is overrated, I said as I pulled out my laptop and typed his name into Google.

Don’t tell me you haven’t done this on a regular basis since the guy left town five years ago, Kate said.

I shook my head, and it was the truth. I had my life to live here in Sonoma, and that didn’t include Robby. Anyway, I was not a stalker.

The top item in the search was labeled News. Kate leaned in and clicked on it for me.

Galleon Leaves Gray & Bond Properties for Left Coast, it said.

We looked at each other and turned back to the screen to read the details.

The article doesn’t say why he left the firm, does it? I said.

Not that I see. But it does sound like it’s a permanent move to California.

I guess that means he’s not just here to visit his parents, I said warily.

Hours later, Kate perched on my bedroom window seat, my lookout, while she thumbed through a high school yearbook.

Oh, Sophia, look at this picture of you and Robby. It’s totally sweet. Homecoming, 2007.

I remembered it was god-awful-hot for an October day. Our team pummeled whoever we were playing. I wore my cheer uniform and Robby wore his signature button-down shirt. Our smiles were giant, our arms entwined, like we were totally in love. I suppose we were.

Yes, if I remember right, less than a year later he became the biggest asshole ever, I told my sister. Really, it’s strange to see how happy we looked. But that was then, this is now. Now I know better.

Kate shook her head dismissively, as if I’d just told her our parents were gangsters. For some reason, she still held Robby in high esteem and he could do no wrong. Well, that’s all behind you now, Kate said. Fresh start tonight.

You seem to forget Robby was a total jerk. He’s an asshole until proven otherwise.

It’s not like he wronged you. All he did was move to New York, which is hardly worth disdain after all this time.

I didn’t want to get into that. I never had.

We’d been the it couple. We were charmed. We’d moved easily from neighbors in elementary school to friends in middle school to lovers in high school, and it was all hearts and flowers. Rarely was there a reason to squabble, much less fight. We waltzed through high school, arm in arm, our names becoming one—Robby-and-Sophia—from the homecoming dance freshman year to our senior prom.

While I was the sunny, spirited girl, and he the dark, brooding boy, it worked easily. Some opposites-attract couples I knew were constantly fighting or trying to get over their differences. But Robby and me, we just fit into each other’s bends and hollows. My expansive social circle amused him, and while he would never have shown up at a beach bonfire or house party of his own accord, he never once complained about going. Meanwhile, I admired his dominant serious side: He was elected president of our school’s Mock Trial team, and he studied with a focus I never had. Sometimes when I prattled on and on about some silly catfight at school, he listened so hard that it hurt to watch. For his part, when he bubbled with excitement about a concept from his Economics class, he’d see my eyes glaze over and just smile, understanding he was wasting his breath.

If we hadn’t been neighbors, would we have fallen in love? Now, I wonder. Then, I didn’t.

We spent a lot more time at my house than his. Robby’s parents, well, they weren’t my favorite people. They’d had him late in life, and as an only child he garnered too much and too little of his parents’ attention. His mother flitted nervously in the background when we’d try to watch TV in his family room or study for a test at the dining room table. His father was consumed with the vineyard and rarely in the house. But when he was, Robby was a target.

You can’t afford an A- in Calculus, son. Turn off the TV. That was a constant refrain. Sometimes, he’d ride on Robby about chores: If you want to be a real man, you’re going to need to start lifting a finger around here. I even heard him say once, If I were half as lazy as you are, I’d be in jail right now.

It galled me, and I always said to Robby, He has no idea how lucky he is to have a kid that’s as smart and hard-working as you are. I wish you’d tell him off. Just once.

I don’t want to disrespect him. I know he doesn’t mean it.

If he doesn’t mean it, you should tell him not to say it.

Talking back won’t make him change his ways. He’ll only come down harder.

That’s why we did homework and hung out mostly at my house. Robby and I didn’t share many classes: His were AP and honors by the time we were seniors, and mine had names like International Cuisine and Poets of the Earth. We’d work side-by-side with our books strewn across the table, and I would kid him about how he finished his hard homework before I finished my easy homework. So he would help me with what I had left, my favorite part of the afternoon, with him leaning close and his brow knitted as he explained a concept to me. And then when we got to the end of it, we’d pack up our books and roll onto the sofa to watch whatever happened to be on…it didn’t matter. My younger sister, Billie, would inevitably come through and ask Robby some questions to steal his attention from me, but then I’d swear at her and shoo her away.

My mother died when we were young, so in high school we didn’t have much supervision. Yet my father’s presence was always felt. By the time the sun was low in the sky, he would come in from the vineyard and futz around in the kitchen, chatting amiably while he pulled dinner together.

Robby, do you want to stay? he’d ask.

Thanks, Mr. Whitman, I’d better get home. I don’t want my parents to eat alone. Then I’d convince him to come back after dinner.

Come February of senior year, there were some decisions to be made. Robby was accepted into a handful of the top universities in California. He also got into several Ivy League colleges, his stretch schools, but he settled on Columbia because he’d always wanted to live in a big city. Meanwhile, I claimed to be taking a gap year from school to work with my father, but I think everyone knew—as I did deep down—that I really had no intention of going to college at all. And that’s exactly how it played out.

We spent the summer before Robby left, talking about how we’d be the one couple in the history of the universe to survive a long-distance romance. We’d have a romantic reunion at Thanksgiving, a longer one for winter break and maybe go somewhere together for spring break. And of course we’d have the long Sonoma summers together. That was our plan. And the first couple of months that we were bi-coastal, it seemed like we might. Then we sank.

It happened so fast. That fall, Robby’s father retired and sold Galleon Estates. The fantasy I had about Robby and me being reunited on Thanksgiving weekend, when he would fly home to Galleon Estates like a son returning home from war, went down the drain as I watched his parents’ moving truck rumble away.

We texted, we Skyped, we professed our love. Sure, the frequency fell off a little after a couple of weeks when we both got pulled in our own little worlds. And then suddenly in late October, came an email that changed everything.

He couldn’t be in touch any more, he said. I had my life to lead, and he had his, he said. It was a cold and impersonal breakup letter, as organized and to-the-point as a law brief.

Then Robby went dark. He didn’t respond to my desperate calls, emails or texts. His Skype status never showed online. I couldn’t understand what was happening. It didn’t make sense. So I got mad, and I went dark, too.

It took months for my deep hurt, my devastation, to dissipate, but eventually I gave up licking my wounds and turned back full-tilt to the Sonoma social life. I couldn’t admit to anyone—including Kate, then as now my closest confidant—that Robby had broken up with me in the cruelest possible way. I was ashamed, I suppose, that I’d been tossed aside so suddenly. So I acted like we’d grown apart and I preferred my Sonoma party scene. Secretly, I vowed never again to give my heart to just one person.

Now that five years had passed, my edges had softened a little. We were just kids back then, I told myself. I had not seen Robby since the morning I self-consciously kissed him goodbye in the Galleon driveway, him jittery with the anticipation of starting a new life chapter in college and his parents impatient that they would miss the flight. Now we would be spending an evening together, and while curiosity overpowered the residual anger, I planned to keep the door to my heart bolted shut.

Slapping closed the yearbook, Kate suddenly sat erect. He just pulled in, and he’s driving a rental car.

I rushed over to see for myself. I’d been dressed for half an hour, now just killing time, letting Kate tease me about my nerves. Like she had any room to talk: She was the anxious sister.

"How do you know it’s a rental car?

"It’s a Chevy. Why else would Robby be driving a Chevy? A white Chevy?"

Oh, you little snob! I said, laughing. Stand back so he doesn’t see us! I stepped back from the window, but Kate just leaned slightly to the side, apparently unable to resist peeking. Which I was kind of grateful for. I heard the car door slam.

Wow, Sophia. He’s all grown up. And if you thought he was cute in high school, you should see him now!

Kate! I wanted her to stop, but I wanted her to go on, too.

"And he’s dressed up. Like he’s on The Bachelor and just stepped out of the limo," she said.

"Except it’s a white Chevy. All right, step away from the window, Kate. We’re acting like we’re 15. And if you recall, I am not on The Bachelor and I am not going to get involved with him, so none of that matters."

The doorbell rang, and Scout barked as he did for anyone who waited on our front steps: partly an instinctive warning, partly an eagerness to greet. I ran my palms over the folds of my skirt, straightening myself up like I was going on stage instead of just walking down the stairs to get reacquainted with someone I’d known well a long time ago. Or at least it seemed like a long time ago to me: another epoch instead of five years.

I heard my dad’s voice and the familiar tones of Robby’s—I could tell he was fawning over Scout like a long-lost friend. Then the voices moved from the foyer to the kitchen. Thank goodness he would not be standing there to watch me come down the stairs like a debutante. Even so, I felt pretty in my new outfit—a funky cotton blouse and mismatched miniskirt, with sky-high wedges and a denim jacket. I’d worked hard to look like I hadn’t tried too hard. Hopefully, I’d accomplished irresistible, just so he’d know what he was missing. Once down the stairs, I gathered myself again and entered the kitchen.

My heart stopped when I saw the two of them talking: Kate was right, he was drop-dead gorgeous. My father held a bottle of wine and Robby was nodding at whatever my father was telling him. When I entered, both their heads turned and Robby paled. Not the reaction I hoped for, but I proceeded undaunted.

Robby. I opened my arms to give him a hug. He smiled then, smiled big, and opened his arms to me. We embraced for what seemed like a second too long. As I hung there, it felt strangely right and wrong at the same time. The light sound of wine being poured into a glass behind me brought me back to the present.

It’s been so long! Let’s have a toast to old friends, I said.

And to old neighbors, my father added.

Kate had come in too, and we all clinked glasses.

Feels just like high school…except with wine! Robby said.

Yeah, though Billie’s missing. She was a pest back then. I was never sure whether my younger sister was always trailing us just to bug me or because she had a crush on Robby.

What’s she doing these days? Robby asked.

Rhode Island School of Design, in architecture.

Nice.

My father’s face wrinkled. I knew he had a special fondness for Billie, and though he rarely voiced it, he worried she wouldn’t return to work in the family business like Kate and I had. Always the cheerful one, though, he gracefully changed the subject. Robby, what brings you back to the Valley? And how are your parents? I should stay in better touch with them.

My parents’ life is different now, but I think they’re OK. He described the transition from vineyard to condo, from year-round physical work to retirement, from Sonoma to Napa via Connecticut. Clearly he’d grown comfortable as the center of attention, relating anecdotes with the ease of running through a PowerPoint deck. He had a strong voice and was an engaging storyteller. Even tales of his mother’s Alzheimer’s were told in a way that was both poignant and funny, his sweetness shining