Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [64]
I tossed my crumpled napkin across the table at him. “Turn blue.”
As I was leaving the ladies’ room, heading toward the lobby, a voice called my name. A voice I’d heard just a little too often lately.
“Why, Mrs. Ortiz . . . oh, excuse me, Harper. What a fine surprise it is running into you on this bright and sunny Sunday afternoon.” Detective Hudson, shooting me his stupid grin, threw his arm around a small, buxom brunette wearing a front-laced blouse similar in style to the bustier my cousin was entreating me to buy to save my marriage. She filled it out much more generously than I would have, and Detective Hudson’s physical preference in women was painfully obvious. His date, not cracking a smile, scanned me up and down, then discarded what she saw with the flick of an artificial eyelash.
“Hello, Detective Hudson,” I said.
“Hud,” he said. “We’re off the clock.”
“And I have someone waiting.” I moved past them only to find myself stopped short by his hand grabbing my upper arm.
“I’ll need to see you in my office on Monday,” he said. “There’s some ideas I want to discuss with you about our case.”
“Sorry, I work at my real job on Mondays,” I said, jerking my arm back.
Emory’s Cadillac Seville was waiting for me out front. In exchange for the ride, all the way to Eola Beach I was forced to listen to another lecture on keeping my husband from the clutches of his evil ex-wife.
“That’s enough,” I declared when we reached the parking lot of the San Patricio Resort and Country Club. “I’ve heard every argument in your pea-sized, testosterone-fueled brain and I’m still going to do what feels right to me, so why don’t you just dry up.”
He feigned a hurt expression. “I was only trying to help,” he said as we walked across the wide lawn toward the three blue-and-white circus-style tents.
“I think you’re trying to ignore your own problems in the love department by becoming obsessed with mine. If Gabe’s behavior is bothering you that much, then you say something to him about it.”
“I might do that very thing, oh, naive one. But you have to admit it made you mad that he’s spending another family-oriented day with the ex-Mrs. Ortiz.”
Ignoring him, I handed my ticket to the woman wearing an aqua and black T-shirt with the South Counties Vintners’ Association logo—two wineglasses clicking in front of an oak tree—and received my wineglass and tasting guide. Emory flashed his press pass and shook his head when offered a glass.
“I’ll use hers,” he said.
We entered the first tent where the wineries, twenty-seven according to our literature, had their booths set up. It was similar to the event last night except the booths carried all types of wines—merlots, ports, pinot noirs, chardonnays, syrahs, cabernet sauvignon, and some I’d never heard of—nebbiolo, sigiovese, moscato allegro, gamay beaujolais. The names sounded as romantic as a gondola ride in Venice. The only thing different about these wines was that they were poured from bottles that were handlabeled since the vintages wouldn’t actually be on sale for a year or two. The vintners were hoping wine lovers would take a chance on a young wine and order cases on speculation.
“I wonder if they have anything else to drink,” I said, handing him my wineglass. Sure enough, in the middle of the tent were huge aluminum washtubs filled with ice and bottles of fruit juices, Snapple, and sparkling water. I headed toward the drinks, Emory dogging my steps.
“Admit it,” he said. “You were angry when he told you he was spending another day with Lydia.”
I faced my cousin. “Okay, I’m angry. Are you happy now? But what can I do?” He opened his mouth, and I quickly held up my hand. “Wait, let me rephrase that, because you have way too many suggestions. I’m trying desperately to keep this situation from turning into one that will cause a serious problem between me and Gabe. Yes, I agree he’s spending a lot of time with her. Maybe too much. But this thing with Sam and Bliss is complicated, and Sam is their son. I can’t change that. I just have to trust