You Had Me at Merlot (A Glamorous Life Novel Book 1)

By Marley Gibson

In the wake of being unceremoniously fired from her Manhattan-based copy editor position at a wine magazine, Hale Martin must now pack her bags and head to her grandmother's funeral. She hasn't been home to Haven Harbor, Florida, in five years, and still fragile from her recent divorce, her heart isn't into putting up with her oddball family and the town she grew up in. Along with all the tears, flowers, and mystery ingredient casseroles, the funeral also brings painful memories and shocking secrets. Hale finds comfort in her appreciation of wine, her dream of being a novelist, and the rekindling of her friendship with her old high school crush, Jordan Valvano. In her search for answers, direction, and purpose, Hale just might find true love--and better still, herself.

Warning: this book contains adult situations with sexual content, drug and alcohol references, sexual situations, and language; 18+

This is the first book in the A Glamorous Life series, followed by: Head Over High Heels (book 2), Saving Face (book 3), and All's Fair (book 4 - coming soon.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cardinal Rules Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310622816

Marley Gibson

MARLEY GIBSON is the author of all of the Ghost Huntress books, and co-wrote The Other Side with Patrick Burns and Dave Schrader. She lives in Savannah, GA, and can be found online at www.marleygibson.com or at her blog, www.booksboysbuzz.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The End.

God, I love typing that.

It’s not actually the end, though. It’s the beginning of a whole other process. New hope. A completed birth.

I get a rush every time I finish a manuscript and get to write those two, precious words on the last page: The End.

It’s the culmination of hours upon hours upon hours of creative brainstorming, plotting, crafting, editing, polishing, straightening, and a hell of a lot of words per minute.

I bite my bottom lip to tamp down my enthusiasm. A pure, adrenalin-induced high compliments of my own imagination, dedication to the words, and the need to have my characters’ voices heard.

Yeah, writers are a little skitzo.

It’s a good thing I have my own—infinitesimal—office here at The Oenophile, the wine enthusiasts’ magazine where I work; otherwise the crusty, old, Armenian receptionist, Marie, who sits just outside my door, would wonder what I’m so pleased about. My elated joy certainly can’t be from the adventurous reading and editing of this morning’s four-page Wines to Complement Fast-Foods article that was submitted by a freelancer who just doesn’t seem to care anymore. My eyes feel as if they’re going to bleed. But I did my job, just like I always do every day in my senior copy editor position here at the magazine. I spend day in and day out editing and re-writing other people’s words when all I want to do is write my own.

And I have.

Since I can’t write my own articles on wine, food pairings, up-and-coming regions—even though I’ve been promised the opportunity—I write fiction. As of five minutes ago, the third manuscript is done. It’s no longer snippets and ideas in my head—the ones that keep me awake at night or talk to me in the shower—but actual words on a page. And maybe one day soon, someone on their way to the Upper East side on the 6 train will be holding onto a rail with one hand while balancing open my book—or the digital version on their e-reader—with the other hand because they’re so enthralled by the story, the pacing, the plot, and the plight of my characters.

I take a bite of what’s left of my smoked turkey and roasted red pepper mayo roll up that has sat unnoticed for the last forty-three minutes. Writing only takes place during my lunch break which could fall anywhere between eleven a.m. and four p.m. the way my days go. Today, though, food could wait as I was in the blood fever to reach The End.

All I have to do now is get it to my critique partner for a quick read and then off to my agent for her review.

A Novel by Hale Martin.

Chills run up my spine in a delicious tingle that makes me feel like a teenager again, instead of on the uphill climb to fifty.

I save the document to my flash drive and then stash the tiny device into the pocket of my Prada messenger bag—a little something I bought as a pick-me-up after my divorce from Curtis—and then I relax in my chair for a moment as I finish the last of my soggy sandwich before pulling up the article on Niagara Vineyards and Canadian ice wines that I have to edit and upload to production before I leave today.

Ten minutes into editing, where this bone-headed writer actually wrote furmentation instead of the correct fermentation, I let out a long sigh and sense a looming figure in my doorway.

Hey Bernie. What can I do you for?

Bernie’s the magazine’s managing editor… and my boss. He sneezes and wipes his runny nose on the sleeve of his tweed jacket. The man is never well, always catching—and spreading—whatever disease-of-the-moment is going around. I’ve sat here for five years trying to diligently copy edit articles and reviews—with the constant promise from Bernie of a promotion to wine features writer that never materializes—all while he’s sitting in the next office hocking loogies into his garbage can.

We need to talk, Hale.

Right, I know you passed the Girl Scouts cookie sign-up sheet around the other day, but I just haven’t had the—

He stops me by holding up his meaty hand. That’s not it, Hale.

All right. Inwardly, I relax a moment in relief that I’m not being forced to support his twin daughters who have no inclination to try and meet their sales quota of cookies for their troop. When I was a kid, I went door to door in my green uniform and badged sash, pulling a red wagon behind me down the sidewalk selling my own wares. My mother would have laughed at me had I asked her to do the work for me. Kids today.

Take a load off, I say jokingly, and then motion to the chair across from me.

Bernie’s such a worrier. He’s all about bottom lines and budgets and you can bet your ass that he knows exactly where every penny within the company is going, how many subscribers we have, and the precise number of unique visitors to our website.

He’s wearing that we’ve lost an exorbitant amount of subscribers scowl on his face.

Look, Hale, there’s no real easy way to tell you this.

I wave him off with my hand. I know all about the letters to the editor from that crazy Grapes of Wrath blogger guy pointing out what he considers to be grammatical errors and inaccurate wine facts. I rummage on my desk for the thick print out of e-mails we discussed at last Monday’s staff meeting. What’s his name? Uncle Choppy? Believe me, Bernie, he’s no threat to the magazine.

Bernie’s ruddy cheeks redden even more. I’m not here to talk about Uncle Choppy the mad blogger.

Okay, I say, feeling my pulse pick up slightly.

He leans forward. Hale, effective immediately, your position here at The Oenophile has been terminated. Here’s your final paycheck, including your unused vacation pay.

This is a joke. It has to be. Are you kidding me?

No response from him.

I mean, Bernie and I have bantered about in a teasing manner since I started working here to have something to do to keep me busy while my husband was working long hours. But then, I grew to love the chance to read about wines and varietals and regions and food pairings and what wine means to our lives. It became more than just something do to; it became my passion, primarily because the rest of my life was so lacking in it.

This can’t be real. It has to be…

But the stern, staid look on Bernie’s face tells me it is real.

We no longer need your services here, Hale.

Suddenly, the searing pain in my chest is nearly unbearable as the meaning of his acrid words sink in. A drive-by shooting in the city’s worst neighborhood couldn’t possibly be as painful. I try to sip in a much needed breath, but my lungs aren’t reacting. It’s almost as bad as when my husband, Curtis, came home one night a year ago and said, Hale, I don’t make you happy anymore. Maybe we should split up.

Wh-what? I manage to sputter out to Bernie. Much the same reaction I had to Curtis.

Bernie passes over a piece of paper that starts Dear Mrs. Fletcher…

But no, I’m not Mrs. Fletcher anymore. Why plunge that knife in my chest, too? I’m Ms. Martin now, I think unnecessarily. Back to my maiden name. The words on the page in front of me blur as I try to blink at their meaning. Terminated? What did I do?

Bernie’s gray eyes bear into me. If you’d like to take a minute and read the letter, please go ahead.

I barely hear my boss’ words over the pounding of my heart and the whooshing of blood NASCAR-ing to every major organ in my body. If Curtis were here, he’d tell me all about shunting and how stress exacerbates the production of proteins that can form clots in your arteries; talking to me like the cardiologist that he is. Why I’m thinking about this now, I have no clue. Can you, umm, just sum up the letter for me, Bernie?

I don’t know where my words are coming from.

He clears his throat in a disgusting phlegm-filled way. Nausea covers my insides like a winter coat and I feel hot and sticky all of a sudden. Under my desk, my hands are shaking in my lap as I try to grasp what’s happening.

It’s simple, Hale. You have violated Shay Publishing’s policy 405 regarding the inappropriate and unauthorized use of Shay Publishing owned or leased property for the conduct of personal business.

Shay Publishing, a giant in the publishing world ate up our little magazine only two months ago, changing the way we do everything from ordering our coffee to what font we use for the magazine’s masthead and the service provider that hosts our website. If there are new corporate policies, I’m certainly not privy to them at my worker-bee level.

I don’t understand.

I stare blankly at him as he continues. A check of your computer system showed eighty-four megabytes of personal data belonging to you in the form of what appears to be fictional manuscripts.

A check of my computer? When? Why? How did I not know this? Did they sneak in here while I was in editorial meetings or out at a wine tasting in upstate New York? I want to laugh; but I feel the need to cry instead.

But, Bernie, you know I’m trying to get published. Those are just files I have as backup. Right? That was okay, wasn’t it? No, it’s not.

He blinks. Then, he sneezes. A misty spew dances in the air between us and I flinch in disgust. I don’t dare say Bless you since I’m thinking more like Screw you.

Policy is policy, Hale.

I knew nothing of this alleged policy, Bernie. Couldn’t you give me a warning or something? Write me up for disciplinary actions? I mean, I’ve been here five years! I’m a loyal employee.

This isn’t a matter of loyalty. It’s a matter of disregard for company policy.

One I wasn’t aware of! I snap out.

Bernie doesn’t flinch. I’ll need your keys and your ID card.

I just got an exceeds expectations performance review and a bonus. I just don’t understand this. It seems so… minor. Don’t I do a good job?

He looks down at the desk unblinking. You should pack up immediately and leave.

My heart continues to snare drum away and I swear I think they’re going to have to call the paramedics to come administer some serious high blood pressure medication to me. Or some oxygen.

I don’t have a car, Bernie. I can’t exactly haul five years’ worth of stuff on the subway. I live all the way on the Upper East side. I hope my voice didn’t really crack as much as I think it did. I’m too old to cry at work.

I squeeze my fist shut as the realization of this slowly seeps into my system. Fired. Terminated. Unemployed. I’ve never had this happen in my professional life. Wasn’t I just promised a promotion to Dory Swenson’s features job when she leaves to have her baby in March?

Bernie knocks me back to reality with another gusty sneeze. My nose itches and I feel the germs emanating from him, attacking me with their fingers of infection. I sneeze, too.

For Christ’s sake. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. How will I support myself? This job is my only bread and butter; save for a small bit of alimony I get that barely pays the light bill in my apartment. What am I going to do without income?

Now, I feel as though the walls of my lungs are caving inside. The flow of air seems to have gone on strike, threatening to knock me out cold.

This can’t be the only reason, I say in my defense. I’ve always done everything that’s ever been asked of me, Bernie. You, of all people, know that.

Screwing his face up, he merely stares ahead.

Come on, Bernie. This is trumped up and you know it. I’ve never missed a deadline or let a typo slip by me as I sit here editing everyone else’s work. There’s got to be more. What else is there?

He looks to the door and sniffs hard. He must be allergic to controversy... or the truth, but I’m going to break him.

Bernie... I plead.

Look, Hale. When Shay took us over, we were told to cut our overall budget by two and a half percent. Let’s just say Marie was very helpful in thinking up a creative way to find these cuts with the caveats in the new Shay Publishing employees’ manual.

A manual I barely remember receiving. Did I get one? Did anyone other than Marie? Okay, now I’m pissed. Marie, the Armenian Office Nazi. Marie, who acted nice to my face, told me of her own dreams of someday becoming a novelist. Must have been total bullshit. Or jealousy? I mean, I manage to write in my spare time and I have an agent. Surely she couldn’t have been that vindictive to completely mess with my life like this. It’s probably because I requested too many boxes of those cool Pilot G-2 gel pens in red to do my editing.

Fine.

I don’t want to work here anymore.

I don’t want to be around such conniving people no matter how much I’ve wanted to write my own articles for the magazine.

I’ll find another way to do it.

With my knowledge of grapes, regions, and everything wine-related, I’ll be fine. This isn’t the only wine rag in town.

I understand, I say, holding my tongue from lashing out and burning this bridge further. I’m sure my salary level and benefits will take care of that two and half percent you need to reach.

Bernie won’t make eye contact. These things happen, Hale.

Message received. Understood. Loud and clear.

It’s all about the bottom line. Pleasing the corporate master. Employees don’t matter. Bernie and Marie will get theirs one day, too; they better watch out.

He stands. I have some boxes for you.

I’m sure you do, I mutter. How long has this been planned?

He exits my office and returns immediately with two cartons. I sit in utter shock and awe and I look down to see if perhaps I’m bleeding from career homicide. Nope. Just a spot of red pepper mayo on the front of my pants.

Bernie sticks his head back in. You have thirty minutes.

There’s no time to let this sink in or to fully comprehend what’s swirling around me.

As I start loading a box, my heart aches for someone to hold me and tell me things are going to be okay. But that security and comfort disappeared when Curtis and I split up. Maybe he can come pick me up? No, he’s probably doing rounds at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. That damn hospital, or as I like to call it, his mistress. The one who broke us up.

Salty tears begin gathering over my eyes, but I will them not to fall. Hell no! Not yet. Not until I can get home. A real, hearty, dedicated oenophile would crack open that bottle of Sebastiani Chardonnay and drink it down with no swirling, no smelling, and no savoring. Only anesthesia. But right now, all I’m thinking about is stopping at Café Sabarsky on 86th and Fifth for one of their Hungarian caramel cakes... or twenty that would pair well with a MacMurray Pinot Noir or maybe a Portuguese port. Does it even matter?

While I’m piling my knick-knacks from over the years into the beat up Xerox paper box, my cell phone rings. I don’t exactly have the time for idle phone shit-chat. However, my heartbeat triples from the already accelerated rate when I see the caller ID read out and the familiar Florida area code.

I reach for the phone with a shaky hand. Hi Mom. Can I call you back in—

Hale, honey, it’s your mother.

My first dulled reaction is like I can’t tell that, but I hold my tongue. It’s not the time or the place, though. Also, I don’t want to tell her what has happened as I sit here washed in shame. I could have prevented this. Why did I store my writing documents on my work computer? It was the comfort of the same job for five years and feeling like I had a home here. Well, Shay Publishing had other ideas. Stupid me.

I know, Mom. This isn’t really a good time, I say.

Hale. I’ve got some bad news.

So do I, I want to say, but stop myself.

I’m going to be sick. I can’t take any more. It’s not Daddy, is it?

No dear, but it’s your GranAnna. She pauses so calmly at the mention of her mother. She passed a couple of hours ago.

I let this sink in for a moment. I haven’t seen my grandmother, Anna Hale, or GranAnna as we call her, in at least five years. She had to have been... what? Ninety-seven?

I’m flushed with memories of her warm kitchen filled with the scent of just-baked bread, her giant backyard bursting with odd flora and fauna such as orchids, pear trees, and scuppernong vines, and her oh-so-secret, always-locked attic at the top of her house that no one (not even my mother) was ever allowed into.

I choke on the remembrance of a simpler time when I was a little girl and all I cared about was writing stories for my family to read around the dinner table. Even though I wasn’t very close with GranAnna, I feel that searing burn of regret and loss in my chest. Now, this sudden news finally forces out the pent-up hot and salty tears that are now streaming down my face. I don’t know if I’m crying for my grandmother, my family’s loss, or my own misfortune.

Or maybe it’s my mother’s comforting invitation that I need to hear now, more than ever. Words that are so sweet I can almost smell the magnolia blossoms over the long distance phone line.

Come home, Hale.

CHAPTER TWO

I can’t face them. Not after losing my job, I say to my best friend and former sister-in-law, Meghan Fletcher, as she weaves through rush hour traffic to get me out to the Newark Airport. My mom will start in with the whole ‘move home, Hale’ and ‘we’re so worried about you now that you’re all alone’ speech.

Then don’t tell them, Meghan snaps as she swerves the small Jetta to avoid a Yellow Cab. Hey! Learn how to drive, you asshole, or go back to Kuwait!

Meghan! You’re horrible.

What? Like he can hear me. She tosses her long, dark hair out of her face. I’ve always felt a bit mousy with my goldy-brown shoulder-length hair, average figure, and unimpressive 34Bs next to Meghan and her model looks, Amazon height, and perfectly executed 38D boob job—a gift from her plastic surgeon boyfriend three years ago. You’re changing the subject, Hale. This is a very emotional period in your life, Meghan says, cutting across 42nd Street heading to the Lincoln Tunnel. She’s ever the pseudo-psychiatrist—two years at NYU—although she bailed on the program and switched to Hospitality to become a sommelier. You’re newly divorced, freshly unemployed, and now your grandmother croaks. Those are the pressing issues.

Thanks for the recap. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. Oh, and the sensitivity, as well. Why so crass, Meghan? I’m fragile right now.

She reaches over and punches me lightly on the top of my arm through the layers of winter clothes. Don’t give me that crap. You’ve never been fragile. You’re a rock, babe.

Rock, huh? Pebble on the driveway of life, more like, I think, looking out the window at the slush and brown snow piled up on the busy New York streets. I usually find peace and serenity in the fresh fallen snow, but there’s nothing appealing about the gross muck the plows have pushed into little sidewalk fortresses.

Besides, Meghan says. It’s only a funeral. I’ve met your family and they’re lovely. How hard can this be?

Not as difficult as the last visit, I hope. That one had been heart-wrenching for all of us. And through it all, GranAnna had stood there, quietly watched and silently judging. Most of all, showing no feelings. She was never one to show me much affection or love. Or anyone, for that matter. It was like she was holding herself back for someone better who might come along.

I mentally flip through the card file of potential disasters waiting for me at Casa Martin and sigh. Let me make this clear, I say to Meghan. I love my family. I do. They raised me, fed me, housed me, and educated me. I am forever grateful for them, despite their quirks and weird ways.

Everyone loves their family, Meghan interrupts. Even people who say they hate their relatives love them.

Right. It’s just that... well... How do I put this where I don’t sound like an awful person? Then again, Meghan’s known me for years. She’ll be on my side. They don’t get me. I’m treated like I’m still this innocent, naïve, teenager they knew before I went off to college. Or worse, the sickly baby I was the first two years after my birth. They don’t see me as a grown up woman with a life of her own.

No one’s parents ever see them that way. You’ve been to Thanksgiving at my house, Meghan says with a snicker.

Yeah, well, at least your mother can cook. Mine must have skipped out on Home Ec in the 1950s. There’s never anything fit for human consumption in the house. Or the food they do have is in over-sized packages from Sam’s Club that have sat in the fridge for six months with a past due date. It’s amazing my parents haven’t contracted botulism. It’s probably because they pray over every meal.

She scoffs at me. Botulism doesn’t come from rot; it’s from a processing condition.

Thank you Alton Brown for that Good Eats update.

Meghan waves me off, beeps the horn again, and swerves to the next lane. I hold on to the sissy bar for dear life. When her driving eases, I rub my head with my gloved fingers, feeling the headache that’s starting to form in anticipation of what’s to come. Then, they’ll comment on my appearance, I say with a slight moan. They’ll say I either look tired or sickly. All because I was born with a kidney infection, I’ve been considered ill my whole life.

Meghan frowns.

I don’t stop, though. Oh, and my father will say something to me about living in Manhattan. Bastion of terrorism. Thinks we should be walking around with gas masks because of 9/11. And of course, Mom will want to play cribbage in any down time and will beat me like a bad habit and celebrate like it’s an Olympic gold victory against the USSR.

The USSR was dissolved and hasn’t existed since 1991, Hale.

Rolling my eyes, I turn to face Meghan and point my finger at her. We can’t forget the traditional ride around town.

Meghan lifts a brow my way. The what?

We have to ride around the town—that I spent six years living in—where they point out everything to me like I’ve never been there. ‘There’s our Winn Dixie’ or ‘there’s where the hurricane blew down the azalea bushes the town planted for Easter,’ and ‘that’s where Cousin Nancy Jean’s chiropractor lives’ and on this trip, it’ll be, ‘and there’s the cemetery where we’ll bury GranAnna, next to Grandpa Jack.’

Meghan slams the brakes hard and I’m launched forward before being snapped back by my seat belt. What the—?

Deep, cleansing breath, Hale.

I collapse against the car window and breathe so hard it steams up the inside. Meghan’s right, I need to calm down. I’m only making it worse.

She reaches over and ruffles my already messed up hair. Babe, we all have to deal with stuff like that as our parents get older. Sure, it’s annoying, but it’s part of life. They probably don’t know what to say to you as much as you don’t know how to talk to them.

I sigh with great resignation. You’re right.

The point is, she continues, that you love them and you’re going to be there for your mom during this tough time.

I can’t over-analyze this. Not now. I simply have to get through the next four or five days and support my mother and not worry about being shoved out the door at work or what I’m going to do next to pay my rent. The alimony from Curtis is minuscule at best.

Suddenly, a new thought enters my weary mind. Look, I begin. There’s no need to tell your brother any of this.

Meghan’s blue stare pins me to the seat and she slams the brakes on to avoid rear-ending the cab she’s been tailgating. What do you mean ‘don’t tell Curtis?’

I swallow hard. He doesn’t need to know any of... this. I wave my hand about like I’m demoing my life: the firing, the ushering out of the office, and now the duty of heading home—with money I don’t have to spend—to pay last respects to an old woman I barely even knew or understood.

I don’t need my ex-husband—who loves his job and