Page 32 of The Bad Girl List

There are amused eye rolls at this. None of the aunties would be caught dead with a flask of moonshine; they’ll fill them with water. They spend the next several minutes trying on their matching fanny packs and praising the goodies we packed inside. Their delight is infectious.

“What about your survival kits?” Auntie Helen asks.

“We’re just going to steal from you guys,” Annika says. “Dom and I are too cool for survival kits. We need to have a few gray hairs first.”

“Ha-ha,” my mom says. “Very funny.”

“Since we’re hanging with you guys, we’re in good hands,” I say. “No one has to worry about anyone getting sunburned, sick, or dehydrated.”

* * *

Apparently, even when armed with a wine tasting survival kit, you can still get sick and dehydrated.

Despite Annika’s insistence that alcohol is the perfect cure for a hangover, I feel queasy by the time we arrive at Moretti Winery. After the first two wineries we hit for the Passport event, I’ve eaten as many hors d'oeuvres and tasted as much wine as my stomach can handle.

I’ve never been a huge fan of crowds, either. That had been yet another thing Oliver and I had disagreed on. I preferred quiet restaurants off the beaten path when we went out. He liked the places you had to wait in line for just to get inside.

Between my headache and my stomach, I can’t handle another huge crowd right now. “I’m going to find a place in the shade to sit down,” I tell Annika. “Go on ahead with the aunties.”

“No, come with us,” Annika says. “I want you to show me how you envisioned redesigning their wine label.”

“I need to sit this one out and drink some water.” I heft the water bottle I’m carrying for emphasis.

“Are you sure you’re not just feeling weird because this is the winery that got you fired?”

“The winery didn’t get me fired.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll admit that it’s a little weird to be here, but I can handle it. I’m still hungover, that’s all.”

“Here, take another two Tylenol.” Annika fishes them out of her purse and plops them into my hand. “I expect you to finish that entire bottle of water before we leave this place. I’m counting on you to be at the tasting bar of the next place we visit.”

“Okay,” I say, even though I’m not sure I can drink anymore today.

Annika disappears into the throng of people. I move farther away from the crowd, looking for a place in the shade where I can get a little breathing room.

I’d seen pictures of Moretti Winery. They had been part of the design brief. Somehow, the pictures didn’t do justice to this beautiful courtyard paved with sandstone and surrounded by olive trees. The tasting room is covered with slate tiles and ivy. It sits up on a low hilltop, giving sweeping views of the vineyards below. It’s truly beautiful.

I follow a path around the side of the tasting room, thinking there might be other areas out back where people can sit. As I come around the corner, I’m greeted with the sight of a catering van and scurrying people in black pants and white shirts, all of them carrying hors d’oeuvres into the back of the tasting room.

Clearly this area isn’t for customers. I’m about to turn around and go back to the front when I see it.

It’s a truck, but not just any truck. It must be at least thirty or forty years old. It’s covered with dents and several layers of peeling paint, telling me it’s been painted at least three times. There is dirt caked all over the wheels and wheel wells, like it takes regular trips through the vineyards. It’s parked beneath a wide circle of olive trees.

My younger cousins always watch cartoons at family parties. I’ve seen the Cars movie more times than I can count. This truck reminds me of the characters from Radiator Springs. There are stories hidden in those dents and layers of peeling paint. I can picture Trevor’s grandpa or any of his friends behind the wheel of this truck.

Before I realize it, I’m walking in a slow circle around the truck. My fingertips are tingling.

“Oh, my God.” I trail my hand over the chipped paint. “You are glorious.” I distantly make note of a frayed dog leash in the back, but don’t think much of it.

I sit cross legged on the ground and pull out my sketchbook and pencils. I take sips of my water as I do, remembering my promise to Annika.

The truck comes to life on the page. I blend red and black and blue, doing my best to capture the many layers of color.

A whine draws my attention. I pause, glancing around to look for the source. I don’t see anything except the scurrying caterers.

Returning to my drawing, I study the front bumper of the car. An image of Trevor’s Gramps surfaces in my mind. I flip back a few pages in my sketchbook, refreshing myself on the details of his face. Then I return to my illustration, blending the features of Gramps into the front of the truck.

---