Bumping the door closed, Lexi took in the deep-red carpet, solid mahogany walls, and always-past-midnight lighting that illuminated the narrow hallway, which used to be the entrance to the Back Barrel, and found herself smiling a little. Okay, a lot. Because in the summer of 1923, two events collided that would forever change the future of the women of St. Helena.
The local prohibitionists, led by Mayor Burnhart, were cracking down and making it increasingly difficult for the men of Napa County to run wine. No wine meant an end to a way of life. So when Salvador DeLuca and Philip Baudouin were forced to dump forty barrels of premium cabernet in the Sacramento River to avoid spending the next forty years on Alcatraz, the women became fearful of what would happen to their beloved town and decided to take action. They formed the Daughters of the Prohibition.
As fate would have it, a week later, Miss Giannina DeLuca, eldest daughter to Salvador DeLuca and self-appointed sleuth of the newly formed secret women’s society, uncovered that the honorable mayor wasn’t running his prohibition advisory meetings out of the basement in town hall. He was running a gentlemen’s club—complete with illegal spirits and illicit women. He was also running for reelection.
Mayor Burnhart had congressional aspirations and needed to please the conservatives in Washington while still maintaining a strong voting base at home. Giannina needed a headquarters for the DOP and a place to sell their families’ wine.
It only took a few months for word to spread and for daughters and wives of vintners across the state to unite, and the ladies of St. Helena created one of the most extensive bootlegging operations in California. And they’d ruled the domestic wine market ever since.
Smiling, Lexi rounded the last corner, entered the old tavern, and blinked.
Several times, in fact.
Because no matter how many times she blinked, the scenery remained the same. It wasn’t the massive mahogany bar that spanned the entire length of the room that caught her attention, or that there were five wine vats the size of small water towers with spigots on the back wall. No, what had Lexi balking was that the room was divided in two, with the junior league and their couture attitudes on one side, and four silvered flappers, one mobster, a fur ball in a fedora, and enough beads and feathers to stage a rendition of “All That Jazz” sitting on the other.
It was like the DOP version of Family Feud, only with clutch purses and family names for weapons, as the up-and-comers and the old-timers—separated by a podium and Mrs. Moberly, town librarian and the only woman stupid enough to be roped into arbitrating the evening’s event—faced off.
“Oh, thank God,” Mrs. Moberly gasped, clasping her hands so tightly that her white peplum gloves looked ready to burst at the seams and send the pearl buttons scattering. “The last caterer is finally here, so I call this meeting to order.”
“Finally?” Lexi asked, her confidence vanishing as she took in the five, not just Natasha, but the five other caterers, dressed to perfection and standing behind their tables, each more spectacular than the last—all of them ready to begin serving. And none of them offering traditional or simple.
“I was told it started at five,” Lexi said, checking her watch. It showed 4:49.
“The tasting starts at five,” Natasha cut in. Her table, which was a complete rip-off of last month’s Martha Stewart Living, right down to the loose cherry-blossom petals and dried-fig arrangement, was stunning. Stolen, but stunning all the same. “Food to be served at five sharp, I believe was the rules.”
Meaning Lexi had ten minutes to unload, plate, and present her sample course, which was not deconstructed, modern, or in the least bit interesting.
“She’ll be ready,” Pricilla said, standing up and giving a decisive nod. Her dress was more giant toilet paper roll covered in scarlet fringe than flapper, but the flask attached to her ankle was authentic and most likely full.
Everyone knew that the senior league took tradition seriously and, on occasion, pulled out their mothers’ dresses. Lexi had just assumed that they reserved playing bootlegger dress up for special occasions—like Halloween.
ChiChi bustled over in vintage Coco Chanel, her boa flapping behind her. When she was close enough for Lexi to smell the mothballs wafting off her clothes, she asked, “Are you dating my Marco?”
The room fell silent.
Lexi opened her mouth and snapped it closed equally as fast. How was she