Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (11 page)

“This is the Born to Run Block, which consists entirely of Tempranillo,” he says, popping off one of the stray berries and handing it to me. Sweet juices burst in my mouth, the seeds almost dissolving. “And beyond that is the Pretender Block made up of Cab Sauv.” Most wineries map out their vineyard sections with a simple A, B, C or 1, 2, 3 method, but of course Ryan decided to name his after classic rock songs.

He glances down at my shoes. “The ground is a bit uneven. Are you sure you can navigate in those after the porch debacle?”

“I’ll manage,” I say, my wedges rocking unsteadily on the foliage littering the path. I stumble a bit, and it’s monumentally unfair that the world seems to conspire to knock me on my ass whenever Ryan is present. He places strong hands on my waist to keep me from teetering right over, the gesture reminiscent of the way he caught me the night of the Gansey house prank. My body relaxes, and I find myself leaning into him, as if it’s something I’ve done a thousand times before.

“Careful there, Marge,” he says. “All right, I’m waiting with bated breath for your next question.”

Picking a leaf off the ground, I twirl the stem between my fingers and look at him. Everything about Ryan seems happy, free
.
I wonder what his secret is, because there must be something that weighs on him, something he’s too proud to reveal. “Tell me your biggest regret.”

“I don’t have one,” he says fast and without hesitation. “Regret’s like speeding along the highway while only looking in the rearview mirror. It’s unproductive and dangerous and why I dedicated a wine to the notion of living without it. I’ve found that if I focus on what’s in front of me, regardless of where I end up, I’m never worried about how I got there.”

“And what’s in front of you now?” I ask, knowing I’m breaking the rules but curious anyway. What does a guy like Ryan want out of life?

“Half the fun is in not knowing and embracing the unexpected.” Ryan stares at me as if he understands something about me that I don’t, and I force myself not to fidget under the scrutiny. “But these days I mostly think about the winery and where to take it next.”

“Oh? Grander plans than all this?” I glance around, taking stock of everything he’s accomplished in so little time. I could never have guessed at the level of Ryan’s success—or that I could envy him so much. For the first time I realize how success and happiness aren’t as closely entwined as I’ve been raised to believe.

He shrugs. “Several bigger commercial wineries have been sniffing around. I could sell out to them, maybe return to France and start over there,” he says, pinching off a few droopy leaves from the canopy overhang. “Or I could stay the course. We have a successful boutique operation going, and that doesn’t have to change. But mostly I’d love to watch the winery grow and achieve its full potential.”

What would it be like, I wonder, to be uncertain about your future but still know that no matter which path you choose you’ll end up in the right place?

Motioning to a hill dotted with resting cattle, I ask, “Is that part of Grammy J’s property or yours?” The segue is too easy, and besides, it’s now or never.

“All fifteen acres belong to Joy,” he says, coming to stand next to me.

“How long would it take to get there if you went through the vineyard?”

“On foot?”

“No, driving,” I say.

“Five minutes, give or take.”

“Good. It’s my turn to show you something.”

He raises an eyebrow as one side of his mouth curves higher than the other. “That sounds promising.”

“I figured you’d be interested in a little adventure.” I walk toward his Blazer parked beside the smaller limestone building. To my surprise the interior is absent of dog hair and dirt, the seats vacuumed, and the dashboard glossy with that Armor All shine.
Did he clean because of what I said?
I shake my head, erasing the foolish thought.

“Buckle up,” Ryan says, starting the engine and putting the SUV in gear. “It may get bumpy.”

As I guide him to the spot, the Blazer jolts and sways over the path that runs between the rows of grapevines and the grassy, rutted fields of Grammy J’s property. We don’t talk much, which I prefer, because the nervous excitement humming through me would no doubt come through in my voice.

“Over there,” I say, pointing to a nondescript wooden door built into the side of a hill. Ryan parks, and before he has the chance to stop me, I steal the keys out of the ignition, pocketing them, then walk over to the new padlock I purchased earlier today and enter the sequence of numbers.

The hinges creak when I open the door. Immediately I’m hit with a wall of chilly, damp, stale air. I find matches and light a few of the lanterns dangling from hooks drilled into the walls. The soft yellow glow casts shapes around the cave.

“I’ve lived in Wilhelmsburg almost my whole life and never knew this place existed,” Ryan says from close behind. I feel his breath on my neck and his body heat against my back. Moving forward a fraction of an inch, he reaches around me and touches the rough indentations in the rock, his chest brushing against my shoulder blades. A shiver runs down my spine—I’m sure he felt it. It’d be so easy to turn around, so easy to fall into him, but I sidestep away.

“My grandfather stumbled upon it when he was a teenager,” I say with a slight shake in my voice that I hope is concealed by the wind whistling through the gaps in the cave. “It’s always reminded me of Ariel’s secret grotto in
The Little Mermaid
, especially because Poppa Bart kept barrels of homemade bourbon and random valuables in here.”

“It’s incredible.”

I look at Ryan. There’s both awe and hunger on his face, and I imagine he’s wishing this were on his land so he could use it as a cellar. “You may want to wipe away the drool,” I say. “Who knew eroded limestone would be such a turn-on for you?”

His expression changes, and the fire that ignites in his eyes is so intense it could engulf me in flames. “Remember what I told you about the Cabernet? How one taste and her seductive pull becomes undeniable?” He steps toward me and slides a palm over my cheek, cupping my jaw. My breath catches in my throat. I should back away, stick to the plan, but I’m transfixed by the feeling of his thumb dragging across my lips, the way they part without my permission, how my heart is beating so hard it echoes in my ears. “I bet it’s even truer about you.”

The deep timbre of his voice coils tight and tense in my stomach, as if I’m a high-octane tank ready to explode. I’m not sure of anything anymore—all I know is that I need his hands, his mouth, all over me. Ryan suddenly pins me against the wall, and before I’m able to process anything, he’s kissing me. It’s slow, and scorching, and desperate, as if he’s memorizing the taste of me.

The air has left my lungs, but I feel more alive than ever. Ryan has one hand on my waist, the other under my blouse, his fingers exploring my skin, hot and urgent. Clutching the soft material of his shirt in my fists, I draw him closer, and his grip on me tightens, a soft groan rumbling from deep in his throat. Breaking away, Ryan whispers in my ear, “
Je suis content d’avoir raison
”—
I’m glad I was right
—and holy shit he
does
speak French—then he dips his head and places openmouthed kisses along my jaw, down the curve of my neck, across my collarbone. His teeth lightly graze the hollow of my throat.

Tiny noises escape me, but I don’t care, my concentration is focused on the way his tongue causes a current of energy to shoot straight to my nerves, how every part of me is crying for more. He reclaims my mouth and nudges a knee between my thighs, lifting one of my legs and wrapping it around his waist, pressing farther into me. I gasp when I feel him where I need him most, my body grinding on its own accord. Ryan lets out a small chuckle that vibrates against my lips, and it’s like a physical blow, knocking sense back into me.
You’re here for revenge,
I tell myself,
stop kissing the hell out of him.

Pushing out of his grasp, my chest heaving, I stagger out of the cave and into the night air. Before he weaves another spell around me, I slam the door shut and reattach the padlock. Immediately there’s pounding, dust flying everywhere from Ryan banging the old wood. Hopefully it holds.

“Clever, Marge,” he calls out, his voice muffled.

“I guess this time
you
got beat,” I shout, repeating what he said all those years ago, moments before we were arrested. “Maybe you’ll have better luck in the future.”

Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I dial the local police and report a trespasser on the edge of Grammy J’s property, then hop into his Blazer and return to the winery for my car.

Ryan may have compared me to private reserve Cabernet, something valuable and rare, but what he doesn’t understand is when you take too many risks with wine, when you mishandle it, you end up with sour grapes.

10

T
hree days pass and not a peep from Ryan. Payback was supposed to rid him from my system, but instead I’m antsy, unsettled. Because that kiss—there was so much left unfinished in it, so much left to discover. He really is a scab that won’t stop itching.

And if I’m honest, I didn’t figure Ryan as the type who gave up so easily, and as much as I hate to admit it, I thought maybe he saw something in me worth pursuing.

I exit Pirouette, a French-inspired bistro on the main strip of Wilhelmsburg, a stack of glossy to-go menus in hand. All morning I’ve been speaking with store and restaurant owners, introducing myself, collecting brochures to display at the Inn, and discussing potential collaboration opportunities. I thought gaining people’s support would be difficult—in Dallas business connections aren’t established through goodwill and niceties but rather cutthroat networking and schmoozing over fifteen-dollar cocktails—but everyone in this town is so welcoming, so eager to help.

Ms. Wilde over at the Mockingbird Coach House even offered to host a weekly afternoon tea service in the bed-and-breakfast’s main dining room as long as Grammy J guaranteed eight participants at each sitting. And for no extra charge. “I’d have partnered with Joy years ago if only your grandmother had asked,” she told me as I sipped a cup of Earl Grey. “Please let me know when’s a good time to start. I have the most delicious cherry and pistachio scone recipe she’ll love.”

If only developing the Inn’s new website were as accommodating. Like the porch, it’s under construction, and creating it on Grammy J’s ancient computer hasn’t helped the process. In my haste to get the hell out of Dallas, I forgot my laptop in my condo. I hope to have the basics—background about the bed-and-breakfast, the list of accommodations and amenities—finalized and online by the end of the week. The reservation calendar, online booking and payment, and the section about vacation and tour packages can be added later.

Crossing the street, I enter the Vintner’s Collective—a tasting room where several boutique wineries in the area rent space to showcase their wines—with the hope of talking to the manager about hosting a special wine tasting specifically for guests of the Inn. To my surprise, Bon Bon is behind the bar. I search the massive signs hanging overhead and notice Camden Cellars is listed as a member. She must split her time working here and at the winery.

She smiles when she spots me, and I wonder what she’s aiming at with the gesture. On the surface it reads warm and genuine, but underneath I sense something purposeful that hints at an ulterior motive.

I stuff the to-go menus into my tote bag and walk toward her. “A pleasure to see you again, Bonnie,” I say, sliding onto a creaky stool between a lumberjack of a man enjoying some sherry and a group of overloud women celebrating individual midlife crises—their conversation a mesh of dating-site antics and plastic-surgeon procedures. Replicas of Samma, Faye, and Piper in twenty years.

And me, if I’m not careful.

“You’ve been productive,” Bon Bon says, using a rag to wipe off the bar.

“How so?” I toss my hair over my shoulder and cross my legs. My shorts climb up my thighs, causing my skin to stick to the seat. Ordinarily I’d wear a pencil skirt and blouse when meeting prospective clients or partners, but I thought the people in town may be more receptive to my ideas if I were dressed casually.

“Hiring Moose to fix Joy’s porch. Befriending the locals. Sending Cricket to lockup. Like I said, productive,” she says without sarcasm or disdain, nothing that indicates she thinks I’m an outsider weaseling my way into her tight-knit community. In fact her voice is almost amused, conspiratorial even.

“We had unfinished business,” I say. Perhaps I should’ve stuck around to see Ryan’s reaction when the police broke him out of the cave and handcuffed his wrists. I’m sure it was pure entertainment.

She places a large glass in front of me and grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge. The label consists of a handlebar mustache framed around the words
NO HOLDS BARRED
in retro font. I’d bet my trust fund this is another Camden Cellars blend, and I imagine if Ryan were here, he’d pontificate about how all is fair in love and war.

“The whole staff’s been waiting for Cricket’s moment of reckoning. It’s only fitting you should drink the blend he created for when the gloves come off,” she says, validating my suspicions. Bon Bon pours some wine, swirling the glass so the burgundy liquid moves up the sides, and passes it to me. “Compliments of Camden Cellars.”

Sniffing the wine, I breathe in the aromas of strawberries and cocoa. The distinct scent of violets hits my nose. I take a taste. The flavor is structured, yet vivid, the tannins lingering long enough that I know they’re serious. Like a first date that ends with breakfast. A mix of Sangiovese and Syrah grapes, if I had to put money on it.

“Well, we’re even, so I wouldn’t count on any more altercations between us,” I say.

“Too bad,” she says. “Things were getting exciting around here.”

Spinning the stem of the glass between my thumb and index finger, I study her. There’s no mistaking the humor in her wide-set blue eyes. What happened to the possessiveness, the jealousy she demonstrated at the party? What am I missing?

Bon Bon leaves me with the bottle and heads to the other end of the bar. I watch as she chats and laughs with customers, topping off their wine and closing out checks. In a way she reminds me of Lillie—the comfort in her own skin and carefree attitude, the joy in serving people, the camaraderie among those around her. I wish it all came so effortlessly for me. My whole life has been so focused on how others perceive me that it’s difficult for me to lower my guard, make myself vulnerable. There’s a reason hard exteriors provide the best protection.

Bon Bon swings back around as I finish jotting notes on my to-do list that’s meant to bring the Bluebonnet Inn into the twenty-first century. Though most of the fixes—painting the kitchen cabinets, deep-cleaning the bathrooms, staining the hardwood floors—resemble the Band-Aid approach as opposed to true solutions. The B&B is lacking budget for anything else, but if Grammy J hopes to still be in business in the next five years,
something
must be done to save it.

“Another glass?” Bon Bon asks, picking up the bottle of No Holds Barred and tilting it toward me.

I shake my head no. “Actually, if available, I was hoping to speak with the manager.”

“Gina went home an hour ago, but she always joins us for ladies’ karaoke night at Axel’s Off Main. You’re welcome to catch her then.”

Karaoke? I’d rather have cellulite dotting my thighs than sing off-key cover songs to a crowd of strangers. Standing, I gather my bag and toss a tip onto the bar. “Thanks, but no. I’ll try her again later.”

“You really should stop by,” she says. “Our group can always use some fresh blood.”

My internal alarm blares, now certain there’s a hidden agenda at play. You don’t go from bitchy and territorial to friendly and joking unless you want to gain an advantage. I would know—I invented that move. Someone should tell Bon Bon she’s nowhere near my league.

“As much as I want to hear no-talent wannabes belt out renditions of ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ that would make Journey cringe, I’ll pass,” I say.

I turn toward the exit, but her tone, somewhere between incredulity and pity, stops me. “You must not have many friends,” she says.

I look at her, bristling at the truth in her words. My whole life I’ve surrounded myself with people who’ve claimed to be my friends, but none of them were real. All of it was as fake and meaningless as a padded bra.

“What would give you that idea?” I ask.

“Because you obviously don’t recognize when someone’s inviting you to hang out.” Opening a drawer under the bar, Bon Bon pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and slides it over to me. It’s a flyer for a local honky-tonk with an event schedule and a map at the bottom. “In case you’re ever interested.”

The confusion must be evident in my expression, because Bon Bon says, “Cricket and I were involved on and off a long time ago. I haven’t always treated him the right way, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still protective or have his best interests at heart.” She corks the bottle of No Holds Barred and slides it across the bar to me, the humor in her eyes replaced with something softer. “After what you pulled, perhaps you’re just the medicine he needs to shake him up a bit.”

She’s off helping another guest before I can respond. I stand there speechless—I have no idea how to interpret what she’s said, it’s so unexpected, but I’m willing to accept it at face value.

That evening I’m at the garden center picking up some things for Grammy J when Samma calls on my new phone that arrived yesterday morning. I consider ignoring it, but Samma’s like a pesky gnat that won’t go away—she’ll keep redialing until I accept.

“Everyone’s been talking.
Everyone
,” she says the moment I answer. Her voice has a breathy, whiny quality that causes my eye to twitch. Meditation music filters over the line, and I wonder if she’s at another spa retreat. Her husband must’ve attempted sex again and the experience was so traumatic Samma needed a vacation.

“I’m sure they have,” I say, balancing two bags of soil, a box of seed packets, and a long-handled rake that won’t behave. Sandwiching the phone between my ear and shoulder, I navigate a display of clay pots and walk into the greenhouse, where I dump the items into a shopping cart. The air inside feels like a dehumidifier that malfunctioned and smells like a jungle. At least the curls in my hair appreciate the boost in volume.

“The rumor is you’ve entered a treatment facility for exhaustion and depression, but everyone thinks that’s code for substance abuse,” Samma says. “Of course I tell anyone who asks that isn’t the case.”

“Which part? That I’m in a treatment facility or that I’m there because I have a drug problem?” I say as I hear a scampering sound behind me. Except when I turn to look, there’s only a young couple perusing the hanging baskets near the back wall and a woman wearing a gardening apron helping an elderly man choose between two trays of identical flowers.

“Sweetie, let’s not play dumb,” Samma says in a patronizing tone. “Obviously I’m referring to the latter. We all noticed the signs, and after that outburst at brunch . . . Well, it was only a matter of time before you snapped. The girls and I are glad you’ve checked yourself in somewhere to deal with your issues.”

“I didn’t realize my grandmother’s bed-and-breakfast in Wilhelmsburg was considered a rehab center, but it’s
comforting to know you’re all so
concerned,” I say with a deadpan delivery as I envision the way she’ll spin my words into salacious gossip. By tomorrow afternoon everyone in our social circle will believe I’ve been committed to a long-term program with no hope of escape.

I glance at the last item on the list—bee balm, which I can only assume is a salve that’s rubbed on flowers to attract those stinging little insects. According to the notes Grammy J’s scribbled in the margins, it’s located in the greenhouse, but all I see are rows of plants. “Listen, Samma, I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’m busy ‘dealing with my issues.’ You understand.”

I’m about to disconnect when she says, “That’s not the only reason I called. I thought you’d be interested to know what your former assistant has been up to.”

Before I can reply just how uninterested I am, she launches into the story. I push the cart down an aisle in search of anything that resembles a jar of ointment, half listening as Samma prattles on about how my former assistant is now working as an event and media relations manager for Bill Heacock’s firm, my biggest rival. Why this should matter to me, I have no idea—I fired the girl. She can gladly burden my competitor with her laziness.

I round the corner to the next aisle. The skittering noise I heard before seems to be following me. I peek over my shoulder, but I find only potted shrubs and small-scale trees that look more like twigs. Kneeling, I inspect the wheels on the shopping cart, expecting a leaf or a piece of stem to be jammed in one of the brackets. Nothing.

“Margaret, are you paying attention?” Samma asks.

“Like a raw foodist at a bake sale,” I say, reading the product tags as I move past. The bee balm must be here somewhere.

“Then you’re handling the news quite well.” An undercurrent of skepticism runs through her voice, but she doesn’t question me.

“How else should I react?” I ask, certain the scurrying sound is getting louder.
Where in the hell is it coming from?
I think, glancing around.

“I figured any mention of the Randy Hollis Band would upset you, so this is progress,” she says.

I halt abruptly as her words finally register. The band is performing a small gig in Dallas to celebrate finishing the first leg of their tour and my former assistant has been put in charge of publicizing it.

“The therapy sessions must be helping,” Samma continues.

“Yeah, the shrinks here are top-notch.” I sit on a low metal bed, trays of brightly colored flowers encasing me, betrayal thick in my throat. I’ve cheered from the crowd during their local shows, watched from behind the scenes as the band struggled to country music stardom, clinked glasses of champagne at their weddings and bought bottomless shots after their divorces were finalized, and I’m not even deserving of an invitation or the opportunity to organize and promote the event?