Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (12 page)

When Nick and I broke up, I knew the guys would choose him over me—they wrote an album together, after all—and I was learning to accept it, but to have Samma reaffirm it in this way that highlights my failures both personally and professionally is an entirely different story.

“I’m sure your worthless old assistant will screw it up and the band will regret not hiring you in the first place, but I thought you’d want to be aware of the situation,” she says.

How noble of her
.

At her feigned sincerity, I feel the familiar clutch of resentment grab hold. Ironic how it seems to grow rather than dissipate whenever home resurfaces. “Because that’s what friends are for. Right, Samma?”

I hang up, cutting her off midresponse, overcome with a sudden urge to do something foolish. Bon Bon’s offer to join her at ladies’ karaoke night is becoming more and more appealing, and perhaps it’s time for me to venture out of my comfort zone, surround myself with different kinds of people. I silently make a promise to try new experiences.

Sliding the phone into my pocket, I start to get to my feet when I notice the skittering sound has paused, replaced by what I swear are teeth chattering. My skin prickles, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. Spinning around slowly, I peer into the mass of flowers, my gaze locking on a pair of dark beady eyes staring intently at me and a small gray furry body ready to pounce.

Oh no. No, no, no.

“Stay away from me you little tree rat.” I scramble backward but not fast enough. The squirrel springs into action and attaches itself onto my shorts, sticking like Spider-Man on the side of a wall. I swat at it, but the evil kamikaze woodland creature won’t budge, its nails clawing at the fabric, nearly scratching my hands and legs. My heart plays leapfrog in my chest, and it feels as if I’m on the verge of suffocating because I can’t draw a breath. My whole body is tingling, breaking out in sweat.

A dog barks, and it’s like a switch is flipped, because the squirrel loosens its viselike grip and jumps away from me, scurrying off. Sinking onto the cool floor, I practice inhaling and exhaling, waiting for my frayed nerves to settle and my heart rate to return to a noncritical level. It’s overdramatic and ridiculous, but I don’t care.

There’s another series of barks, and I look to my left to see Bordeaux rushing toward me, tongue flopping out the side of her mouth. I flinch, bracing for impact. She charges into me, knocking me over and pawing at my ear. Lying down beside me, she feverishly licks my cheeks, my nose, my forehead. I should be disgusted, but all I can do is laugh because this is like icing on the banner year I’m having.

A throat clears. Blocking Bordeaux’s tongue with my hand, I tilt my head to the side and make eye contact with Ryan. He’s standing a few feet away with a smirk on his face.

“Has anyone ever told you that under certain circumstances, especially those involving squirrels, you do an impressive impersonation of Chevy Chase in
National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
?” he says.

Of course Ryan had to witness the vermin attack.

Walking to where I dropped the shopping list, he retrieves it and does a quick scan. “The bee balm is right there by your feet,” he says, gesturing to a group of potted plants bursting with bunches of tube-shaped flowers in brilliant neon purple. So much for an ointment.

Groaning, I let my head fall back against the ground. Bordeaux resumes her frantic licking.

Like I said, banner year.

11

R
yan helps me to my feet, a string of slobber dangling from my chin. I wipe it away. His gaze travels over me, slow and attentive, as if I’m someone worth watching.

“No visible welts, marks, or blood,” he says as Bordeaux walks a figure-eight pattern around us. “Only a bruised ego, but a good meal will cure that.”

“I didn’t realize my body language screamed I was desperate to be wined and dined by an ex-con.” I pick up a pot of bee balm and wedge it into the cart’s lower rack, trying to regain my bearings. I thought Ryan forfeited, so what is he doing here? And why is he looking at me more determined than ever?

“Marge, be assured you’re buying. It’s explicitly stated in the fine print on my release papers.”

I snatch the shopping list out of his grasp and toss it into the basket. “Hilarious.”

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he says, then puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. Bordeaux stops pacing and settles down next to me, leaning her full weight against my leg and staring at me with big brown eyes.

Oh, quit it with the begging
, I silently chastise, but I pet her head and rub behind her ears anyway. She groans and sighs, lost in pure delight. When I remove my hand, Bordeaux rolls onto her back, stretching out to expose her belly.
Absolutely hopeless.

“Did you train her to act like this as a means to seduce women?” I ask.

“Is it working?”

I roll my eyes. Ryan grins, then whistles again. Bordeaux pops up off the ground like she’s pulled this trick a hundred times before.

“Our reservation is in thirty minutes, so you should check out,” he says, guiding the cart toward the cash registers at the far end of the greenhouse. His voice is easy, convincing, as though we’ve had this date scheduled for weeks.

I catch up to him, Bordeaux sniffing at my heels, and step into his path. “Typically you’re supposed to consult with the person before committing them to dinner.”

“Marge, we both know running errands is the only thing you have on the agenda.”

Touché
.
I was also going to watch reality television, maybe soak in a bubble bath, but I don’t share that with Ryan lest he think I’m a whole new level of pathetic. Steering the cart around me, he walks to an open register and unloads the items for the clerk to ring up.

“Grammy J’s expecting me at the Inn,” I say, sounding like a teenager afraid to break curfew.

“Not anymore,” he says. “I told her about our plans when I dropped off the wine for the evening social hour.”

Did he think of everything?

“I doubt the restaurant considers on-the-go chic proper attire,” I say, gesturing to my plain cotton top, dirty chino shorts, and sneakers I borrowed from Grammy J’s closet. Compared to Ryan in jeans and a form-fitted collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, I resemble someone who fell into the bargain bin and barely escaped with her life. My mother would murder me if she discovered I went out dressed like this. Hell, even I’m embarrassed.

“The executive chef is an old friend, he’ll let it slide. And before you protest, I’ll drive. Your purchases will be safe in your car, and Bordeaux will be fine in the Blazer while we eat,” he says as the cashier totals the order.

I pay and shove the receipt into my wallet, following Ryan as he pushes the cart through the exit to the parking lot before stopping at my Audi. “Well, Marge, it appears you’re all out of excuses, so how about it? It might be the best meal you’ll ever experience, if you’d put aside your preconceived notions.”

Maybe Ryan’s right. After all, I did promise to branch outside the safe and familiar.

“Come on,” he says, the slowly sinking sun bringing out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, reflecting the dare in them. “What’s letting go for one moment going to hurt?”

More than it should based on history—I give in anyway.

The hostess seats us at a table that faces the open kitchen, where I’m granted a front-row view of the team of chefs preparing dishes. Neutral tones, repurposed barn wood, and concrete are woven throughout the restaurant. The Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling illuminate the space in a soft glow, and the tempting scents of simmering sauces wafting through the room cause my stomach to growl. I’m hungrier than I thought.

Browsing the appetizers and entrées displayed on a large chalkboard, I ask, “What’s delicious here?”

“Apart from you?”

I glance at Ryan and arch an eyebrow. There’s an amused expression on his face, as though he could spend all evening entertaining himself with his own quips. “Well, I know I won’t be having the side of truffle mac since the cheese has already been served,” I say, but silently I savor the insinuation that I’m something to be devoured.

The server arrives and greets Ryan by name, then delivers his spiel about the special multicourse tasting menu with wine pairings.

“We’ll do it,” I say, interrupting him. With the dishes emerging from the kitchen looking as if they’ve jumped off the glossy pages of
Food & Wine
magazine, I’d be an idiot not to fully indulge. The server nods and departs with our order.

Ryan leans back in his chair. “It’s seven courses,” he says. “Can you handle that?”

“Why? Are you scared of the commitment?”

“Marge, you can guarantee that when I devote myself to something, I give it my undivided attention,” he says, his voice dipping low, and my stomach does a flip. “You’re the one who has difficulty following through.”

His gaze flicks to my lips, and I wonder if he’s remembering our kiss like I’m remembering his taste and the sensation of his body pressed against mine. My heart flutters like a bird trying to break free of a cage inside my chest, replacing the anxiousness from the past few days. I don’t know why I continue fighting him. It’s obvious the invisible string tugging me toward him hasn’t severed.

“I think the police officer who arrested you would disagree,” I say.

Ryan shakes his head, a slight smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “You know, usually when a girl introduces handcuffs into the relationship, it’s a bit more fun.”

“How
was
your night in lockup? Homey? Familiar?” I say, wearing my smugness like a well-worn leather jacket. “Did you get in some quality snuggling with Big Fred and his gimpy leg?”

“I was only there for a few hours,” he says. “The deputy who answered the call was fresh out of the academy and hell-bent on establishing his authority. The sheriff released me when he learned about it.”

Smoothing the napkin over my shorts, I say, “I noticed nobody contacted Grammy J regarding the incident.”

“That’s because everyone knows Joy can be trigger-happy when it comes to trespassers. Her shotgun is cocked and loaded at all times.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t mention it to her either,” I say as the server returns with half a glass of champagne for each of us and the first course—celery root soup dotted with hay-infused oil and rye croutons. Stunning in presentation. The smell alone is enough to put me in a trance, and the taste of the soup is creamy and decadent, the richness balanced by the champagne’s dry style and acidity.

“I know the food is impeccable, but don’t keel over from slurping,” Ryan says, his voice threaded with its usual charm. “There’s still a long way to go.”

I lick the last bit of soup off the back of the spoon. “I was swooning, not slurping.”

A member of the waitstaff removes our bowls and empty champagne flutes and sets the table with new cutlery in time for our server to deliver the next course—roasted heirloom carrots with brown butter and hazelnuts, complemented by a bright, crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Delicious, yet dangerous in its simplicity.

While we eat and the courses progress, we lapse into easy conversation. We talk about the destinations we’ve traveled to and the spots we’d still like to explore, books we’ve read recently, and which sports teams are the most overrated (Ryan’s choice being the New England Patriots and mine the San Francisco Giants). During the course of fluffy ricotta gnocchi with mushrooms and spring peas, we get into a heated discussion about the merits of risotto versus homemade pasta—Ryan is adamant that “risotto is rice that had faith in itself,” and therefore trumps fresh pasta and its tender, satiny texture and delicious egginess. I not so respectfully disagree.

As the server clears our places in preparation for the next dish, Ryan fills me in on how the winery has started the fermentation process on the recently harvested grapes, and I tell him about growing up in Dallas. When I gloss over my career in PR, he stops me with questions.

“Marge, given your rather limited tolerance for people, how’d you end up in PR?”

“I don’t hate all people.” I smile. “Just the stupid ones with bad taste. And as my clients have the good sense to hire me, I give them the benefit of the doubt.”

Ryan shakes his head, not in an exasperated way, but as if he truly appreciates my snark. “Really though, what was the draw?”

Brushing away crumbs blemishing the starched tablecloth, I say, “It seemed like the natural path. I’m good under pressure, I’m familiar with the social scene, and I love knowing that every time I take on a new client, I’m starting with a clean slate—no two projects are the same. Things are always changing, and I love the challenge that presents.”

“So do you miss it?” he asks, moving the water glasses out of the way so the waiter can set a steaming plate of braised short ribs atop vanilla-scented polenta in front of each of us. “I find it hard to be away from the vineyard for more than a day. Any more and I’d be micromanaging everyone from a distance and generally driving people to drink,” he says.

“At least it’d happen in a convenient setting.” I smile, but Ryan raises a question I haven’t considered. The truth is, I haven’t missed any of it, and that doesn’t trouble me as much as it should. “But to answer your question, no. The time off has been . . . necessary.”

“Ah, you’re experiencing burnout syndrome,” he says.

“More like disenchantment.”

“Got sick of acting like a glorified party planner for the rich?”

“Something like that,” I say.

“Then you’ve come to the right place to respark that interest. Sunshine, fresh air, and an abundance of wine. You’ll clear your head and return to Dallas, ready to plan the next socially expected soiree.” He levels me with a look heavy enough to pin me to my seat. “Unless, of course, you find that socially expected isn’t your scene after all.”

I laugh, uncomfortable with facing the idea that I may not ever want to go back. It’s ridiculous and impossible, and what would I even do instead?

“And what, stay here?” I ask. “I suppose I could run for mayor, keep all of you country hooligans in line. My reign shall be fierce, but fair.”

“I’ll order the bronze statue for the center of town tomorrow,” he says, sliding his licked-clean plate off to the side. “You know, Marge, we’re at the point in the night where you admit I was right. An impossible task for you, but I’m sure you can manage just this once.”

While the food has been exceptional, rivaling the best of Dallas’s culinary scene, it’s Ryan’s company that’s been the most memorable. He has this uncanny ability to make a single moment stretch and expand until two hours have passed.

I take a drink of the southern French red paired with the short ribs and say, “Fine. You win this round. The meal was incredible.”

His eyes widen a fraction, both eyebrows rising in surprise—he clearly wasn’t expecting that response. “Well, since you’re obviously in a generous mood, care to revise your statement about my wine tasting like cough syrup?” he asks.

Always so overzealous.
“I’m allergic to flattering the quick-witted and overly proud.”

Ryan laughs, deep and a little hoarse. “But seriously,” he says. “If not for the wine, then why Wilhelmsburg? Why aren’t you taking time off at some snooty five-star resort in the Caribbean pestering the hotel staff?”

“I didn’t realize I needed an excuse to visit my grandmother,” I say, keeping my tone light despite the warning bell going off inside me.

“You don’t,” he says with a shrug. “But based on the phone call I overheard between you and your mom—she seems pleasant, by the way—it sounded as though she didn’t agree with you being here, so I was curious why you chose to come anyway.”

The moment bursts and reality clicks back into focus, his statement a reminder that I can’t hide in this town forever. Eventually I have to return to Dallas, face the consequences of my leaving, rebuild my life and career.

The server whisks away our dishes and cleans our places with a table crumber in preparation for dessert. I should end dinner now before he unearths all of my secrets, but there’s something disarming and open about Ryan that holds me here and causes me to lower my guard.

“Honestly, it was the first place that popped into my mind when I got in my car,” I say. “I just wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere away from . . .”

For the first time in my life I’m tempted to say exactly what’s on my mind, to confess to another person the depth to which my mother has, and continues, to destroy me. That she’s the reason for almost everything I do. Why I’m never satisfied with myself or with others. Why happiness—and more so, love—seem like foreign concepts. Why it’s so hard for me to open up and make myself vulnerable. Oh yes, I’m tempted to tell Ryan all of those things . . . but I’m not ready to hear his response. Or for him to learn that side of me.