Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (14 page)

I nod, keeping my focus on the pushed-aside shower curtain, which seems to be the only item not in need of a good scrubbing. “I’m sure you can guess how well it went.”

When she doesn’t inquire further, curiosity gets the better of me. “Will you tell me about what happened with you two? Please? Mother nearly bit my head off when I mentioned it.”

Grammy J hesitates, as if contemplating how much information she should divulge. After a minute, she settles on the edge of the tub and pats the spot next to her. “Have a seat.”

I sink down beside her and wait.

“Poppa Bart wasn’t your mother’s biological father,” she says without easing into it or cushioning her words. “Just because he wasn’t blood didn’t make him any less of a parent—and a damn fine one at that. I told your mother the truth the night of your grandfather’s passin’, after you’d disappeared. She was . . . upset, as you can imagine.”

Oh, I
can
imagine. My mother has never approved of sudden surprises or changes, so I’m sure she didn’t react particularly well to a one-two punch of both. No wonder she looked as if she’d been crying the night she and my father claimed me from the backseat of the police car.

“But . . . why?” I ask, unable to articulate an appropriate response. I have no idea how to process her confession. My body is consumed with shock.

“Why did I wait so long to tell her or why did I tell her at all?”

“Both?”

It’s no doubt a question my mother also asked, though probably not as diplomatically.
Why would you tell me something like that?
I envision her admonishing Grammy J.
What would I have to gain from learning that information?

The air-conditioning kicks on, masking Grammy J’s sigh. “Poppa Bart and I decided early in the pregnancy we weren’t goin’ to share that bit of history with your mother for reasons I’d prefer not to get into, but when I saw her sortin’ your grandfather’s things into piles, the secret spilled out of me in a way I couldn’t contain. I think I just wanted her to know what an incredible man her father was.” She picks at an area of dried shampoo on the tile with her fingernail. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her unsure, as if my mother’s opinion of her matters more than she lets on. “But in the heat of the moment, my understandin’ of Nancy was clouded by grief over your grandfather. I should’ve known the confession would unearth memories your mother had worked hard to leave behind.”

“How do you mean?” I ask.

“Rumors are one thing, child, but confirmation is another,” she says. “The moment I got pregnant there was speculation about who the father was, and people around here made certain to let your mother know that. She didn’t take well to that kind of attention. And then for me to validate those rumors all those years later . . .”

More questions flood my mind. “So who is . . . ?”

“In truth, I’m not sure. I wasn’t the most cautious teenager, but I refuse to apologize for it. My actions cost me my relationship with your mother, rightfully so of course, but I’ve accepted that.” Her voice is firm yet carries a tone of absolution, as though she’s forgiven herself even if my mother won’t. “The only thing I truly regret is that my choices colored your mother’s childhood, and her memory of this place.”

For the first time, my mother makes sense outside of the cold, condescending box I’ve held her in for so long. What must it have been like to grow up in such a small town, constantly the source of gossip? I finally understand why she’s so controlled and concerned with public perception, why she’s so quick to squash any rumors about our family and why she holds her reputation above all else. She is what she allowed her childhood to make her. I wonder if we all must follow the path our childhoods lay out for us, or if we can choose another way. My mother’s example says my future is inevitable. But maybe it doesn’t have to be.

“Enough about that.” Standing, Grammy J busies herself with wiping down the mirror, as if we’ve just been discussing the best way to eliminate soap scum.

There’s an entire lifetime I need to learn about this woman, and more important, about my mother.

Later in the evening, after I’ve scrubbed a thousand bathroom tiles, I retreat outside for some fresh air. Every inch of my skin smells like cleaning products, and my body feels like it could collapse, overcome with exhaustion, but it’s the satisfying kind you feel after a hard day’s work. I see now why Grammy J enjoys washing windows, mopping, dusting. Frustration, stress, anger—it all dissolves with the physical activity that housekeeping requires.

The sun has descended below the horizon, the stars appearing stitched together in the sky, but the heat hasn’t dissipated. The front parking spaces are all vacant, guests of the Inn enjoying dinner at one of the many restaurants in town. Climbing onto the hood of my grandmother’s beat-up truck, I lean back against the windshield, the metal pressing like an iron into my legs from baking in the sun all day.

My mind is still reeling over my exchange with Grammy J. I can’t help but think about how I would react if I were in my mother’s shoes. Would I feel angry, betrayed? Would I consider Grammy J selfish for telling me the truth? Would I even
want
to know the truth? Sometimes being honest serves no purpose other than to hurt someone. Sometimes ignorance really
can
be bliss.

A huge emotion swells inside me, one I’ve never felt for my mother—sympathy. Maybe, just maybe, if I broach the topic the right way she’ll let me in, show me a different side of her. Maybe this could be the first step to tearing down the wall between us. Maybe this could mend our relationship, make it not so toxic and filled with strife. Before I can second-guess myself, I dig my cell out of my pocket and dial my parents’ home number.

“Hello, Margaret,” my father answers with a cheerful lilt.

I expected him to be at the office working late, so his greeting catches me off guard. He doesn’t sound
still upset with me, but then I remind myself that he’s not like my mother, who holds grudges.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say. “You’re home early.”

“Downtown had a power outage,” he says. “I’m headed out to meet a client at the club in a few moments. Are you back in town? I’m sure your mother would appreciate a visit.”

“No . . . I’m still in Wilhelmsburg,” I say. “Have things been okay?” Of course what I’m really asking is if my mother has been taking out her anger on her only available target.

He pauses a moment. “You know, honey, I’ve come to realize that things are never really okay around here.” Another pause. “But that doesn’t mean it has to stay like that.”

My father has never sounded so upbeat about my mother or the state of our family. Resigned, yes. Placating, yes. But hopeful? That’s new, and I wonder if there’s something going on he’s not telling me about.

“Anyway, I’ve got to get going,” he says. “I’ll pass you off to your mother.”

I hear the patio door opening followed by the telltale ruffling of a hand blocking the mouthpiece and muffled conversation. Then my mother’s voice, hard and sharp as broken glass, comes through the line. “I’m not sure why you’re calling us—our stance hasn’t changed. You won’t receive any financial support until you return to your responsibilities in Dallas.”

Instantly I regret my decision to reach out to her, but it’s too late to backpedal, so my only option is to move forward. “That’s not why I’m calling,” I say, sitting up and hugging my knees to my chest, as if that will somehow protect me.

“Oh? Then why?”

My throat feels tight and dry despite the humidity, and I wish I’d brought a bottle of water outside with me. “Grammy J told me about Poppa Bart . . . and you.”

My mother goes eerily quiet. I envision her with an expression that on the surface seems nonthreatening, but underneath is simmering with barely contained rage.

Still I press on. “I know now why you cut Grammy J out of your life and why you won’t return to Wilhelmsburg. And I . . . I was hoping you’d talk to me about it,” I say, desperate to understand her better. Desperate to know her at all.

“How
dare
you bring that up.” Her voice hums with a dangerous edge, like a power line on the verge of snapping. “The situation between your grandmother and me is none of your business, nor will it
ever be. She had no right to share any of that with you.
No right.
When will you grow past this need to constantly pull at the curtain, to dabble in affairs that are best left alone?”

A gust of wind kicks up a mound dead leaves. They swirl in the air like a swarm of bees, and it’s as if my mother somehow conjured them to attack me.

“This conversation is over, Margaret,” she continues. “When you’ve finished acting like a selfish, spoiled child, you’re free to come home. Until then, I don’t want to hear from you. Or about your grandmother, ever again.” Then she hangs up. She doesn’t slam the phone onto the receiver, but still my ears are ringing.

Something inside me cracks. No matter how strong my desire is to establish a relationship with my mother, it will never,
ever
happen.

13

S
etting up a reservation system and payment tool on the Inn’s website is about as easy as finding an ounce of fat on a Victoria’s Secret model. The software promised to revolutionize any boutique hospitality business with its seamless, drag-and-drop capabilities, but so far the only thing seamless is the transition from one error message to the next. Using an old computer in a cramped office only adds to my headache.

My muscles ache and my butt is numb from sitting in the same position for hours. Pushing the chair back, I prop my feet on the desk that’s older than I am, stretching my legs, and roll my neck from side to side to work out the kinks.

“It seems like you need a break, Marge.”

I jolt. Ryan is leaning against the door frame, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his faded jeans, looking sexier than should be allowed in a dirty, stained T-shirt, muddy boots, and with hair all disheveled. I didn’t expect to hear from him so soon—I assumed he’d adhere to the three-day rule.

“And a glass of wine,” I say, trying to ignore the girlish fluttering in my stomach. I notice a faint mark on his neck, and I wonder if it’s from my teeth. The possibility only serves to intensify my nerves. I’ve never been the anxious type, especially around men, but Ryan makes me feel like I’m sixteen again.

“What’s your stance on picnics?” His voice is easy, playful, without a trace of weirdness. I thought maybe things would be awkward when we saw each other again, but there’s only that undeniable tug.

“Cliché and overrated.” I stand and smooth my fingers over the simple jersey dress I borrowed from Grammy J. I hadn’t anticipated being in Wilhelmsburg this long, and everything I brought is too dressy, too rigid. I suspect a trip to the shops lining Main Street is in my immediate future.

Ryan offers me a crooked smile that reaches his eyes. “I assumed that’d be your response,” he says. “Which is why I packed us sack lunches to be eaten outside. But it’s in no way considered a picnic.”

“Cheeky,” I say. “What happened to there being no rest for the wicked?”

“There’s always time for sustenance.”

Pushing off the door frame, he walks toward me and slides a hand around my hip, dipping his head to place a kiss below my jaw. For a second, I’m paralyzed by the feeling of his lips on my skin. But then my hands slip under his shirt, feeling the contours of his stomach, the defined, wide expanse of chest. His strained breath is heavy in my ear, which only feeds my desire. Without realizing it, I press myself into him until I feel the solid planes of his frame against mine.

Stepping us backward until my butt hits the desk, he lifts me slightly so I’m perched on the edge. His eyes roam over me like I’m a pinned target. Then he threads his fingers into my hair, almost desperate, and kisses me like I’m the last glass of Cabernet he’ll ever consume and he has to get his fill. His hands travel the length of my body while his mouth tastes the column of my throat, his tongue mapping every dip and groove, as though he wants to ensure he’ll find every pulse point, every flutter, every stretch of skin that makes me moan.

“But I suppose this’ll hold me until we get to our destination,” he says, nipping my bottom lip before pulling away.

The fluttering in my belly has turned frantic, spreading and migrating up into my chest, running wild. Ryan stares at me intently. “So, Marge, shall we?”

Nodding, I follow him out front still in a daze. The crew rebuilding the porch is resting in the shade, drinking sodas and devouring sandwiches. Moose is absent today, probably working at Hodgepodge.

I’m about to hop into Ryan’s Blazer when I remember Grammy J is in the garden prepping the beds for the fall crops. “One second,” I say. “I need to tell my grandmother I’m leaving.”

It takes me a moment to spot her among the piles of ripped-out plants that have stopped producing vegetables with their roots sticking up in all directions. Grammy J’s bent over a bell pepper plant, trimming all the branches except for those that still have fruit on them.

“Ryan and I are going to grab lunch. I’ll be back later this afternoon to finish the website. Can I bring you anything?” I ask, gathering my hair in my hands to keep it from tangling in the wind.

Leaning back on her soil-covered galoshes, she tilts her chin up so she can see me from under the brim of her floppy hat. “Child, I have enough food here to last until Christmas,” she says, pointing at the baskets filled with garlic bulbs, onions, green tomatoes, and okra. “But I appreciate the offer and you lettin’ me know you’ll be gone for a bit.” She pats my calf a few times. My heart squeezes at the gesture—so simple, yet more significant than any touch I’ve received from my mother. “You still plannin’ on attendin’ karaoke tonight?”

I tell her I am, even though it goes against my better judgment.

Grammy J eyes me up and down. “That my dress?”

Shit. She said anything that belonged to her also belonged to me. Still I should’ve asked if I could wear it before barging into her closet without permission.

“It suits you, child,” she says, surprising me with her answer. “Last time I donned that thing was when Poppa Bart took me line dancin’ at the county fair. He’d be happy to see it on you. In fact, I reckon he’d be happy to know you’re here at all and proud of the woman you’ve grown into. Just as I am.” Grammy J smiles, then goes back to the bell pepper plant.

Her words are so unexpected, so damn . . . sincere that tears prick my eyes. There’s no need to prove myself, no need to convince her of my worth. For some reason, Grammy J just believes in me, and I don’t know what I did to deserve it.

“Thank you for that,” I say, meaning it more than I’ve meant anything in my life.

With a good-bye, I head to the Blazer, nearly tripping when Grammy J yells, “Make sure you and Ryan use protection. You can never be too careful.”

I spin around to face her, mouth hanging open. She’s getting saucy in her old age.

“I’m not sure why you’re lookin’ so flustered,” she says, cackling. “I was talkin’ about sunscreen.”

Ryan drives twenty minutes outside of Wilhelmsburg to a secluded area with natural springs. A metal sign warning
DECAPITATION POSSIBLE
dangles crookedly from a wooden post, the remaining available surface plastered with bumper stickers that proclaim things like
HANGIN’ WITH MY GNOMIES
,
KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD
, and
SWIMSUITS OPTIONAL.

“We’re lucky because this spot is still a secret to most tourists,” Ryan says, lifting the hatch on the Blazer. He grabs a blanket and a hard plastic, standard-issue cooler popular among tailgate fanatics and sorority girls who decorate them as a thank-you to their dates for being invited to a fraternity formal. I would know—I painted my fair share in college.

“This way,” Ryan says, jerking his head in the direction of a narrow path several yards ahead.

He leads me through a grove of bald cypress trees strung with Spanish moss that provides shade from the blistering sun. Our shoes crunch against dead branches, upturned earth, and pieces of broken rock.

The trail opens to a wide, grassy knoll surrounded by clumps of misshapen limestone splashed with neon-orange lichen. I walk to the edge, mesmerized by the waterfall cascading over a cliff into a swimming hole thirty feet below. Hill Country stretches out below me like a living, breathing watercolor landscape.

Ryan comes to stand beside me. The sun catches the highlights in his hair, and my fingers itch to run through the silky curls.

“Beautiful, right?” he asks.

“Breathtaking,” I say. Never in my life have I felt so small or seen something so magnificent. I’m usually so busy looking at what I have, especially as it compares to my neighbors, that I rarely appreciate what’s around me.

Ryan holds two plastic stemless glasses of rosé in his hands and offers one to me. I accept, shocked at his choice. In some circles, rosé is often dismissed as unrefined plonk, a notch in class above boxed wine. And while the motto “real men wear pink” is widely accepted, the same can’t be said for guys who enjoy wine that resembles shades of peach, salmon, or bright fuchsia.

My expression must betray my thoughts, because Ryan says, “I also eat soufflés and cry in movies, if that changes your perception.”

I flash a wry smile, granting him that point. “Is this one of yours?” I ask. I take a sip, noting how the taste is fruity and floral with refreshing acidity and a vibrant finish.

“No,” he says. “It’s from the vineyard in Provence where I completed my apprenticeship.”

“How long were you in France?”

“Almost two years, though I’d have stayed longer if I hadn’t been called home.” He strolls to where he’s spread the blanket on the ground and kneels down.

I join him, kicking off my ballet flats and tucking my legs under me. “Why’d you pursue an apprenticeship if you already had a degree in viticulture?”

“Because it’s the only way I could learn an artisan’s approach to winemaking. Think of it like a language-immersion program. No amount of books or lectures can replace practical experience,” he says, rifling around in the cooler. “Plus I graduated early, so I figured why not?”

My eyes are drawn to the way the hem of his shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of tan skin and two indents on either side of his spine above black boxer briefs that peek out of his pants.
Dear God, Ryan has Venus dimples.
My mouth dries a little, and I curl my fingers into fists to keep from touching him. I don’t know how I didn’t feel those when he was naked on top of me last night. Then again, my attention
was
diverted elsewhere.

“Did our lunch get lost?” I ask, my voice slightly hoarse from the memory.

Ryan looks at me as though I’m both insufferable and endearing. Closing the lid on the cooler, he passes me a brown paper bag. Inside are individual portion-sized containers of hummus served with pita bread and olives, Mediterranean shrimp and orzo salad, and peach halves drizzled with honey and cinnamon.

“Did you make all this?” I ask.

“Don’t get carried away,” he says, unwrapping a set of plastic utensils. “The only cooking I do is buying preassembled items from the market.”

I lift the rosé in a toast. “Likewise.”

“You know, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t snoop or steal anything when I left you unattended in my house.”

“How do you know I didn’t snoop?” I ask, wondering if he has hidden cameras stashed in various rooms.

“Because you would’ve commented on my Monopoly token collection.”

I shake my head, my lips curling in an amused half smile. He really is like a kid. “I did notice you’re a bit of a neat freak, which doesn’t explain why your Blazer was such a disaster that night you drove me to the Inn.” I remove the lid on the orzo salad and pop a cherry tomato into my mouth.

“What can I say? I’m quite the conundrum.” He finishes his wine and pours another glass. “Actually, during harvest time all bets are off. The days are long and relentless, and I end up living out of my SUV. Bordeaux making a mess of herself in the vineyards and dragging it all over the inside never helps.”

We eat the remainder of lunch in comfortable silence, content to listen to the roar of water all around us and watch butterflies flutter in and out of the trees. My whole body feels relaxed, reenergized, and I have the urge to do something stupid like dive off the nearest cliff into the pool below. The idea alone is so unlike me that goose bumps pop up on my forearms. Perhaps this is what Ryan meant when he talked about living on the edge, and I don’t even need to drink a bottle of Wild Abandon for encouragement.

Twisting my hair into a bun, I get to my feet and say, “I’m going for a swim. You coming?”

Ryan grins as he stands. “Only if there are no clothes involved.”

“Not a chance.”

“You are aware I’ve already seen you naked, right?” His gaze is steady on mine, flickering like a flame, and my heart trips a beat at his words.

Ryan grabs the collar of his shirt and tugs it over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the blanket. My eyes rake over the corded muscle in his arms and shoulders, his defined pecs, sculpted from long hours laboring in the vineyard, and the V carved into his hips that disappears beneath the low-slung waistband of his jeans.

It was just dark enough the other night that I didn’t get a full picture. But now, with his torso on display and the visible bulge in his pants, my whole body clenches, and a flush spreads from my face down my neck as sudden images of him moving over me, inside me, everywhere, race through my mind.

“I’m not a sculpture, Marge. The rule ‘look but don’t touch’ doesn’t apply,” he says with a wink, then unclasps his belt.

Cocky ass.

Before he undresses completely and I’m unable to control myself, I walk to a rocky outcropping, moss and moisture slick under my toes. I refuse to glance down. If I do, I’ll lose my nerve. I slip off my dress—Grammy J will kill me if I ruin it. The fine mist from the waterfall clings to the cotton fabric of my matching bra and underwear.

Then I close my eyes and jump.

My stomach lodges in my throat along with my scream. I plunge deep below the surface of the water. Coldness envelops me, stealing my breath but not enough to squelch the adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I wonder why I don’t do this sort of thing every day. My body turns weightless. I listen for the churning, gurgling sound of the waterfall spilling into the pool, but all I hear is the beating of my heart echoing in my ears.