Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (19 page)

There’s something wondrous about witnessing the world wake up—birds singing, squirrels scattering, a rooster crowing at a nearby farm. A mini rebirth I often take for granted. It reminds me of the Inn and its slow transformation, the way the worn siding and rebuilt porch merge old and new, imperfection with symmetry. For the first time, I realize how much I need this place, and more important, how much it needs me.

The smell of brewing coffee reaches my nose. I spend another few minutes soaking up the sunshine and fresh air before heading inside for a steaming cup, desperate for fuel. I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping my vanilla French roast, and sort the stack of cards listing the menu selections into two piles—guests requesting lemon ricotta pancakes with a side of bacon or those wanting scrambled eggs chilaquiles. Of course Piper, Samma, and Faye have to be difficult, dictating their meal choices be gluten free, even though the only dietary restriction they adhere to is consuming less than a thousand calories a day. Alcohol doesn’t count, naturally. I bet the woman from Grammy J’s gardening club has a permanent sour expression on her face from the few hours she spent accommodating them.

I tie an apron over my simple cotton dress, the fabric soft and worn between my fingers, feeling out of my element and overwhelmed but determined. Grammy J’s usually the one who prepares all the food, but now it’s up to me despite my limited cooking skills. Now everything regarding the Inn is up to me.

I locate the recipes in an old bread box beside the gas range and retrieve the ingredients from the fridge and pantry. Then I stare at the items scattered on the center island, unsure where to begin and short on time to figure it out. In two hours the dining room will be full of guests expecting a gourmet experience, and I refuse to disappoint them. Besides, I’m a master at multitasking and creating order out of chaos. I can handle this.

I’m formulating a plan of attack when I hear tires treading up the path to the Inn. It can’t be Ryan—he’s already busy at the winery. I tiptoe to the entryway, careful not to make too much noise so I don’t wake anyone, and peek between the curtains to see Moose and Bon Bon exiting their respective vehicles. I slip outside, quietly closing the front door behind me. The ground has mostly dried up from yesterday’s storm, but moisture clings to the grass, dampening my sneakers and sticking to my ankles as I trudge toward them.

“Hey, guys . . .” I let my words hang in the space between us, because for the life of me, I can’t imagine why they’ve come, and at the crack of dawn no less.

“What? No snarky greeting?” Moose asks. “No comment about my lack of antlers or cloven hooves? No, ‘What’s up, Moose? Where are your buddies Grizzly and Raccoon?’ ”

“Leave her alone, you oaf,” Bon Bon says, elbowing him in the ribs. “Margaret doesn’t have on her protective gear yet. She can’t be expected to deal with your asinine ramblings this early.”

Moose frowns at her in such an exaggerated manner his bottom lip juts out. “They’re not
asinine
.”

Bon Bon raises an eyebrow in response while I continue to stand there, clueless.

“Guys, not that I’m unhappy to see you, but . . . why are you here?” I ask, glancing between them.

“To help you, obviously,” Moose says, smiling.

“We’re sorry about Joy,” Bon Bon says. “Cricket mentioned the surgery went well. How’s she doing?”

“Doctors are optimistic,” I say. “A physical therapist is dropping by this afternoon to get her out of bed and have her moving around.”

“She’ll be causing trouble again in no time,” she says. “You’ll see.”

Moose nods, then bumps my side and says, “So, show us the ropes, Chief. Order us around.”

“Show you what ropes?” I ask, still not comprehending.

Gesturing to my apron, Bon Bon says, “You know, fixing breakfast, changing the sheets, cleaning the bathrooms. We’re at your service.”

For a moment, I’m stunned, speechless. Are they
pitying
me? Or is this their version of a handout? Because I don’t accept either. “Thanks for offering, but I’ve got it under control.”

“Quit being stubborn,” she says. “We’re not offering. We’re insisting.”

Grabbing my hand, Bon Bon starts to lead me toward the Inn when another car pulls up. Tiffany gets out and walks over to us, appearing flustered as she tries to balance the pastry boxes in her arms. She’s tied her dark hair into a ponytail, the light accentuating the purple streaks, and switched out her all-black attire for all-pink gym clothes. The change is so drastic I almost don’t recognize her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Tiffany says, slightly out of breath. “I had to wait in line at the Ausländer for the cookies to finish baking.” Moose scoots closer to her, lifting the lid on the top pastry box and inching his fingers inside, but she swats his hand away before he can snatch anything. Turning to face me, Tiffany embraces me in an awkward side hug. “I did a tarot reading centered on Joy this morning and drew The Star, which signifies a period of hope and renewal. It’s a positive sign, like a beacon in darkness.” Her eyes are bright with possibility, her expression optimistic, feelings I don’t share.

“Okay, enough yammering and wasting daylight hours,” Bon Bon says like a general rallying her troops. She glances around the yard at the broken branches, piles of leaves, and pecans littering the ground, casualties from yesterday’s wind gusts. “Moose, you’re in charge of beautifying out here. Don’t forget the garden. The three of us will tackle inside.” Then, as if ready for battle, she straightens her shoulders, marches up the front porch steps, and brazenly enters the Inn, leaving Tiffany and me scrambling to catch up.

We find Bon Bon in the kitchen, hands on her hips, peering back and forth between the menu calendar stuck to the fridge and the ingredients cluttering the island. “Okay, so we have our work cut out for us,” she says.

“That’s an understatement,” Tiffany adds, placing the pastry boxes beside the sugar and flour containers. “I think we should split up duties by dish.”

“Good idea. I’ll handle the ricotta pancakes and you do the chilaquiles,” Bon Bon says, rummaging through the pile of food. “Do you see where the package of bacon—”

“Everyone hold on,” I interrupt, louder than I intended. I cringe, listening for movement in the guest rooms, then continue in a hissed whisper, “I don’t need”—I wave a hand between the three of us—“whatever this is.” It’s sweet, their efforts, but the last thing I want is to owe anyone any favors. Worse would be to willingly acknowledge that fact. “I can deal with all of this on my own.”

“I’m sure you can.” Tiffany strolls over to the sink to wash her hands. “The point is, you have people around you who won’t let you.”

“Exactly. We don’t pity you or feel sorry for you or whatever else you’re assuming,” Bon Bon says, as though reading my mind from earlier. “We’re here because that’s what friends do—they band together. When one of us is down or needs help, the others pitch in. Grammy J’s been a part of this community for decades, and now so are you. Accept it.”

They’re right, I’m acting ridiculous and selfish when all they want to do is help. “Okay, I’ll prep the tomatillos for roasting,” I say, my voice full of emotion, finally understanding what it means to belong.

17

W
ell isn’t this . . . quaint.”

Samma’s voice sweeps around the dining room, slathered in condescension, and every muscle in my body tenses. I finish clearing the table of a couple who recently left to visit an apple orchard. Piling the used silverware on top of the stack of fine china, I anchor the plates against my chest and pick up the partially full crystal water goblets, turning to face her.

She has sunglasses pushed over her eyes. She probably drank too much wine at dinner last night—a habit of hers—and now she’s suffering from a raging headache. I don’t care. Grammy J was in surgery for hours and Samma and the girls couldn’t bother to check in with a simple text.
This is why you should never let your mother pick your friends.

“You’re late. Breakfast started an hour ago,” I say, pushing past her to deposit the dishes in the butler’s pantry on the other side of the French doors. I clean off the blueberry syrup stuck to my palm on a small towel draped over a cabinet knob.

Bon Bon catches my gaze from the kitchen, waving at me as she flips the last batch of lemon ricotta pancakes—gluten included because Piper, Samma, and Faye can deal with their supposed IBS with Milk of Magnesia and large portions of kale like the rest of us.

The smell of bacon frying drifts across my nose, and my stomach rumbles. I’ve yet to eat anything today, unless you count a small piece of chorizo that escaped the frying pan, which I don’t. But watching the guests’ positive reactions to the food makes my hunger worth it.

Tiffany?
I mouth. Bon Bon points to the ceiling and mimics vacuuming an . . . area rug? An upholstered piece of furniture? Or maybe she’s acting out changing the sheets on the bed. Doesn’t matter. I value the help either way. Now, if I could only convince some charitable soul to show Piper, Samma, and Faye around town and relieve me of the burden.

Last night at the hospital, Grammy J was insistent that I spend today with the girls. “Your friends traveled all this way to see you, so be a good hostess and entertain them,” she said when I tried to protest. “Besides, it’s going to be a lot of staring at the television between doctor and physical therapy check-ins around here.” Even though she promised to have the nurses contact me with updates, I plan on dropping by Hill Country Memorial later anyway.

Moose steps into the B&B through the rear porch entrance, his face red and blotchy, his clothes stained with sweat and dirt from laboring in the yard all morning. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he says, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “The Inn may be falling apart, but Joy sure does keep the garden in fantastic shape.”

“That she does,” I say with a smile. “You hungry? There’s still plenty of—”

“Moose, get in here and wash up. The black beans for the chilaquiles need some attention,” Bon Bon yells, speaking with the authority of an executive chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Rolling his eyes, Moose squeezes my arm and goes to meet her in the kitchen. I reenter the dining room with a sterling-silver platter piled with the chocolate chip cookies Tiffany brought, and set it on the sideboard beside a vase of wildflowers.

Samma’s claimed the table farthest away from where the light streams in through the windows, sunglasses still in place. Piper and Faye have joined her, and collectively the three of them are doused in enough perfume to clog the air filters. At least most of the guests have already departed and are spared from the overpowering stench of Chanel No. 5.

Grabbing the coffeepot, I walk over to the girls and fill their mugs. “Morning. Everyone sleep okay? I know you all aren’t accustomed to sharing a room, so your sacrifice is appreciated,” I say in a tone so sweet and fake saccharin can’t compete. “My grandmother’s going to be fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

Piper takes a sip of coffee, wincing as the liquid scalds her tongue, glossing over my comments, while Samma brushes the hair off her shoulder and says, “Sweetie, of course she is. We assumed you would’ve called to tell us if that wasn’t the case.” Faye only stares, unblinking and with a scowl, at the creamer in the center of the table, as though wondering why the little porcelain container won’t toddle over to her.

Samma gestures to my apron-dress pairing. “Nice Suzy Homemaker getup. All that’s missing is the cherry pie.”

“Maybe if you’d worn this kind of attire around Nick, he wouldn’t have dumped you for Lillie,” Piper says, hiding a grin behind her cup. That’s rich, especially since she’s decked out once again in lululemon and has never maintained a relationship that lasted longer than a manicure.

“No, it was always inevitable,” Faye adds, finally contributing to the conversation. “Nick
clearly
prefers a woman who has talent and finesse in the kitchen, albeit a greasy, dilapidated one, and Margaret lacks even the most basic skills.”

An ache seizes my chest at their total disregard for my feelings. “Nick didn’t break off our relationship because I failed to hard-boil an egg or bake brownies.” My voice cracks, but I hide the sound of my vulnerability with a laugh. “Though I understand your confusion, given how the three of you look at relationships as commodities ready for liquidation at the first sign of something new and shiny. It’s no wonder you all shuffle through husbands and one-night stands like you do handbags.”

I watch in satisfaction as their mouths drop open, one after the other like dominos, as though they’ve tasted for the first time the callousness they so easily assault others with. Before any of the girls can successfully work their way toward a witty reply, Bon Bon and Moose emerge through the French doors with steaming plates and deliver them to the table.

Samma pushes the sunglasses up into her hair and snaps her fingers at Bon Bon. “Um. Excuse me,” she says, motioning to the fried tortillas in the chilaquiles. “Were these made with flour or corn? Because I have certain
sensitivities
.”

“They’re corn,” Bon Bon replies, as though she fields these sorts of manners daily. She places a carafe of orange juice on the table.

“Organic?” Samma asks, clearly displeased that so far she has no grounds to object. “Because while I know these small farming communities are paid a great deal of money to grow genetically modified crops and that you’re forced to ingest it, I’d prefer not to put that kind of poison in my body and risk sprouting an extra limb.”

Bon Bon cuts her eyes over to me, irritation and disbelief at Samma’s words warring for control of her expression. I shake my head, asking her to let it go.

“Your thumb really shouldn’t be touching the plate so close to the food,” Piper says, scrunching up her nose, as Moose sets a gorgeous stack of pancakes in front of her. “I mean, really, who knows where those hands have been.”

“Milking the cows and molesting the chickens, no doubt,” Faye chortles.

“I haven’t let my fox loose in a henhouse in ages,” Moose says with a grin, covering Piper’s bare shoulder with his palm. “Maybe it’s time I should. What do you say?”

She shrugs off his hand, a look of disgust on her face. “I’m not into tasting the local offerings, thanks.”

“No, but Margaret seems to be. What was his name again? Ryan?” Samma raises an eyebrow at me. “You know, if you were so desperate for affection, you should’ve told me. I have the number of an agency, very discreet, very thorough. And I’m certain it costs less than however many bottles of wine you had to buy and choke down to court that man’s attention.”

I’m not sure which is worse, that she implied I’m the sort of woman who’d pay for sex, or that Ryan’s my male escort. Either way,
enough is enough
.

“That’s it. Stand up. You’re done here,” I say, my voice rising, my body quaking with anger, as I pull Samma’s chair away from the table with her still in it. “You’re all done here. You waltz into Wilhelmsburg under the pretense of ‘checking on me,’ abuse my hospitality, insult me and my friends, who, by the way, showed up to help me this morning because my grandmother
just underwent
hip-pinning surgery,
while you three were too busy sleeping off hangovers
.
And it’s not surprising that none of you would know a good man when he greeted you. So move your spoiled, entitled asses upstairs, gather your things before I do it for you, and get the hell out of this bed-and-breakfast and out of my life.”

Then, as Moose whistles and Bon Bon gives a long, slow clap and the girls stare at me in shock, I turn on my heel and exit the dining room without looking back.

The Camden Cellars property appears even more majestic at night—the rows of grapevines that angle across the hillside, twisting and shifting directions like a maze; the live oaks, so old and craggy and awe-inspiring with their rough, wrinkled trunks, that look as though they were never saplings; the way the moonlight haloes the German stone barn in silver.

The winery is dark inside—the tasting room closed hours ago—but a soft, amber glow emanates from the veranda, warm and inviting. The wind carries the sweet, smoky remnants of a recently lit wood-fire grill and the sound of a dog barking mingles with the hum of cicadas.

I walk up the paved path that leads to the entrance and follow it around the side of the barn to the back. Stepping onto the veranda, I gasp at the sight in front of me. When Ryan asked me to meet him at the winery after I was done visiting Grammy J at the hospital, I expected to find him in the office, hunched over a pile of paperwork on the desk, not leisurely stretched out on a blanket, basking among the vines he works so diligently to cultivate.

“Hey, stranger,” I yell, my voice ringing out crisp and clear in the quiet of the night.

Ryan glances over his shoulder. Even in the dark, I see a grin spreading across his face. He lifts a bottle of wine and beckons me with a jerk of his head, as if we’ve shared this ritual before. There’s something about it that feels familiar. I cross the lawn, the white fairy lights strung through the trees illuminating my route, drop down beside him on the blanket, and kick off my shoes.

“Playing in the dirt again, are we? Those toys look a bit big for you,” I say, referring to the seed drills stationed in a few of the alleys between the vine rows, which are used to disperse the cover crop into the earth.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, putting a hand behind my neck and guiding me toward him for a long kiss that causes my stomach to flutter. His tongue slides over mine, and I catch hints of black cherry, pepper, and licorice, like a full-bodied wine I want to savor at first and then get drunk on.

We pull apart, slightly breathless. Ryan tucks a flyaway hair behind my ear and says, “I already told you, messy is what makes life fun.”

No regrets and no strings attached.

Except my feelings for Ryan have developed beyond those two basic tenets into something raw and true. An emotion I’ve tried to deny, resist, yet one I can no longer ignore. Not anymore. He’s captivated me, and I’ve let him. I’ve willingly put myself in a vulnerable position. Allowed myself to rely on Ryan. Maybe not in the same way I relied on Nick—with him I fell victim to the idea that his joy, his success, his
value
, equated to my own. But with Ryan, everything is different, effortless . . . an easy trap to fall into. My reliance on him is far more subtle, far more precarious. A smile from Ryan has the power to change my mood. A glance can strengthen me. The briefest of touches is electric enough to leave me buzzing for hours.

More and more I’m beginning to realize I’m happy and truly myself, maybe for the first time ever, when I’m with Ryan. What does that mean for my future? Is this feeling I have when I’m around him something I can carry with me back to Dallas?

I suspect not. The thought of facing everyday life—work and social obligations and family pressures—feels so much more daunting knowing that Ryan won’t be there with his ready grin and steady hands. I quash the ache that spreads through my chest and not for the first time wonder what the true cost of my trip to Wilhelmsburg will be.

Determined to enjoy every moment I can, I settle on my side, propping myself up on one elbow, and watch as he opens a bottle of private reserve Cabernet—the same vintage we drank the night of the cave incident—and pours us each a glass. I take a sip, and while delicious, the flavors pale in comparison to the taste of his kiss still on my lips.

“What varietal constitutes this block?” I ask, noticing how this part of the vineyard implements a T-trellis system rather a vertical one.

Ryan mirrors my position, facing me. The movement pulls up the hem of his shirt, and I feel an irresistible urge to touch the exposed slice of toned stomach, to feel his hard muscles beneath my fingers. “Viognier. The one you said resembles cat piss,” he says, turning his wine glass in slow circles on the blanket. “The block’s named Witchy Woman after the Eagles song, because although the grape can be a pain in the ass to handle, at her core she’s as wild and mesmerizing as a seductive enchantress. Much like you.”

My heart races, thundering against my rib cage. Every time I’m convinced his smooth-talking ways can’t charm me any more, he surprises me with a new line that steals my breath away. Words that once felt disingenuous and designed solely to either irritate or seduce now feel welcome and soothing as a fresh rain. Refreshing, invigorating, and so very necessary to my survival.