Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (24 page)

“Why didn’t one of you call me then?” I ask, glancing around at the guys. “I was only a few hours away with adequate cell phone service, not in Western Sahara. I could’ve easily taken care of it. In fact, why haven’t any of you reached out at all these past several months? I know you were busy on tour, but . . .”

But they chose Nick
, I remind myself.

Matt shifts on his feet. Jason fidgets with the buttons on his plaid shirt. Karl shoves his hands into his pockets. All of them refuse to meet my gaze. Everyone except Tim, who is staring at me with a serious, purposeful expression.

“We were wrong,” he says. Just like that. “We thought that because of our friendship with Nick you needed some space from us for a bit.”

“So you completely stopped speaking to me?” I ask, giving him an incredulous look. “Come on, Tim. We’ve been friends since college. You should know me better than to assume I couldn’t handle the four of you remaining close with Nick.”

“You’re right,” he says, then repeats it, removing his baseball cap and raking a hand through his sandy-blond hair. “We didn’t give you enough credit.”

“Or any,” I say.

Tim nods, granting me that point.

“We thought it made sense at the time,” Matt says, jumping in. “Which is a terrible reason, and we’re all aware of it. We just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But please don’t think you were ever out of our minds, because you weren’t,” Jason adds.

Karl squeezes my arm. “We’re sorry, Margaret.”

Sorry.

I used to believe it was an empty word, but I hear honesty in their voices, see sincerity in their eyes, and I know this apology holds meaning.

“We don’t deserve your forgiveness, but we value your friendship too much not to ask for it anyway,” Karl continues. “Will you forgive us?”

I’m certain the universe functions like a cheeky Santa Claus, always watching and doling out life lessons with no regard for what you want, but rather for what you need. It’s like the year I got a tennis racket instead of the roller skates I asked for—evidently Santa and my mother were in agreement about appropriate activities for young ladies. Now, without warning, I’m faced with a practical lesson on forgiveness, the very question I was contemplating earlier.

This time it’s me who steps forward, who opens her arms and wraps the guys in a hug. Because I know I’ll regret it if I allow them to drift away from me again, and I promised myself to live without regrets. And because it’s enough to know that not every mistake, every slight, has to be cruel and final.

The doors of The Brass Tap open and Nick pokes his head out. “They’re all set up for you in here. I told them you’d be ready for sound check in—” He cuts himself off when he notices me among the group. His eyes grow wide, but then a grin brightens up his face. The smile is so unexpected that it makes the breath catch in my throat.

Is he actually
happy
to
see me?

“Margaret,” he says, approaching me. “You’re . . . tan.” He leans in to hug me, but stops, as if thinking better of it. The sun dances off the platinum band on his left ring finger.

“Hello, Nick.” I brace myself for the one-two punch of anger and regret, the familiar cocktail of bitterness that always accompanies being around him, but as he stands before me, eyes deep and blue as ever, unruly brown hair curling around his ears, and contentment tugging at his mouth, I feel none of those things. Though the memories are there, bittersweet and clear, I find the emotions Nick brings to the surface have nothing to do with him, and everything to do with Ryan. I push the confusing burst of sorrow, pain, and longing away, focusing on the here and now.

Matt rests a hand on my shoulder. “We need to prep for the show, so we’ll let you two talk, but don’t sneak away after. We want you to be there tonight.” The remainder of the band offers their agreement, then they all slip inside The Brass Tap, leaving Nick and me alone on the sidewalk.

For several seconds we stare at each other in silence, neither of us sure where to start. But then Nick speaks. “You look happy, Mags. It suits you.” Which is the exact opposite thing I expected him to say.

“Thanks.” My voice sounds almost tender and oddly foreign. “So do you, but then that’s not much of a surprise. I’m glad you and Lillie are doing well.” I hadn’t planned to say it, and even as the words fall from my lips, I recognize how alien they are, as they lack any venom, but are no less true.

Nick must hear the change because he gazes at me, as though understanding something, before he says, “Listen, Margaret, I don’t know where you’ve been the last several months, but it’s obvious when someone’s in a good place. I never made you look this relaxed or this comfortable in your own skin.”

I consider his statement, realizing he’s right. It took an escape and a summer away, but I’m finally becoming the person I want to be. For so long I defined myself by what I could give to others and the value they assigned to me in return, but now I understand a good relationship is one that emboldens you to invest in yourself. Ryan taught me that when he encouraged me to live recklessly and
for myself.

“I’m still working on being fully comfortable in my own skin, but it’s something I’m dedicated to cultivating,” I say.

“It’s not worth going through life any other way. Something I spent far too long figuring out. Which you know, of course, because you were there while I was in the midst of it. I hope you know I owe you as much as I owe Lillie for helping me get to where I am now,” Nick says, rubbing the faint scar above his left eyebrow. I used to wonder where he’d gotten it, yearn for the day he’d share the story with me. But now it’s a fine white line that holds no more curiosity for me than the latest gossip circling the Dallas Country Club. “I know you expected more from me than I could ever give you, and I’m not sure if I’m making things better or worse between us, but you have to know that our friendship was one of the most defining points in my life and had a profound effect on the person I am now. I will
never
forget that, Margaret. Never.”

I suck in a breath, as time seems to stop, affording me a moment of stunning clarity. I
did
want so much more from him during our years of friendship and months of dating—I
expected
his love, felt I’d earned it—but I realize what I really needed was to hear that I wasn’t just a placeholder for Lillie. That I was important, even if not in a romantic sense. And in truth, I never should’ve required so much from him when he was so clearly disconnected, when it was apparent his heart always belonged to Lillie despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise.

“I appreciate that, Nick. Thank you.”

He nods and smiles.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” I continue. “But I should probably let you get back inside. Tell the guys I’ll be at their show tonight, okay?”

“Will do. And don’t be such a stranger,” he says, then enfolds me in a hug.

This time I nod and smile, and we part in a way I’d never hoped for—as friends. The way we started, but it’s more balanced and with a level of understanding that was missing before.

It’s funny, because not so long ago I could scarcely imagine my life without Nick, but now I hardly remember the life I’d envisioned for us. I guess the universe is working overtime today, because it suddenly dawns on me that not all relationships are equal. Some are lopsided, and sometimes they aren’t supposed to last, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t worthwhile or significant. In the end the most you can hope for is that those people change your life in positive, meaningful ways.

Perhaps it’s that realization that finally forces me to look beyond my frustration and hurt and recognize Ryan for the incredible gift he is. He’s never demanded anything of me, never wanted me to be anyone other than who I am—even when that person can be sharp and condescending. He created room for me in his life, and in that room, he provided me a place to grow in ways I didn’t know I needed—or wanted.

And now, as I watch Nick walk inside The Brass Tap, closing that painful chapter of my life, I’m able to admit it’s not just the Inn I’m not ready to part with. I’m not ready to let go of Ryan either. Which means confronting my mother was only the beginning. I have to accept that Ryan was right. I never stated my intentions for him or the bed-and-breakfast. I’ve been too guarded, too afraid to trust, assuming if I allowed Ryan into my heart he’d see me for who I really am, and like my mother—and Nick, to the extent I understood at the time—deem me unworthy.

But it’s like Ryan told me, that’s the risk of loving someone—giving a piece of yourself without the promise of reciprocation. And if I have any hope for the future I so desperately desire, then I have to put my heart on the line and tell him how I feel.

It’s time for me to go back to Wilhelmsburg. It’s time for me to go home.

20

L
ife should never be wasted on unremarkable wine.

It’s a motto I’ve followed since I stole my first sip of Brunello di Montalcino Riserva at a Christmas party my parents hosted when I was seventeen. The flavor ignited my senses and helped me understand what made a bottle of wine remarkable. I’d been raised to believe from an early age that material things were only as valuable as others perceived them to be, and tasting the wine that night put me on a course of only appreciating the renowned offerings from regions such as Napa, Tuscany, and Burgundy, never looking beyond the label to determine a wine’s worth.

Until I came to Wilhelmsburg, that is.

Now, as I wait on the front steps of Ryan’s limestone cottage, preparing for a conversation I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for, I wonder what experiences I’ve missed out on because the label didn’t impress me. Was there a hidden gem with dark fruits and velvety tannins in that little village in Greece I visited during my semester abroad? A smooth, robust palate adventure I could have embarked on when I passed through Chile?

I toy with the bottle of wine I picked up on my way over, rolling the neck back and forth between my palms—No Regrets. For so long I thought that phrase meant treading carefully in order to ensure as few mistakes as possible. But as I stare at the label with the winking eye, I realize I had it backward.

A lifetime of carefully planned experiences, and here I sit, a laundry list of things I wish I’d done—and very few I wish I hadn’t. Not anymore. Tonight, I intend to take the first step toward a life well lived, starting with confronting the man who’s driving up the cobbled circular path to his house.

Ryan gets out of the Blazer, carrying a bucket of broken glass wine thieves—long, cylindrical tools the winemaker uses to siphon wine from the barrel for testing—his sturdy work boots kicking up a cloud of dust. Brushing away the fear that he doesn’t want to speak to me, I stand to greet him, drinking in the warmth of his tan skin, honey-blond hair, and the corded muscles evident beneath his shirt as though it’s been months rather than days since I’ve last seen him.

Bordeaux leaps out of the SUV after him. The second her paws hit the ground, she dashes for the running sprinkler system in the grass. Tail wagging, her bark high and happy, she covers her mouth over the spinning head, obviously delighted by the hissing attacker. Soon enough, her fur is soaked. I remain frozen in my spot, hoping to avoid another incident where I end up flat on my back with sixty pounds of canine on top of me and a pair of muddy paw prints staining my blouse. Though perhaps my talk with Ryan would go better with wet, transparent silk drawing attention to my breasts.

Ryan whistles. “Bordeaux!” His gaze sweeps around the yard before landing on me. His eyes widen, then quickly become indifferent. He turns his attention back to the dog and calls out, “The sprinkler isn’t an intruder!” His tone is rough and authoritative but holds a tinge of amusement.

Trotting over to him, a satisfied doggy grin plastered on her face, Bordeaux falls in line behind Ryan as he saunters up the walkway toward me. His expression conceals his thoughts, a carefully guarded mask.

“Hello, Margaret,” he says, his face still revealing nothing. “How’s Joy doing?”

“Feisty as usual, but still recovering faster than the doctors expected,” I say, which feels formal and awkward because we’re conversing as if we’re acquaintances rather than . . . Well, I suppose I’m here to figure out just what we are.

I arrived in Wilhelmsburg early this morning after driving all night, too anxious to be in Dallas—I snuck out of the Randy Hollis Band’s show early, but only because I was certain there’d be more opportunities to see the guys perform now that they were back in my life—and as promised, Grammy J kept the porch light on for me.

“Glad to hear it.” Ryan nods at the bottle of No Regrets in my hand. “Interesting choice. I know you’ve only been gone for a couple of days, but I’d assumed it was enough time for you to remember your distaste for longhorn shit.” His hazel eyes glint in the dying sun, almost mocking.

My heart twists in my chest with longing and hurt. “I believe I used the term ‘manure,’ ” I say, as Bordeaux sidles up beside me, scratching my leg with a wet paw and whining. I pet the top of her head and under her ear until she lets out a groan and lies down across my feet. “Condescension doesn’t fit you, Ryan.”

“No, that’s your specialty,” he says, and I notice how his square jaw, usually so defined and strong, turns sharp and obstinate. “Though I’d like to think I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

He’s angry, and though the jab stings, I’m also relieved. Anger I can deal with far easier than cold disregard. Still, it takes a few attempts to swallow my pride and say, “You were right, and I’m sorry.” Since my talk with Nick and the band, I’ve learned there’s a certain strength and humility in accepting blame and admitting to it. In putting yourself out there without the guarantee of forgiveness. In apologizing and trusting the other person to know you mean it in word and in action.

“Apology accepted,” he says. “Give my regards to Joy.” Propping the bucket of wine thieves against his hip, he moves past me and unlocks the front door. Bordeaux sticks her nose into the open crack and slips inside.

Before he can dismiss me completely, I blurt, “I never told you how I felt about the Inn . . . or about you. But I want to, now, if you’ll let me.”

He sighs, his back to me, his hand on the doorknob. I know if he crosses that threshold, I’ve lost my chance. “What’s the point, Margaret? You made it clear we’re headed in different directions, that your place is in Dallas.”

I shake my head and press on. “You’re the one who said that at the end of the day all you can do is put yourself out there and hope the other person will love you in return,” I say. “I’m just asking you to let me put it out there. Please.”

At first I think I’ve misjudged the level of his anger and he’s going to ignore me, but then Ryan faces me, steals the bottle of No Regrets out of my hand, and says, “I’ve found that a bold, full-bodied red blend makes an excellent companion to a dish of crow.”

I follow him inside, wondering if he expects me to eat the whole bird, feathers and all, or if he’ll cut me the smallest bit of slack. He’s fully aware that apologizing doesn’t come naturally to me, so I’m sure he’s enjoying watching me work for it, if only because he’s finally witnessing me at my most vulnerable.

Ryan walks into the kitchen, which smells slightly of chili and wood smoke, and deposits the bucket on the counter before disappearing into the cellar and returning with two large, thin-stemmed wine glasses as delicate as my composure. He uncorks the bottle of No Regrets and pours me a hefty portion as though he senses how much I need the liquid courage. I take a sip, and the familiar flavors coat my mouth.

Ryan sits on a bar stool and drinks slowly, staring at me with a gaze that challenges me to astonish him. He’s waiting for me to start, I realize.

I chew the corner of my lip. “I don’t know how it happened. Or when,” I say, my voice thin but gaining strength. “I can’t pinpoint the single moment I fell in love with this place. All I know is that I did.”

Ryan spins his wine glass on his knee, the stem rolling easily between his fingers, the deeply hued purple liquid barely disturbed, and I pray my confession makes him at least curious even if he’s not showing it. “If you’d trusted me enough to share that with me, Margaret, I never would’ve offered on the Inn.” A muscle ticks in his stubble-covered jaw. “But you didn’t. You haven’t trusted me with anything.” His tone is no longer angry, just hurt, if not a little cautious, and it cuts clean through me like the sharpest blade.

I study him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, his tense posture and firm mouth, the way he won’t hold my gaze. He looks exhausted and defeated and braced for me to push him away, for me to hurt him all over again.

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you, Ryan. It’s that I didn’t trust myself . . . or my feelings. I came to Wilhelmsburg because I needed an escape.” I peer out the windows at countryside that slopes down and then back up again, the last dazzling rays of sun casting symmetrical patterns across the lush landscape. “For so long, it felt like every time I trusted someone, every time I invested myself, I was the one who ended up wounded. I had to try so damn hard with everyone in my life—my parents, Nick, even my so-called friends. None of it was uncomplicated, and none of it brought me happiness. Not like the Inn.” I shake my head. It still catches me off guard how effortless it was to fall head over heels for a ramshackle bed-and-breakfast I’d once dreaded visiting. “I blinked and it slipped inside my heart, as if it’d always been there . . . The same way you did.”

A lump forms in my throat, but I force myself to swallow. “You gave me the room to be
me
for the first time in my life,” I continue, my voice strong and sure. “And now I don’t know how to be any other way.”

He raises his eyebrows, his expression shifting from circumspect to surprise, his shoulders relaxing as if he’s no longer steeling himself for the emotional blow he expected. “Yet it was so easy for you to believe I’d deliberately betray you, cause you pain, when I’ve never wanted anything
from
you. All I’ve ever wanted
is
you.”

“Which was my mistake, Ryan, but I needed some time and space to grasp that you were different. That you
are
different. I’ve always held back, always saved a part of myself out of fear I wouldn’t be good enough. But with you I went all in. I
am
all in,” I say, setting my wine glass on the countertop and stepping closer to him. Wishing like hell he’d reach out and tug me against him, end my rambling in the way he’s best at. “I’m
in love
with you . . . and admitting that out loud terrifies me.”

“Loving someone is supposed to be scary. That’s how you know it’s real, that it’s big and meaningful and life changing.” He shifts on the stool and rakes a hand through his hair, appearing unsettled. “But it’s not enough to be sorry or to say the words. You have to act on it. And you haven’t been ready to do that.”

“I am now,” I say, taking another step toward him so his knee touches my thigh. “I’m ready for all of it. Because I’m staying in Wilhelmsburg. I want to restore the Inn, and I want to do it with you by my side.”

“And if that’s not possible?” he asks. “Are you able to build a life here with just me? Or am I only worth the risk if you have a safety net?”

How can I make him understand that if I were to choose one happiness to keep—him or the B&B—it’d unquestionably be the future Ryan made me believe was attainable. The future where I pretend to tolerate Bordeaux, where we tour off-the-beaten-path wineries together, where we become a crotchety old couple rocking side by side on a porch swing.

“Ryan, you’re worth everything
to me
,
” I say. “
Everything
. All I want is you.”

Simple, direct, but the truth nonetheless. It’s all I have to offer, and I hope it’s enough for him to trust the depths of my feelings for him.

Something dark and intense changes in his expression, but before I can process it, he places his wine glass beside mine and kisses me, cupping my cheeks with those capable hands skilled at tearing me apart in the most thrilling way then putting me back together again, that simultaneously set me free and bind me to him. His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, slipping inside my mouth, and a gasp escapes my throat.

Breaking away, Ryan kisses my forehead, then looks at me, his eyes reflecting the golden hues streaming through the windows. “From the moment you insulted my wine, I knew you were it for me. I’m in love with you, Marge. All of you. The part that barks orders rather than asks politely. The part that stumbled into The Tangled Vine wearing expensive shoes and a scowl that could sour wine. The part that’s warm and relaxed in the morning because you haven’t remembered why you have to be so strong.” He brushes the hair off my shoulder and smiles. “I love it all, from this freckle on your shoulder to the pink polish on your perfectly pedicured toes.”

A slow, liquid heat spreads from my heart to my limbs at his words. Before I can respond, he kisses me again, the forever, languid kind where time and urgency don’t exist.

“You realize none of this means I’ll be any less of a pain in the ass,” I murmur against his lips.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” he says, hefting me over his shoulder and striding toward his bedroom. He runs a callused palm up the back of my leg, settling it on the curve of my ass.

“Seems like you’re holding me to something else right now,” I say.

Ryan drops me on the edge of the mattress, arms braced on either side of me, triceps flexed taut, gaze roaming over me in a way that causes every muscle inside me to clench. “Margaret, you have no idea all the things I plan to hold you to.”

The moon is floating high in the sky like a tarnished silver coin when we finally separate hours later, satiated, our bodies spent and slick with sweat, our skin awash in metallic-gray light.