Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (5 page)

She disappears before I realize she didn’t ask why I’m here or seem surprised, despite not having seen me since the day of Poppa Bart’s funeral sixteen years ago. The same day I was cuffed and thrown into the back of a cop car for a stupid lapse in judgment. The same day my mother and Grammy J had a falling-out nobody discusses, the secret they share the only lifeline connecting them.

I once asked my mother what happened. It’s the only time I can recall unguarded, raw emotion on her face, but rather than a verbal attack like I expected, she simply walked away in an intimidating way that was worse than yelling. In that moment, I remember wishing my mother would berate me. At least then I’d know how to act, given all my years of experience. Later, after she’d gone to bed and my father and I were alone, he told me that sometimes there’s a reason people change and why they keep secrets and not to bring up the subject again. It wasn’t a surprise when he promised to smooth things over with my mother the next morning—my father had practically made a second career of keeping her happy—but the fact that he looked troubled as he did so, as though whatever bothered her was something deep and painful, got my attention.

I wonder now, if my mother discovered I’m in Wilhelmsburg, if she’d cut me out of her life as effectively and efficiently as she did Grammy J, but more important, would I want her to?

As I listen to the sound of Grammy J’s footsteps growing fainter on the stairs, I stare at the trees outside, a chorus of birds darting off into the sky, and contemplate going back to sleep. But Grammy J’s worse than a telemarketer when it comes to pestering people, so ignoring her is futile. My body refuses to obey as I struggle to sit up. The ceiling spins like I’m on a teacup ride, and I collapse back onto the bed.

Pieces of yesterday flash through my mind. I owe Ryan, his taunting words, and that bottle of No Regrets the middle finger. I haven’t consumed that much alcohol since Nick ended us, after he confessed to always loving Lillie with such heartfelt, sickening sincerity I almost choked on it.
I’ve been unfair to you
, Nick said.
You’ve been a great friend to me when I didn’t deserve one and helped me through the darkest point in my life. I thought I could make this work between us
—
that I could be that man for you
—
but I can’t. I don’t love you in the way you need. I’m sorry.
I remember how he had the audacity to appear stricken by his admission, as if it was hurting
him
.

After a few more failed attempts, I haul myself into a seated position, holding the headboard for stability. Touching the spot where I bumped my forehead on Ryan’s SUV, I wince, the knot tender and larger than I expected. My blouse and skirt have bunched and twisted so they feel as though I’m wearing a full-body straitjacket that reeks of sweat and gasoline. I’m never passing out without changing into pajamas again.

I look around. The spare room is like that optical illusion with the young girl and the old woman. At first glance it looks unchanged since the time I spent growing up here: the four-poster queen bed flanked by windows decorated with silk draperies, the quaint sitting area featuring armchairs to enjoy the fireplace, the antique writing desk against the far wall. But on closer inspection, the floral wallpaper has yellowed and is peeling in places, the brass light fixture has tarnished and hangs at an awkward angle, and the crown molding is cracked and separating from where it meets the ceiling. The air smells as musty as an old book, thick with dust.

I stand, and a knife-like pain shoots up my leg. My ankle is puffy and bluish purple, and my knee is scraped from where I landed on it. Limping over to the desk, I grab my cell phone and power it on. A text message from Piper pops up.
You skipped the Chanel private showing? After your display at brunch, people are talking, Mags. Call me.
I sigh. When are people
not
talking?

The icon in the corner shows six missed calls and messages, all from my mother, with more disparaging remarks no doubt. I glimpse at the date.

Shit.

My father’s birthday dinner. I’ve never missed a family gathering, so while it’s not unusual my mother has called so many times, it’s strange my father hasn’t reached out at least once. “We’re in this together, Margaret,” he always says.

How could I forget?

I picture my parents seated at our formal dining table, my place setting untouched, their conversation stilted without me there to bridge the gap. I picture my father eating his baked potato plain because I wasn’t there to pass him the butter and sour cream, my mother refusing to do so in my absence. I picture my father blowing out the candles on his favorite German chocolate cake, wishing his daughter had remembered.

I’d been so caught up in my desire to get out of Dallas that his celebration slipped my mind. My father expects so little of me beyond not upsetting my mother. And while he’s rarely home, we both rely on each other to get through the awkward family occasions my mother insists on observing.

Grammy J appears in the doorway. She walks to where I’m leaning against the desk and presses a mug of tea into my hands. The aroma of jasmine blossoms and orange peel hits my nose. My stomach rolls, but my throat feels as though I’ve swallowed steel wool, so I’m willing to risk it. I take a tentative sip, and the hot liquid brings such relief I could cry.

Appraising me, Grammy J shakes her head and hands me a paintbrush. “You’re not going to fix your life moping around a rickety old bed-and-breakfast,” she says, patting my arm in a way that feels reassuring despite her authoritative tone. “You’ll deal with your troubles the same way you’ll deal with painting the porch—one rotten board at a time.”

5

S
calding water beats against my shoulders and loosens my muscles. Steam encases me in a bubble, and the steady sounds of the shower fill the bathroom. But I can’t avoid Grammy J or the fact I forgot my father’s birthday celebration forever.

I shut off the water and wrap myself in a scratchy, threadbare towel. Climbing out of the tub, I step onto a mat as thin as a pillowcase, and shiver as the coldness of the tile seeps through. This bathroom is nothing like mine in Dallas, with its heated marble floors and rugs so plush my toes disappear. Wiping the fog off the mirror, I examine my reflection, hardly recognizing the person staring back at me, the resentment in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw.

I style my hair, put on makeup, and slip into white skinny jeans, a Kelly green blouse, and ballet flats, careful not to aggravate my still-throbbing and swollen ankle. Like the rest of my closet, my daily wardrobe is crisp and polished. My mother says worn-in, comfortable clothing belongs on slobs or in the children’s department.
Sophistication is everything
, she reminds me at least once a week.

Outside an engine growls, and I remember my Audi is still at The Tangled Vine.
Thanks again, Roaming Eyes Ryan.
Maybe after I conjure up a painter to deal with the porch, Grammy J will drive me into town to get it.

Tucking my car keys and cell phone into my pocket, I hobble downstairs, past the dining room arranged with individual white-clothed tables with flowers at the center of each. Carafes of various juices, bowls of fresh fruit, and platters with pastries crowd a sideboard that could use more varnish.

At a large round table, a group of twentysomething girls chat and laugh while they eat omelets off fine china and drink mimosas out of crystal goblets, fueling up for a long day of wine tasting. The brunette nearest the French doors wears a glittery plastic crown and a sash over her eyelet dress—a bride-to-be surrounded by her closest friends for a bachelorette weekend. I wonder how long her happy ending will last.

In the adjoining sunroom, an older couple sips coffee and reads the newspaper, admiring the rolling countryside of Wilhelmsburg, a yellow-green patchwork of vineyards and farms and wildflower fields that remind me of a Van Gogh painting.

Grammy J wanders in from the kitchen and peers at me over her glasses. “Child, I hope you’ve Scotchgarded that outfit.”

More like Teflon-coated
.

“Not to worry. I’ve got it under control,” I say, waving the paintbrush in the air to assure her the porch will be painted, just not by me. Where I come from, we leave home improvement to hired experts, so I’ll make a phone call.

Grammy J nods, though her expression indicates she’s certain I’m about to learn an obvious, unwanted lesson, and delivers a tray loaded with pancakes to the couple.

From somewhere upstairs, I hear a door open and cheerful voices. The Bluebonnet Inn has seven rooms—five available for guests, the spare I’m occupying, and Grammy J’s modest suite off the rear entrance. During high season visitors flock to Hill Country to tour the wineries, pick apples and peaches in the orchards, and enjoy the many festivals and historic sites. Late summer means the bed-and-breakfast should be booked solid, but the few cars I saw parked out front last night indicate otherwise. So different from the summers I spent here as a kid. I wonder what Grammy J does to promote the B&B or if there’s a website for people to make online reservations. Maybe it’s something I can help her with while I’m here.

I move onto the back porch, which looks like it should be attached to a run-down, abandoned house. The wooden floorboards are cracked and pulling up in places, crying for a face-lift. The white paint is peeling away and is gone entirely on the top of the railing, and a layer of dust and dirt covers everything. Cobwebs hang under the eaves and in the corners—I guess the Haint blue color didn’t fool the spiders into believing the ceiling is the sky.

Grammy J must be delusional to think the porch only needs a fresh coat of paint. I don’t know why she doesn’t sell the Inn and buy something more reasonable for herself. She’s getting older, and the number of things needing repair will only continue to grow.

I take my phone out of my pocket and sit in a rocking chair. The air feels as hot and thick as a dog’s tongue, the wind like a warm breath across my arms. Sweat pricks up along my hairline. The muddy spots dotting the yard have dried in the sun, all traces of yesterday’s storm gone. My thumb hovers over my father’s office number before I hit send, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Law offices of Stokes and Ingram. How may I assist you?” his receptionist answers.

“Hello, Thelma. This is Margaret. Is my father available?”

“Let me check, sweetheart.”

She puts me on hold, and classical music plays in the background. A breeze sweeps through the garden and rustles the magnolia and pecan trees dotting the property. My knee bobs erratically, the paintbrush bouncing around as though my lap is a trampoline. I fling it at the painting supplies stacked against the side railing. Near the heap of rollers and cans of primer, I notice scrapers and a belt sander. Two more reasons why I’m hiring a contractor once I get off the phone with my father.

Thelma comes back on the line and says, “He has some time before his next meeting. I’ll transfer you.” There’s ringing and a click.

“Hello, Margaret,” my father says without the usual joviality he reserves just for me.

My stomach clenches with guilt. I clear my throat. “Daddy.”

“You left me to fend for myself at dinner last night.” He doesn’t sound mad, just a little hurt. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why his disappointment stings far worse than my mother’s anger and disapproval. Perhaps it’s because I actually have a relationship with my father. I’ve shared pieces of my life with him, sought out his advice when I needed guidance. He’s the person I went to after Nick cast me aside—unlike my mother, my father has always trusted my judgment and allowed me to find my own path, even when that path led me somewhere it shouldn’t.

“I know.” I can’t quite bring myself to say I’m sorry. Apologies are for the weak and impressionable.

“You’ve upset your mother,” he says, getting to the heart of what’s bothering him most.

When don’t I upset her?
I press a finger to a bruise marring my arm to distract me from my own frustrations simmering below the surface. With my mother, being a disappointment comes naturally, but letting down my father is something I work hard not to do.

And I failed.

“I know,” I say again, like I’m a recording on repeat.

A hint of humor enters his voice as he says, “I hope there’s an appropriately contrite gift heading my way.”

I smile into the phone. “A titanium driver, of course. It’ll be waiting for you at the club before your next tee time.” My father claims to love golf, but really I think he loves that it gets him away from home.

“In any case, this isn’t like you. I assume there’s a reasonable explanation. Come by the house tonight to talk it over with your mother. She tells me you’ve been unreachable since the benefit. I must go—I have a full schedule today,” he says with no further mention of his birthday celebration. That he so easily forgives my transgression makes it hurt that much worse, and the frustration and guilt surge up in full force. I should have remembered, been there for him the way he’s been there for me, if in his own distracted way.

“I’m not in Dallas,” I confess.

“Where are you?” I hear papers shuffling and the sound of a chair squeaking.

“I’m staying at the Bluebonnet Inn . . .” I don’t need to clarify with whom—he knows perfectly well I’ve gone to the one person my mother doesn’t dare interfere with.

There’s a long pause, his silence crushing me under its weight. “I see,” my father says in a tone that verges on angry, and I wonder if he’s thinking about how my mother will react to my whereabouts. My father avoids arguments with my mother the same way he avoids discount stores and restaurants with pictures of food on the menu, and this is bound to spark one. “When do you intend on returning?”

I bite my lip. “I’m not sure . . . I’m taking an extended vacation.”

“And what about your professional obligations?” he asks.

At least for this question I have a concrete answer. “I’ve delegated all projects to other reputable firms while I’m away.” I don’t tell him that several of the PR campaigns are in their most crucial stages or that a large number of the company presidents are his golfing buddies and clients. Nor do I tell him that I have no real plan for the future—I’m not thinking that far ahead. I’ve spent too much time acting like a windup doll—crank my key and watch me perform.

“I assumed you knew better than to do something like this, Margaret,” he says. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but you need to call your mother.” Then, in a move he’s never done, he hangs up on me.

Wonderful.
I’ve managed to infuriate my father for only the second time in my life. Will I
ever
do anything right?

I throw my cell on the porch. It hits the edge of the steps and lands faceup on the ground, a hairline fracture running across the screen.
Figures.
I should teach a course on how to be a constant source of disappointment, I’m so skilled at it. As I stand to retrieve the phone, my eyes lock on a rusted, twisted nail poking out of a board. A part of the red leather sole of my destroyed Louboutin is caught around the nail head, mocking me. The frustration finally boils over.

Searching the painting supplies, I find a hammer buried under some drop cloths. Sliding the round top between the claw, I rip out the devil nail responsible for my swollen ankle and scraped-up knee. The old wooden board groans in response. Bits of rust fall onto my once-pristine white jeans as I wrench the nail from the hammer’s grasp. I attack another nail that’s even more corroded and crooked. Then another. And another.

The heat and humidity shimmer in the sun. My blouse sticks to my skin, my hair is in tangles and matted against my cheek, and sweat trickles down my forehead, mixing with my mascara and stinging my eyes. My palms are so slick I can barely grip the hammer, but I continue to yank out nails. I position the claw around another rusted head and
crap
 . . . I’ve completely ruined my manicure—something I’ll have to rectify before Sunday brunch at the Ritz with my parents. I jolt at the realization that for the first time in recent memory I won’t be in attendance for our weekly ritual. That there won’t
be
a reason to have my nails sculpted and covered in the same boring, predictable shade my mother deems appropriate. That there’s no need for me to be appropriate at all.

Reveling in my newfound liberty to do whatever the hell I please, I stack the rocking chairs on top of the painting supplies and work on pulling up the floorboards. Some planks come off easily, while others require my whole body weight to tug them free. My shoulders ache with a satisfying burn. The air tastes gritty from the dirt and dust floating around and carries a metallic, flowery odor. My arms tremble to the point where I can’t lift them to wipe the grime off my cheeks.
You’re disgraceful, Margaret
, my mother’s voice admonishes in my ear.
You resemble something that belongs in the garbage and smells just as foul. It’s no surprise Nick left you.
I pry away another board. With each one I add to the pile, thoughts of Nick and my mother—my frustrations—flake off me like the rust and old paint clinging to my clothes and skin. The splintered, weather-beaten wood scratches the soft flesh of my hands that’s now covered in blisters.

As I stand in the hole I created, my ballet flats sink into the moist earth. The pressure on my ankle makes it feel like a water balloon about to burst. The porch framing is warped and stinks of rot, like teeth that have never touched toothpaste. I’m fighting with a plank that doesn’t want to budge when a long, slow whistle captures my attention. I squint against the glare of the afternoon sun. Ryan leans against the railing at the base of the stairs, holding a box with
CAMDEN CELLARS
printed across the side.

“I’ll never understand the latest fashion you city girls wear. What is that? Garden gnome chic?” he says, referring to the disaster I’m presenting to the world.

“Oh, it’s the Wart,” I say as sweat drips down my nose. I try to swipe it away, but my arm is so weak I end up smacking myself in the mouth.

He cocks his head to the side, a curious expression on his face. “Just Ryan, actually.”

Setting the box down, he rummages through the porch debris. I watch how his lean lines and corded muscles move beneath his T-shirt and ripple in his tanned biceps and forearms. I avert my gaze before he catches me ogling him.
I form a fist, and with a hard upward hit, manage to dislodge the stubborn plank.

“Well, Ryan, you’re still a wart,” I say.

He rights himself, my cell in hand. When he places it on the railing, his shirt rides up to reveal a flat, toned stomach. This time, he busts me staring.

“Would you prefer if I just stripped down?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.