At the Corner of King Street (17 page)

“Aunt Grace,” I said, lowering my voice and moving into one of the stalls. I closed the door and locked it. “How's it going?” In the distance, Carrie's cries echoed off the high walls of the warehouse apartment.

“I called Daisy. She's got a boy who's only seven months old. She knows babies. She's come over to the house.”

“Daisy McCrae.”

“Daisy Sinclair. And yeah.”

The girl I remembered was rough and tough and always looking to start a fight. That summer we all ran together, Daisy did a fine job of making her sister Rachel cry. “Can you put her on the phone?” Outside I heard the hum of the crowd blend with the guitar music. Laughter mingled with the clink of glasses.

“Addie?” The voice was feminine and gruff, and I immediately pictured the long-legged hellion.

“Daisy.”

“The baby's fine. Cranky as hell, but fine. She was almost asleep when you called.”

Picturing Carrie's red face crying, I jabbed tense fingers through my hair. “Sorry. You have plenty of bottles?”

“You'll be back tomorrow, right?”

The bathroom door opened, and I hunched a little lower. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Where are you?”

“Long story. But I'll see Grace by ten tomorrow.”

“Okay. We'll survive.” Her voice softened. “Do what you got to do. We'll manage.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries. Got to go.” The line went dead, and I was left to stare at the phone. A toilet flushed. I hurried out of the stall, washed my hands, and moved straight to the tasting counter.

The next several hours blended like a mixture of our grapes. Sweet moments mixed with sour notes, but all in all, the evening came together as planned. Scott charmed the crowd. The wines, for the most part, were a hit. The cake earned laughs as Scott cut into it and the photographer snapped pictures. Mr. Dixon found his way to several more wineglasses and when the man slumped in his seat, George and I escorted him out so his wife could drive him home.

We received dozens of orders—not a stellar breakout, but enough to generate buzz. Launching a wine was a building process. We pressed enough grapes this year to bottle thirty thousand bottles. Certainly the night was not enough to get us on the world stage, but it was a start.

Under the exhaustion, satisfaction hummed. Mission accomplished. I'd have savored the moment but there was still much followup to do. Guests to call about their reactions to the event and the wines. More media calls. So many plans . . .

It didn't matter what the plans were, because I was driving back to Alexandria to sort out an issue that refused to be settled.

Close to midnight, I was collecting glasses from the tables and placing them in the glass cases, which would be picked up tomorrow. George pulled all the extra bottles of wine and placed them in the fridge and boxed up what little food remained for himself and his wife. Scott was outside talking on his cell to a restaurant owner in Lexington who enjoyed the evening and wanted to schedule an event at his restaurant.

As I dropped glasses into their slots, the door opened and closed.
Scott leaned against the doorjamb, his face a blend of euphoria and exhaustion. I flashed back to the last time we made love and he wore a similar look. A good kind of exhaustion, he'd said then.

“Why don't you leave those for the morning?” he asked, crossing to me. He took a glass from my hands and wrapped his arms around me. “God, you feel good.”

I relaxed into his embrace. “So do you.”

“You did a stunning job.”

“Thanks. So did you.” I kicked off my shoes, put an apron on over my dress, and undid the French twist.

“We were a hit.”

I ran my fingers through my hair and massaged my scalp. “It was a great start.”

He leaned back and studied my face. “That's not the enthusiasm I expected.”

“I'm excited.”

“But not exuberant. Why not?”

“Always better to be a little excited and find out later it went so much better than you expected.”

He kissed my forehead. “You're my serious Addie. The one who is always expecting disaster.”

“And you're my dreamer. That's why we make such a good combination.”

“We're the dream team.”

“Yes.”

He squeezed my shoulder. “Come to bed.”

Resisting his gentle tug, I shook my head. “I really have to finish the glasses. They're being picked up very early. Why don't you go to bed, and I'll be in soon?”

He rested his chin on my head. “I should help.”

“That's okay. You had a long day.”

A sigh trickled from his lips and he leaned back and studied my face. “You wouldn't be mad if I left you to this?”

“No. No, I wouldn't. Just go.”

He kissed me again, and I savored the touch of his lips against mine and the feel of his chest pressing against my breasts. I loved touching Scott, and in his arms I almost,
almost
felt like I was safe from the world.

He left me to load the remaining glasses. By two in the morning the last of the glasses were packed away, the table linens shoved in laundry bags, and the counters wiped. The tasting area sparkled.

When I slipped into bed next to Scott, I lay on my back, my body exhausted, my brain too jazzed with nervous energy and caffeine. A few hours sleep would have to do. Maybe tomorrow night, Carrie and I could sleep.

Dr. Goodwin remains fragile, but he is getting stronger. I saw Mistress Smyth at the market and she told me she heard Faith attended my son's birth. She tells me also that Faith delivered the pastor wife's baby. A girl. Mother and child are doing well. Mrs. Smyth heard Faith spun magic around the woman and relieved her birthing pains. “It's a sin,” she whispered. “A sin.”

“W
hat do you mean you're leaving?” Scott stared at me over a toasted bagel loaded with cream cheese.

“I've got to run into Alexandria.” I wriggled into clean jeans and a white top that floated above my waistline. “It's going to take me a couple of weeks to sort it all out.”

“A couple of weeks?” He sat up, leaning heavily on his elbow. “But you just got back. I thought you'd handled your family crisis.”

“I've gotten some of it handled, and I'll fix the rest in the next few weeks.”

“Weeks?”

“Two or three.” Okay, it was four weeks, but I'd tell him that later.

“Shit, Addie. You're going to be gone almost a month. Who's going to take the orders or coordinate the press?”

“I will. I've forwarded the phones to my cell and George will keep the day-to-day operations in play like he always does.”

“What's going on with your family?”

From my top drawer, I grabbed clean underwear, T-shirts, and shorts. “Truly, it's not that exciting.”

“If it's taking you away for three weeks, I want to know.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled on his shorts, and crossed to me. He cupped his hands on my face, the worn callouses brushing my cheeks. “What's going on with you?”

His hands, warm and welcoming, tugged at the secrets locked away. “Family stuff.”

His darkening gaze searched mine. “I don't know any information about your family. You never, ever talk about them.”

“Because they're a lot of drama. And I hoped I'd left them behind for good, but more drama has caught up to me.”

He rested calloused hands on my shoulders. “Let me help.”

As much as I wanted to share this burden with him, I feared the telling of one secret would lead to another and another and then one day he'd know the darkest part of me that I could never share. “I don't want to drag you into this.”

“Honey, you're important to me and whatever is an issue for you is an issue for me.”

Scott believed what he was saying. He wanted to believe it. But Janet and Carrie were not sprint races; they were twin marathons that would exhaust the toughest of runners. Scott could lend his attention to events outside the vineyard for short bursts, but for him to put all this on hold to take care of a fussy baby and her mentally ill mother, well, that went beyond what he could handle. I wasn't sure if I could handle it.

His thumb traced my jawline as he held my face. “Honey, let me help.”

I pulled his hands from my face and kissed the palms. “I'll make a deal. If I can't figure this out in a couple of weeks and put it behind me, then we'll talk.”

A frown wrinkled his brow. “Either way, we need to talk.”

In four weeks, with Carrie settled into a good home and separating me from Alexandria, I was fairly certain I could talk to Scott about my family. We would never get into the dark and dirty secrets, but I could skim the surface enough to satisfy him.

“Two or three weeks?”

A smile curved the edges of my lips. “Four at the outside. It won't be long.”

“Four weeks?” He pulled me against him, and I could feel his erection pressing into me. “I don't like it when you're gone.”

“I don't like being gone.” Some of my resolve melted and for a moment, temptation whispered, “Stay. Just stay.” I wanted the past to leave me alone. I wanted this life with Scott. I wanted . . .

My wants would have to wait. Like it or not, Carrie needed me and she was as stuck in this mess as I was. Neither one of us asked for the hand we were dealt.

Before temptation could speak again, I slipped out of his embrace and grabbed a handful of clothes from the dresser and shoved them in my duffel bag. I zipped up the bag and hefted it on my shoulder. “I've already packed my laptop and papers in the car so I can work remotely. This time of year, the work I do is all office related.”

“What about the website and the pictures from the photographer?”

“I'll take care of it in Alexandria.”

He shook his head and grabbed my wrist in his hands. “Four weeks, Addie, and if you're not home, I'm coming after you.”

His declaration warmed my heart. “You won't have to track me down. I'll be here.”

Fifteen minutes later, I drove the gravel drive of the vineyard, the dust kicking up around my back tires. Through the cloud of dirt I saw Scott standing by our house, waving before he turned and vanished into the house.

Tightening my grip on the wheel, I slowed at the main road, turned right, and followed the twisting pavement through the small town of Middlebrook and then toward the interstate. Five days ago, leaving the country, I was angry and filled with resentment I couldn't voice. Now, well, I wasn't happy about returning to Alexandria, but a grim determination settled over me. I wasn't embracing my past, but I needed to deal with it head on or it would chip away at my future.

When I arrived at the salvage yard at eleven, Grace was waiting for me at the top of the stairs with a crying Carrie. Without a word, I dropped my bag and purse in a heap at the top of the stairs and took the baby. A few days of experience taught me to check her diaper and ask, “When was the last time she ate?”

Grace turned toward the kitchen, her limbs moving stiff and slow, as if she aged twenty years in the last twenty-four hours. “She took a bottle at two but refused all since. I tried, but she won't take it.”

“Where's the bottle?”

“Kitchen counter. By the sink.”

As I moved closer to the kitchen, Carrie's cries grew louder and more impatient. I reached for the bottle and checked the temperature on my wrist. Warm enough. The nipple popped in her mouth, and she suckled immediately. Her little body remained tense and her tear-streaked face tight with tension. When I began to sway back and forth, she slowly relaxed.

Grace raised a brow. “She would not do that for me. Not once. Almost like she figured out the B-Team was in charge.”

I moved to a kitchen chair and sat, cradling the baby in my arm. “I'm hardly the A-Team.”

She poured a cup of coffee and then dug out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. She splashed a generous amount in her coffee before she took several slow sips.

She waved her mug toward the baby. “The kid isn't stupid. She understands you're the best person in her corner now. Without you, she'd be a number in a foster home family.”

I settled Carrie a little closer to me and the remaining tension furrowing her little brow vanished. “I'm not a permanent solution, Grace. Janet is her mother.”

Grace scoffed. “Janet's got a good soul, but she's not a mother. She'll maybe want to try at some point, but she won't be able to handle the heavy lifting. She never has been able to handle it.”

“Just like Mom.”

“Your mother had a soft soul. She loved you and Janet. She just couldn't do it.”

I pulled the bottle from the baby's mouth to give her a chance to let her milk settle. Too fast down meant it came right back up. Carrie fussed a second or two before I settled the nipple on her lips again. “You could have taken us.”

Grace sipped her coffee once, twice. “I'm not cut out for parenthood, Addie.”

“Who's to say I am? I'm pretty darn good at running a business. I like my independence. I'm not so different than you.”

“You are very different from me.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because you came back. I'd have stayed at my vineyard and not come back.” She finished the last of the coffee, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and pushed away from the counter. “I need sleep.”

As the baby suckled, I eased back in the chair and listened to Grace's feet shuffle along the hallway. Her bedroom door closed and the lock clicked.

The baby's eyes drifted closed as the bottle drained to large white bubbles. I gently pulled the nipple free and carried the baby to my
room. The chest of drawers makeshift bed was gone and in its place was a real cradle outfitted with clean blankets and a sheet.

The craftsmanship on the cradle was amazing. Oval shaped, with whiskey-colored mahogany slats, precisely placed, curving with the top band and creating an egglike nest. On the headboard, tiny carved birds fluttered around an inlaid T. The polished, smooth wood smelled faintly of lemons.

T. Talbot. Zeb.

If I were sentimental, I'd have attached meaning to the cradle. But I wasn't and neither was Zeb. He owned a cradle and knew Carrie needed one, if only for a month, so he dusted off Eric's and brought it by. He was filling a need, as I was. Neither of us was attached to the baby or Janet. We were simply doing what needed to be done.

I situated Carrie in the bed. She moved her lips, mouthing some unintelligible word before her body relaxed into a deep sleep. Lowering my body to my bed, I knew there was so much to be done for the vineyard, mainly regarding followup calls. And I'd get on it right away. I fell back toward the pillows and closed my eyes. Just a few minutes of sleep. Maybe ten or twenty minutes. And I'd be refreshed and back on the job.

“Addie?”

The voice came from a distance and at first was easy to swat away like a fly.

“Addie?”

More insistent and impatient, the stage-whispered voice promised to grow louder if I didn't respond. “Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

My eyes fluttered open and, for a moment, I could not have told you where I was. The too-quiet room, the white-washed walls, and the tongue-and-groove ceiling did not register. “Yes, I'm awake.”

I slung my legs over the side of the bed, rose, and wiped a bit of
drool from the corner of my mouth. A glance to my right and I saw the sleeping baby. Baby Carrie. Alexandria.

Standing in the doorway was Margaret. Her hair sprung from her topknot, like a woman who always ran her hands over her hair. She wore a
History Rocks!
T-shirt and faded jeans.

“Good, you're awake.” Margaret's now-familiar voice held a buzz of excitement. “I've been up all night reading about your bottle and your stone hearth.”

Not my bottle. Not my hearth. Not my life. “And what did you find?”

“You think we could make a fresh pot of coffee? I'm on fumes. I snagged some day-old cookies from the bakery. Sugar and caffeine. My favorite food groups.”

A smile tweaked the edges of my mouth. “Coffee coming right up.”

“You're a goddess.” She vanished from the door and padded down the hallway.

I rose, checked on the baby, and followed. In less than a minute, I made us both cups of coffee and cradled mine at the table. “You mentioned cookies.”

Margaret dug a Union Street Bakery box from a tattered knapsack and set it on the table. Inside were six sugar and six chocolate chip cookies. I took one of each. “Thanks.”

She sipped her coffee. “The kid is doing okay?”

“Sleeping.”

“For how long?”

“What time is it?”

“Twelve.”

I slept for an hour. “I don't think she slept much last night. So I'm hoping a little while longer.”

“Good.” She leaned back in the chair, her arm resting casually on the back like we were best buddies. “So how did the wine thing go?”

I yawned. “It went well. We were a hit.”

“And was lover boy pleased?”

“Scott was very happy. He's worked hard for this moment.”

“Sounds like you have as well.”

“The vineyard is his dream.”

“Dreams are all fine and good, but if there isn't a brain behind the dream, then it generally doesn't get far. Sounds like lover boy sees the forest, and you see the trees.”

The sugar cookie tasted sweet and soft. “That's a good way of putting it.”

“I'm a tree kind of person myself. Love digging into history.”

“You love what you do. That's a blessing.”

“Blessing and a curse. I can spend all day in the past, but can't really connect with the present or the future.”

The hot coffee revived my brain a little. “I avoid the past as much as possible.”

“Too bad, because your bottle is fascinating,” Margaret said.

“You keep saying my bottle. I gave it to you.”

Margaret accepted the New York cup. “That doesn't belong to me. It's a part of all our pasts. No one owns history.”

“Good, because I don't need the responsibility of any more history.” I sipped my coffee and sat at the table, realizing this was the first time in almost a week I felt moderately relaxed. “So, tell me what you found.”

She plucked a sugar cookie from the box and took a large bite. Her eyes closed and for a moment her softened expression telegraphed her pleasure. “I've been on a low-carb diet for six days. But when I woke this morning I headed straight to the bakery. I know where my sister Rachel stashes the day-old stuff.”

I reached for a chocolate chip and studied its perfectly round shape. “How many carbs in this?”