Once Upon a Wine (11 page)

He nodded. “Timing's important.”

“If you turn this into a farming metaphor, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

“No farming metaphors.” He opened the truck door for her. “Get in.”

“Are we going to the wine bar?” she asked hopefully.

“Nope.”

She didn't want the night to end. “You're taking me back to the house?”

He settled into the driver's seat and started the ignition. “Eventually.”

T
he ocean looked amber under the light of the huge golden moon as they drove by the beach. “We could take a little stroll on the sand.” Cammie inched toward Ian on the truck's wide bench seat. “I haven't been to the boardwalk yet.”

“We're not going to the boardwalk.” Ian gave her a knowing look. “We're going back to the fields. Putting it off is just making it worse.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“You're scared,” he said.

She pulled back a bit. “Of what?”

“The grapes. The dirt. All of it.”

“I'm not scared of the grapes,” Cammie insisted.

“Have you tasted one yet?” he challenged.

“No,” she blustered. “They're for growing, not for eating.”

He turned off the coastal highway and headed inland. “You and those grapes are going to be spending a lot of time together. You need to get comfortable with them.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “Because grapes can smell fear?”

“Damn straight.” He draped his arm along the back of the seat.

“We just had a lovely dinner and drove by a gorgeous full moon over the ocean. This night has potential. Let's not ruin it with grape talk.”

“I'm not ruining anything.” He let his arm settle across her shoulders. “I'm about to make your whole life better.”

“In the vineyard? At night?” She considered what she just said. “That sounds so romantic. Too bad the reality is so . . .”

“So what?” he prompted.

“Nothing.” She sighed. “There's just so much to know. There's nothing arty or creative about growing grapes. Everything's technical and exact.” Her voice got thinner, higher. “Water, but not too much water. Heat, but not too much heat. Fertilizer, but not too much fertilizer. If you make one mistake, everything's ruined for the season. You fail.”

All she could hear was the rush of the wind through the open windows. Then Ian said, “Don't ruin this for yourself.”

“I'm not.”

“They're just grapes. It's just sun and earth and water. Think of it like this,” he suggested. “A few years ago, this vineyard didn't even exist. It's an experiment.”

She held one hand just outside the window, feeling the push of cool air against her palm. “How can you be so relaxed about it?”

“I have to be. That's how it goes with farming. You can't control the weather or the soil or the bugs. All you can do is work with what you have. If it doesn't pan out, wait for a season and try again.”

“Timing is everything?”

“Exactly.” He brushed her hair aside and rested his palm on the nape of her neck.

Cammie knew she should be enjoying the here and now, but her anxiety mounted with every mile they drove. Facing down a field of
grapes in the dead of night was the stuff of nightmares. She would have to admit all her ignorance and inadequacies to him. Again.

She lapsed into silence until Ian turned down the winding gravel road and parked by the grapevines. “Let's go.” He walked around, opened her door, and offered his hand. “Come on.”

“We could just sit in here and make out,” she offered.

He took her hand in his and led her toward the field. She could smell the faint trace of roses in the humid night air. Ian kept going until they reached the center of the vineyard, where all she could see was tender young vines and the man next to her. When she looked up, the vast, starry sky stretched out forever.

He looked down at her. She looked up at him.

“Now what?” she murmured.

He rested his index finger on her lips. “Listen.”

She tilted her head and strained her ears. After a few moments, she heard the soft, persistent whisper of the breeze against branches. The rustle of growth and greenery. Undetectable, unless you knew to listen for it. The sound of life.

She gazed up at him, a smile spreading across her face. “I hear it.”

He leaned down and kissed her softly, and she felt something spark within her. Everything shifted, even as the earth remained solid beneath her and the stars remained fixed overhead.

•   •   •

Cammie made it back to the house just after eleven. All her warm, fuzzy feelings faded when she saw Kat crying on the sofa in the parlor.

When she sat down next to her cousin, Kat hugged a throw pillow to her chest and turned her face away. “I can't talk about it.”

“Okay.” Cammie made herself comfortable, anyway. “But you can watch TV, right?”

“No one is watching TV at this hour.” Ginger's voice floated down from upstairs. “Both of you are going to bed this instant.”

“Do we have a curfew?” Cammie asked Kat.

“You shouldn't need a curfew,” Ginger called. She had always had superhuman hearing. “You should have enough common sense at your age to know that you need to be in bed at this hour. But since you don't have common sense, I'll be the voice of reason. As usual. Upstairs, both of you.
Now
.”

Cammie and Kat were getting to their feet when the doorbell rang. The chimes echoed through the dark, quiet house. Jacques let out a single bark from his dog bed on the second floor.

Cammie looked at Kat. Kat looked at Cammie. Jacques started trundling down the stairs, snorting with every step.

“Who on earth is that?” Ginger demanded.

Kat's expression was both hopeful and horrified. “Maybe it's Josh again?”

They were all still standing around, staring and wondering, when the doorbell rang a second time.

Ginger marched down the stairs and bestowed a withering look on the younger women as she reached for the doorknob. “
Somebody
has to take action.”

She yanked open the door, which blocked Cammie's view of the porch.

“Oh.” Ginger sounded both annoyed and confused. “
Oh
. May I help you?”

Kat jumped off the couch and hurried to her mother's side. Cammie was right behind her. They jostled for position as they regarded the quartet of middle-age tourists bedecked in Bethany Beach sweatshirts and tennis visors.

“Is this the winery?” a tall brunette with blindingly white teeth asked.

“Yes.” Kat frowned. “Are you guys lost?”

“Not anymore. We've been driving around looking for this place for almost an hour.”

The man behind the dazzling-toothed woman nodded. “Not to tell you gals how to run your business, but you should really consider getting some better signage.”

Kat's eyebrows went all the way up to her hairline. Cammie hastened to intervene. “Signage. Got it. We'll take that under advisement.”

The tourists started to look peeved. “So . . .”

Cammie, Ginger, and Kat waited for them to finish the sentence.

“Can we come in? Your website says you do wine tastings.”

“It's past eleven,” Ginger pointed out.

The visitors looked sheepish—for about five seconds. “I know, but we have to fly back home tomorrow, and we were so looking forward to this.”

“No offense,” said the guy who had made the helpful suggestion about signage. “But you ladies don't look like you're in a position to turn away business.”

Ginger and Kat opened their mouths in unison, but before they could utter a syllable, Cammie slipped into restaurateur mode. She was used to dealing with last-minute requests and overinflated egos. Her guests wanted a certain experience, and she was going to provide it. “Come on in.” She stepped back and held the door open. “Make yourselves comfortable. I'll be right back with the wine.”

When her aunt rounded on her, Cammie held up her palm and whispered, “In the kitchen.”

While she located wineglasses and checked them for water spots, she said, “You guys go to bed if you want. I can handle this.”

“It's the middle of the night!” Ginger was outraged. “The nerve of them, traipsing into our house at this hour. Who do they think they are?”

“They can take their signage,” Kat growled, “and shove it up their—”

“You know who they are? They're paying customers,” Cammie
replied. “Who will leave big tips after they get some cabernet into them.”

“The website says we offer wine tastings by appointment,” Kat said. “Not by demand, whenever your punk ass happens to show up. That's not how we operate.”

Cammie grabbed a corkscrew, poured a bottle of water into a carafe, and rummaged through the pantry for a box of crackers. “It is now. Grab some ice and see if we have any soda in the fridge.”

“What are we doing with soda and ice?”

Cammie washed her hands and flexed her fingers, preparing to do culinary magic. “Making bad wine slightly less bad.”

•   •   •

“This is . . . interesting.”

Cammie smiled as everyone sipped the strawberry sangria she'd made with the cabernet. “It's
delicious
.”

“Yes! Delicious!” By midnight, the well-heeled tourists were thoroughly soused and easily persuaded. “Delaware is the next Napa.”

“I'm flattered you think so.” When the sangria was gone, Cammie poured seyval blanc into the wineglasses and encouraged everyone to cleanse their palates by nibbling the oyster crackers. “Here, try this and see what you think.”

“Sweet,” proclaimed the brunette.

“Dry,” her husband asserted.

They both looked to Cammie to determine who had the more discerning palate.

“You're both right,” she assured them. “That's the beauty of wine—taste is subjective.”

Behind the tourists, Ginger gave her a silent golf clap.

“You're drinking the same thing, but having entirely different experiences. There's no such thing as a great wine—there's only what you like and don't like.” Cammie was one hundred percent
making this up as she went along, but her guests were nodding in agreement.

“That's why there's no point in being snobby about wine.” She handed out fresh napkins and offered everyone more crackers. “You're supposed to enjoy it, not judge it.”

“So it's okay if I like Riesling, even though all my fashionable friends say it's awful?” The second female tourist seemed so earnest and hopeful.

“It's not awful if you love it,” Cammie decreed. “Remember: It's just wine.”

“It's just wine,” they all murmured.

“Just sun and soil and grapes.” Cammie glanced at her watch, then made a point of yawning loudly. This set off the desired chain reaction, and everyone started exclaiming about how late it was and how early they had to leave for the airport in the morning.

“This is such a beautiful area,” the brunette said as she regarded the night sky with boozy appreciation. “And so romantic.”

“You gals are so lucky. Living the dream.”

“While we have to go back to the real world. Meetings and dentist appointments and morning commutes. What's it like? Not having to deal with any of that crap?”

Just tractor auctions and broken sprinklers and snowballing debt.
“What can I say?” Cammie shoved a handful of oyster crackers into her mouth. “Living the dream.”

T
wo days later, Cammie was on the phone with Ian when the male stripper showed up.

“Grapes still alive?” Ian asked.

“So far, so good,” Cammie confirmed. She tucked her feet underneath her on the sofa. At almost five o'clock in the afternoon, her muscles ached and her limbs felt leaden with exhaustion. Ginger, Kat, and Jacques had joined her shortly after dawn to pull weeds and check the moisture levels in the soil. She let her eyes flutter closed for a moment, tipped her head against the back of the sofa . . .

“Hey.” Ian's voice brought her back to reality. “Still with me?”

“What? Yes.” She could hear a faint mechanical rumbling on his end of the connection and pictured him out in the fields, surrounded by soil and strawberries. “Sorry—I'm a little drowsy. We've had people show up at all hours.” She recounted the story of the midnight tourists.

He sounded both amused and incredulous. “And you invited them in and poured them wine?”

The doorbell rang. Cammie froze. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“That might be another wine-tasting group right now.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I'll get it.” Ginger hurried out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the front hall.

Thirty seconds later, she returned, her face scarlet.

“Hang up the phone,” she ordered Cammie.

Cammie covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “What's up? More wine tasting?”

Her aunt plucked the phone from Cammie's hand and hung up.

“Hey!” Cammie protested.

Ginger shut her down with a withering glare and yelled up the stairs for Kat.

“You paged me?” Kat ambled down, in no particular hurry.

Ginger folded her hands primly and drew a shuddering breath. “Why is there a scantily clad man dressed like a sailor on my front porch?”

Cammie and Kat practically knocked each other over as they headed for the foyer. Sure enough, an almost cartoonishly buff and tanned guy was standing on the welcome mat. He had on tight white pants, a jaunty white sailor's cap, and a navy neckerchief, and no shirt. Despite the gratuitous display of pecs and abs, he had the demeanor of a sheltered high schooler dressed up for a musical. A topless musical.

“This place just gets weirder every time the doorbell rings,” Kat said to Cammie. Then she turned her attention to their guest. “Hi there. How may we help you?”

Cammie elbowed her cousin out of the way. “I like your hat.”

He reached up to touch the brim and gave her a heartbreaking smile. “Thanks.”

“Why is he here?” Ginger yelled from the kitchen. She banged some pots around for emphasis.

“Don't be shy. Come in, come in.” Kat ushered their guest into the house.

The poor guy wandered around the parlor, looking completely confused. “I'm here for the party.”

Cammie's brows snapped together. “The what, now?”

“The bachelorette party?” He adjusted the navy neckerchief.

“I don't think we have anything like that scheduled,” Kat said.

“I'm sure there's a party tonight. They said five p.m.” The strapping young lad pulled up an e-mail on his phone as proof. “Here it is: five p.m.”

“We'll get this figured out,” Kat assured him. “And while we do that, why don't you sit down and have some wine?”

“Oh, I can't drink.”

“I guess it makes sense that there are laws against imbibing while, um, entertaining,” Cammie mused.

“Yeah, plus I'm only twenty.”

“How about cookies and milk?” Kat offered.

“Gosh, that sounds great.” He ducked his head, abashed. “But I don't want you ladies to go to any trouble.”

“Oh, it's no trouble.” Kat led the way down the hall. “We should find you a shirt, though.”

“Okay,” the guy agreed. “If it's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I've got a hundred promo T-shirts from boarding expos. What's your name?”

“Theo,” he replied.

Cammie's heart warmed as she imagined the cozy tableau: stripper and skateboarder about to sit down to cookies and milk.
She startled when she heard Ginger's voice hissing in her ear: “Since when are there strippers in Black Dog Bay?”

Cammie gasped and whirled around. “Don't sneak up on me like that.”

“And since when are we inviting them in for a snack?” Ginger brandished a strawberry juice–stained potato masher as if it were a weapon.

“His name is Theo,” Cammie informed her aunt. “And he seems like a very nice young man.”

Ginger gave a little squeak of disbelief. “Nice young men wear shirts.”

“Kat is getting him a shirt right now.”

“I don't like this.” Ginger crimped her lips as they heard the clatter of glassware in the kitchen.

“Come on, just say hi. He's very polite. And he's only twenty.” Cammie strolled into the kitchen to find Theo regarding Kat with wide-eyed sincerity.

“Did you know she's a professional skateboarder?” he asked.

Cammie toasted Kat with her water glass. “I did know that.”

“That's pretty badass.” With his earnest blue eyes and a milk mustache, Theo looked more like an Amish farm boy every minute.

“Here.” Kat opened a fresh package of cookies and informed Cammie, “We figured out what happened: He went to the wrong winery.”

“You did?” Cammie frowned. “I thought we were the only winery in Black Dog Bay.”

“You are. I'm supposed to go to one in Lewes.” Theo checked the time on his smartphone. “I have to leave in three minutes.”

“There's a winery in Lewes?” Cammie filed away this tidbit for future reference. “I'll have to hunt down the owner and find out, well, everything she knows, basically.”

Theo, still starstruck, handed his phone to Kat. “Are there any videos of you on YouTube?”

“Probably.” Kat looked self-conscious.

“What? You haven't watched them?”

“I don't need to be some pathetic has-been, watching clips of my glory days. That's gross. And sad. And . . .”

“Ignore her.” Cammie nodded at Theo. “Type in ‘Kat Milner.'”

He did, and watched a few clips of skating competitions. “Cool. You
are
badass.”

“I
was
badass,” Kat corrected him. “I'm retired now.”

“Yeah?” He looked at her, considering. “But you're not completely old yet.”

Kat laughed. “Not completely; only moderately. I'm trying to figure out how to be a housewife in the suburbs.”

Theo looked horrified. “Dude, why?”

“Well, what else am I going to do?”

“I don't know. Can't you, like, coach or something?”

“Not too many guys want to hire a woman as their coach.”

“That's sexist,” Theo said.

“Yeah, it is. But it's a fact. It's hard enough trying to make it as a female skater, never mind as a coach.”

“Is your husband an athlete, too?” he asked.

“No.” Kat looked away. “He's a professor.” Then she deliberately, almost aggressively, changed the subject. “What about you? Are there any videos of
you
on YouTube?”

Theo looked appalled at the very idea. “Gosh, I hope not.”

“There must be,” Kat said. “All those boozy bachelorette parties full of cell phones?”

“Oh, well, uh, this is actually my first bachelorette party.” Theo stared at the table and confided, “I've only been doing this for a month and a half.”

Ginger materialized behind Cammie and hissed in her ear. “I need a word.”

Cammie groaned and followed her back into the hallway. “Aunt Ginger, look at the poor kid. He's sweet. We're just giving him a snack and sending him on his way.”

“That's the problem! I may not know much about strippers, but I know about men. Once you start feeding them, they never leave!” Ginger threw her hands up. “We do not need any more projects or complications.”

Cammie was about to ask Ginger when she'd become so snippy and coldhearted, and then she looked at the duo at the kitchen table. Kat and Theo were leaning in toward each other, watching a video clip on Theo's phone.

The two of them seemed very cozy, and, suddenly, Cammie didn't like what she was seeing, either. No wonder Ginger wasn't thrilled. Josh wouldn't be thrilled, either.

Cammie strode back into the kitchen, brisk and businesslike. “Tick-tock, tick-tock. Theo, you'd better run along if you want to get to Lewes by five.”

“Yeah, okay.” Theo got to his feet and pulled off the T-shirt Kat had given him. “See you tomorrow, Kat?”

Cammie side-eyed her cousin. “What's happening tomorrow?”

“Theo and I are going down to the boardwalk,” Kat said.

“The boardwalk?” Cammie's glance bounced between the thirtysomething redhead and the barely-legal boy toy. “Why would you do that?”

“Kat's going to teach me some tricks.” Theo's face lit up. “I've always wanted to learn to do a bubble flip.”

Cammie turned to Kat. “Isn't that what you used to call the hospital flip?”

“‘Hospital flip' is sort of a basket term,” Kat hedged.

Cammie looked back at Theo. “But his face is his fortune. His face and his um, physique. He can't be going to bachelorette parties all bloody and bruised.”

“That reminds me.” Kat flexed her fingers in anticipation. “If you're serious about growing your business, Theo, you'll need a website. Let's throw something together. We'll brainstorm tomorrow.”

Theo gazed at Kat with worshipful, puppy-dog eyes.

Cammie tried to catch Kat's attention. Kat studiously ignored her.

Then Kat walked Theo out to his car, the pair of them laughing like old friends. When she returned to the house, Cammie and Ginger were waiting with grim expressions.

Kat's smile wilted. “What?”

“You tell me,” Ginger said.

“What are you doing?” Cammie said. “He's twenty.”

“And shirtless,” Ginger added.

“And twenty.”

Kat set her jaw and mimicked their defensive posture. “So what? We're discriminating against genetically blessed twenty-year-olds now?”

“You're married,” Cammie reminded her.

“I'm aware of that,” Kat snapped. “I'm going skateboarding and building a website with this kid. Not having a sordid affair.”

“Yet,” Ginger muttered.

Kat's nostrils flared. “What did you say?”

Cammie stepped in between them. “She just means that it's a slippery slope. You start out having fun, being friends, but then you're talking and sharing emotional stuff, and next thing you know . . .”

“No. I don't know.” Kat's eyes were cold and furious.

Cammie kind of shrugged. “It's just that, given what's going on with you and Josh . . .”

“I might cheat on him? Is that what you're saying?”

Cammie held out both palms. “No one's saying you'll cheat on him.”

“Yeah, actually, you are. You're saying I'm going to go behind Josh's back and sleep with a twenty-year-old.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

“There's no other way to put it.” Kat had gone from chilly to subzero. “That's what you think of me.”

Cammie took a moment to collect herself. “Let's start over.”

“Too late.”

Ginger rested her hand on Kat's shoulder. Kat jerked away.

“You're in transition right now,” Ginger said. “With your career and your marriage. You're still recovering from surgery. You've vulnerable and you need to be careful.”

Kat's temper detonated. After rattling off a string of obscenities, she said, “I can't believe this is how you see me: weak and superficial and ready to sleep with any guy who throws me a scrap of attention.”

“We don't—”

“Let me finish.” Kat looked ready to tear a wine barrel apart with her bare hands. “Why are you two allowed to make mistakes and act on impulse, but I have to stay the course at all times?”

Cammie had never thought about it that way. Kat's career had meant that taking risks and making split-second decisions
was
staying the course.

“I'm not going to cancel on Theo just because you're not comfortable with it,” Kat said. “You can think whatever you want, but keep it to yourself.”

“Okay, but—”

“Don't talk to me.” Kat strode toward the staircase, whipping out her cell phone as she went. “I'll be talking to my husband. And not being vulnerable.”

“That's probably why the two of you are having problems!” Ginger called after her.

“Don't you have some grapes to worry about?” Kat slammed the door behind her.

Cammie sighed. “Yes. Yes, we do.”