Once Upon a Wine (16 page)

“I
never know what's coming next with you.” Ian looked wryly amused when he got out of the truck and opened the passenger-side door for her.

“Keeps life exciting.” Cammie practically bounced into the truck cab. “What's up with you?”

“I was hanging out at home, watching the ballgame.”

Cammie scooched toward him as he settled into the driver's seat. “And?”

“And halfway through the third inning, my phone rings.”

“And you picked up.” She moved all the way to the middle of the bench seat.

“Well, yeah.”

Cammie could smell the traces of shampoo in his freshly washed hair. “And you're wondering what kind of farming help I need from you?”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

Cammie nestled closer, her body heat commingling with his. She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. “I don't want to do anything related to farming with you. I want to do everything else.” She reached up and brushed her fingertips against his cheek.

He rested his hands on the steering wheel, the truck still in Park. His jaw twitched under her touch. “Why now? What's changed?”

She considered this for a moment, trying to piece together an explanation that would make sense to him—or to herself. But all she knew was that she didn't want to spend the next decade regretting letting him go. Wondering what might have been.

She smiled up at him. “Everything.”

He bowed his head, brushed his lips against hers once, twice.

“You taste like strawberries,” he told her.

“I taste like the wine we made with your strawberries. And we're not talking about either of those things, remember?” She slid her hand to the back of his neck, urged him to kiss her again. When they finally pulled apart, he put the truck in gear.

“Where are we going?”

“First, to the grocery store.”

“What's at the grocery store?”

“The opposite of wine and strawberries.”

Cammie rested her head on his shoulder, feeling safe yet buzzed with anticipation. She was able to appreciate this in a way she hadn't when she was younger. Right now, in this moment, she felt like her chances were infinite, like her luck would never run out.

They ended up at the beach after stopping to buy tequila, lemons, and fixings for s'mores. Ian parked by the north end of the boardwalk, where the public-beach crowds ended and the deserted private beaches began.

He unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed the grocery bags. “Let's go.”

Cammie stared at him. “Go where?”

“Looking for ghost crabs.”

“What's a ghost crab?” It sounded decidedly unromantic.

He strode around the front of the truck, opened her door, and pulled a flashlight out of the glove compartment. “They're little white crabs that only come out at midnight.” He held out his palm, offering to help her alight.

She blinked at him. “But I . . .”

“You said you wanted the opposite of walking the fields in the hot sun. Baby, this is it.”

She took his hand and climbed down to the crumbling asphalt in her spindly high heels.

“Take your shoes off,” he said, and she complied, leaving the peep-toe pumps on the truck's floor mat. He took his shoes off, as well, then helped her over the low metal guardrail and onto the sand.

The afternoon had been unrelentingly hot and humid, but the air had cooled as night fell. The sand felt refreshing against her bare feet.

Strands of hair whipped across her face as the breeze picked up. She pulled out the jeweled combs, letting her hair tumble loose around her shoulders. Ian watched her. When she was through, she folded her arms over the bodice of her cocktail dress and said, “Really? Ghost crabs? Really?”

He nodded, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Really.”

“This sounds like a hoax. Is this like a snipe-shooting expedition?”

“No. If I wanted to take you on a wild goose chase, I'd ask you to come look for the ghost dog.”

She frowned. “Wait. There's a ghost dog?”

“Not really. That's why it's a wild goose chase.”

“Wait,
what
?”

He laughed and turned on his flashlight. “Come on. Stop stalling.”

“What are we looking for?” Cammie asked as they started across the dunes toward the water's edge.

“Little white crabs. They usually hang out right at the edge of the waves.”

Cammie could see the flicker of a bonfire farther down the shoreline. Teenagers, no doubt, flouting the strict policy against open flames on the beach. She turned to Ian to ask if they'd be roasting s'mores out here later, when she registered a blur of movement at the edge of the flashlight beam.

“Is that one?” She pointed. “Right there.”

He swept the flashlight beam across the sand. “Yep. Good eye.”

She hopped back as she got a good look at the creature scuttling along the wet sand. “That's not little, that's huge! Look at those claws!”

“They don't pinch.”

She grabbed his shoulders, putting him between her and the crab. “Are you sure?”

He wrapped one arm around her and spun her back toward the shoreline. “I'm positive. They're more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Right on cue, the white crab scurried back into the water.

“Come on.” The flashlight beam bounced off the water as Ian started walking again.

She relaxed, curled her toes into the cool, wet sand . . . and shrieked as a tiny pincer speared her heel.

“Aigh!”

Ian was at her side immediately. “What?”

“It pinched me!” In an attempt to shake off the little hitchhiker, Cammie raced into the waves, shivering and sputtering as the crab dropped into the frigid, foamy water. For a moment, she lost her breath, overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through her veins and the tang of saltwater in her mouth. Her eyes burned, her lungs burned, the freshly pierced skin on her heel burned.

And she felt completely, gloriously alive.

She emerged from the sea, laughing and shaking her fist at Ian, whose expression went back and forth between amusement and chagrin.

“I've never seen anyone get attacked by a ghost crab. Ever.”

She held out her dripping, shivering arms. “Well, take a good look.”

He did, letting his gaze slowly sweep from her head to her toes. Her hair was tangled and dripping, her expensive dress was ruined and clinging to her skin.

She stared back at him, and she knew she would think of him every time she saw the moon shine down on the ocean, every time she felt a sea breeze on her cheek. This was the opposite of fear. The opposite of failure.

“Come here.” He opened his arms to her. “You're freezing.”

She flung herself into his warm embrace, savoring the feel of her body against his. She knew she couldn't stay with him forever, but she could stay with him tonight.

He tightened his arms around her as she shivered in the cool evening air. “You okay?”

She nodded, her teeth chattering almost too much to talk. “Mm-hmm.”

As they started back toward the truck, he kept her close to him, warming her with his body heat and fending off any crabs. He settled her into the passenger's seat, pulled a small first-aid kit from under the driver's seat, and dabbed disinfectant on her heel.

She sucked in her breath at the sting. “Ouch. I think I'm ready for a shot of tequila.”

He applied a Band-Aid, lifted her foot, and bestowed a light kiss on the arch.

And just like that, she wasn't cold anymore. All of her senses thrilled at the feel of his lips on her bare skin. His hands, deliciously
rough and callused, slid up past her ankle to cradle her calf. His lips progressed, too, trailing light kisses up her shin.

He paused, glanced up at her face, and kissed her knee. Then he stopped.

Cammie held her breath.

He trailed his fingers back down to her ankle. She shivered with anticipation.

“Cold?” he asked.

She shook her head. All she could hear was the steady crash of the surf and the pounding of her own heart in her ears. The rush that swept through her was faster and stronger than any wine-induced buzz.

Finally, she whispered, “What are you waiting for?”

His fingers slid back up toward her knee. “We're taking our time.”

She wrapped her hands around his shirt collar, urging him closer. “I'm in a hurry.”

His face was so close to hers, she could feel him smiling against her cheek. She turned her head and kissed him. He kissed her back and settled his hands on the curve of her hips.

They stayed there, making out by the light of the huge golden moon, for what felt like hours.

Finally, Ian pulled back, his eyes hooded.

“What's wrong?” she murmured.

“Nothing.” He rested his palm on the back of her head. “It's late. I should take you home.”

“What?” She had to force herself to unhand his shirt. “No, you shouldn't!”

“You have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Not as early as you.” She ran her hands through his hair, then wrapped her arms around him and held him close. “And we haven't even cracked open the tequila or the lemons or the marshmallows.”

“We have time,” he promised. “Not just tonight.” He gave her one last kiss. “We'll both have something to look forward to.”

She knew this was the sensible choice. She knew they had all summer. The anticipation would be delicious.

But there was a lot to be said for instant gratification.

C
ammie lay awake for hours that night, tossing and turning, her body primed and her heart racing. The house had been empty when she went to bed, but she could hardly spare a thought for her aunt and her cousin. She was consumed with longing, and it felt good to want something so much. She hadn't let herself really want anything—or anyone—for a long time.

She finally drifted off but awoke at dawn, feeling refreshed despite the lack of sleep. She glanced over at her phone to check the time—still fifteen minutes before her alarm would ring. Ian had promised her that her brain and body would adjust to the vineyard lifestyle, and he'd been right. She was officially shifting over to Farmer Central Time.

She stretched, padded out of bed, and sent a text to the man who'd been on her mind all night:

Up with the sun. No rooster required.

Moments later, he replied:
Coffee required?

She smiled and replied:
More like a caffeine IV.

He responded:
Meet at Jilted Café at nine?

She wrote back:
Nine a.m. is the new nine p.m. It's a date.

“Hey.” Kat was sitting at the kitchen table when Cammie came downstairs. Jacques was curled up under her chair. “What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

Kat was still wearing her dress and makeup from last night. Her face looked pale and drawn. “I'm just thinking.”

“Yeah?” Cammie pulled out a chair. “What are you— Hang on.” She squinted at a little magnet on the refrigerator door. “What's that?”

Kat leaned back in her chair and grabbed the flowery magnet made of felt. Jacques snorted in protest as the chair legs scraped against the hardwood floor. “That's my mom's idea of folksy charm.”

“‘Bloom where you're planted?'” Cammie read the message embroidered around the flower petals. “There's a lot of that going around.”

“What do you mean?”

Cammie told her cousin about the wooden sign she'd been forced to take at the garden-supply store. “That's two ‘Bloom where you're planted's' this week.”

“Maybe it's a sign from the universe,” Kat suggested. She glanced down at Cammie's bandaged heel. “What happened to your foot?”

“Crab attack. I went to the beach last night with Ian.”

“Ooh, the plot thickens. What's going on with you two?”

“Not much.” Cammie cleared her throat. “Just, you know, setting up our second date in twelve hours.”

“Rawr.”

“Here's hoping.” She leaned in and confided, “We made out.”

“And?”

“And then he took me home.”

Kat made a face. “Well, that's boring.”

“
Au contraire
. The sexual tension is blowing my mind.”

“Know what else might blow your mind?” Kat sipped her coffee. “Actual sex.”

“I know. But right now, I'm in that can't-sleep, can't-eat, can't-concentrate infatuation stage.”

“I think I have vague memories of that from high school.”

Cammie fanned her face. “I'm feeling
all
the feelings.”

Kat smiled wistfully. “Well, enjoy them while they last.”

“Speaking of which, how'd it go with Josh last night? Did he finally answer the phone?”

“Wait. I need a PopTart if we're going to have this conversation.” Kat rummaged through the cabinet, ripped open a foil packet, and handed a strawberry pastry to Cammie. “Okay, where was I?”

“Josh.”

“Okay, so yes, he did answer the phone. I told him I was sorry for pushing him away. I told him I was deeply remorseful and I'd prove it to him. I offered to do anything he wanted.”

Cammie took a little nibble of frosting. “What'd he say?”

“He said no.” Kat put down her pastry.

“Oh, honey.”

“I can't blame him. I have this coming.”

“He's angry, but he'll get over it,” Cammie declared with a confidence she didn't feel. “Give him some space and some time.”

Kat straightened up. “I've given him too much space already. We need to stop spending time apart and start spending time together.”

“But if he said . . .”

“You know what else we need?” Kat crumpled up the foil wrapper. “Less talk and more action. I got us into this mess, and I'll get us out of it.”

“Okay, but if I could just be the voice of reason for one second—”

Kat rolled her eyes. “If you must.”

“You guys are partners. So you both have to take action. Together.”

“That's what I'm saying—I'll start the train rolling, and he'll get on board.”

Cammie gave up on reason and common sense. “What do you think you'll do?”

“Well.” Kat toyed with her paper napkin. “There's a chess tournament in Rehoboth Beach next week. I could sign him up for that.”

“Josh plays chess?”

“He loves chess.”

Cammie wondered if this whole thing would make more sense after the caffeine kicked in. “And a chess tournament is going to save your marriage
how
?”

“It'll show him that I'm willing to do anything to spend time with him. Including watching chess for hours on end. Something that's all about him and not about me. It's a start, right?” Kat brightened for a moment, then went back to looking glum. “But what if it's too late? What if I threw away a great marriage because I had some stupid midlife crisis?”

“For the last time, Katherine, you're too young for a midlife crisis.” Aunt Ginger strolled into the kitchen, still wearing her cocktail dress and chandelier earrings.

Cammie heard the faint rumbling of a car engine outside. She gaped at her aunt. “Are you just getting home from the wine festival?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. What are you girls doing in here?”

“We're up for the day.”

Ginger glanced at the clock, her expression horrified. “Oh God. It's practically time to start weeding.”

“That's life on a farm.”

“I need a nap, at least, before I can work in the fields.” Ginger stretched her hands above her head and yawned.

“Take today off.” Cammie remembered all the mornings in high school and college when she'd slept in while her aunt made breakfast and cleaned the house. “Jacques and I can go count the rows.”

Jacques jumped to his feet and wagged his stump of a tail.

Ginger didn't argue. “Fine. I'm going to turn in. So if there's nothing you need . . .”

Cammie pointed at Kat. “She's trying to save her marriage with a chess tournament.”

Kat pointed at Cammie. “She went parking with her ex.”

“We will sort out both of those issues after I get some shut-eye.” Ginger started for the staircase.

“Not so fast,” Kat called after her. “Where have
you
been all this time?”

“The very best thing about being the parent is that I don't have to answer those questions.” Ginger hummed a little tune. “But I will tell you this much: While you two were creating all sorts of drama with all sorts of men, I was networking and lining up business contacts.”

Cammie narrowed her eyes. “What business contacts?”

“That lovely gentleman I introduced you to, for one.”

“The one you were flirting shamelessly with?”

“That's the one.” Ginger nodded. “He's going to make our wine this fall.”

Cammie and Kat exchanged a look. “Uh . . .”

Ginger tapped her fingernail on the doorjamb. “What?”

“We get that he's lovely and all . . .”

“But he's not actually qualified for that.”

“He's more qualified than any of us,” Ginger retorted.

“Jacques is more qualified than us,” Kat said. Jacques's ears pricked up at the mention of his name.

“We don't have to make a decision right now,” Cammie said.

“It's already made. It was made hours ago,” her aunt declared. “It's my vineyard, and I've selected my winemaker. Deal with it.”

Kat and Cammie exchanged another meaningful look.

“Don't.” Ginger's tone sharpened. She walked back toward the kitchen table so she could tower over them. “I know you think you know better because you're young. But let me tell you something: I've had to be tough to make it this far. Do you really think I'd risk my financial future over a one-night flirtation?”

Cammie and Kat shook their heads and mumbled apologies to the tabletop.

“If I say he can do it, he can do it. And with that, I bid you both adieu. Hold my calls.” Ginger strode up the stairs and shut her bedroom door firmly enough that the sound echoed down the stairwell.

“We're going to have to give her a curfew,” Kat said.

“I don't know, maybe she's on to something,” Cammie mused. “Maybe we should watch and learn. She's nothing if not a survivor.” She glanced over at the freezer door. “She's blooming where she's planted.”

“Whatever. I'm off to do damage control on my marriage.” Kat shoved the rest of the PopTart into her mouth.

“Smile when you say that.”

Kat twisted her face into a positively macabre grin. “Have fun counting the rows.”

Jacques yipped and wriggled with joy.

Cammie got to her feet and started looking for sunblock. “Oh, I will.”

•   •   •

Two hours later, Cammie knelt on a blue piece of foam, her fingers sifting through the cool soil, the warm sunlight filtering through the brim of her woven straw hat. Jacques scampered up and down
the row, tripping over his own feet and trying to catch a fly in his mouth. When she looked up, all she could see was green and gold.

She should be wearing gloves. She should apply a fresh coat of sunscreen. But right now, she didn't want to interrupt the flow. She wanted to keep checking the budding vines, pulling weeds, and smelling the faint trace of roses on the morning breeze. This was hard work, but she welcomed the opportunity to do something productive. To be part of this cycle that had started before she arrived in Delaware and would continue long after she left.

Maybe, just maybe . . . she was starting to like farming.

Maybe, after all her frustration and trepidation and disparagement, she was starting to understand why Ian would never be able to walk away from this life. Because that's what it was—a
life
. Not a job with an eight-hour shift you could forget about once you clocked out. This was an ongoing relationship with the land and the seeds and the rain and the sun.

Maybe she, too, was blooming where she'd been planted.

Her spirit soaring, she doffed her hat and looked up to the sky.

A majestic bird flew overhead . . .

And pooped on her forehead.

Screaming and swearing as she wiped her skin with the hem of her shirt, Cammie accepted the unfortunate truth: She
wanted
to like farming, but she didn't. She
wanted
to have the kind of relationship with her grapes that Ian had with his strawberries, but she never would.

She wanted Ian, but not enough to give up everything else she wanted. There had to be a compromise here somewhere—some way they could be together without one of them having to sacrifice too much.

The phone in her back pocket chimed as a text message from Ian arrived:

Mite emergency. Have to cancel breakfast. Will make it up to you.

“Farming sucks, yo,” she said aloud, so that the grapes and the roses and the birds could all hear her.

She had to figure out what she was doing with Ian. She had to figure out what she was doing with her life. And figure it out she would—right after she took a hot, steamy, soapy shower to get all this freakin' nature off her.