Once Upon a Wine (17 page)

“W
hat happened to you?” Kat asked when Cammie straggled back into the house.

“Farming.” Cammie made a face. “Farming happened to me.”

Kat got off the couch and put her laptop aside. “I'll come help you.”

“I don't need help.” Cammie wrinkled her nose at her stained shirt hem. “I need a shower, a spa day, and a ticket back to civilization. Oh, and a working tractor would be nice. Those dead vines aren't going to uproot themselves.”

A knowing grin spread across Kat's face.

“What?” Cammie demanded.

“You know what you look like right now?”

“Hell?”

“You look like Ian McKinlay's dream girl. You guys are living the R-rated version of
Green Acres
.”

“We're not living the R-rated version of anything. I don't think
we're going to move beyond making out in a pickup truck.” Cammie pointed to her besmirched forehead. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wash off bird poop.”

“What?” Kat got to her feet and motioned for Cammie to follow her to the kitchen. “You're a grown woman. Why on earth wouldn't you go all the way with him?”

“Because, for one thing, grown women don't use the phrase ‘go all the way.' And for another, he made it very clear that he's not ever going to ask me to settle down again.”

“What? When did he say that?”

“The summer we were twenty-two.”

Kat pulled a cold bottle of water out of the refrigerator and handed it to Cammie. “That doesn't count! He doesn't even remember that.”

“Oh, I assure you, he does.”

Kat looked unconcerned. “Well, then, you'll just have to make him change his mind.”

“Gee, it's so easy. Why didn't I think of that?”

“It sounds like you did.” Kat winked. “In the pickup truck in the ditch.”

Cammie got serious. “The thing is, before I ask him to change his mind, I have to be really,
really
sure I've changed mine.”

Kat's expression sobered. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“It's one thing to spend a summer growing grapes and pretending to be a vintner—”

“There's nothing pretend about it. I've seen the bank statements.”

“—but it's quite another to give up on the city and my career, such as it is, and decide to devote the rest of my life to growing strawberries. Farming isn't just his job; it's his
life
. He comes with a lot of baggage—the early mornings, the uncertainty of the weather, the constant responsibility . . .”

“Plants never sleep?” Kat said.

“Exactly. At least a restaurant has a closing time. In LA, I just had to commit to the late nights, the uncertainty of the reviews, the constant responsibility . . .”

“See? You've spent your whole life prepping for this!”

“To be a farmer's wife? Or even a farmer's girlfriend?” The phrase sounded just as jarring to Cammie now as it had when she was twenty-two. “That's not who I am. Anyway, I can't talk about this anymore. I have to clean myself up for another meeting with the bride and groom who have been together since seventh grade.”

•   •   •

“Let's talk about strawberries for a moment,” Vanessa, the mother of the bride, examined her manicure as she considered her options. “I've heard the local produce is delicious.”

“COB strawberries.” Cammie couldn't suppress a smile. “They're incredible.”

“We'd like to do a shortcake for dessert instead of a traditional cake. Do you happen to know any good local bakers?”

“I'll get you some names.” Cammie jotted down the request, then glanced up to confirm with Bronwyn that this was acceptable. But Bronwyn was no longer following the mothers around the vast green lawn. And Jeanie and Vanessa were only too happy to plan without the bride.

“Now.” Vanessa strode over to a patch of grass near the barn. “I'm thinking we start the aisle runner here. The officiant will stand right over there.”

Jeanie nodded approvingly. “I can see it. I like it.”

“We'll put the reception tents right over there, with lots of twinkle lights. Dance floor there, tables there, band on that side.”

“Perfect,” Jeanie agreed.

“Yes. Well. We'll hope for beautiful weather, of course, but we
still need to come up with a plan for rain.” Cammie tried not to show fear. “Just in case.”

Vanessa heaved a weary, put-upon sigh. “We've been over this already. It won't rain.”

Cammie didn't blink. “But it might.”

“It won't.”

“But if it does . . .”

“Moving on.” Vanessa dismissed these petty concerns with a wave of her hand. “What appetizers should we serve while Bronwyn and James are doing photos?”

Cammie managed to keep her screams of frustration contained as she scanned the vineyard grounds for the only member of this bridal party who could be counted on to be reasonable. But she didn't see Bronwyn anywhere.

While the mothers prattled on about canapes, Cammie excused herself and walked toward the barn. When she rounded the corner, she glimpsed the beautiful bride-to-be clutching her smartphone in both hands.

“Bronwyn?” Cammie approached slowly. “Everything okay?”

Bronwyn glanced up, her expression flickering between amazement and horror. “I . . . yeah. I just need a minute.”

“Take as much time as you need. Your mom and Jeanie are filibustering about reception food.”

As Bronwyn stared down at the little screen, a pink flush spread from her chest and crept up her neck and face. She seemed to be short of breath.

Cammie frowned. “Maybe you should go inside and sit down. Do you need some water?”

The young woman swallowed hard. “I don't need water.”

Cammie backed off. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind—”

“I just got an e-mail,” Bronwyn blurted. “From the research program I applied to last fall.”

“The one in the Galápagos?”

“Yeah. They have a spot for me now. One of their graduate assistants dropped out.”

“That's great!” Cammie's enthusiasm faded as she watched Bronwyn's expression. “It's not great?”

“They said no.” Bronwyn twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I put everything I had into that application, and they said no. And then James asked me to marry him and I said yes.”

“Ah.”

“And I want to marry James. I've wanted to marry him since we were in kindergarten.” She tipped her head back and gazed up at the clear blue sky.

Cammie waited.

“But I want this, too.” Bronwyn sucked in a ragged breath. “So, so badly.”

“You don't have to choose,” Cammie said. “You can get married and still go to the Galápagos.”

“I can't, actually.” Bronwyn looked back down at her phone. “The team is leaving for South America on my wedding day.”

“Just change your wedding date.”

Bronwyn laughed mirthlessly. “Hi. Have you met my mother?”

Cammie watched the bride's expression flicker between doubt and determination. “It's not her wedding or her life; it's yours. If you want to do this, you should. You're young, you're chasing your dreams—”

“I'm engaged.” Bronwyn looked resigned. “I can't go.”

Cammie knew this was her cue to stop talking and walk away. Anything else would be unprofessional. Kat would have a conniption.

And yet.

“Have you told James about this yet?” Cammie asked.

Bronwyn's flush deepened. “No. What am I going to say? ‘Hey, I know I promised to love you forever and ever, but something better came along so I'm bailing'?”

“You're not bailing; you're postponing.”

“It's never a good sign when someone postpones their wedding,” Bronwyn declared. “Besides, I can't put it off. We're supposed to be moving three weeks after the wedding.”

“Where are you moving?”

“Oklahoma.”

“That's a big move. What's in Oklahoma?”

“James's new job.” Bronwyn looked wistful.

“Well, there you go. You're so committed to the man you love that you're willing to uproot your life and move to Oklahoma for him.”

“Of course. I'd do anything for him.”

“Don't you think he feels the same about you?”

Instead of answering directly, Bronwyn said, “I'd never ask him to give up that job offer. The Galápagos thing is an unpaid internship. It's the chance of a lifetime, but it's not a career. We've graduated college. We're adults now.” She clicked off her phone. “And in twenty or thirty or forty years, I won't even remember I got this e-mail.”

Cammie didn't say anything.

Bronwyn squared her thin, pale shoulders. “You don't get to do everything you want. That's not how life works. Like my grandmother always says, you have to bloom where you're planted.”

Cammie's jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

“I said you've got to—”

“Never mind. I heard what you said. Listen. You've been planted your whole life already. Maybe it's time for you to fly.”

“I'd be gone for eight months.” Bronwyn dabbed sweat from her brow with a tissue. “We've never been apart for more than a week and a half.”

“Well, surely they have Skype or FaceTime or whatever down in the Galápagos.”

“Yeah, but it's not the same as seeing him in person every day.
Kissing him and holding him and eating with him and sleeping with him . . .” Bronwyn trailed off. “I don't know what to do.”

“At least tell him you got the offer,” Cammie urged.

Bronwyn let her hair fall across her face, hiding her expression. “What if he tells me to go, and I do, and then everything falls apart? What if he goes to Oklahoma and finds someone new? Or I find someone new? Or one of us decides they're never coming home? Or we both come back, but things are different between us?” Her voice got higher and tighter as she listed all the possible scenarios.

“Bronwyn?” Vanessa's voice drifted across the fields. “Where are you?”

Bronwyn gave herself a little shake. “Oh, forget it. No one's going to the Galápagos. I have to get married.” She set her jaw. “If I was meant to go, I would've been accepted months ago. It's not meant to be.”

Cammie gave her a long look. “Then let's go talk about chair bows and appetizers. But, Bronwyn?”

“Yes?”

“You need to have a talk with your mother. About rain contingencies.”

Bronwyn looked resigned. “I'll try.”

“I know she's decided it's going to be a clear day, but I can't make any guarantees.”

“I'll talk to her.” Bronwyn raised one eyebrow warningly. “But that's
all
I'll talk to her about.”

“And you should know that the
Farmers' Almanac
predicts thunderstorms for your big day.”

Bronwyn blinked. “The
Farmers' Almanac
? I didn't think that actually predicted anything.”

“It doesn't.” Cammie lowered her voice. “But it
might
.”

T
he next afternoon, after a long, hot day of weeding, watering, and taking calls from Bronwyn's mother about everything from silverware to string quartets, Cammie decided to treat herself to a drink at the Whinery.

Every time she walked into the bar, she felt a pang of longing. The cozy little lounge was completely different from what she'd tried to create in Los Angeles, but in this setting, with this clientele, it worked perfectly.

This early in the evening, the bar was sparsely populated with tourists and the music was turned down. Cammie took a seat at the very end of the bar and waved to Jenna.

“Hey.” Jenna approached with a friendly smile. “What can I get you?”

Cammie scanned the offerings listed on the chalkboard above the bar. “Anything but wine.”

“Vodka and cranberry?”

“Perfect.”

While Jenna poured the cranberry juice, her nemesis returned. The health inspector's suit, tie, and clipboard looked completely out of place against all the pink and silver and toile. Jenna slammed down the cranberry-juice bottle, visibly panicked.

Cammie, too, scanned the barroom for any possible violations. She spied a metal scoop in the ice well, which she knew from personal experience would incur a penalty. She leaned over the bar as casually as possible and extracted the scoop.

“Thanks,” Jenna mouthed over the guy's shoulder.

When the inspection was over, Jenna retrieved the scoop with a sheepish expression. “You're a lifesaver. I know better than to leave that in there.”

“It's the least I could do; you're pouring me booze.”

“Yes, I am, and your booze is on the house.” Jenna was still visibly anxious. “He couldn't find anything to cite me for today, which means he'll be back soon to harass me again.” She frowned. “Do I sound paranoid?”

“Slightly.”

“How'd you know, anyway? About the scoop in the ice?”

“Back when I was in the restaurant business, I got dinged on the ice well so many times, my nickname was Scoop.”

Jenna looked intrigued. “I always wanted to open a restaurant.”

Cammie glanced around at the customers and the cocktails. “But you already did.”

“No, no, I opened a
bar
—big difference. Restaurants have food and menus and kitchens.”

“And fickle, temperamental chefs,” Cammie finished for her.

Jenna waved as a new customer walked through the door. “Had a bad chef experience?”

“The chef was great, actually. Supertalented. The problem was, he was also my boyfriend.” Cammie explained how she and Zach
had decided to open the restaurant together. “He jumped ship and he still has a career. He moved on without a backward glance.”

“He'll be sorry someday,” Jenna predicted. “He'll end up poor and disgraced.”

“I don't think so. I just read in
Us Weekly
that he's going to be a judge on a rip-off of
Top Chef
.”

“Then I hope he gets singed on a flattop in front of a live audience.” Jenna excused herself to pour a drink for someone at the other end of the bar. When she returned, she asked, “So, how did you get started in the restaurant business? Did you have to line up investors?”

“No.” Cammie's smile faded. “I had my own capital. If I were going to do it again, I would definitely try to get a business loan or find a partner. But I had an inheritance from my mother. And now it's gone. I wasted it all.”

“You didn't waste it,” Jenna said firmly. “I bet you learned a ton about the business.”

“I learned that the health inspector will ding you for having a scoop in the ice well.”

“There you go.” Jenna offered her a tiny bag of M&M's.

“I know that I'm supposed to look for the lessons and learn from failure and all that, but I just can't get there.” Cammie sipped her drink. “I'm done with the restaurant chapter of my life.”

“Are you sure?” Jenna pressed. “I was serious about selling before. Make me an offer. If I have to deal with one more health inspection, one more piece of relationship memorabilia flushed down the toilets . . .”

Cammie frowned. “Relationship memorabilia?”

“Jewelry, letters, stuffed animals. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff we've pulled out of the sewer line. I have a plumber on retainer.” Jenna pointed out a huge cardboard box in the corner. “We encourage people to throw all their unwanted crap in there,
but some people just love the drama of the flush. The plumber once fished out a strand of opera-length pearls.”

Cammie's jaw dropped. “Real pearls?”

“Real and very, very expensive.”

“Wow.” Cammie shook her head. “That's . . .”

“Just another day at the Whinery,” Jenna concluded. “You sure I can't interest you in a quick sale?”

Cammie closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine this—starting fresh—for a moment. This place would be easier to run than a full-menu restaurant; there'd be no chefs or line cooks; there was an established clientele and a prime location. She'd have to go over the books, of course, but all other things being equal, this wine bar could be a great opportunity. That's what she should be doing with her life—
selling
wine. Not growing it.

She opened her eyes and returned to reality. “I'm broke.”

“Damn.”

“Just as well. The locals here would never get over it if you sold this place. Besides, what would you do if you didn't have the Whinery?”

“Move back to Boston,” Jenna said without a moment's hesitation. “Become a plumber. They make great money, if my bills are any indication. No, seriously, I'd open a café with my sisters. We'd focus on breakfast and brunch. Those kinds of places can do really well in the right location, and there are no late nights.”

“But there are early mornings. Those are much worse.”

“That's a matter of opinion,” Jenna said.

Cammie considered this for a moment. “Boston, huh? So you didn't grow up here in Delaware?”

“No. Boston, born and raised.”

“Then how . . .”

“Same way all these heartbreak tourists ended up here. There was this guy.”

Cammie grinned. “Isn't there always?”

“Well, this particular guy was ten years older and I thought he knew everything. He dragged me out here one summer and said he and his buddies were going to open a sports bar.”

“This place was supposed to be a sports bar?” Cammie squinted, trying to envision it.

“Yeah, if you can believe that. I knew a sports bar would never work with this clientele, but I was still in the ‘he knows everything' phase, so I went along with it.” Jenna pointed to the far wall. “There used to be two giant TVs over there. Golf and football and baseball all day, every day.”

“Stop. I can't.”

“Neither could anyone else. Sports bar went under six months after he opened it.” Jenna rinsed off the metal ice scoop. “And, by that time, I stopped thinking that he knew everything, and started thinking that
I
knew everything.”

“Sometimes that's an asset in the business world.”

“He'd lost so much money, he said I could have this place if I'd just take on his debt. So I did.”

“And turned it into a decadent pink paradise.”

“That part was actually an accident,” Jenna confessed. “We had a summer resident who was an interior designer, and she was redoing one of those huge mansions by the beach. The owners were getting rid of all their old furniture, and the designer donated it to me in exchange for a month's worth of chardonnay.”

Cammie looked around at all the lace and pastel. “That must have been some mansion.”

“She showed me the before pictures.” Jenna grinned. “It was like a My Little Pony bordello.” She indicated the chandelier. “That used to hang over the bathtub.”

Cammie glanced at the little silver candy dishes. “What about those?”

“Those were my idea,” Jenna said. “I was so sick of pretzels and peanuts.”

“Brilliant.”

“These dishes are kind of special. Every now and then, one of them gets lost or ‘borrowed,' but customers keep bringing in replacements. I don't know how they know; I never ask. But that one”—she pointed out the one next to Cammie—“is new. Lila Alders said she spotted it at Goodwill and thought of me.”

“See? People think of you. This bar is special.”

“Make me an offer,” Jenna repeated.

“I would if I could.”

“But you can't.” Jenna grabbed a clean, folded pink dish towel. “It's okay. I've actually gotten a few calls from business brokers over the past few months.”

“I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.” Cammie felt an irrational pang of remorse and disappointment, like she'd lost something she'd never had in the first place.

“Thanks.” Jenna refilled Cammie's water glass. “So, what's going on with you and the farmer?”

“That's classified.”

“Oh, you're so cute.” Jenna waved as Lila Alders strolled through the front door. “Hey, Lila—I just asked Cammie here what was going on with her boyfriend, and she said it's classified.”

“Adorable.” Lila all but pinched Cammie's cheeks before sitting down next to her. “Once upon a time, I, too, thought I could have a private life in Black Dog Bay. When Malcolm and I got together, it was all very
Mission: Impossible
.”

“The ‘impossible' part being keeping it secret,” Jenna said.

Lila nodded. “The walls here have ears. And ESP and X-ray vision. Anyway, just give me a call when you guys are ready to pick out an engagement ring.”

Cammie choked on her water.

“What?” Lila asked, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “Too soon?”

Cammie just kept hacking and coughing.

“Don't die,” Jenna pleaded. “I'll definitely get cited for that.”

“I'm not dying,” Cammie assured them when she recovered the power of speech. “But I'm not getting married, either.”

“Well, sure, not right now.”

“No, no, no. Not ever. Not to Ian, anyway.”

•   •   •

“I've made a decision,” Bronwyn announced when she arrived—sans mothers—at the vineyard the next morning. She planted her tiny, flip-flop-clad feet on the uneven planks of the porch and announced, “James and I are getting married as scheduled.”

Cammie nodded, keeping her expression neutral. After all, this wasn't her marriage, her life, or any of her business. “That's great.”

Bronwyn grinned mischievously. “In a year. I told him about the Galápagos. And he obviously didn't want me to go, but he gets that I need to go. So . . .” She took a deep breath. “We're going to be apart for the first time. He'll go to Oklahoma, I'll go to South America, and a year from now, we'll have the wedding.”

Cammie smiled. “You look so happy.”

“I am. I'm also really nervous, but I'm going to have an adventure. And then I get to come home and marry the man I love.”

“I'm thrilled for you.” Cammie was afraid to ask the next question. “Did you two break the news to your mothers yet?”

“Yep. I'm surprised you couldn't hear the screaming from two counties away.” Bronwyn grimaced at the memory.

“Well, think of it this way: The hard part's over.” Cammie opened the screen door and invited Bronwyn inside. “Come with me and I'll give your deposit back.”

“Keep it.” Bronwyn waved one hand. “For next summer.”

“You're sure?”

“Very.” Bronwyn beamed. “I may be leaving James temporarily, but our story's not over.”

•   •   •

“Oh, that's lovely.” Aunt Ginger sighed that evening as she, Kat, and Cammie had dinner at the cramped but cozy kitchen table. “He'll wait for her; she'll wait for him. It's so romantic.”

“Romantic, yes.” Kat helped herself to a crab leg. “Good business, no.” She pointed the empty crab shell at Cammie. “Do we have any other big events on the calendar?”

“No.”

“Then why'd you talk the bride out of getting married? We need that money.”

“I kept the deposit,” Cammie said.

“Only because she insisted.” Kat tsk-tsked. “And the deposit is, what? Half of the total?”

“More like thirty percent,” Cammie admitted.

“What?” Kat looked outraged. “You should ask for at least half up front. No wonder—” She stopped herself, but Cammie knew exactly what her cousin had been about to say.
No wonder your restaurant went out of business.

“You have a lot of opinions for someone who didn't want to be involved,” Cammie retorted. “If you'd like to review the contracts and make changes, be my guest. And feel free to wrangle the mother of the bride, line up the caterers, and obsessively check the weather.”