Once Upon a Wine (18 page)

“I'm sorry,” Kat muttered. “You're right.”

“I am right,” Cammie agreed. “And the bride is right, too. They can come back and get married here next summer.”

“If we're still here next summer,” Kat said.

Ginger froze, a homemade biscuit halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“How are we going to keep this place going?” Kat said. “We're hemorrhaging money.”

Ginger turned to Cammie. “See how negative she is? I don't know where she gets it. I never raised her to be negative.”

“Mmm.” Cammie crammed a piece of biscuit in her mouth in an effort to avoid further discussion.

But Ginger would not be deterred. “You've known me all your life, Cammie. Am
I
a negative person?”

“Mmph,” Cammie replied.

“You're not negative; you're delusional,” Kat countered.

“I
beg
your pardon.” Ginger put down her silverware and stared icily at her daughter. “I realize that you think you're terribly fancy and important because you've traveled and secured a few corporate sponsors, but you do not talk to your mother that way.”

Kat started stammering an apology, but it was too late. Ginger was on a roll. “Katherine, I love you—I will always love you—but I cannot abide a daughter who criticizes her cousin for trying to make the best of a bad situation and tells her mother, who's feeding and housing her while she works through some ridiculous existential crisis, that she's delusional.” Ginger got to her feet and threw her napkin onto her chair. “I will take chances and I will live with the consequences, but I will not be judged by the child I gave up everything to raise.” She stalked out of the kitchen, her head held high, and slammed the screen door.

The sound startled Jacques from his nap under the table. Kat and Cammie regarded each other with wide eyes. A few seconds later, they heard a car engine in the driveway, and headlight beams bounced off the kitchen wall as Ginger drove away into the night.

“Wow.” Cammie shook her head. “Do you want an ice pack for that burn?”

Kat sat back, obviously shaken. “She's right.”

“She's upset,” Cammie corrected. “No one ever accused this family of being subtle and restrained.”

“But she is right,” Kat said. “You both are.”

“It's been a long day. Everyone's stressed and tired—”

Kat stood up and started to clear the table. “I don't like who I am anymore. I used to be so disciplined and productive, and now I'm lazy, critical, feeling sorry for myself. It's unacceptable.” She raised her head, her eyes aglow with determination. “And it stops now.”

“Okay, but before you recommit to all that discipline and productivity, I'd like to point out that there's ice cream in the freezer. At least have some of that before you go all hard-core.”

Kat looked appalled at the very suggestion. “I'm serious, Cam. I have been unbearable these last few weeks, and I apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” Cammie said. “Now, about that ice cream . . .”

Kat responded by grabbing a bowl and spoon. She retrieved the ice cream from the freezer, scooped some into the bowl, and handed it to Cammie.

“None for you?”

Kat shook her head. “As of two minutes ago, I'm in training. My goal is to show Mom that her optimism will pay off. We—
I
—am going to salvage this vineyard if it's the last thing I do.”

“That sounds great.” Cammie cleared her throat. “But how?”

“I haven't figured that part out yet,” Kat admitted. “But my first order of business will be ripping out those dead vines you've been worrying about.”

Cammie saluted her with a spoonful of ice cream. “Good luck and godspeed.”

“And when I was skateboarding, I wasn't just a person. I was a
brand. A product to be marketed. If I did it before with skating, I can do it again with wine.” Kat scrolled through her phone's contact list. “I may have been forced to retire, but there are still a few important people out there who owe me favors, and the time has come to collect.”

T
he next morning, Cammie awoke to the murmur of voices in the kitchen and the faint creak of bedsprings as Kat sat down on the edge of her mattress.

“What time is it?” Cammie threw an arm over her eyes as sunlight filtered in through the gauzy white curtains.

“Six thirty.” Kat gave her a gentle shake. “Wake up.”

“Six thirty?” Cammie shot up into a sitting position. “Gah!”

“I know—daylight's burning,” Kat admonished. “Up and at 'em. You've got an interview in a few hours.”

Cammie froze, her sheet and blanket a rumpled heap. “A what?”

Kat stood up and motioned for Cammie to do the same. “I'll tell you everything over breakfast. Put some clothes on, and I'll make you some oatmeal.”

“No pancakes?”

Kat shook her head. “Sorry, we're in training.”

“
You're
in training.”

“We're all in training. And you need to eat, shower, do your makeup, and practice your talking points before Reg shows up.” Kat started for the stairs, but Cammie called after her.

“Stop. You can't go downstairs right now.”

Kat glanced back over her shoulder. “Why not?”

“Because there's some guy in the kitchen.” Cammie put a finger to her lips. “Listen. Hear that?”

Kat tilted her head. “Maybe it's the TV?”

“Nope.” Cammie shook her head. “I think he's an overnight guest.”

“What?” Kat frowned. “Whose guest?”

Cammie gave her a meaningful look and waited for the realization to sink in.

Kat clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”

“It must be that guy she was flirting with at the wine festival,” Cammie said. “Can't you hear the giggling?”

“I'm trying not to.” Kat jerked her head toward the stairs. “What is going on with this guy? What's the appeal? Did you see his hat?”

“I couldn't
not
see it.”

Kat deliberated for a moment, then finally said, “Well, I hope he's a good guy. She's been taking care of so many people for so many years.” She rubbed her forehead. “It's still kind of weird though, right?”

“Extremely weird.”

More laughter drifted up from the kitchen, along with the smell of fresh coffee.

Kat grabbed one of Cammie's pillows and made herself comfortable on the foot of the bed. “I hope they drink their coffee quickly—I have to pee.”

Cammie tried unsuccessfully to shoo her cousin away. “So go pee. Don't tell me about it.”

Kat didn't budge. “If they hear the toilet flush, they'll know we're up.”

“So?”

“So do you want to go down there and have a pajama meet-and-greet with my mom and the hat dude?”

Cammie rearranged the blanket. “He has a name. I just can't remember what it is right now.”

“Girls!” Ginger shouted up the stairs. “Are you up?”

Cammie and Kat both held their breath in an attempt to be completely silent.

“Katherine. Camille.” Ginger's voice sharpened. “I know you're awake.”

Kat looked at Cammie and mouthed, “How?”

“Stop playing possum and get down here this instant. We have a guest.”

“This is your punishment,” Cammie grumbled as she got out of bed and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. “She's getting you back for all the stuff you said last night. I don't see why I have to get dragged into it.”

“Go shower.” Kat started for the doorway. “Save yourself. I'll tell her you were already in there.”

Cammie opened her mouth to protest, but Kat pointed toward the bathroom door and went down the stairs. “Coming, Mother dear.”

On a typical morning, Cammie was brisk and efficient in the shower, but today she took her time, lingering until the hot water turned lukewarm, then cool. After she finished toweling off, she took her sweet time drying her hair and then decided to spend a few more minutes applying a full face of makeup. She cracked open the bathroom door and strained to hear what was going on downstairs.

She couldn't detect anything but the birds chirping outside the window. The smell of coffee had faded. She headed down to the kitchen, where she found Ginger and Kat washing breakfast dishes.

“Oh, there you are,” Kat said loudly when she noticed Cammie. “You missed a delightful and delicious breakfast.”

“Yes, you did.” Aunt Ginger was aglow. “We had a little get-to-know-you with Geoffrey.”

“And I missed it? Darn.” Cammie snapped her fingers in disappointment. “Is Geoffrey your new friend from the wine festival? What was he doing over here so early?”

Aunt Ginger smiled fondly at her. “Aren't you precious. Geoffrey is the man I met at the wine festival, but he's not my friend.”

“Mom.” Kat's voice had a note of warning.

“He's my lover,” Aunt Ginger declared. “As of last night.”

“
Mother.
”

“Don't ‘Mother' me,” Ginger told Kat. “We're all too mature for this ‘friend' nonsense.”

“No, we're not,” Cammie and Kat both insisted.

“You're both old enough to acknowledge that someone else besides you can have a sex life.”

“I'm sorry I missed him.” Cammie poured herself a huge glass of ice water and looked around for the sunscreen. “Do you think he'll be back again soon?”

“I'm not sure,” Ginger mused. “I've got a lot going on for the next few days.”

“You had a one-night stand?” Kat looked scandalized.

“You know, you're very puritanical for someone who claims to be a rebel.”

“I'm only puritanical when it comes to my mother.”

“Well, don't be. I'm allowed to have a one-night stand if I want to.” Ginger beamed. “But don't worry; I'll see him again. After all, I'll need him in the fall when it's harvest time.”

“You're stringing him along, using him for his wine-making expertise?” Now Cammie was a bit scandalized.

“I'm using him for sex, honey. Keep up.”

“We broke her,” Kat told Cammie. “Too much time with us has driven her over to the dark side.”

“Don't blame me,” Cammie said. “She's getting more action than I am right now.”

Ginger looked shocked. “You still haven't spent the night with that handsome strawberry farmer?”

“I'm working on it,” Cammie muttered.

“All those afternoons in the field together, and you two never finished what you started?” Ginger shook her head. “What have you been doing all summer?”

“Um, trying to figure out how to run a vineyard?”

“Yes, and on that note, I'm glad you took the time to put on mascara today, because there's going to be a reporter and a photographer at our door by lunchtime,” Kat said. “I made some calls to people who know people.”

“People who know people,” Ginger repeated.

“That's right.”

“They're coming
today
?” Cammie said.

“My people are good,” Kat boasted. “One of the reporters who used to interview me married an editor at one of those lifestyle magazines, and he said he'll write an article on the vineyard for her magazine.”

Ginger looked skeptical. “Which reporter?”

“You don't know him. Reg Piltner.”

“I remember him.” Ginger stage-whispered to Cammie. “He always had a crush on her.”

“He did not. And, anyway, he's married now. And his wife agreed to feature our wine in some end-of-summer roundup, but the issue is closing this Friday, so Reg has to get the story done, like, now.”

Two hours later, the house was spotless and Kat, Cammie, and Ginger were drinking strawberry wine to calm their nerves.

Between sips of pink booze, Kat doled out her best public relations tips:

“Speak slower than you normally would; otherwise, your sound bite can get garbled.

“If Reg asks a question that you don't want to answer, just answer the question you wished he
would
have asked. You can always bring the conversation back around to the brand message.

“What's a brand message? Pour me another glass of wine and I'll tell you.”

By the time the doorbell rang, Cammie was half-excited and half-terrified. Ginger looked wholly terrified.

“Just be cool,” Kat advised as she walked to the door. “You're going to be great.”

But when Kat opened the door, her confidence evaporated. “Who are you?”

Cammie craned her neck to see a tall, full-figured woman on the porch.

“I'm Wendy Delfino.” The woman waved to Cammie over Kat's shoulder. “From
Ladies First
magazine.”

“But what happened to Reg?” Kat asked.

“He had a family emergency, so they sent me instead.” She cleared her throat and glanced at Kat's hand, which was still gripping the doorknob.

“Katherine, where are your manners?” Ginger practically shoved Kat out of the way. “Come in, come in. I'm Ginger Sheridan, the proprietor of Lost Dog Vineyards.”

“Nice to meet you.” Wendy held up her camera. “Mind if I take a few pictures?”

“Shouldn't you have a photographer for that?” Kat asked. Cammie shot her a look, and she followed up with, “I mean, Reg gave me the impression that one of the staff photographers would be joining you.”

Wendy looked a bit offended. “I do both the writing and photographs for my articles. Double-majored in college.”

The reporter started roving around the parlor, sizing up the decor as if she were casing the place for a robbery.

Ginger stepped into Wendy's path, dragging Cammie along with her. “This is my niece, Cammie Breyer. Please sit down and make yourself at home.” She pointed to the sofa, giving the reporter no other choice. “I just made some pecan pie—let me get you a slice.”

“No, thank you.” Wendy perched on the sofa. The journalist's outward demeanor was sunny and sweet, but Cammie saw her gaze taking in every inch of the room, every flicker in their facial expressions.

“Are you sure? I made it myself; it's delicious,” Ginger said.

Wendy ignored this. “How did you get into the wine business?”

“Oh, it's a story of serendipity,” Ginger began, and all of Kat's talking points went out the window while Ginger regaled the reporter with tales of destiny, delayed dreams, and dramatic near-death experiences.

Wendy had no patience for this homespun charm. After a few minutes, she turned to Cammie asked, “And how did you get involved?”

Cammie decided to stick to the script. “I, um, I have extensive experience in the fine-dining industry.” She left out the part where those experiences culminated in financial, emotional, and spiritual ruin. “And the soil and weather here allow for some really rare varietals.”

She rattled off the types of wine they planned to make, then segued into the importance of the community and her commitment to local labor and materials.

“Sounds fascinating. Let's go.” Wendy gathered up her camera and notepad.

Cammie glanced at Kat. “Go where?”

“Give me a tour.” This was a demand rather than a request. “I want to see these legendary Delaware grapes.” Wendy paused when she noticed the wineglass on one of the upended barrels near the bar. “That doesn't look like cabernet.”

“It's not,” Ginger said. “It's our homemade strawberry wine.”

“Strawberry wine.” Wendy looked supremely skeptical.

“It's fantastic,” Ginger said firmly. “Not to mention visionary.”

“Visionary.” Wendy quirked one eyebrow. “Perhaps you mean ‘Victorian'?”

“It's my mother's recipe,” Cammie said, hoping to defuse the tension with a poignant human-interest story.

But there was no averting the standoff between her aunt and the reporter. “Victorian?” Ginger let out a scornful little laugh. Kat cringed. “I will have you know that we are on the cutting edge.”

“If you say so.” Wendy smirked.

“I do say so. Fruit wine is so retro, it's coming back in style.” Ginger turned up her nose. “You should know that, being a lifestyle reporter.”

Wendy started scribbling notes on her yellow legal pad.

Kat stepped in between them, a huge, desperate smile on her face. “Okay! Enough chitchat! Why don't I—”

A high, indignant bark interrupted Kat's attempt at damage control. Jacques waddled into the room, sniffling and snorting. He made his way over to Cammie, sat down at her feet, and stared up at her with reproach.

“Calm down,” she told the dog. “Can't you see I'm in the middle of something here?”

He responded by letting his tongue loll out the side of his mouth. Then he wandered over to Wendy, sniffed her shiny patent shoes, and barked again.

Wendy glanced at Cammie. “What does he want?”

“He wants to go count the rows. We usually do it first thing in the morning, but we missed it today, so he's sulking.”