Once Upon a Wine (2 page)

“T
his is crazy. Who buys a
vineyard
?” Cammie hugged her cousin at the Baltimore airport baggage claim. “In
Delaware
, of all places?”

“My mother, that's who.” Kat hugged back, her wiry arms surprisingly strong. With her petite frame, sparkling blue eyes, and choppy red hair, Kat was often mistaken for a delicate flower. Until people noticed the scar tissue and multiple piercings. “Someone needs to talk some sense into her.”

“Well, I don't know why you called me.” Cammie stepped back and regarded her cousin. Growing up, Kat had been a tomboy, her knees constantly scraped and her face perpetually smudged. While Cammie had preferred reading and crafts, Kat had been in motion from the moment she got up to the moment she finally crashed for the night. As she'd progressed from a daredevil child to a sarcastic adolescent to a strong, fearless woman, she'd managed to channel all that intensity and adrenaline into a career as a professional skateboarder. Kat had corporate sponsors, devoted fans, an agent, and a
publicist—or at least she had, until six months ago. At thirty-three, Kat had officially retired from the sport because of a torn knee ligament and a spinal injury.

“Delaware vineyard.” Cammie spotted her huge maroon suitcase and heaved it off the conveyor belt. “Is that a real thing? I've heard of wine from California, France, Italy, Spain, Argentina, Chile, Australia, New Zealand, Washington State, even Virginia. But not Delaware.”

“There's at least one Delaware vineyard, and my mother is the proud owner.”

Cammie still couldn't process this information. “I have so many questions. Like, how? When? And, most of all, why?”

Kat swatted Cammie aside so she could do the heavy lifting.

“Stop that.” Cammie tried to wrestle the suitcase away from her cousin, to no avail. “You have a bad knee and a bad back.”

“And I still strength train three days a week.” Kat looked ready to bench-press the suitcase to prove her prowess.

“Really? Does your orthopedist know that?”

“No, and he never will.” Kat started toward the exit, lugging the bag behind her.

Cammie hurried to keep pace, and forced herself to ask the question she'd been pondering for the duration of the five-hour flight. “Vineyards are kind of expensive, aren't they?”

Kat glanced back over her shoulder. “You can take the ‘kind of' out of that sentence.”

“Then how is this happening?” Cammie was hoping that perhaps there had been a misunderstanding somewhere along the way. “Did Ginger suddenly come into an inheritance or a lawsuit settlement or something?”

Kat's expression was grim. “Nope.”

“Then how . . . ?”

“It's better if she explains the whole thing.”

“Give me a hint,” Cammie urged. “It's a long drive.”

“Hint one: She cashed out her pension and her retirement accounts.”

Cammie stopped walking so she could devote all her energy to freaking out. “Oh no.”

“Hint two: She sold the house and most of the stuff inside it.”

“But why?” Cammie just kept blinking. “The whole time I've known her, I've never heard a word about vineyards. I mean, I know she likes to drink wine, but you don't need a vineyard for that!”

As the sliding-glass doors to the sidewalk opened, Kat turned to face Cammie. “I wouldn't have called you and begged you to come out here if it wasn't an emergency.”

“Well, I'm here.”

“And I'm sorry I got you fired.”

“You didn't get me fired.” Cammie's shoulders slumped as exhaustion and despair settled in. “I did that all on my own. I was going to lose my apartment, anyway.” She paused. “I can't afford the rent without Zach.”

“Zach.” Kat practically spit on the concrete. “I never liked that guy.”

“I did.” Cammie sighed, inhaling the exhaust fumes of a dozen idling cars. “And, it turns out, I'm nothing without him. I hate to think like that, but it's true. Everything fell apart when he left.”

“You were too good for him,” Kat declared. “And he's going to get what's coming to him. Trust and believe.” Her expression suggested that she would be more than happy to mete out his karmic retribution with her own two hands.

Cammie thought about the rave review of Zach's new restaurant she'd just read in the
LA Times
but said nothing. This trip wasn't about her personal life. She was here to help her family.

“So, this vineyard Ginger bought. How big is it?”

Kat threw up a hand. “No idea.”

“What kind of wine does it produce?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Cammie raised her fingertips to her throbbing temples. “Any chance she can still back out?”

“I doubt it. And even if she could legally get out of the contract, she'd refuse.” Kat glowered. “She's being so stubborn.”

Cammie had to smile. “You don't take after a stranger.”

Kat's jaw dropped. “I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm not stubborn; I'm
tenacious
. Strong willed. Goal oriented.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would never buy a winery on a whim.”

“But you would get married on a Ferris wheel on a whim.” Cammie followed Kat through the rows of cars in the parking garage. “Speaking of which, where's Josh?”

“At work.” Kat quickened her pace. “He's used more than enough of his vacation days on my mom's craziness. Just last month, he spent two days dealing with a wasp's nest in her garage.”

“He's such a good husband.”

“He's the best.” Kat's tone was flat. “Really nice, really smart, really nice.”

“You said ‘nice' twice,” Cammie nearly stumbled as she tried to keep up.

“Because he's nice squared.” Kat paused at the end of a row of cars.

Cammie studied her cousin's expression. “Then why does your face look like that?”

Kat dropped her chin, letting her auburn hair hide her face. “Like what?”

“Like there's more to this story.”

“Let's get going.” Kat located her sleek black coupe and popped the trunk. “We can talk in the car.”

Cammie and Kat had to work together to wedge her suitcase
into the tiny trunk space. “This is ridiculous,” Cammie said. “How do you fit any of your skateboarding gear in here?”

“I don't.” Kat gave the suitcase a final shove. “I used to rent an SUV when I had to haul stuff to tournaments.”

“Why didn't you just buy a minivan?”

Kat shuddered. “Minivans are for normal people. Settled, suburban people. Which I am not.”

“Of course.” Cammie noticed a shiny white line on Kat's biceps. “New scar?”

“Yeah.” Kat paused to roll up her shirt sleeve. “Railslide gone terribly wrong. You like?”

“Very badass,” Cammie assured her with an indulgent smile.

“There's no minivan that can hold me.” Kat jingled her car keys. “Even though I do, technically, live in the suburbs. And I talked about the weather with the mailman yesterday. And I'm married to a philosophy professor.”

“A very nice philosophy professor,” Cammie reminded her.

“He really is.” Kat's expression tightened as she slid into the driver's seat. “So very nice.”

•   •   •

“Ugh.” Cammie pulled her hair off her neck as Kat started the engine and cranked up the car's air-conditioning. “I forgot how humid it gets out here in the summer.” She picked up a magazine from the floor mat and fanned her face.

Kat looked straight ahead as she said, “I'm glad you're here. It's great to see you.”

“Even though I've basically come crawling back, totally broke and alone?”

“You came back to help, and I appreciate it.” Kat, who hated any hint of sentimentality, donned her sunglasses to hide her eyes. “And you're not alone. You have me. You have
us
.”

This is true,
Cammie reflected. Kat and Ginger were all she had now that her mother had passed and her father's second marriage had pushed her out to the periphery. While Cammie had bonded with her mother's family, her father had distanced himself. His new wife was nice enough, but Cammie felt like an outsider whenever she visited.

She frowned as she noticed the title of the magazine in her hand. “Since when do you read
Wine
Spectator
?”

“I don't.” Kat took the turns in the parking garage at heart-stopping speeds. “That's for you. So are the other ones.”

Cammie scooped up the other periodicals stacked by her feet. “
Wine Enthusiast
,
Wine & Spirits
,
The Wine Advocate
. What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Start reading,” Kat commanded. “You're taking a crash course on wine.”

“Why do
I
have to read them?” Cammie protested. “I know, like, ten percent more about wine than you do.”

“Exactly—you have a huge head start.” Kat tossed a few dollars at the parking-lot attendant and gunned it for the highway.

Cammie braced one hand against the dashboard. “There are speed limits and other cars. Just FYI.”

Kat turned on the car's stereo system. “Noted.”

Cammie flipped open the cover of
Wine Spectator
. “They make Malbecs in Chile?”

“What's a Malbec?” Kat rolled down the windows so they could feel the wind in their hair as they whizzed along under the clear blue sky.

Cammie closed the magazine and considered their situation for a long moment. “Your mom's a maniac.”

“I'm well aware.”

“None of us are qualified to run a vineyard. She's a retired school secretary, you're a skateboarder, and I'm a waitress.”

“You're a restaurant owner,” Kat corrected.

“I
was
a restaurant owner. Past tense.”

“Past tense,” Kat agreed. “And now we're all . . . What do you call people who make wine?”

“Vintners.” Cammie flinched as the magazine pages fluttered into her face.

“We're vintners,” Kat echoed. “Against our will.”

“Vintners who don't actually know how to do anything but drink wine.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

T
hree hours later, the car was littered with empty water bottles and crumpled paper napkins. An open pastry box sat between Kat and Cammie on the front-seat console.

“This is the best thing about coming back to Delaware,” Kat said through a mouthful of doughnut. “The food.”

Cammie had to wait until she'd finished her bite of cruller before responding. “How I've missed Fractured Prune doughnuts. And Grotto Pizza.”

“And boardwalk fries in those giant cardboard tubs.”

“And the ice cream places on the boardwalk that have, like, two hundred flavors. Remember that time you ordered ghost-pepper ice cream?” Cammie laughed. “And you cried for an hour?”

“That was your fault,” Kat said. “You forced me to eat it.”

“What? I did not.”

“Yeah, you did. You double-dared me. In front of a hot guy.”

“Peter Moore.” Cammie sighed at the memory. “I wonder if he's still dreamy.”

“I doubt all those faux tribal tattoos aged well.” Kat shook her head. “He tried so hard to be edgy, bless his heart.”

“And yet you ate a double scoop of ghost-pepper ice cream to impress him.”

“Because you dared me to!” Kat pounded the steering wheel.

“So? You could have said no.”

“I can't say no to a dare. You know this.”

Cammie did know it, and she had used it to her advantage many, many times throughout their adolescence.

“Anyway.” Kat gestured to the stack of magazines. “Are you learning anything about wine over there?”

“I'm learning that most people who own a vineyard don't actually make their own wine. They hire winemakers who study wine making for years in France or northern California. Did you know that UC Davis offers viticulture and enology as a college major?”

“We should call the department chair.” Kat changed lanes as the beach traffic slowed to a standstill. “See if they have anyone who wants to do an internship in Delaware. A last-minute, unpaid internship.”

Cammie sucked in her breath as they narrowly avoided sideswiping a U-Haul van. “Could you please not kill us en route? Pretty please?”

Kat tapped the brakes. Barely. “Fun sucker.”

“I'd just like to live to see tomorrow. Little quirk I have.” Cammie sighed and stared down at the magazine. “Listen, wine making is not something you can learn in a week or two. It's an art and science. It's a whole lifestyle. You need years of training and a ton of money.”

“Then you talk to my mom.” Kat took a big, angry bite of doughnut. “Because she won't listen to me.”

Cammie stopped fretting about the future for a few minutes and leaned toward the open window to breathe in the fresh air. She'd forgotten how green this area was. After just a few years of living in Los Angeles, she'd acclimated to palm trees and droughts, constant light and noise, and layers of smog so thick she couldn't see the mountains or the ocean on the other side of the city. Without really meaning to, she'd gotten into the habit of rationing everything: Water. Money. The cell phone battery that always seem to dip into the red zone while she was stuck in gridlock on the 405 freeway. She rationed other things, too—love and hope and faith in herself. As if lowering her expectations would protect her from getting hurt again.

Traffic got even heavier as they approached the shore. Cammie looked at all the drugstores and restaurants lining the highway, trying to get her bearings. Although she'd spent the entire month of July here throughout her childhood and adolescence, she hadn't been back since the summer she'd graduated college, and the landscape had definitely changed. Franchises and big-box stores had sprung up from the marshes and forests.

Then the car crested a hill, and the strip-mall ambiance gave way to a quaint, old-timey beach vibe. The ocean sparkled beyond the sprawling summer homes and hotels. And there, on the side of the road . . .

“It's the Turtles Crossing sign!” Kat and Cammie both bounced in their seats as they approached the weather-beaten wooden sign. “It's still here!”

“Pull over,” Cammie urged. Kat complied with the precision of a NASCAR driver making a pit stop. They clambered out of the car and snapped several selfies in front of the parade of yellow-painted turtles.

As Cammie scrolled through the pictures she'd just taken, she succumbed to an unexpected wave of nostalgia. She and Kat had
posed by this sign every summer for years. Her mother had taken this picture, too, first with a Polaroid and then a disposable Kodak.

When her mother died, everyone had assured her it would get easier. Cammie had hoped she would feel it less, think about it less, as time went by. But she actually missed her mother
more
now that she was an adult. Increasingly, she wanted to share questions and experiences with her mom now that life had gotten so complicated.

But her mother was gone. By the time Cammie reached adolescence, Aunt Ginger had taken over turtle-sign photographer duties with a digital camera. Ginger had done her very best to keep the family close; she'd treated Cammie like her own child over the past fifteen years. And now it was Cammie's turn to act like a real daughter. To love and care for her aunt, despite what seemed to be a disastrous mistake.

“What?” Kat had put down her phone. “You look sad.”

“I'm not sad.” Cammie gave herself a little shake. “I'm just thinking about our summers out here. A month used to seem like such a long time.”

“I know.” Kat started back toward the car. “And now we're old.”

“We're not old. You're, what? Thirty-two?”

“Thirty-three,” Kat corrected as she started the engine. “And my career is over.”

“Your
first
career is over.” Cammie opened a wine magazine at random, skimmed an article about unoaked chardonnays, and glanced out the window as the scenery grew ever more familiar: the white clapboard sign welcoming them to Black Dog Bay, the saltwater taffy shop, the gazebo and bronze dog statue in the town square. “Ooh, let's stop and get peppermint taffy.”

But Kat was too busy cutting off several other cars as she veered across lanes and parallel parked with mere centimeters to spare on either end of the bumpers.

Over the blare of honking horns, Cammie yelled, “What are you doing?”

Kat pointed out the rickety wooden fruit stand across the square. “Look! Fresh strawberries.”

Cammie sucked in her breath and grabbed her seat belt's shoulder strap with both hands. The sunlight filtering through the windshield suddenly seemed unbearably warm on her skin.

Kat frowned as she reached for the door handle. “What's that face about?”

Heat prickled all over Cammie's arms. “Um, nothing.”

“You love fresh strawberries. In fact, didn't you once say that Delaware strawberries ruined you for all other strawberries? Remember that?”

“I remember.”
That and so much more.

Comprehension clicked as Kat studied her face. “Oh. This is about that guy.”

Cammie tried to keep her expression neutral. “What guy?”

Kat raised one eyebrow. “You know what guy.”

“Oh, you mean . . . Ian?” Cammie had to force the words out. “This isn't about him.”

Kat smiled archly. “Uh-huh.”

“That was ages ago.”

“If you say so.”

“And he didn't grow strawberries. He was all about the sweet corn.” Sweat beaded on the nape of Cammie's neck. “I don't know if he even lives out here anymore.”

This was another lie. She was certain of very little in life, but she knew with one hundred percent certainty that Ian was still in Black Dog Bay. Staying here was the one thing she couldn't live with and he couldn't live without.

Kat craned her neck, trying to scope out the strawberry stand. “It's just two little kids.”

“All by themselves?”

Kat shrugged one shoulder. “It's Black Dog Bay. They don't have helicopter parents out here. Come on, let's go.”

Before she got out of the car, Cammie made a cursory effort to straighten the wrinkles out of her sundress and wipe the powdered sugar from her lips. She tried to slow her racing pulse, reminding herself that what happened seven years ago no longer mattered. Ian had forgotten about her long ago. He probably wouldn't recognize her even if he saw her—which he wouldn't, because he wasn't here.

Two girls—maybe ten and twelve—sat behind the makeshift wooden stand, lining up boxes of berries and engaging in an epic battle of “No, it's
my
turn to sit on the good stool.”

“Hey, guys!” Kat sauntered up and helped herself to a sample. “Mind if I try one?” she asked through a mouthful of strawberry.

The younger girl looked from Kat to Cammie and back again. “Um . . .”

“Oh my god.
Oh my god
. These are amazing.” Kat reached for her wallet. “We'll take a pint. Two pints. Three pints.”

The younger girl straightened her shoulders. “That'll be twenty-four dollars.”

Kat looked scandalized. “Twenty-four dollars? That's ridiculous.”

The older girl came to her sister's side, her eyes blazing with indignation. “Twenty-four bucks. Take it or leave it.”

Cammie hid a smile and handed over a ten-dollar bill. “We'll take one, please and thank you.”

The young girls glanced at each other. “We don't have change for a ten.”

“I have change.”

Cammie recognized the voice immediately, and once the man came into view, she recognized the face. The tall, lanky frame he'd had in adolescence had filled out a bit and his posture was steadier
and more confident, but his brown eyes, the thick brown hair, the hint of sunburn on his cheeks looked just as she remembered.

For a moment, she was twenty-two again, full of hope and hormones, falling hard and fast, so sure that he would catch her.

And then Ian's eyes met hers. His expression hardened.

She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but she knew without touching him how it would feel to rest her hands on his soft gray cotton T-shirt. Her body remembered everything.

She forced herself to look away.

Kat took a step back and let Ian and Cammie have some space. The girls, oblivious to the tension, started clamoring for attention. “Money! Give us money!”

Ian reached into the pocket of his jeans and handed over a wad of singles without looking down. The girls squealed and jumped for joy.

Kat talked the girls through the process of giving change for the ten-dollar bill. Cammie and Ian stood, facing each other, staring over each other's shoulders.

Kat cleared her throat and broke the silence. “Hey, Ian. I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Kat, Cammie's cous—”

“I remember you.” He looked right into Cammie's eyes.

“Great! Anyway.” Kat cleared her throat again. “Your daughters here—”

“Nieces,” he said, still staring at Cammie. “I don't have kids.”

“Got it. Well, your nieces here strike a hard bargain.”

“Eight dollars a pint is a good deal,” the older girl informed Kat with great authority.

Ian smiled as he reached out to ruffle the girl's hair. “Our farm uses environmentally responsible pesticides, and we give benefits to long-term employees. These go for twelve dollars a pint at the grocery store by the boardwalk.”

Kat helped herself to another berry. “I guess it's not price
gouging when it's this delicious. This is seriously the best strawberry I've ever tasted.” She turned to Cammie. “You need to try one right now.”

Cammie didn't need to try one; she remembered exactly how they tasted. She kept staring at Ian, fascinated by the mix of the familiar and unfamiliar. “You sell strawberries now?”

He paused for just a moment before answering. “I grow mostly strawberries now.”

Then he smiled at her the same way he had on the day they first met. Her breath caught. The past two years had been so full of worry and disappointment, it was a relief to feel something else: Desire. Anticipation. Wild curiosity.

She didn't care that these feelings would never come to fruition. She'd gotten used to wanting things she couldn't have.

“What happened to the sweet corn?” she asked.

His expression shifted ever so slightly. “You don't like corn.”

She had nothing to say to that.

“We still grow sweet corn; that's the big seller at the farmers' market on weekends. But strawberries take up less land and we make a better profit.”

Cammie studied the lush red berries in Kat's hand. “Are these the same strawberries we . . .”

He gave a brusque nod.

“You
sell
them?” A note of betrayal crept into her voice. “To anyone with eight dollars?”

He waited until she met his gaze. “It's not like you were going to do anything else with them.”