Some Sort of Happy (Skylar and Sebastian): A Happy Crazy Love Novel (2 page)

“Who?”

“Mom. She’s watching the show, even though I told her not to. Do I have to answer this?”

My sister shrugged. “No. But you live on her property. She can probably see in the windows.”

I ducked, then sank onto the couch again. Generally, I didn’t ignore my mother, but right now I really didn’t feel like defending myself or lecturing her again on the how-and-why of editing for ratings. I tapped ignore and tossed my phone on the table. “Can we please stop watching this now?” Picking up the remote, I turned the television off without waiting for her answer.

“It’s not that bad, Sky.” Natalie got off the couch and went to the kitchen to refill her glass.

“Yes it is, and you know it. I just insulted everyone we know here.”

“Maybe no one is watching,” she said, ever the optimist.

“I seriously hope not.” I hugged my legs into my body, tucking my knees under my chin. Glancing out the big picture window, I saw darkness falling over the hilly orchard where I’d grown up. Memories flooded my mind…running through rows of fragrant blossoming cherry trees in the spring, picking the fruit in the summer, rustling through crunchy brown leaves in the fall, throwing snowballs at my sisters in the winter. Maybe I hadn’t appreciated it enough when I was younger, but I loved it here. For all its glitz, New York had never felt like home to me. I’d even liked Montana better than Manhattan.

Natalie returned to the couch and leaned back against the opposite end, stretching her legs out toward me. “All right, silver lining. You did exactly what you set out to do—draw attention to yourself. You’ve always been good at that.”

Had she intended to be snide? Natalie wasn’t the cryptic remark type, and neither was I. If we had something to say to one another, we said it.

I eyeballed her. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

“Don’t get prickly.” She nudged me with one bare foot. “I’m just saying that you know how to work a room. You obviously charmed the producers into wanting you to stay on.”

“But not so much that they thought I’d win the cowboy’s heart on my own,” I pointed out.

She shrugged. “You said yourself you guys had no chemistry.”

“We didn’t. But why me?” I whined. “Why couldn’t they’ve asked someone else to play the villain?”

“Because they didn’t trust anyone else to play it right. They needed someone to act devious and manipulative but who was also beautiful and appealing enough for it to be realistic that he’d keep you on so long. I think it was a compliment!”

I held up one hand. “Please. Everyone there was beautiful. And haven’t you heard? My mouth looks like someone’s asshole.”

She kicked me. “Stop it. You have that something extra—you light up a room, you always have.” She slumped like a hunchback and contorted her pretty features. “The rest of us just linger in the shadows, waiting to feed on your scraps.”

I rolled my eyes. Natalie was perfectly lovely, and she knew it. She just had no desire to play it up. While I adored cosmetics, she usually went bare-faced. I was a hair-product and hot roller junkie; she let her natural waves air dry. I could easily—and happily—blow a paycheck on a pair of Louboutins; she saved every penny she could and always had.

And that’s why she owns her own business at age twenty-five and you’re still scrambling to get by at twenty-seven. You might be the big sister, but she’s got a shop, a boyfriend, and a condo. What do you have?

I propped my elbow on the back of the couch and tipped my head into my hand. “God, Nat. I really fucked this up. It didn’t lead to Scorsese knocking at my door, and I probably just alienated everyone we know.”

“Quit being such a drama queen. They’ll forgive you once you flash that Cherry Queen smile at them.”

“Ha. Maybe I should dig out my crown and start wearing it around town. Remind them they liked me once upon a time.”

“Does that mean you’re staying here for good?”

Picking up my drink, I took a slow sip. “I guess so, although I promised Mom I’d be out of this guest house by the end of the month. That gives me about three weeks to figure out where to live, or else move in with them.” I grimaced into the glass. “I’m such a loser. Moving in with my parents at twenty-seven.”

“You’re not, Sky. But if you still want to be an actress, why not go back to New York and try again? A lot of people don’t break out right away.”

How many times had I heard that over the last few years?

I swirled the ice around in the glass. Could I take the New York audition scene again? All the rejection was so disheartening. Then there was living in the city itself. New York had such frantic energy, at every time of day during every day of the week. Once upon a time I couldn’t wait to be a part of that. Of course, I’d romanticized it entirely—the life I’d imagined included actually
getting
the jobs I auditioned for, and being able to pay my rent with plenty left over for shoes, blowouts, and trendy nightclubs, where I’d clink glasses with elite theater people who called each other darling and invited me to summer with them in the Hamptons.

Needless to say, that’s not how it went.

I spent four full years in New York, and the last year I paid my rent solely by bartending, lying to my parents, my sisters, and anybody else who asked about going out on auditions.

How pathetic is that? I mean, plenty of people lie on their resumes about their successes, but there I was lying about my
failures
, making up jobs I
didn’t
get.

That beer commercial? They went younger.

That legal drama? Turns out they wanted a brunette.

That web series about vampire nannies? Never heard back.

So after spending my entire childhood dreaming of being an actress and being voted Most Likely to See Her Name in Lights, turns out I wasn’t cut out for it. Or maybe I just wasn’t good enough.

Either way, it was really depressing.

I was debating calling it quits when the opportunity to do Save a Horse came up, and since I hated the thought of coming back a failure, I figured I’d give it one last-ditch effort to find success.

In hindsight, I probably should have just crawled out of the ditch and held up the white flag. Or better yet, told someone to shoot.

“I don’t know, Nat. I…didn’t really love living in New York.” Admitting how homesick I’d been seemed like another failure.

“Well, what about going back on the cruise ships?”

I made a face. “Nah. Two years was enough for me—I only did it for the experience. And the money.”

“Then stay here,” she said firmly. “Your roots are here. Your family is here. You’ve got a new job you like, and you can easily find a place to live.”

“I do like my job.” I looked over her head out the window again. “And I did miss it here,” I admitted. “But won’t everyone think I’m a big fat failure?”

“Fuck everyone!” Natalie said in a rare outburst. “What do you care what people think of you anyway?”

I shrugged, wishing I didn’t care. But I did. So much it hurt. My ten year high school reunion was three weeks away, and as it stood now, I’d walk in there with a pretty dull story—Failed Actress with No Plan B.

I wanted to be able to say I’d achieved something in the last ten years. But the problem was, I hadn’t. I had no career, no husband or children, no home of my own. Everybody else there would have pictures of their beautiful families to show and stories of their successes to tell. And what did I have?

Seven seconds on the mechanical bull.

And some really nice shoes.

The next day, I showed up for work at Chateau Rivard praying no one at the winery had seen the previous night’s show.

“Morning, John,” I called to the tasting room manager.

“Morning, Skylar.” He was inspecting wine glasses behind the long, curved wooden tasting counter. In his fifties, he was thin on top and thick through the middle and way, way too serious about wine, but I liked him well enough. He’d taught me a lot in the last month.

“Just give me a sec and I’ll help you.” I went to the employees’ room in the back and stowed my purse and keys in a locker before joining him again. “Hey, I wanted to ask you about doing some videos this month. I had an idea for a series of tasting clips, just short ones for our website and the YouTube channel, that would teach people about tasting different kinds of wines but not be snooty or overly preachy, you know? Just something fun and approachable, and we could highlight our riesling for summer.”

“YouTube?” John squinted at me. “Do we have a YouTube channel?”

“We will. I hope.” I smiled at him as I unrolled the sleeves of my white blouse. It was a warm day for May, so I’d cuffed them this morning, but the cavelike tasting room always stayed cool with its stone floors and walls. To me, it was a little dark and dungeony, and the fancy French furniture was definitely tired and uncomfortable, but the Rivard family was all about tradition, and resistant to change. Even though I was technically just the assistant tasting room manager, I thought I could help to modernize the place a little bit—not only the look of the tasting room but in other ways as well. After all, if I was going to work up the nerve to ask for a raise so I could afford an apartment, I’d better prove my worth. “I also have some ideas for additional summer events. I’m going to talk about it all with Mrs. Rivard as soon as possible.”

“Actually, she does want to see you.” John set one glass down and picked up another, holding it up in the dim light thrown by the ugly old brass chandelier overhead. “She said to send you to her office when you arrived.”

“Oh.” That was a little odd. I usually didn’t meet with her in the mornings because we did vineyard tours then. “Do I have time? Isn’t it like quarter to ten already? We’ve got two groups booked this morning.”

“I’ll cover for you here. Go ahead.”

An uneasy feeling weaseled its way under my skin. “Did she say what it was about?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Just said to send you.”

I tried a joke. “Should I be worried?”

“No idea. But you should probably go now. She doesn’t like to wait around.”

No, she didn’t. Miranda Rivard was a stickler for many things—punctuality, manners, tradition. She was the family’s third generation winemaker, although the Rivards had farmed this area long before that, and she was entirely dedicated to preserving its history. That devotion was nice when it came to saving the lighthouse or securing historical landmark status for an old home, but difficult to work around when it came to convincing her to update her tasting room or embrace technology.

As I took the steps up to the winery’s large, ornate lobby—also outdated, I wondered why I was being summoned like this. Could it be something positive? Why couldn’t I shake the feeling it was something bad?

At the far end of the lobby, I opened the heavy wooden door labeled Offices. Mrs. Rivard’s—I didn’t dare call her Miranda—was at the end of the long hall, but that morning I wished it were longer. I walked as leisurely as I could, my gaze on the frayed teal carpet runner. When I reached her door, I stood with my hand poised to knock and gave myself a little pep talk.

Relax. There’s no way Miranda Rivard watches Save a Horse. It’s probably something about the social media accounts you suggested setting up.