Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (18 page)

Normally Piper has no right to judge anyone’s appearance, but she’s traded her typical lululemon attire for a preppy shift dress, linen blazer, and strappy sandals. I bet she figured the B&B would be more of a miniresort and less of a ramshackle disaster. She’s in for a rude awakening, especially when she learns the three of them will be sharing a room, since the rest are reserved.

“One of you should’ve called first,” I say, skipping over Piper’s backhanded question and jumping straight to the point. “Space is tight.” With the help of the revamped website, promotion from local businesses, and listings on sites like TripAdvisor, the Inn’s booking schedule has slowly filled up. It’s nowhere near capacity on a consistent basis, but perhaps by this holiday season that’ll be a different story and there will be enough money in the bank to fund some of the more important renovations.

“And ruin the surprise?” Faye says. There’s a pinched look on her face as she inspects her glass under the glow of a stained glass lamp on the side table, no doubt contemplating, the same way I did, how a wine from this area could taste so damn good. Or her expression could be from a bad reaction to Botox.

“Besides, this was a bit of an impromptu trip,” Samma interjects, affronted, as though
I’m
the unreasonable one for suggesting they pick up the phone before barging in.

“So you all spontaneously decided to drive almost four hours to check on me?” I ask, skeptical. Thoughtful gestures are not in their vocabulary, so they’re either on a reconnaissance mission for my mother or they wanted to witness the circus show, meaning me, firsthand so they can report back to our social circle at home. Most likely both. “Or were you just in the mood for a cheaper, Napa-esque vacation?”

The vacuum whirs to life upstairs, banging against furniture as Grammy J moves about—her familiar footsteps causing the floorboards to creak. She cleans when she’s stressed or frustrated, though in this case it’s unclear if it’s a result of the shower spectacle or the girls’ last-minute visit.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we’re not in this Podunk town for the wine,” Piper says. By the level in her glass, she has yet to take a sip. Otherwise she’d be singing a different tune.

“That’s too bad, because the vintages being debuted this year may be the best yet,” comes Ryan’s voice from behind me. I’ve never been happier to hear his slow, musical drawl. I turn to find him lingering in the doorway carrying a meat and cheese board. Moving into the room, he meets my gaze, a wry half grin tugging at his mouth, and sets the tray on the coffee table beside the bottle of No Holds Barred. Attractive as ever, he’s combed back his damp hair with his fingers, and he’s wearing a buttoned plaid shirt and old Levi’s jeans Poppa Bart once owned. Both are too tight for his frame, which only accentuates his lean, muscular build.

The girls’ eyes grow wide at the sight of him. I can’t say I blame them.

“Are you here to collect our luggage?” Piper asks Ryan, dismissive as usual. “It’s in the trunk of the BMW outside.” She tosses her keys at him like he’s a servant at her beck and call.

“They’re designer, so be careful. The leather is sensitive to the elements,” Samma adds, not even trying to mask her condescension, proud to be flaunting her wealth—her
parents’
wealth, to be more accurate.

He shoots me an
are-these-women-serious
look. He has no idea.

I wouldn’t fault him if he flung the keys back in Piper’s face. She’s unaccustomed to being told no, so witnessing her resulting wrath would be worth it. But the last thing I need is a confrontation.

Before he can strike, I say, “This is Ryan Camden, a local winemaker whose blend you’re drinking.”
More like insulting.

“What’d you do, import the grape juice from France and slap your label on the bottle?” Samma lets out a short, sarcastic laugh. Piper and Faye join in, though Faye’s smile barely registers on her lips.
How has her body not yet revolted against all the cosmetic procedures?
“At least something around here is cultured,” she continues.

My shoulders tense at Samma’s words, reminiscent of the ones I spoke to Ryan the night we met at The Tangled Vine, and I feel a stab of shame at my behavior. Bluntness is not an excuse for rudeness.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ryan considers the girls a moment and I watch the gears click into place. “You must be Marge’s friends from Dallas,” he says with more tact than they deserve, glancing among them.

“One and the same,” Faye says, making no more effort at introductions, so I sigh and rattle off their names.

“Normally I’d be a gentleman and grab those expensive bags for y’all, but I was playing in the mud earlier and it’d be a pity if I got them dirty.” He flashes me a look, eyes twinkling, and warmth spreads like a slow fuse through my body. Not caring that there’s an audience, I slip an arm around Ryan’s waist, tucking my hand into his back pocket, and kiss the side of his neck.

Silence settles over the room. The girls are frozen to their seats, eyes wide and mouths open. I notice a piece of dried apricot has fallen onto Piper’s lap, her hand still hovering in midair. Samma recovers first and says, “Well, Margaret, it appears you’ve been sampling more of the local flavor than I originally suspected.” To someone else, her tone might sound conspiratorial, like she’s been let in on a secret, but I’ve been around Samma enough to recognize the catty undercurrent.

I start to tell her to stop acting like a twit, but a loud thud and sharp cry interrupt my retort. Panicked, I rush up the stairs to get to Grammy J. Before I reach the top, I see an upturned bucket of cleaning supplies with the contents scattered about, and my heart drops, anticipating the worst.

I find Grammy J doubled over in pain on the floor outside my bedroom, and instantly I know whatever happened is my fault.

16

A
puddle ignored on the floor seems harmless. Not something worth making a big deal of, especially since it evaporates.

But the little things don’t matter until they do.

If Ryan and I hadn’t been so caught up in our escapade, if we’d been more cautious about dragging rain water through the B&B, if I’d cleaned up the mess we created, then Grammy J wouldn’t have slipped and fallen. She wouldn’t be at Hill Country Memorial preparing for hip-pinning surgery.

Guilt slices through me as I study Grammy J in a threadbare gown lying on a hospital bed that swallows her thin frame. Her personality’s so big and spirited it’s easy to forget how small and fragile she is. How vulnerable. A bruise is forming around her eye where her face connected with the door frame, and a splint protects the wrist she used to soften her fall. The artificial light overhead makes her appear washed-out and sickly.

How is Grammy J supposed to run the Inn? It’s her life—
her home
—and in a simple selfish act, I robbed her of that.

“The tracing looks normal,” the cardiologist says, examining the pattern of spikes and dips on the EKG readout, while the technician removes the electrodes attached to Grammy J’s body. “Okay, Joy. It’s time to mend that fracture. Let me speak with your surgeon and anesthesiologist to verify everything’s all set.”

He raises the bed so she’s situated upright before leaving us alone. For hours it’s been a stream of doctors and nurses flowing in and out, taking X rays, collecting blood and urine samples, evaluating Grammy J’s overall health to ensure the procedure goes safely and smoothly.

Now it’s just the two of us.

Muffled pages over the PA system and the buzz of conversation among the hospital staff filter in from the hallway, filling the silence.

Gathering my courage, I open my mouth to apologize, to tell her I was stupid and careless, that I should have heeded her advice about keeping the bed-and-breakfast tidy, but Grammy J must realize what’s coming because she cuts me off.

“Don’t even consider it, child,” she says, grimacing as she adjusts her position in the bed. “I was clumsy. Nothing more.” Her voice sounds raspy and quiet, barely loud enough to be heard in the space between us, but sincere in a way that amplifies my guilt.

My throat feels tight and my eyes burn, but I suppress the tears, refusing to cry. This isn’t about me. It’s about Grammy J and her well-being. There’s a knock on the door, and a nurse enters.

“The doctor’s ready for you, Joy,” the nurse says, lifting the rails and unlocking the wheels on Grammy J’s bed. She turns to me. “Your grandmother will be in the best of care, sweetheart. I need you to head to the waiting room until after surgery.”

I squeeze Grammy J’s hand, a silent promise to be here when she wakes up. Her skin feels as dry and wrinkled as crepe paper. Grammy J returns the gesture with a warm smile and instructions for me not to fret. Which is an impossible order.

I follow as the nurse maneuvers the bed into the corridor bustling with activity and toward the operating area ahead. When Grammy J disappears behind large double doors with
NO ENTRY
printed in bold red across the center, I retreat to the crammed waiting room, which reeks of burned coffee and air freshener. People watch muted televisions mounted in wall alcoves, while others nap or read books. Newspapers and magazines are stacked on side tables cluttered with brochures offering guidance on injury and disease prevention.

I spot Ryan near the bank of vending machines, talking to members of Grammy J’s gardening club.
How long ago did they get here?
Relief floods me. He stayed, even though he hasn’t been allowed beyond the surgical waiting area or kept up to date on my grandmother’s condition since arriving at the hospital hours ago.
He stayed.

I left Piper, Samma, and Faye at the Inn with a key to their room and a list of restaurant options for dinner. In separate cars Ryan and I trailed the ambulance to Hill Country Memorial, located several towns over in Fredericksburg. It’s not like the girls would’ve insisted on joining me anyway, and frankly, I think they were relieved not to be inconvenienced. I was hoping with my grandmother’s health scare they’d cut their visit short, but according to Faye, “They didn’t drive three hundred miles just to eat at a Cracker Barrel and sleep in some shitty motel off the highway.” So they’re sticking around.

When Ryan notices me, he excuses himself and walks over. “What’s the diagnosis?” he asks. “Is it a fracture?”

I nod, remembering the X ray image lit up on the view box, confirming the break. “It was at the neck of the femur. The surgery should take less than three hours.” Straightforward, easy. Except the physical therapy needed to help Grammy J regain full movement in her stride may take up to three months. Three months she can’t afford, not when the bed-and-breakfast requires her constant attention. Not when it’s one bad season short of bankruptcy.

“I caused this,” I say, my voice thick with regret. The urge to cry rushes forward again. A deep, heavy ache that tears me apart. I bite my tongue to prevent the tears from coming, but they tumble fast and hot down my cheeks anyway.

“Margaret, no,” he says, wrapping me in a hug.

I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in his natural scent. He feels solid and strong against me. Ryan kisses my temple and whispers words of comfort and reassurance in my ear, but the wetness continues to blur my vision and dampen my face.

“It was an accident,” he says, his hands firm on my waist. “Something that could’ve happened under a million different circumstances.”

“But it didn’t,” I say. “It happened because of
me
. Because
I
failed to mop up a puddle of water.” A mistake I’ll never make again.

“You have to quit blaming yourself.” Ryan cups my jaw in his palm, skimming his callused thumb under my eye and brushing away the tears. “I know Joy would agree with me.”

His gaze bores into mine, imploring me to believe him. But right now warring emotions of remorse and worry and frustration are in control, and it’s all I can do to hold it together. As if sensing my struggle, or fending off an argument, Ryan leads me to a pair of empty chairs beside the windows, and we sink into them. The upholstery itches the back of my thighs like the cheapest of fake cashmere, whatever cushioning it once had long gone—my butt will be numb in seconds.

Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the whitewashed wall and listen to the mindless, rambling chitchat of the people around us. Ryan leaves me alone with my thoughts, though his warmth and care remain. It’s as if he recognizes when to push and when to pull back.

Suddenly I sit forward with a start, glancing at the clock above the reception desk. “Shit.”

“What?” Ryan asks, his brow furrowed.

“Guests are arriving at the Inn tonight and nobody’s there to check them in.” Even if Piper, Samma, and Faye haven’t gone for dinner yet, I doubt they’d bother to answer the door let alone greet any newcomers.

Chuckling, he says, “I’m not sure if it’s the same level of creepy as finishing each other’s sentences, but I’d already thought of that. One of the women in Joy’s gardening club is dealing with everything.”

“Definitely creepy, but thank you,” I say, smiling. It should make me nervous how he reads me so well so quickly, how he knows exactly what I need without me voicing it, but it doesn’t. Instead it makes me feel like I’m not alone, like I have someone on my team who supports me, watches out for me.

Like I’m something valuable to someone.

It brings out the brave part of me so that I ask, “Should I call my mother? Would you want to be told if you had a parent in the hospital if the two of you were estranged?”

Ryan peers down at his lap and scratches his jaw, carefully considering the question, and I wonder if he’s thinking about his father. Or perhaps, given what he’s overheard and I’ve shared, he’s thinking about how a conversation with my mother will affect me.

He looks up, capturing my gaze. Whatever he sees there must convince him of his answer because he says, “Yeah, I’d want to know. It’s never too late to set things right.”

Set things right
.

Nothing about forgiveness. Though I suppose you can’t do one without the other.

“How about this,” Ryan continues, standing and pulling me up from the chair. “I’ll grab us some food while you call your mom.” He touches my cheek, his palm rough in places where he’s gripped too many grapevines, and kisses me. The tension inside me unravels, and for a moment I clear my mind of everything, savoring the gentle pressure of his mouth, the slide of his nose across mine, the breath we share. Then with a parting kiss, he exits the waiting area.

I do the same, moving out into the hallway and into a vacant patient room. Pacing back and forth, I dial her cell, my stomach twisting in knots, my unease resurging.

“You’re home,” my mother says into the phone. The background noise nearly drowns out her voice. It sounds as if she’s at a rock concert, but that’s impossible. Unless it’s the symphony, my mother would rather get a full-body tattoo than attend a live music performance. Most likely I interrupted my parents at another one of their
functions
—their wealthy, pretentious term for an event or gala. “I’m glad the girls were able to reason with you. Stop by the house tomorrow and we’ll have tea.”

Only my mother would assume that orchestrating a visit from my “friends” would persuade me to return to Dallas. Then again she made it clear she didn’t want to hear from me otherwise, so why else would I be calling?

Before she can say anything more, I burst out with, “Grammy J’s in the hospital. She fractured her hip and is in surgery now.” I don’t mention my complicity in her fall. Cowardly, maybe, but I can’t handle being berated when the guilt I already feel is suffocating. “The physical therapy required for her recovery is extensive.” Fortunately Grammy J’s as stubborn as a red wine stain and would never accept defeat, no matter how much you scrub.

“And what do you presume I do about that?” my mother asks.

“Nothing,” I say, tugging at a loose thread dangling from the hem of my overalls. “I thought you might want to know . . .”
I thought you might care.

The background noise disappears, and I imagine my mother stepping out onto a balcony with hundreds of twinkle lights that sparkle like the sequins on her dress and the jewels dripping from her ears and neck. “So you’re not suggesting that your father and I provide financial support for in-home treatment?” she asks. “Or that we move your grandmother into an assisted-living facility where someone can bathe her regularly and help her get around?”

I hold the cell phone at arm’s length, flabbergasted at her insinuation, her audacity. “Of course not,” I say, angry but controlled. I won’t allow her to get the better of me or play off my emotions. “Why would Grammy J need
any
of that when she has me to take care of her? I simply wanted you to be informed.”

“Well, I’m now informed.” My mother’s tone has turned cold, hard as a diamond and just as sharp, as though she’s finally realized I haven’t abandoned my foolish notions of remaining in Wilhelmsburg. That I’m no closer to coming home than the Dallas Cowboys are to winning another Super Bowl. “Congratulations, Margaret. For once you successfully accomplished what you set out to do. Relish this moment as I’m sure it will be the last of its kind.”

My spine goes rigid as Ryan’s question—
how can you let her treat you like you’re nothing?
—echoes in my ear. I’m not a punching bag. I’m blunt and headstrong and flawed, sometimes even harsh enough to scab, but I’m also loyal and dedicated and caring.

And I have worth—the people I’ve met in this town have shown me that—which at the bare minimum means I deserve basic human decency. Not passive-aggressive reprimands or thinly veiled disgust from the one person who’s supposed to love me unconditionally.

“You’re wrong,” I say to my mother. “It’s unfortunate you’re too narrow-minded to see all I’ve achieved, what I’m capable of, but perhaps someday you will.”

It’s the best I can hope for and the last thing I expect.

Morning arrives too soon, but breakfast for eleven guests won’t make itself no matter my level of exhaustion. I shuffle into the kitchen, showered and dressed and looking about as good as a road-slaughtered skunk.

I got back to the Inn well past midnight, intending to collapse into bed and fall fast asleep. Only my mind wouldn’t shut off, my thoughts focused on my mother and her lack of compassion, on the B&B and all its responsibilities, but mostly on Grammy J and how best I can help her. She emerged from surgery groggy and in pain, but the operation was a success and had no complications. Now comes the challenging part—rehabilitation.

I hit the switch on the coffee machine and step out onto the rear porch. The sun is crawling over the horizon, weak and watery, chasing the stars away and lighting the sky pale blue. I ease into a rocking chair and gently sway back and forth, basking in the warm breeze drifting across my skin.