Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (23 page)

When I catch sight of my father relaxing on his favorite couch near the grand piano, enjoying a gin and tonic and a bowl of mixed nuts, sweat pops up on the back of my neck and lines my palms, and I resist the urge to wipe my hands on my skirt.

It’s hard to believe two hours ago I was high on the thrill of making the first of many new changes in my life. Now I’m bracing myself for the real possibility that I may lose my father because of my actions. Part of me is even expecting it, that if my mother decrees that I be cut off in every way that my father will agree and choose her. I can’t really blame him. In so many ways over so many years, we’ve both been guilty of choosing my mother. Of choosing the easy, placating route. That I’m finally ready to tip the scales doesn’t mean my father is willing to do the same.

“Margaret. What a pleasant surprise!” he exclaims, his entire face lighting up when he sees me. Standing, he squeezes my shoulders and kisses my cheek. “You’re home.”

Instead of responding to his statement, I order an iced tea and sit beside him. He starts to make the usual small talk—when did I return to Dallas, am I getting settled into my condo after being away for so long, what upcoming PR campaigns do I have lined up?—but I’m on a time crunch. I need to obtain financing for the Inn immediately—the closing papers could be ready for Ryan to sign at any moment—and since I’m unsure how long that may take, I don’t have the luxury of chitchat, no matter how glad I am to see him.

“Daddy, wait,” I say, interrupting his stream of questions. “I’m not here to stay . . .” Then I steadily explain what brought me back to Dallas and relay the events of the morning, stealing his expression of carefree joy in the process. The look he wears isn’t angry, but more contemplative and a touch of something else. Reserved surprise, maybe.

“And your mother denied your request, I assume?”

I nod in confirmation. “I’m not asking you to defy her, and in any case, it’d take both of you to sign off on releasing my trust.” I fight the urge to toy with the hem of my skirt. “I only wanted you to know, as she’s likely going to be in a foul mood, and I rather doubt I’ll be welcome in your home unless I change my mind.”

“And you’re certain you won’t? Change your mind, that is?”

I study my father’s face, trying to discern what answer could possibly preserve our relationship. Finally, I settle on the truth. “I won’t,” I say.

He sighs and rubs his fingers under his tired eyes. For the first time I see the old man he will too soon become. That, more than anything else, causes the guilt to surge up for bringing my problems to him, for putting him in the middle once again.

“I was aware of Joy’s fall and her subsequent surgery, but your mother didn’t inform me that she put the Inn up for sale or that she’d found a buyer.” Tugging at his silk tie, he takes a sip of gin and tonic and clears his throat. “But then your mother has never confided much in me anyway. Even less so as of late.”

“Because of me?” I ask, drawing a pattern with my thumb in the condensation of my iced tea glass.

“No, honey. You are not, and have never been, the reason your mother is so . . . disagreeable,” he says, shaking his head. “No, sometimes there comes a point between two people where the only thing left to discuss is who’s sleeping in the guest room that night.”

Before I can ask him to clarify or press for more information, he pats my arm and says, “So, share your plans for the Inn. Do you intend to renovate or rebuild?”

“I’d like to do a full-scale renovation. Bring the B and B into the modern era while preserving its original glory,” I say, then launch into some of the design ideas floating around in my head. The four-hour drive to Dallas provided ample time for vivid daydreams of restored hand-scraped hardwood floors and copper pots that gleam in the sun as they hang from a rack above the newly installed kitchen island.

“Well, I must say,” my father says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees, “I’ve never been more proud to have you as my daughter.”

“You are?” I ask, floored by his admission, warmth spreading through my veins as effectively as his favorite scotch.

He nods. “I always have been, of course, but I recognize I haven’t been the best at vocalizing it . . . or showing it.” He flashes a smile that I feel deep in my chest. “You’ve found something that you believe in, something that you love, and you’re going after it with your whole heart. There’s bravery and strength in that.”

I’ve been waiting a lifetime to hear that kind of praise from my mother—I’ve yearned
for it even—but now I realize who I really needed to hear it from was my father. I’ve always gone to him first, quietly sought his support against my mother for the decisions I’ve made. And while his responses and opinions haven’t always been positive or supportive, they’ve never been harsh. I suddenly feel foolish for ever thinking my mother could drive a wedge between us or damage our relationship. I should have trusted that our bond is stronger than that.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to conceal the crack in my voice. “And you’re right. I do love the Inn and the person I am when I’m there, too much to let it go. I have to try to save it.”

“I could probably help you with that,” my father says. For a giddy second, I let myself hope that he’s going to convince my mother to grant me access to my trust, that this is the moment my struggle ends. “Part of me wants to, but witnessing the woman you’re turning into before me, I wonder if my involvement would be more detrimental than beneficial.”

My father reaches across the table, his palm open and inviting. Despite my disappointment, I grasp it. He squeezes my fingers. “You’ve come this far on your own, Margaret. See it through to the end.”

“And if I can’t? If I fail?” I ask, tears clogging my throat.

“That’s not the girl I raised talking,” he says. “You’ll find a way. But I will promise you this, if you’re able to secure the financing to buy the Inn, I will do everything in my power to prevent your mother from interfering.”

He pulls his hand away and motions to a waiter hovering off to the side. “Now, let’s grab a table and have some lunch while you regale me with stories of Wilhelmsburg.” His lips curve up, his smile part mischief and part ruefulness, as he says, “Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from your example.”

An image of my mother’s smug grin shadows my footsteps as I exit the latest bank to politely but firmly inform me that I’m a bad investment. All afternoon I’ve been meeting with various loan officers, and all I’ve been hearing are the same reasons for why my proposal is being rejected—not enough liquid assets, not enough managerial experience running a bed-and-breakfast, not enough
everything.

At least there’s a silver lining: If I find an investor willing to provide a significant down payment and additional collateral or form a joint venture, then I may have a chance of securing a loan. The most logical solution is also the one I haven’t let myself truly consider, the only solution that may actually be worse than asking my mother for help—asking Ryan. The winery is flourishing, and although he wants the acres of land around the Inn for planting grapevines, the house itself is more of a benefit than a hindrance. Almost every guest who stays at the bed-and-breakfast tours Camden Cellars and joins the wine club, so it’d be easy to put together exclusive sip-and-stay enthusiast packages or host country weddings via a partnership once the Inn’s been renovated.

Except that would mean swallowing my wounded pride and forgiving Ryan, and I don’t know if my head or my heart will allow me to do that. Where would I begin, anyway? Bitterness, I’m familiar with, comfortable even. But forgiveness? I have limited experience with that particular emotion.

I step onto the sidewalk, shielding my eyes against the slowly sinking sun as I head toward my Audi parked in the garage at Mockingbird Station, the outdoor shopping center across the highway from the Southern Methodist University main campus. But I stop short when I spot the four guys gathered beneath the unlit marquee of The Brass Tap across the street.

My heart drops into my stomach. For a second I’m certain I’m hallucinating. They’re country music superstars who are supposed to be on tour, not hanging outside the bar/live-music venue where I first watched them perform in college. But no, it is them—Matt, Karl, Jason, and Tim. The members of the Randy Hollis Band. Friends I haven’t spoken to in months, if I can still refer to them in that way given all that’s happened since Nick and I ended. Since they shoved me out of their lives.

They look the same, albeit a bit exhausted from a relentless life on the road. As I stare at them, a flood of memories threatens to drown me, but I push them out of my mind.
I need to get out of here
, I think as I glance around for the nearest escape route. Weaving through parked cars, I keep my head down and try to blend in with my surroundings in the hopes they don’t see me. But clearly the universe has other plans, intent on forcing an encounter that I’m not ready to have.

“Margaret!” Matt’s jovial voice yells from across the sidewalk.

I quicken my pace. A rush of blood thunders in my ears, and my pulse beats frantically in my neck.

Matt calls out my name again, adding, “Quit pretending you don’t hear me and get over here. We’ve missed you.”

We’ve missed you.

The sincerity in his tone, the familiar lilt, makes me halt. I can’t help but think about the bond of friendship all of us once shared, how I wish I could get it back. Steeling myself, I arrange my expression into neutral and spin around. The guys grin and gesture for me to join them. Inside my guard is up, but a small smile touches the corners of my mouth as I walk over to where they’re standing outside the entrance of the bar.

They immediately engulf me in a group hug, offering hellos and kissing my cheek. For the first time I really feel, deep in my core, just how far apart I’ve drifted from them, how long they’ve been vacant from my life. How much I’ve missed them and their antics—Matt’s outrageous fan stories and Jason’s lame jokes and Karl’s ridiculous yet hilarious Zoolander impersonations and Tim’s calming presence and subtle ability to read people.

“You look great, Margaret,” Karl says, taking off his cowboy hat and placing it on my head the way he used to. “But now you look better.” He winks and pinches my earlobe. I laugh, then hand the hat back to him.

“I don’t think this is our friend Margaret,” Jason whispers conspiratorially to Karl, his gaze raking over me. “I mean the hair is the same, and she’s wearing the suit and heels. But this girl’s got dirt smattered on her nose.”

“They’re freckles!” I exclaim. In the past, I lathered on the SPF-50 and followed a diligent skin-care routine to ensure my complexion remained flawless, porcelain perfection. But this morning, as I stared into the mirror, preparing to face my mother, I contemplated obliterating them under foundation. Only at the last minute, I put the tube down on the counter.

Each one of those little dots holds a story, a memory of my time in Wilhelmsburg—a morning enjoyed on the porch with Grammy J, an afternoon spent shopping along Main Street with Bon Bon and Tiffany, an evening strolling through the vineyards with Ryan. Moments I don’t want to conceal, no matter how painful some are to remember.

And the truth is, I’m so tired of hiding the parts of me that aren’t perfect. So I’m choosing not to.

“Proof you’re an impostor. Or better yet, Margaret 2.0. Twice as beautiful and half as snarky.” Jason touches a finger to my cheek. “The freckles flatter you.”

“I rather like them,” I admit.

“Of course you do,” he says with a sly grin. “What’s dot to like about freckles?” Jason mimics twirling drumsticks as he does the
ba-dum-ching
rimshot sound effect to punctuate the pun. “Get it?”

“You should focus on playing actual percussion instruments. It’s what you’re good at,” Tim interjects, flicking a bass pick at Jason’s forehead. At any given time, Tim usually has at least five neon-colored ones in his pockets to toss into the audience between songs.

“I don’t know,” Matt says, scratching his jaw as though contemplating something important. “Perhaps Jason’s dot a point about the freckles.”

Oh, god. Here it comes.

“Don’t even start you guys . . .” I warn.

“I haven’t dot a clue what’s going on,” Karl says, eyes twinkling.

“I’m going to kill all of you.”

“But we’re dot ready to die,” Jason says dramatically.

That’s it.

I try to move around Matt to punch Jason in the shoulder, but Matt steps in my path. “You shall dot pass!” he shouts, as Karl and Jason break into belly laughs and high-five each other.

Tim, who’s refrained from joining this asinine exchange until now, grabs my hand and presses it against his chest. “It’s okay, Margaret, you’ve still dot a friend in me.”

I shake my head, struggling to contain my laughter. “You’ve all dot to be kidding me with this crap.” My pun silences the group.

“Wow. Aren’t you shiny and new and quite funny?” Tim says, his voice playful, though there’s a softness in it, too. I’ve always worn my bluntness and snark as a second skin, but I can understand why gentle humor would surprise him. Before this summer, I never would’ve felt comfortable enough to joke around so casually. “Where the hell have you been?” The other guys nod, echoing his curiosity.

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words, shocked that they’d noticed, let alone wondered about my absence. But as I search their faces, I realize they’re genuinely intrigued. “I’ve been staying with my grandmother at her bed-and-breakfast in Wilhelmsburg.” I don’t tell them what prompted me to go there in the first place, though I suspect they already know.

“So that’s why you bailed on us,” Matt says.

I furrow my brow. “Bailed on
you
?” They’re the ones that cut
me
out. They never once reached out. So what is Matt talking about?

“Yeah, for our gig tonight at The Brass Tap to celebrate the end of this leg of our tour,” he says, nudging my side with his elbow. “We were hoping you’d work your PR magic and help us promote the show. And attend it, obviously. But we had to hire another firm because our usual go-to person
skipped town to drink wine in Hill Country.” I remember Samma mentioning how my former assistant, now a media relations manager for one of my rivals, was put in charge of publicizing an event for the band. I guess this is what she was referring to.