Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (9 page)

“I’m in public relations. If you’d be open to it, I can develop some promotional materials for you, overhaul the website, help generate buzz about the Inn outside of the area,” I say, ideas already swirling in my head. The B&B could partner with other small local vendors—boutique wineries, family-owned farms and orchards, restaurants and markets—to create vacation packages that showcase hidden gems around Wilhelmsburg. Napa has been successfully doing that type of thing for years. It’s about time this one-horse town caught on. Except the Inn needs more than just PR to salvage it—more like a total renovation, but I would never say that to Grammy J. She’d have her shotgun cocked before the words left my mouth.

“I wasn’t aware you’d be stickin’ around long enough to accomplish all that.” Grammy J looks at me. Her lips have taken on a purplish hue thanks to the wine. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but want to tell me what prompted this little visit?”

Brushing flecks of paint off my dirt-stained white jeans, I sigh and say, “I needed a break. Some time off.” From Nick and my mother and life. From
everything
. I’ve been here a day and already it’s as if the weight that’s been pressing on my chest has lifted a fraction so I can
breathe
again.

Grammy J shakes her head, now a darkening silhouette against the sunset. “Then you’re a fool, child. I already told you I’m puttin’ you to work, and while I appreciate whatever you can do for the Inn, there are no free passes—even for family.”

“Noted,” I say, tucking my feet under me, the low drone of cicadas a relaxing chorus around me. I close my eyes. A breeze washes over my face, and I inhale the scent of soil and ripe fruit growing somewhere nearby that instantly reminds me of Ryan. The image of him pinning me against the counter in Hodgepodge flashes behind my eyelids. “But right now I’m off to soak in a bubble bath.” Standing, I stretch my arms above my head and offer the bottle back to Grammy J.

“Keep it,” she says. “I reckon you’re goin’ to be in that tub awhile with the amount of scrubbin’ you need. May as well drink some great wine while you do it.”

A small laugh escapes. “You’re probably not too far off, but don’t say anything to Ryan about me liking it, okay?”

“You know, after that debacle between you two at the Gansey house all those years ago, I never thought I’d see you runnin’ off with him again, but you sure were quick to get in his car this afternoon.” A conspiratorial half smile forms on her face.

“I panicked. I have no interest in Ryan,” I say, trying to ignore his words playing in a loop in my head.
I think you’ve been waiting your whole life for a guy like me to come along and wake you up, show you just how fun messy can be.
I’ve already done messy. What was Nick, if not the biggest mess of my life?

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Absolutely no interest. None.”

“And yet you’re the one who brought him up in this conversation,” Grammy J says, confirming that I don’t know why I bother lying because I’m not convincing anyone. She hides her mouth behind her glass, but I can tell she’s grinning—it’s the way deep creases appear in her cheeks and her eyes dance with something playful. She’s enjoying this way too much.

“I really am going to soak in a bath now.” I lean down to kiss her cheek, then start to head for the Inn, but Grammy J’s voice stops me.

“Next time you see Ryan be sure to congratulate him. That bottle in your hand ranked in
Wine Spectator
’s
Top 100.”

My first thought is there’s no way a Tempranillo from Texas Hill Country made that list, but then I register the rest of her words. I turn to face her, my brow furrowed. “What does he have to do with it?” I ask. “He just works for the vineyard.”

Grammy J cackles, the sound overloud and too high-pitched, and I wonder if before I arrived she’d indulged in one too many glasses of wine during the Inn’s evening social hour. But what she says next leaves me dumbstruck.

“Oh dear Lord, child,” she says. “Ryan doesn’t just work for the vineyard—he owns the damn thing!”

8

M
oose loads the last of the mangled boards onto his truck bed as the sun edges completely over the horizon. The world is a kaleidoscope of grays and purples and pinks. When he said he’d stop by the bed-and-breakfast in the morning to provide an estimate for the porch, I thought he meant when it was fully daylight. Instead he arrived an hour ago with a tool belt around his waist, a clipboard propped against his side, and a grin on his face that was annoyingly cheery for the crack of dawn.

At least the bump on my forehead is down to the size of a gumball, the swelling in my ankle has lessened so I can almost walk normally, and my muscles, while stiff, are still functional. Thank God for aspirin, a bubble bath, and a solid night’s sleep.

“That should do it for now,” Moose says, latching the tailgate and wiping the dirt from his hands.

I find another rusted nail in the grass and toss it into the bucket that’s weighing down the already-sagging porch steps. “How long will the rebuild take?”

“I’ll buy the lumber and other materials this weekend. My team works fast, so I’d guess about a week, especially since you did much of the demo for us.” He writes some notes on a form, then rips away the carbon copy and hands it to me. The rebuild is going to cost as much as a weekend getaway to the Ritz Carlton Grand Cayman resort. Still, it’s worth it.

“Because of the significant structural damage,” Moose continues, “I won’t know for sure until we get in there and determine the full extent of what we’re dealing with, but I’ll keep you informed.”

I nod, gazing out at the view. From my vantage point, I see groups of people picking grapes in the vineyards in the distance. A tractor trails each crew, hauling plastic bins to collect the clusters. I pull my hair into a ponytail, allowing the breeze to blow across my neck. It’s already hot enough to make my shirt stick to my back.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been here, but glancing around at the exterior, I can tell you the Inn isn’t up to code,” he says, opening the driver’s door and placing the clipboard on the dash. “The roof needs replacing. The walls are leaning slightly, meaning there’s probably foundation problems, and the egress windows in the bedrooms don’t meet the size requirements. You may want to speak to Joy about fixing those things first. Otherwise, renovating the porch will be a waste of time and money.”

“I’ve been informed the budget only allows for the bare minimum.”

“Then you have quite the chore ahead of you.”

“Don’t remind me. Today I’ve been tasked with organizing the shed and vacuuming the curtains and furniture.” Though anything is better than returning to Dallas to face my mother and everyone else who thinks I’m a failure.

“All right, I gotta open the store.” Moose grabs the bucket filled with nails and sets it on the passenger-side floor. “I hope you’ll come to the party tonight. At least for the free food and wine.”

“You inviting me to be your date?” I ask, nudging his arm with my elbow. There’s something warm and welcoming about Moose that brings out the playful side of me. Maybe it’s his lack of pretense. Or perhaps it’s the way he doesn’t seem to pass judgment.

Climbing inside the truck, he drops into his seat and says, “As much as I’d love to, I doubt Cricket would like it. He’s sweet on you.”

“Fortunately, I’m not attracted to insects,” I say. Sure Ryan’s sexy in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way, and those hazel eyes draw me to him like a bee to a flower. But even beautiful flowers can hold hidden dangers, be as lethal as belladonna berries.

“You know, you could always approach the situation differently,” Moose says. “Have some fun with it.”

“How do you mean?”

He secures his seat belt and turns the engine over a few times before it catches. “Ever heard the phrase, ‘Don’t get mad, get even’?” he says, winking conspiratorially.

As Moose drives away, I remember the secret cave tucked into the hillside on the far edge of Grammy J’s property. He’s a genius. I know how I’m going to beat Ryan at his own game, demonstrate that he’s the fool. It’s exactly what I need to regain control. With a skip in my stride, I head for the shed to start cleaning, feeling upbeat for the first time in months.

I have a plan to execute.

The party is in full swing when I arrive at Camden Cellars that evening. Music, loud voices, and laughter pour out of an old German stone barn I assume acts as the tasting room and winery, which is surrounded by a Provençal-style landscape of lush trees, lavender fields, and acres of grapevines covering gently sloping hills. I can’t believe all this belongs to Ryan. When Grammy J said he owned Camden Cellars, I was expecting a modest operation. I’ve vastly underestimated him, but I refuse to focus on that. I’m here for one purpose—retribution.

Walking up the paved path, I’m careful to hold the fruit basket steady despite my slight limp. Wearing wedges with a still-sore ankle wasn’t my smartest decision, but since I wasn’t apprised of the attire for the evening, I erred on the dressier side of causal. My mother, of course, would not approve. Pain should be no hurdle to beauty or propriety.

A peacock saunters past me, its jewel-toned tail brushing against my leg. That explains why a few feathers fell out of the back of Ryan’s Blazer.

I step through the arched doorway and immediately into a room packed with people gathered around a massive bar in the center, wine flowing in abundance. I glance around for a place to set the fruit basket, except there doesn’t appear to be a spot designated for host gifts.
Apparently proper party etiquette is optional here
. I stick the basket on a built-in cabinet and try to blend in.

Many attendees look as if they’ve come straight from working in the vineyards—sunburned noses, dirt-stained clothes, unkempt hair. Based on bits of conversation, I piece together that tonight’s festivities are in honor of a successful harvest, early in comparison to other domestic grape-growing regions because of the intense late-summer heat.

I scan the crowd for Ryan, but I’m interrupted when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket—this afternoon I finally managed to get the display to turn on, though the new one I ordered can’t get here quick enough. I pull it out, and dread clutches my chest when I see my mother’s name, but I retreat to the parking lot to take the call anyway. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can forget the conversation ever happened.

“How lovely of you to pick up,” my mother says in her usual biting tone when I answer. “Given your recent childish actions, you can’t afford to ignore me.”

“Hello, Mother,” I say, hoping the determination in my voice conceals my apprehension, though I’m sure she can sense it. My mother has the innate ability to detect my true emotions, no matter how well hidden, and twist them into something ugly, then use them against me. One of her many talents.

“Imagine my shame when I discovered from your father that you’ve not only dropped all of your professional and social commitments to wallow over an entirely inappropriate man, but you’ve chosen to do so in Wilhelmsburg with
that woman
.” I envision her sitting in the formal living room, encircled by oil paintings and family photos in sterling frames flaunting our enviable, fake life.

“That woman is
my grandmother
,” I say, putting the phone on speaker and strolling up and down the path, running my fingers through the wildflowers that edge it.

“Yes, and as such, she should have told you to return to Dallas and tend to your responsibilities, though why I’d expect such a thing from her, of all people—”

“Maybe if you’d told me what happened between you and Grammy J, I wouldn’t have come here.” But that’s not exactly true. While Grammy J and I have never been close, I’ve always been curious about her and wondered how much of my mother is a reflection of her. Except now that I’m here, I realize they’re entirely different people and that perhaps Grammy J could be someone special, someone I never knew I needed.

“This conversation is about your juvenile behavior,” my mother says, glossing over my statement. If I want answers, I guess I’ll need to get them from Grammy J.

“I’m just taking some personal time. The situation isn’t permanent,” I say, but the wind causes the words to sound small, almost lost.

“In this household, we don’t run away from our failures or obligations, and I won’t have rumors spread about our family because of your inability to make rational decisions. As it is, I’ve already had people inquiring after your whereabouts, one being that nosy Bernice Rimes who can’t keep her blubbering mouth shut. I had to hear from her that you passed off the Make-A-Wish Foundation fundraiser to Bill Heacock’s firm. How could you do that? You know the president of the foundation is one of your father’s biggest clients. And she’s telling everyone about how you backed out of the Scottish Rite Treasure Street benefit. It’s as if you’re happy committing professional suicide.”

Of course all my mother cares about is me tarnishing our family’s reputation, not my mental or emotional well-being.

“You need to return home and stop acting like a brokenhearted teenager,” she continues. “Until you do, you won’t receive anything from your father and me in terms of support.”

“Then I guess I’ll be destitute, because I’m not leaving here until I’m ready,” I say, then abruptly end the call. Squeezing my eyes shut, I force several deep breaths into my lungs and, not for the first time, think about cutting my mother out of my life completely. I don’t know why I grant her so much authority over me or let her reduce me to feeling like a child.

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I turn to head back into the party but freeze when I realize I’ve had an audience. Ryan leans against the limestone facade a few feet away, studying me. There’s a strange tightening in my stomach, a mixture of self-preservation, panic, and anger I know is misplaced but present nonetheless.

“How much of that did you hear?” I ask.

He pushes off the wall and saunters toward me. In three strides he’s in my space, and my heart trips over its own beat. It’s all I can do to stand my ground and try to ignore the smell of him—soap and aftershave and the hint of green things. “How much do you want me to have heard?” he asks, brushing a wayward strand of hair off my cheek.

None of it
.

I wish I could remember if you’re supposed to swim parallel to the shore or against the strong rush of the ocean when swept away by a current, because that’s what standing exposed in front of Ryan feels like.

We stare at each other, the silence clotting around us in the hot evening air.

“So all of this is yours,” I say after a bit, gesturing at the estate that appears never-ending. “It’s adequate, I suppose.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I guess trade school taught me something besides how to concoct different flavors of moonshine.”

“Like how to make wine that tastes like cough syrup?”

“Among other things. But just like you had no interest in attending tonight, I’m sure you have no interest in finding out what those things are.” The suggestive tone of his words, rich and enticing, flows through me like a finely crafted port.

He’s wearing dark jeans and a checkered dress shirt with several buttons dangerously neglected. The reddish-purple color staining his hands is absent, and his honey-blond hair, even more golden in the evening sun, is wet and raked back—with fingers, not a comb. It’s all too easy for me to picture him fresh from the shower, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his smooth, tan neck, his hard, well-muscled chest, his impossibly defined abs. The image is enough to send an ache to places that have no business aching.

My thoughts must be plastered all over my face, because Ryan flashes a the-reality-is-even-better grin and says, “Keep mentally undressing me and you’ll owe me dinner.”

It’s nice to see his reserve of smug charm hasn’t dried up yet. He’s more skilled at this game than I initially gave him credit for, but that ends now.
You’re here for payback
, I remind myself. “If impressions are any indication, you’re worth the price of a Happy Meal,” I say. “Toy not included.”

For a moment he looks astonished, an expression I intend for him to wear more than once tonight, but he quickly recovers. Shaking his head, he turns toward the entrance and says, “Come on, Marge, I’ll give you the grand tour and show you how we create that wine you hate.” He throws an arm around my shoulder, gently pulling me against him in a way that feels too intimate for such a simple gesture, and leads me back inside. I try to hide my scowl—it’s annoying how he so effortlessly trades verbal blows with me. What will it take to have the last word with this man? As we enter the tasting room, I vow to find out.

The interior is breathtaking in its construction and true to the architectural style prevalent in Hill Country. “Is this an original late-nineteenth-century German stone barn?” I ask.

“You know your Wilhelmsburg history,” he says, glancing at me. “It’s a reproduction. We built the barn two years ago to accommodate our growing customer base. It houses the tasting room, barrel cellar, and winery.”