Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (16 page)

“I’m fine . . . You all are really close. It’s nice,” I say.

Tilting her head to the side, Bon Bon gives me a measuring look, and I wonder if she’s thinking about what she said to me at the Vintner’s Collective—
you must not have many friends.
“We grew up in a town of three thousand people, so we didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Have you all always lived here?” I ask.

“Most of us went away to college,” Tiffany interjects. “But eventually we ended up back home.” She shakes the ice cubes in her lowball tumbler and swallows the last sip of a whiskey and Coke.

“And since then none of you have ever had the itch to experience other places?” I ask.

“No point,” Tiffany says, shrugging. “We have everything we need right here.”

“Not
everything.
I wouldn’t complain if an actual salon with licensed professionals opened up,” Bon Bon says, running her fingers through her hair. She attempted to style it tonight, but the humidity has collapsed the blond curls into limp waves.

I envy their contentment, the straightforwardness of it. In Dallas it’s all about more money, more status, more ego—no amount of success is ever enough. People are stuck on a hamster wheel, sprinting at full speed but never getting anywhere.

Moose’s sportscaster voice announces the next person to the microphone, which thankfully isn’t me, as Gina returns to our table, adult beverages in hand. She must’ve noticed I quit drinking after the lemon drop shots, because she distributes the drinks to Bon Bon and Tiffany and passes me a half-full glass of white wine. “No pressure,” she says, the earlier tension gone. “It’s in case you need some liquid courage for your performance.”

Nodding in thanks, I take a sip. Immediately I’m hit with the flavor of Granny Smith apples, honeysuckle, and ripe, juicy pears. There’s a prominent sweetness on the palate that I adore in a German-style Riesling. Even at a dirty dive bar in Hill Country, the wine is superb.

“So, what about you, Margaret? After only living in a big city, how are you finding our small corner of the world?” Tiffany asks, continuing our previous conversation. Reaching into the pizza box, she pulls another slice toward her. But by dragging it like that, she tears the toppings off the next slice, so all the cheese, sausage, and pepperoni lie in a clump on the cardboard.

“Aw, come on, Tiff. Why do you always do that?” Bon Bon says, her voice whiny and slightly slurred. “I wanted to eat that piece.”

Tiffany shrugs. “You still can.”

“Not if it’s mutilated like that.”

Gina leans over to me and whispers, “They have this fight every week,” and I smile.

Rolling her eyes, Tiffany picks up the toppings from the destroyed slice and arranges them back on the crust, as if that somehow fixes it. “
Anyway
, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, are you enjoying Wilhelmsburg?” she asks me.

I nod. “Everything’s so relaxed, so wide open and beautiful.”

I wait for one of the girls to crack a joke about me and Ryan, something about how I better relish it here since I’ve been fooling around with the town’s most eligible bachelor. But that type of callous comment is something I’d expect from Piper, Samma, and Faye, not these women.

“You should stick around for the holidays,” Tiffany replies. “All of the historic landmarks on Main Street are decorated with lights, and the wineries participate in a tasting tour where visitors receive ornaments and handcrafted items at each stop.”

“And your grandmother creates a whole Christmas village on the Inn’s property,” Bon Bon adds in between bites of celery. I guess she decided against the mangled pizza. “The tourists flock to it, though not as much as in the past because the commercial vineyards with on-site guest lodging have begun copying her.”

Gina’s been watching a woman wearing a floral print shirt and atrocious khaki shorts flaunt across the stage singing her version of The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo.” I assumed she hadn’t been paying attention, so it surprises me when she turns to me and says, “I didn’t realize you were related to Joy. She’s legendary.”

“That she is,” I say. “And a slave driver.”

“It’s a shame the bed-and-breakfast is struggling,” she says. “In its current state, it’s bound to be sold—too many people are clamoring for the land and the structure needs a major remodel.”

My chest pinches at the idea of Grammy J losing everything she and Poppa Bart built together. As long as I’m here, I’ll do everything in my power to prevent that from happening.

“It could definitely use some good TLC, that’s for sure, which is why I’m trying to use my PR background to help revitalize it,” I say.

“That makes sense,” Gina says. “I imagine Joy’s still running the Inn the same way she did in the eighties and nineties. One of the reasons the Vintner’s Collective started is because the boutique wineries realized they had to diversify and increase their audience in order to compete in a growing market.”

That very dilemma—how to expand and stay relevant—has also been running through my head. As it stands, the Inn isn’t succeeding as a bed-and-breakfast. Though the feedback I’ve heard from guests has been polite and mostly positive, they all agree the B&B could use some updates. Problem is, with no budget, bookings need to be the immediate priority.

“I’ve considered different options,” I admit. “I’ve created a website, and I’m planning on hiring a photographer to stage some interior shots to post online.”

Gina murmurs noncommittally, throwing back a stray lemon drop shot and returning her attention to the stage.

I can’t blame her. Even I know catapulting the Inn into the digital age, professional pictures or no, is a quick fix at best. But if the Inn itself isn’t enough of a draw for visitors, what might be? An idea sparks in my mind.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” I say. “The private events held at the Vintner’s Collective, are those mostly just special wine tastings? Or do you have other types of events as well?”

“Mostly tastings, but we’re always open to broadening our horizon. Why, what are you thinking?” Gina asks.

Swallowing the remainder of my Riesling, I put on my business face and say, “I’d like to run something past you. When I was building my firm in Dallas, I worked on some promotional efforts for a few microbreweries and farm-to-table restaurants located in the same area. As individual endeavors, PR was difficult because funds were limited. As a result, the companies agreed to band together and host a block party, where they each showcased their unique food and drinks for a crowd that paid a nominal entry fee. Since you’re interested in expanding your current selections, this could be the perfect opportunity for you to do something similar.”

“How so?” Gina asks, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward so we can talk without shouting over the music. By the expression on her face, I’ve got her full attention.

“We could collaborate on developing seasonal sample-and-savor events hosted at the Collective as part of various vacation packages that’ll be available at the Inn. Maybe the events could incorporate demonstration classes centered on cheese making or charcuterie and how best to pair those items with wine. I also saw that you have mead on the menu,” I say, referring to the alcoholic beverage that’s created from mixing honey and water and fermenting it with yeast. “Perhaps you could invite a local beekeeper to discuss the process of cultivating and harvesting honey and how mead is crafted. Is any of this something you’d be interested in?”

As I pitch my idea, Gina nods and smiles, as if she approves of what she’s hearing. When I finish, she goes quiet a moment, lost in thought.

Finally she says, “All of that sounds great—
really
great—but if your goal is to bring exposure to the Inn, I’d suggest hosting the events on the property and extending invitations to visitors staying at other places. That way the next time those people travel to Wilhelmsburg, they’ll preferably reserve a room at the B&B and shop at the businesses represented. Not to mention spread the word.”

She has a valid point. Perhaps my scope of focusing solely on guests booked at the bed-and-breakfast is too narrow. The real draw is this quaint country town with its wineries, farms and orchards, and local shops and restaurants. So maybe I need to concentrate more on how to market the destination and all it has to offer.

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “And as an incentive, Grammy J could give discounts to those people who reserve during the party.”

“Exactly.” Gina retrieves a business card out of the inner pocket of her leather jacket and slides it across the table to me. “Call me and we’ll set something up.”

Just like that. Without any more discussion or negotiations.

Moose taps the microphone and a squeal echoes around the room. “All right, it’s my privilege to announce my friend Margaret to the stage,” he says.

Once again the crowd lets out a roar of cheers and clapping. Their reaction must be standard operating procedure, because they’re treating me as if I’m family rather than a stranger. Too bad I don’t share their enthusiasm—right now my heart is jerking around in my chest and sweat is gathering in my palms.

I stand, wiping my hands on my navy dress, certain I’m leaving marks. “Apart from picturing everyone naked, any tips for a first timer?”

“You’ve
never
done karaoke before?” Tiffany asks, studying me with a dubious look. “Not even as a drunk college student?”

I shake my head, unable to reply. My stomach churns as though it could reject its contents at any moment. Why am I so nervous? I don’t know the majority of these people, yet I feel the need to impress them. And why did I pick a song with so many high notes? Maybe if I’m lucky the alcohol will have dulled everyone’s senses and trick them into believing I sound like Alanis Morissette and not a hyena on helium. At least I didn’t choose a Mariah Carey ballad.

Tiffany rummages in her purse and pulls out a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses, tossing them to me. “Put these on. I promise they’ll help.”

Inhaling a deep breath, I slip them on, the overhead neon lights dimming. I make my way to the stage and step up, the surface sticky under my shoes. I gaze out at the audience. The sunglasses have added a dark layer, concealing people’s facial expressions and body language, but it doesn’t prevent my hands from shaking or my legs from wobbling.

The solo acoustic guitar and slow melody of “Ironic” start to play, the accompanying lyrics I modified appearing on the large screen set up beside me.

Here goes nothing
.

The next moments are a blur. The words fall out of my mouth in a jumble, running together, as I grip the microphone, my posture tense. My voice is high-pitched and strained, as though someone’s choking me with panty hose.

The crowd has quieted down, and I imagine they’re all staring at me in horror, on the verge of booing or throwing peanut shells. But then I hear a familiar voice yell, “Come on, Marge. Show us some of that sass you’re so proud of.”

I push the sunglasses up on my head, searching for Ryan. I don’t wonder or even care why he’s here, just that he
is.
I spot him standing at the table beside Bon Bon, Tiffany, and Gina. He smiles and nods at me in encouragement, and the gesture immediately releases some of my nerves.

Exhaling, I clear my throat and turn to Moose at the deejay stand. “How about I try this again?” I ask.

Whistling and hollering swells around me. Moose grins and restarts the track. This time when I sing, I let go of all my inhibitions, belting out the lyrics the way I do when I’m alone in my car. I botch some of the lines I changed and nearly break into laughter at others, but I keep going. As I transition into the chorus, several women get to their feet, dancing and singing along with me at the top of their lungs, and by the end of the song, the whole room has joined in.

With a cheek-splitting smile on my face and the audience’s applause ringing in my ears, I bow, consumed with adrenaline and pure euphoria. This must be how the Randy Hollis Band feels every night they perform. Like you can conquer anything and everything.

My eyes find Ryan. His gaze hasn’t wavered, still focused on me with a searing intensity that feels too intimate, too private. Weaving through the room, he pulls me off the stage and into his arms. “I stop by Axel’s to deliver a wine shipment, and what do I discover but my favorite redhead behind the microphone,” he says. “What other surprises do you have hidden up your sleeve?”

“Enough to keep you guessing,” I say with a wink, then head back to the table to select a new lyric sheet for the next round.

I’m just getting started.

15

I
put the finishing touches on the trays of bite-sized desserts Grammy J so nicely prepared, eager for the festivities to begin. We’re hosting a sort of mini Taste of Wilhelmsburg for nearly three dozen visitors from all around town, guests of the Inn included.

When I proposed a joint event to Gina at karaoke, I expected it to take weeks to coordinate. In Dallas, arranging even the most basic function requires at least a month of preparation. But between my organizational and party-planning skills and Gina’s knowledge of the local businesses and wineries, we were able to pull it together in nine days. And while the last several hours setting up have been frantic, I’ve got my game face on and I’m ready to execute.

I hear the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside. A familiar fluttering ignites in my belly, and sweat pricks up on my palms. I wipe them off on my dark-washed designer jeans, wondering for the fifth time if I should’ve opted for the more formal pencil skirt with my silk blouse. Reminding myself that the intent of the evening is to create buzz about the Inn and promote a brand—a casual, relaxed one at that—I inhale a deep breath and remove the ancient walkie-talkie I found in the garden shed from my back pocket.

I press the button on the side and ask, “Moose, are you handling parking?” A loud static noise fills the air. “Moose?”

Glancing through the kitchen windows, I search for him but only spot Grammy J on the lawn, directing traffic and greeting each person to the party with a glass of sparkling wine. When I broached the subject of hosting an event at the Inn, naturally her first question was how I intended to pay for it. After I explained that those attendees not staying at the bed-and-breakfast would be charged a nominal fee that’d cover the costs, she jumped on board much to my surprise. I expected her to be at the very least frustrated about me invading her turf, but then again, Grammy J’s not my mother.

I try Moose once more. “Do you want your antlers mounted on the wall at Hodgepodge? Pick up.”

The walkie-talkie crackles. “Margaret, he’s not going to answer until you address him properly,” Gina cuts in. She, of course, wasn’t thrilled when I suggested using these “glitchy, pieces-of-shit communication devices”—her words—but Moose was
all
about it. Though he adamantly refused to loan me extra tables and chairs or lend a helping hand unless we followed “appropriate” procedure.

Rolling my eyes, I press the button again and call out, “Pirate Red to Rudolph.”

His voice comes over the line. “Go for Rudolph.”

“What’s your twenty, over?” I say, referring to his current location.

“I’m unpacking the extra wine crates, over.” Which means in reality he’s busy sampling the product.

Since I need him sober and working, I say, “Rudolph, please step away from the alcohol and handle parking.”

“Ten-four. I’m on it,” he says, clicking off.

“Pirate Red to Gin and Juice,” I say, switching gears to Gina. “Are all the vendors good to go?”

Tables have been stationed throughout the house and on the lawn, featuring everything from artisan cheeses to charcuterie to local honey to jars of jams and pickled vegetables. And to pair with the various foods are wines from vineyards around town, ranging in size from boutique to large operations. Had I known Wilhelmsburg was such a treasure trove of delicacies, I wouldn’t have shown up to Ryan’s party with a
fruit basket
like an amateur.

“Affirmative,” Gina says, the annoyance in her voice broadcasting loud and clear. Next time I make a mad dash out of Dallas, I need to remember to bring my headsets and other equipment.

“Flying in with the mini desserts in a moment,” I say. “Over and out.”

Slipping the walkie-talkie into my back pocket, I prop the trays on my shoulders and pass through the swinging door to the main dining room. Immediately I notice that while the vendors are set up, the station with the self-serve plates and cutlery is in disarray.
How hard is it to manage one simple task?
I place the trays on the sideboard and head over to where Ryan and Gina are chatting at the Camden Cellars table.

“Gina, I thought you said you had things covered.”

“I do.” She gestures around the space where all the vendors are waiting patiently for the guests to enter from outside. Farmer Joe from Willis Orchards waves and gives a thumbs-up. “See, everyone’s ready to start,” she says.

“Then what’s the situation with the plates and cutlery?” I ask. “Since we’re not in an enchanted French château in the woods, I don’t think they’re going to magically organize themselves. Get on that.”

Gina’s mouth drops open a fraction, her face reddening, her expression torn between astonishment and building anger, but before she can respond, Ryan interrupts. “Simmer down, Red. Drink a glass of wine or three, and remember why these people are here.”

I sigh. He’s right. I’ve snapped at her as if she’s a crappy assistant rather than a valued collaborator. “Please excuse me, Gina,” I say. “I can be a little high-strung when it comes to executing events.”

Ryan nearly spits out a mouthful of Chardonnay, and I cut him a glare. Gina graciously nods and squeezes my arm. “It’ll go smoothly. You’ll see,” she says. “Just have fun with it.”

Wiping his chin with a napkin, Ryan leans in to whisper to me, his breath hot on my ear. “Rein it in for now, Captain. You can raid and pillage all you want later. In the meantime, I’ll deal with the dishes and utensils.” He playfully pinches my side before walking away.

“That’s Pirate Red to you,” I shout after him as a flood of people pile into the Inn from outside, Moose and Grammy J trailing after them.

After that, it’s a whirl of activity—restocking bottles of wine and finding corkscrews, refilling the mini dessert trays and topping off water goblets, washing the dirty tableware and returning it all to the self-serve station before the next round needs scrubbing. Moose and Gina take charge of ensuring the vineyard and food shop owners have everything they need, while Grammy J mingles with the attendees, selling the B&B and all its kitschy charisma the best way she knows how—with her vibrant personality. Already we’ve had four new couples and a handful of current guests reserve rooms for next summer.

Before long, the sun has sunk below the horizon. I’m dumping ice into a bucket and Grammy J is chattering about what a fantastic party Gina and I put together, when Bob Hook, the owner of Hook & Arrow Cellars, approaches us carrying a mound of cured meats piled high on a napkin. From what Ryan’s told me, Hook & Arrow is the largest commercial winery in Wilhelmsburg, distributed all over Texas and the Southwest, and I wonder if Bob is the person who’s been wanting to buy Camden Cellars, desperate for the land like every other grape grower in the region.

“I sure hope you’ll be making this an annual occurrence, Margaret,” Bob says, placing a hand the size of a baseball glove on my shoulder. He reminds me of one of the weathered cowboys—white hair, bushy eyebrows and beard, tan face—from the old Westerns my father and I used to watch when my mother wasn’t around to scold us.

“I’d certainly like to,” I say, tying a knot on the bag of ice and setting it aside.

Despite my slightly neurotic start, this evening has been wonderful. Everyone’s so relaxed and happy . . . so appreciative. The vendors seem to be thrilled with the publicity—they’re booking tours and private demonstration classes like crazy—and the crowd is pleasantly tipsy and buzzing with enthusiasm. It saddens me to realize I won’t be here this time next year. Though perhaps I could add Taste of Wilhelmsburg to my list of recurring projects. I could probably do most of the planning remotely from Dallas if Gina were willing to help, and I could drive down for the event itself.

“Well, it’s a wonderful idea,” he says. “A great way to attract new customers in an intimate, casual environment.”

“Margaret’s been full of great ideas since she arrived,” Grammy J says in a proud tone, squeezing my wrist, and I’m once again struck by the sincerity of it. “Did you know she built the Inn a fully functionin’ website in only a few days?”

“That so?” Bob replies, then turns to me. “Care to share any other talents you have hidden up your sleeve? Maybe I can steal some of them to utilize at my winery.”

Ryan meets my gaze from across the room and grins, though it quickly falls from his face when he notices Grammy J and I are talking with Bob. He weaves through the sea of guests to us. “What are you three conspiring about over here?”

Bob pops a slice of salami into his mouth and says, “I want to know what other wonderful ideas Margaret has in that pretty head of hers.”

“Still after the best Wilhelmsburg has to offer, I see,” Ryan says, sliding a possessive arm around my waist and pulling me against him.

“You certainly can’t blame an old man for trying,” Bob says with a laugh that’s more belly shake than sound.

“Bob’s been begging me to sell Camden Cellars for years,” Ryan says to me, confirming my suspicions.

Grammy J pipes up, “He’s also made a few bids for the Inn.”

“Aw, Joy, you know I’d just as soon have a few other things as well.” Bob winks.

“My virtue, much like this bed-and-breakfast, is not for sale,” Grammy J says, then loops an arm through the crook of his elbow and leads him over to where Farmer Joe is passing out apple cider shooters concocted from the fruit in his orchards.

Ryan peers down at me. “Watch out for the vultures, Marge. They’re already starting to circle.”

“Are you comparing me to roadkill?”

As compliments go, it could use some finesse. Yet as is so often the case around him, I’m pleasantly surprised and charmed. Everything about today should’ve been a vortex of pressure and anxiety, but it’s been nothing short of superb. Typically at the end of an event I can’t wait to get home, kick off my heels, and slide into a hot bath. But tonight I’m content to linger, to watch the guests enjoying the moment, to lean against Ryan and absorb his warmth.

In the two short weeks after the event, Wilhelmsburg changed from a convenient escape to something familiar and homey.

It’s not the sort of small town that inspires wanderlust, yet there’s magic and charm in its dirt roads that curve through farms and vineyards, in its sense of community and salt-of-the-earth residents, in its air that smells like spring water, ripe fruit, and soil. Things I never believed I would appreciate or enjoy when I arrived here a month ago, but once I let life unfold in its own natural rhythm, the simplicity of it all became my new normal.

I’ve filled the sun-infused days finalizing the vacation packages on the website and lending a hand in minor repairs at the Inn, my efforts evident in the fresh coat of paint on the exterior shutters, the refinished stairs and banister that lead to the second floor, the tended garden beds. The evenings I’ve spent in Ryan’s company, exploring the area’s hidden gems, getting lost in his vineyard, surrounding myself with his friends—maybe even my friends—who on the surface are nothing like me yet seem to accept me more than anyone in my past.

It’s funny the way Ryan’s crept up on me—slowly, then quick as a wink—his uncomplicated attention and easy approach to everything burrowing deep under my skin. I can’t extract him, and I don’t want to. Especially given how he’s looking at me like I’m someone he wishes he could bottle and carry around in his pocket forever.

Our hair and clothes are drenched in mud from the fistfuls we keep flinging at each other as heavy rain beats down on us. The wind whips the trees, and against the monochrome gray sky, the leaves appear hyperpigmented, a vivid, electric green. The air smells fresh, heady, and a little sweet.

“You’re going to pay for that.” Ryan wipes the mud I smeared on his cheeks with the back of his wrist, but because he’s coated head to toe in muck, his effort serves only to spread it around rather than remove it.

“I’m not the one who started this,” I say as rainwater drips into my eyes.

We lazily wasted the day at the annual county fair with Moose, Bon Bon, and the rest of the group. The grounds were packed with locals from nearby towns, and when I inquired as to why, Gina explained that the four-day event is considered the biggest family reunion in Hill Country.

We left early afternoon when the storm blew in, and by the time Ryan parked the Blazer at the Inn, the world was underwater, as though it’d been desperate for catharsis, a healing purge from the intense summer heat. I wasn’t out of the car ten seconds before Ryan fired the first shot, covering my T-shirt in sludge. Then it was on.

I throw another palmful of mud at him, and it hits the side of his neck with a satisfying splat. Laughing, I do a victory dance, gloating like I scored the winning touchdown.

“That’s it, Marge. Playtime’s over.” Ryan stalks toward me, his expression a mix of determination and desire, and it sends a charged shiver down my spine.

“Is someone a sore loser?” I taunt, as though I’m not caked in mud, too.

He lunges for me. I dodge his grasp, but his fingers brush my arm, almost grabbing hold. I race for the porch, my sneakers squishing and sliding in the soft, wet earth, with Ryan close behind. We reach the front door in tandem, out of breath and soaked to the bone. Ryan shakes his head like a dog flinging off a bath.