Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (21 page)

For a moment I can’t breathe. My heart stutters before it picks up, pounding wildly against my ribs. No one has ever said those words to me. Not Nick, who engaged in an impressive display of verbal gymnastics to say anything but. Not my father, who, while supportive, has never been prone to verbal displays of affection. And certainly never my mother. Now that I’ve heard them, I’m unprepared for how dangerous and terrifying they feel.

Ryan rolls us, pinning me beneath him so he can stare into my eyes. “I love you, Margaret. I want a life with you. A future with you,” he says, steamrolling right over any reply I may have. “I want you in Wilhelmsburg, in my home”—he cants his hips—“in my bed.” He leans down, brushing a soft kiss across my mouth. “I want you to stay.”

Full-blown panic grips my chest. I can see in his face how much he wants me to simply agree, to give in to him, to trust him. But everything that’s happened between us, every captured look and purposeful touch and pointed conversation, has been too real, too fast, too . . . big. And I don’t know how to process it, let alone handle it.

“Ryan . . . what you’re asking for . . . I
can’t
,” I say, my voice strained.

He props himself up on an elbow, providing me much-needed breathing room. “Why not?” he asks, casual, as if he’s wondering why I can’t meet him for lunch.

I push at his chest and sit up. “It’s easy for you,” I say, trying to formulate my thoughts.

“Easy?” he repeats, his tone laced with frustration. “Believe me, Marge, nothing with you has been easy.” Pulling away, he grabs his shirt and yanks it over his head, then buttons his jeans and buckles his belt.

“Don’t kid yourself, Ryan,” I say as I stand, brushing off the dirt on my dress. “This is much easier for you. You don’t have nearly so much to lose—and nothing to sacrifice.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize telling you I love you would be such a burden to you.”

“Of course not! You don’t have to change anything. I would just fall into your life. You aren’t the one who’d have to sell his condo, give up his business, and move over two hundred miles away to start over. Everything stays the same for you.” I shove my feet into my ballet flats. “That you don’t understand that, that you can’t see that you’re pushing too hard, asking for too much, makes me wonder if you really know how you feel about me in the first place.”

“How convenient for you to use my declaration of love as a way to keep avoiding what you need to fix in your life,” Ryan spits out with a glare. “I’d hoped that telling you how I felt might make things easier, might make your faith in me and yourself that much stronger. But if you’re determined to continue running away, by all means, don’t let me and my misguided feelings stop you.”

“And how convenient for you that you’ve never had to make such choices! You’ve never had to consider how your actions may affect your relationship with your family. You’ve never had to decide that everything you’ve worked for may in fact be worthless. You’ve led a charmed life, Ryan. You accuse me of having a silver spoon stuck up my ass, but all of this,” I say, gesturing to the vineyard and stone barn, “was handed to you on a platter!”

“Well, I think you’ve made your feelings for me perfectly clear. So go ahead and go back to Dallas where you’re so certain you belong. Just don’t expect me to be here waiting for you when you finally figure out what it is that you want,” he says. “Besides, if you’re right, and I’m merely confused, then this shouldn’t be anything a bottle of No Regrets can’t help you get over.”

Then he picks up his work boots and stalks away, beating me to it by seconds.

18

I
t’s been a week and a half since Grammy J was released from the hospital and already managing the bed-and-breakfast feels like something inherent to me. Which, in a way, I guess it is, seeing as how the Inn has been in my family since before I was born. There’s a rhythm to it that at first seemed daunting and overwhelming but now feels energizing, fulfilling.

It’s a realization that always brings my thoughts back to Ryan and the harsh words we threw at each other in the heat of the moment. Because with every passing day, as the Inn begins to feel more and more like a place I belong, like a part of my future, the seed Ryan planted grows in me, blossoming into something real and tangible. The idea that I could stay in Wilhelmsburg to oversee the B&B has taken root.

So much of me wants to reach out to tell him this, but we haven’t spoken since our argument. Now the quiet and distance have begun to feel permanent. The silence between us hurts in a way I never anticipated; a sense of longing and homesickness that follows me through the day, dogging my steps. And while I miss him and desperately want to mend things between us, he’s made it clear that until I’ve figured out exactly what I want, who I am, there’s no point.

I throw a load of sheets into the wash, grab the basket of clean, folded cloth napkins, and head downstairs, humming a country song I heard while shopping for gardening supplies at Hodgepodge yesterday. My legs and back ache from vacuuming, and my hands are wrinkly and raw from scrubbing toilets all afternoon, but I know tonight I’ll sleep deep, satisfied I’ve provided the guests with a memorable stay. One I’d want for myself, even if I’m still on my quest for culinary prowess—though with the help of Bon Bon, my skills are improving a little more each day.

I put the napkins away, then retrieve the trays of canapés and charcuterie from the kitchen and place them on the table set up on the back lawn for evening happy hour. Connecting with the guests while they sip wine, discussing which vineyards they visited that day, offering restaurant recommendations, learning about their lives in a way that allows me to be an armchair traveler, has been my favorite aspect of running the Inn so far.

Like right now, I’m listening to an older couple from Colorado tell me about the incredible African safari their family went on last year, complete with elephant rides and a guided bike tour alongside zebras and giraffes.

“We also spent three days exploring the ‘Spice Island’ of Zanzibar,” the husband says, which conjures up the image of cobbled alleyways brimming with the scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and nutmeg. “The Hamamni Persian Baths in Stone Town were especially breathtaking.”

“As were the Sultan’s Palace and House of Wonders,” the wife adds. “Truly magnificent.”

“It all sounds magical,” I say as I pour them more Tempranillo, a perfect complement to the Serrano ham and manchego cheese croquettes they’re sampling. We chat for a few more minutes before I excuse myself to top off the other guests’ wine glasses.

The sun feels relentless, as though shining through a giant magnifying glass. But the sky is blue and cloudless, the breeze is fragranced with the scent of wildflowers and grape leaves, and the sounds of laughter and good conversation fill the air. I can’t imagine anything better.

After happy hour ends and I tidy up, I retreat inside. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. I hear Grammy J’s voice coming from the office. Sticking my head in, I see a phone propped between her ear and shoulder. I knock lightly on the door frame. She spins on her heel and holds up a finger. Her eyebrows are knit together, and a frown pulls down her mouth.

I wonder how long ago her physical therapist left and if the session went well. Her gardening club is coming over to play cards in an hour, and I don’t want her entertaining people if she’s in pain. She’s wearing loose, stretchy shorts and a tracksuit jacket with pockets so she can easily carry items like keys and medication. The wrist that broke her fall still requires a brace for stabilization, while the other has been wrapped with tape to provide extra support for when she puts weight on it. She’s already progressed from using a walker to a cane.

While she finishes her phone call, I start organizing breakfast for tomorrow so the process of cooking and serving won’t be so hectic. By the time Grammy J joins me in the kitchen, I’ve reviewed the guest menu choices, set out the cookware, utensils, and mixing bowls necessary to prepare each dish, and measured the dry and nonperishable ingredients into containers.

“Child, we need to talk,” she says. “Let’s move to my bedroom so we can speak in private.” There’s a different note in her voice, and not a good one.

An uneasy dread churns in the pit of my stomach, and I hesitate for a moment before meeting her there. I’ve been in Grammy J’s room on multiple occasions to borrow an item of clothing out of her closet, drop off a basket of laundry, or sweep and polish the hardwood floor, and every time I cross the threshold it feels as if I’m intruding on something intensely personal and private.

The space is clean and tidy, the decor simple. Oil paintings of the rolling hillside of Wilhelmsburg hang on the walls. Stained glass lamps adorn wooden nightstands that are old but well taken care of. Framed photographs of Poppa Bart and their life together, a few of me as a child, and even one of my mother clutter the surface of an antique dresser. The colors in the floral pattern on the bedspread are faded from too much sun exposure.

Grammy J is waiting for me in the reading nook in the corner of the room. We had to replace her favorite comfy upholstered chair with a firm, straight-backed one that positions her feet so they lay flat against the floor. To guarantee her optimal recovery, Moose helped me injury-proof the bed-and-breakfast, removing tripping hazards like throw rugs and loose cords and adding safety handrails to the shower and grab bars beside the toilet in her bathroom. We rearranged some of the furniture to clear pathways between rooms and open up the shared areas to make getting around the Inn easier for her.

I sit across from her, careful not to bump into her cane leaning against the armrest. She’s silent a moment, staring out the windows at two birds taking a bath in the water fountain in the garden, then she sighs and rubs her eyes with her fingers, smoothing out the wrinkles underneath. Grammy J looks more exhausted than ever. Even her usually vibrant strawberry blonde hair is dull and limp. Once again a hot bolt of guilt shoots through me.

“That was a broker on the phone. The Inn’s goin’ to be sold,” she says in her straightforward, no-frills way that never fails to catch me off guard.

Her words detonate like a bomb inside me, a hole blown through my heart, but I force myself to remain calm. “But this is your home. You
can’t
sell it,” I say.
Why would Grammy J consider something like this?
“If you’re worried about what’ll happen to the bed-and-breakfast while you heal, I’ve got it under control.”

Her expression softens, her gaze turning almost sad. “Child, I know that,” she says, patting my knee. “If I had my way, my bones would be buried under the large magnolia tree where we scattered your grandfather’s ashes.”

“Then why?” I ask, my tone mirroring the confusion that must be evident in my expression. “The B and B could earn a decent profit this year.” In the last week alone, the Inn received a slew of bookings for the peak holiday season of October through December, many customers reserving one of the new vacation packages, which means my promotional efforts are reaching people. Now the trend just needs to last.

“Because it’s not my choice. The property doesn’t belong to me,” Grammy J says. The wind sways a bush outside the window, blocking the slowly diminishing sunlight and casting shadows that zigzag across her face. “It belongs to your mother.”

“What’re you talking about,” I say, still not believing it. “Why has she never told me?”

“I imagine she never deemed it important.”

Of course my mother wouldn’t deem that information important. “But she purposely wanted to get
away
from Wilhelmsburg,” I say. “Why would she own something that practically chains her to it?”

“When your mother and I still had a good relationship, before she found out about Poppa Bart, the Inn had a couple of rough years financially. Your grandfather and I were sure we’d have to shut it down, but your mother stepped in and offered to buy the property from us—your father’s law practice had become hugely successful and they felt this would be the best solution.” Grammy J shifts in her seat, pain flitting across her face, and once again guilt courses through my veins, nearly suffocating me. “Your grandfather and I took on the role of manager, and the money we earned from the deal allowed us to keep the Inn afloat.”

“Once it was stable, you never saw the need to reclaim ownership?” I ask.

“Why would we? The arrangement was workin’, and besides, the Inn was still in our family,” she says, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “After your grandfather died, I assumed your mother would finally rid herself of this place and cut all ties with me, but she didn’t. I guess she and your father liked the income too much, and perhaps by permittin’ me to continue runnin’ things, it was her coded way of keepin’ me away from Dallas and away from her. But it seems her attitude has changed.”

My stomach twists, and I know with bone-deep certainty that my mother’s rash decision to sell the B&B has nothing to do with Grammy J and everything to do with me. My mother’s playing a game in which she controls all the pieces, and I have no idea how to outsmart her, let alone beat her.

The possibility that the Inn may no longer be a part of my life brings everything into sharp focus, solidifying what I’ve been feeling since I came to Wilhelmsburg and realized how truly special this place is. For a long time I convinced myself I was happy in Dallas, confusing success and social status with contentment and belonging. But now I recognize those feelings were misguided and loaded with external expectations. Because while my life here has been simple and often repetitive, filled with a never-ending to-do list of cleaning, cooking, weeding the garden, and general guest management, there’s also a sense of purpose and gratification. I finally let myself consider what that really means. Staying here won’t just be challenging, it’ll be painful and risky and exhausting. But I know this is where I’m supposed to be. Where I
want
to be.

I only wish my relationship with Ryan wasn’t so fraught. He has this power to take my most frenetic thoughts and concerns and boil them down to something manageable. To take what feels difficult and overwhelming and lay it out in a path that makes those first steps easier. And more than anything, when he stands with me, quietly encouraging me, I feel more confident in my abilities. But he isn’t here, and I have to acknowledge the fact he may never be. For a split second I allow myself to wonder if that changes anything. With stunning clarity I realize it doesn’t. No matter what happens between Ryan and me, there’s no question or hesitation that I want to remain in Wilhelmsburg and run the bed-and-breakfast.

“No. This can’t happen. I won’t let it,” I say to Grammy J with a certainty I’ve never felt before. “I’ll find a way to prevent my mother from selling it.” I
have
to. For both of us.

I refuse to allow my mother to get away with kicking Grammy J out of her home with such callous disregard or disposing of the Inn as if it’s nothing more than an outdated handbag. The reasons my mother has for being estranged from Grammy J don’t excuse her behavior now. In fact, going forward, I’m done making excuses for my mother’s cold, heartless behavior period, regardless of the circumstances.

“Child, it’s okay. I’ll survive. I can rent a small duplex in town. I have some savings and checks from Uncle Sam rollin’ in each month. I’ll be fine,” she says with a laugh, and to my surprise, it’s not edged with bitterness or anger, as though she’s accepted long ago that losing her home is a foregone conclusion.

“When is all this supposed to happen?” I ask, wondering how much time I have to develop a plan.

“Soon,” she says. “The broker mentioned he already has a buyer lined up.”

Which means the window of opportunity to solidify my own future is closing fast.

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white—it’s the only way to prevent the anger at my mother, the situation, the unfairness of it all, from spilling out of me—as I drive quickly through town on my way to see Ryan.

Even though nothing is resolved between us and the clock is winding down, I can’t fight the urge to talk to him. Ryan’s familiar with the area and the process of buying property. Maybe he’ll think of a straightforward solution to my problem. If nothing else, I know I can trust his advice and opinion, assuming he’s able to put aside his hurt to hear me out. Because while my commitment to the Inn is entirely separate from my feelings for Ryan, this could be an important step toward building a life we could potentially share. I just hope he considers it enough, for now at least.

I park my car in front of Possum and Gina’s house—the gang rotates barbecue-hosting duties and September belongs to my favorite spunky couple. Ryan and I planned to attend together, but that was before our argument. My stomach is a tangle of knots as I push open the old wrought iron gate and walk up the stone path to the cottage with rocking chairs on the porch, gingham curtains in the windows, and a tie-dye flag hanging above the front steps.