Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (22 page)

The wind ruffles a note taped to the Grateful Dead dancing bear knocker, inviting guests to let themselves in and join the party. I follow the scent of charcoal through the quaint living area and kitchen to the screen door leading to the patio. Amber is manning the grill, turning hot dogs and flipping hamburgers. A few feet away, Moose hovers over a table crammed with platters of fixings, slathering melted butter on roasted corn on the cob and sprinkling them with cotija cheese.

Possum and Gina are playing horseshoes, both nursing what appears to be red sangria based on the orange and lemon slices floating in their glasses. Once again, Possum has changed his hair color from Jem and the Holograms pink to Gumby green. Gina’s in the middle of telling a story to the group as she lets a horseshoe fly, successfully hooking it around the stake. I hear Ryan’s familiar laugh, and I spot him kneeling in the grass, wedging wine bottles into a large metal cooler filled with ice—only in Hill Country will you find a barbecue where wine is served instead of beer.

At the sight of him, my anger toward my mother fades and my nerves flare up. I feel the heat rising on my cheeks, but I force it down. Inhaling a deep breath, I slide open the screen door and step out onto the patio.

“Margaret!” Moose calls, waving the basting brush above his head in greeting. “Glad you came. Did you happen to bump into Tiffany and Bonnie on your way in? They’ve gone missing on an errand of great importance.”

Gina huffs and blows the bangs out of her eyes, winding up for another toss. “For the fifth time, they’re not missing. They’ll be back with a six-pack for your plebeian palate in a few minutes,” she says, wrapping another horseshoe around the stake.

As if reading my earlier thoughts, Moose says to me, “I don’t suppose you have a beer in that fancy purse of yours? I keep telling them that wine is for getting laid and beer is for barbecues, but no one listens to me.”

“That doesn’t prevent you from talking, though, does it?” Amber says, laying slices of pepper jack on the patties, while Possum salutes Moose with a raised fist and says, “Hear, hear!”

They’re treating me like I’m a welcome guest. Did Ryan not tell them about our fight? Or are they acting this way to make my presence less awkward?

Ryan stands, grass stains marring the knees of his jeans, and walks toward me. “What’re you doing here, Margaret?” His tone is oddly formal, his expression reserved.

“I need to talk to you.”

The mask slides from his face, replaced with concern, his eyebrows knit together. “Everything okay?”

I bite my lip, then burst out with it. “The Inn’s going to be sold, and I don’t know what to do.”

Ryan tilts his head, scrutinizing me as if trying to discern the crux of my feelings. “I didn’t realize you’d be so upset about that.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s Grammy J’s home,” I say, looking at him in confusion.

“Well, yes, but Joy did agree to sell,” he says.

“She didn’t agree because Grammy J isn’t the one who owns it. My mother does, and she’s decided that the best thing for Grammy J would be to abandon her to fend for herself. Or maybe, if my mother’s feeling generous, she’ll dump my grandmother into a retirement home,” I say, my voice trembling in frustration.

“I know Joy pretty well, Margaret, and she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. Much like someone else I know.” Ryan gives me a small half smile. Perhaps that’s why I don’t see the ground being ripped out from under me. “And besides, the Inn will be in good hands. You know I’ll take great care of it.”

Everything goes quiet—the gentle swish of branches moving in the breeze, the crack and sizzle of meat cooking over hot coals, the hum of happy voices soaking up the summer evening—leaving me with a low ringing in my ears.

“What do you mean you’ll take care of it?” I ask, hoping I misheard him. I can’t fathom the alternative.

Frowning, Ryan takes me by the elbow and leads us around the side of the cottage, all while my mind is spinning. I braced myself for the reality of an impersonal investor rifling through my family’s property, determining what’s of value, and discarding the rest. But now, as Ryan’s palm grows clammy against my arm, a far more insidious thought burrows in and settles.
It can’t be.
The Inn can’t have been purchased by someone I know. Someone I trusted. A friend. A lover.

As Ryan drops his hand and turns to me, his face a study in closely guarded neutrality, I know what he intends to confess before the words fall from his lips. And yet, when he says, “I’m the one who offered on the Inn,” the world shakes me up, yanking me out of the pleasant bubble I’ve come to rely on and back into the world I’ve always known. The world where betrayal is cheaper than Two Buck Chuck and loyalty is something only children expect.

“I don’t understand,” I say, stepping away from him, desperate for distance and clarity. Anger is bubbling in my chest again, gaining strength. “How could you do something like this to me?”

“Margaret, I didn’t do this
to
you,” he says, his gaze boring into mine as though trying to convince me of something impossible to grasp. “I’ve never hidden that I want to expand the winery, but I’m unable to do that unless I acquire more plantable land for vines. Yes, I’ve inquired about the property the Inn sits on before, but that was years ago and I was always denied. Truthfully, I’d given up on the idea, and started exploring other options for land in the High Plains and in other parts of Hill Country. So when the broker called to notify me that circumstances have changed and the B and B was now on the market, of course I jumped at the opportunity. It’s a sound business decision.”

A sound business decision? Is he kidding?
I think, as the old bitterness I’ve worked so hard to smother resurfaces.

“The Inn isn’t some square on a Monopoly board that can be bought and traded at will, Ryan!” I say as the anger finally explodes out of me. “And what does that make me? Free parking? Is that all this summer has been to you? Fun and games? Pass go, collect two hundred dollars, screw the out-of-towner, and do it all over again?”

“Margaret, I told you I was in love with you, and you told me you didn’t feel the same. Do you
really
think that’s all this summer has meant to me?”

For a second, I see deep hurt in his expression, but I force myself to continue. “So because of that you didn’t even consider coming to me first? Ask me what I wanted or if I may have a problem with you being involved?” I retreat farther away, eyeing him like he’s the enemy.

He rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Why would I need to do that? You said you were going back to Dallas,” he says. “Which was verified for me when I asked the broker if anyone else from the family was interested in buying the Inn and he claimed there wasn’t.”

“Why? Maybe because you saw me breaking my back to keep the Inn running? Maybe because you know how happy I’ve been since I’ve been here? Maybe because, for just a minute, you cared more about my feelings than your limited property line?” I say. My voice is acidic enough to transform wine into vinegar. “I’ve been doing everything in my power to save
it, Ryan, and now you want to swoop in and steal it away from me and my family?”

He winces slightly at my words, guilt flashing across his face, as a cold, firm fist squeezes my chest, the devastation at how similar this situation is to my relationship with Nick—and my mother—nearly choking me. How many times must I learn that investing in something, loving something, leads only to heartache? But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it was Ryan who informed me that no matter how much effort you devote to something, no matter how hard you work, you aren’t entitled to anything.

“You’ve been here one summer in sixteen years, Margaret, and now all of a sudden the Inn is yours to save?” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest, jaw set, hazel eyes sharp and piercing in the fading light. “Even if I ignore the fact that you’ve had your entire life to express an interest in this place, I can’t ignore the fact that you haven’t once actually said you pictured a future here or that the Inn means more to you than an escape.”

“The last time I was here I was sixteen. I had no idea what I wanted for my life, what I would find fulfilling and meaningful,” I say. “The whole idea that I
should
have known, without the benefit of experience, how much this place would mean to me is ridiculous.”

How can you love something before you’ve truly found it? Ryan is a perfect example. A bundle of hormones at sixteen, one second I hated him, the next I wanted his hands on my hips and his lips on my neck. I couldn’t have predicted then how much he’d come to mean to me years later . . . Or how much he’d hurt me. Yet that’s exactly the sort of prescient thinking he’s demanding of me. It’s not fair.

He shrugs. “You conquered an old porch and cooked a few breakfasts, but you’re talking about a
lifetime commitment
. And generally, when people want to commit to something for a lifetime, they have the stones to say it out loud. When have you
ever
had the guts to say out loud, to me, to your mother, or even to yourself, what you actually want? You don’t get to stand here, all self-righteous and indignant over a betrayal only you perceive.”

Shaking my head, I open my mouth to respond, but Ryan cuts me off. “Actions speak louder than words, but the words are still important, Margaret. I’m not rescinding my offer. You want the Inn? Fight for it.”

“Thank you for the education, Ryan. In the future, I’ll be certain to spell out my intentions,” I say, moving around him. My anger, the humiliation for actually
believing
that he knew me, cared about me, is so visceral and raw it makes my hands tremble and my heart feel like it could pound through my rib cage. My eyes sting, but I inhale deeply, willing the tears away.

I quickly slip out to my car undetected. The drive to the Inn is a blur and soon I’m pulling my Audi beside Grammy J’s truck. All the other parking spaces are empty. It’s still dinnertime, so I know the guests are eating in town, but it seems too early for the members of Grammy J’s gardening club to have left. Perhaps with the news that she’s about to be ejected from her home, Grammy J wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to entertain people. Not that I blame her.

I get out of my car to find her on the back porch, pottering around on her cane and inspecting the flower boxes. She takes one look at my expression and says, “So, it didn’t go well with Ryan.”

“You
knew
it was him?” I ask as I join her on the porch.

She shrugs. “He’s always had an interest in this place. He’s even asked about purchasin’ it a few times, so it’s only logical the broker would contact him first,” she says, pinching the head off a pink geranium and tossing it into a bucket. “I’m glad it was Ryan and not some complete stranger. I’ll sleep easier knowin’ that the land that brought me so much joy will now bring him the same. I’ve seen what he’s done with his business. There’s love there, and where there’s love, there’s success and happiness.”

“But this is your home. I refuse to let you part with it,” I say. “
I
don’t want to part with it.”

Grabbing the gardening pail positioned on one of the rocking chairs, she hobbles along the railing to water the hanging ferns. “Child, I’ve loved this Inn for a long time, but it hasn’t been the same since Poppa Bart died. Perhaps it’s time I lay this season of my life to rest.” Grammy J turns to face me, her expression wistful. Not happy, exactly, but something I suspect I don’t yet have the years to appreciate. “And don’t you worry, I’ll come home eventually.”

“What do you mean?” I follow her, picking up loose petals and fronds that have fallen onto the wood boards and adding them to the bucket.

“The broker mentioned Ryan intends to write into the purchase agreement that upon my death, I’ll be buried under the magnolia tree,” she says.

A fresh course of anger surges through me. Of course,
of course
,
Ryan has to do something considerate, chivalrous even. But then, it’s easy to give an old woman a patch of dirt when in exchange you snatch away her family legacy.

“And anyway,” she continues, “I haven’t had the energy the Inn needs in a long time. And frankly, I never expected to witness it again in its prime. Not until you came along, that is. I’m prepared to let the Inn go, child. But I understand why you can’t. So what are you goin’ to do?”

The only thing I can and the only option I have left.

I wipe my dirt-covered fingers on my shorts and say, “I need to go back to Dallas and speak with my mother.”

Grammy J smiles, full and wide, and for a moment, I glimpse the formidable woman my mother fears, the woman my mother can’t control. Grammy J’s not orderly; she doesn’t conform to my mother’s rigid expectations. If only I had the same ability, the same certainty to always know what’s best for me, and the fearlessness to make it a reality. “I knew you were more like me than your mother.”

“You did?” I ask.

“I always have. But my opinion really doesn’t matter, and neither does hers. It’s up to you, child. Which is why I’ve arranged for in-home care and hired a service to come over to prepare breakfast and clean the Inn for the next several days.” She slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me against her, giving me a gentle squeeze. “So, go take care of what you need to. I’ll leave the porch light on for you.”

19

I
jolt awake to the blaring radio alarm. It takes a moment before I remember I’m lying in bed in my condo in Uptown Dallas. More than six weeks away and the mattress and pillow still conform to the shape of my body, but they no longer feel comfortable. Everything is too fluffy, too soft, too much like a hotel bed. I miss my mattress at the bed-and-breakfast that has more springs than foam and the pillow that deflates when I rest my head on it.

I switch off the alarm and sit up, kicking off the thousand-thread-count sheets. I forgot to close the plantation shutters before I climbed into bed, and now the room is flooded with sunlight, the air-conditioning unit failing to keep up. Outside, I hear the sounds of a typical traffic jam—cars honking, sirens wailing, people shouting at one another. I used to be able to drown out the incessant city noises and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, but I tossed and turned most of last night—Ryan, our fight, and his betrayal heavy on my mind.

My heart squeezes, holding in the anger, the pain, the bitterness so tight I’m shocked it hasn’t shattered. I still don’t understand how Ryan could steal something as precious as the Inn away from me. How could I be so blinded by my emotions that I’d allow him to manipulate me for personal gain?

But I can’t focus on any of that right now. I have to face my mother, convince her not to sell. Even after the long drive to Dallas with only my thoughts to keep me company, I’m still clueless as to how to accomplish it.

I skip coffee and breakfast—I’m already too hyped-up for caffeine, and my stomach is ready to revolt at any moment. Not to mention anything edible in the refrigerator and pantry expired a month ago. I shower and put on the skirt suit my mother custom ordered for me, the one she claims brings out the gray in my eyes and highlights my fair complexion and red hair. If there’s any chance of her listening to me, I have to dress the part of a confident, determined, successful businesswoman who always gets what she wants.

I stare at myself in the mirror, at the crisp, dark navy fabric that shows off my curves in a way that’s classic and polished, at the loose curls draped over my shoulders, at the heels molded perfectly to my feet. I resemble the pristine, put-together Margaret everyone would recognize, the Margaret from before Wilhelmsburg changed everything.

The Margaret I no longer wish to be.

With one final glance around my condo that somehow feels both impersonal and stifling, I grab my purse and head out to fight the usual gridlock to my parents’ residence in Highland Park. As the skyscrapers of downtown shrink in my rearview mirror, the streets narrow, bordered by old Georgian-style mansions and Tuscan villas accented with gushing fountains and circular drives on lots barely large enough to contain them.

I pull my Audi into the visitor parking area flanked by flowers and manicured shrubbery and kill the engine. I study the place I grew up in, noticing how the French provincial structure with its brick exterior, steep-hipped roofs, and symmetrical proportions seems more like a museum than a house.

At this time of morning, my mother has most likely finished her tennis lesson at the club and is about to sit down for a gourmet breakfast, while my father is probably already in depositions for a nasty divorce case. Ordinarily I’d want him to be present for this conversation—he’s judicious and fair and acts as a mediator when needed—but this is something I should face on my own.

Inhaling a deep breath, I walk up the stone path to the front door and ring the bell, feeling like an unwelcome stranger standing on my childhood doorstep. A figure moves behind the textured glass my mother hand-selected from Paris—nothing but the best for home. I brush a hand over my hair, smoothing any untamed curls, and straighten my suit.

“Miss Margaret,” our longtime family housekeeper says in surprise when the door swings open. “You are back.” Her eyes are wide, her mouth slack. I wonder how much of my situation she’s garnered from listening to my parents argue.

“Nice to see you, Catalina.” I step into the foyer, the herringbone wood floor gleaming under the chandelier, and bend slightly to give her a hug. Her whole body freezes, and I realize I’ve never greeted her that way before. In fact, I’ve never greeted her with anything other than a simple hello. “Is my mother around? I need to speak with her.”

Nodding, she turns and leads me into the dining area that overlooks the pool surrounded by gardens and art sculptures. The table has been set for one, complete with fine bone china, wafer-thin crystal glasses, and a fresh-cut arrangement of roses. “Will you be joining Mrs. Stokes for the meal?” Catalina asks.

“Since Margaret has finally decided to grace us with her presence, I suppose that would only be polite.” My mother breezes into the room as though this is a normal day. “Please inform the chef of my daughter’s arrival.”

Given the way our last phone call ended, I figured she’d be shocked to see me, but her expression is neutral, not showing the slightest bit of annoyance. Perhaps my mother assumes that if I’m here, I must’ve come to my senses and finally recognized the error of my ways.

She’s wearing an emerald green dress with an ivory cardigan and modest nude heels. For years, when I looked at Grammy J, I felt as if I was peering at an older version of my mother. They have so many similar features. The same elegant neck, the same high cheekbones, the same thick red hair. But as I stare at my mother now, I realize the resemblance is truly only skin deep. My mother bears none of Grammy J’s warmth. Her eyes don’t crinkle when she smiles, and her mouth never twitches in amusement.

Catalina pulls out a chair for my mother, and after she settles into her seat, Catalina drapes a linen napkin across her lap. Then she quickly arranges plates and silverware on the table for me and hurries off to the kitchen.

“Well, don’t just stand there as if you’re waiting for charity, Margaret. Sit,” my mother says, taking a sip of coffee. The last thing I want to do is consume food, but I’d rather not provoke her temper by being disobedient over such a small thing. Especially when I’m about to ask her for something so huge.

Catalina returns, carrying a serving tray holding today’s offering. She places a dish in front of each of us. “The chef has prepared eggs Benedict with fresh fruit and roasted potatoes,” she says, removing the silver dome covers. She pours us grapefruit juice, refills our coffee, and scurries out of the dining area, as if she thinks she’s about to get caught in a war zone.

We eat in silence for several minutes while I work up the courage to start the conversation. Finally, I say, “I wanted to speak with you about the Inn.” Straight to the point. I’d be proud except for the apprehension in my voice. No doubt she hears it, too.

My mother glances at me, her shrewd gaze taking in my hair, my face, then sliding down, patronizing and judgmental, to my suit. I force myself not to fidget. “Is that the suit I bought you? I seem to recall it fitting differently. But then, I don’t recall raising a daughter who’d run off to the country over something as trivial as a romantic embarrassment. So perhaps it’s not the suit that’s ill-fitting.”

Her words are meant to pierce my heart where I’m most vulnerable, and in the past, they would’ve succeeded. But I’m tougher now, and I refuse to allow her to hurt me. Besides, she’s right. I
don’t
fit here anymore, nor do I want to.

Ignoring her comments, I push my plate aside and say, “Grammy J informed me that you intend on selling it.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Margaret. We’re not
intending
on selling. We
are
selling—something your father and I should have done years ago.” She cuts into a poached egg, the yolk oozing over the honey-smoked ham and English muffin.

“I came to ask you not to.” This time my voice is strong and assured, lacking all trepidation.

“It was rather foolish of you to drive all that way just for this, but at least you’re back where you belong,” she says, then adds, “Given the Inn’s no longer a profitable endeavor, that’s not an option.”

I pretend she didn’t just refer to Grammy J’s home as an “endeavor” as I say, “That may have been true before, but with the promotional work I’ve done the Inn is slated to make money this year.”

“And that’s supposed to impress me?” she asks with no inflection, no raised eyebrow, no disdain etched in her expression. Instead she dismisses me as easily as she dismisses the landscaper. “Your feeble attempt to save something beyond repair is cute, but you’re too late. The buyer offered our asking price and the closing documents are being drafted as we speak.”

“No, I’m not. The deal isn’t finalized. So instead let me take on the burden of the bed-and-breakfast,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my tone and failing. “The Inn belongs in this family.”

“Please.” It’s the closest I’ve ever heard my mother come to scoffing. “It’s hardly an heirloom. No one will miss it.”

“You don’t think Grammy J will miss her home? The place she married Poppa Bart? The place she buried him?” I ask, anger and agony burning my vision. It’s not like my parents need the money, but it’s just like my mother to see little value in something and presume it holds no value to anyone else.

I expect the mention of Poppa Bart to finally spark her temper, but she remains cool and collected, if not slightly bored, as if I’m not worth bothering with anymore. “Your grandmother has agreed to move, so that argument is moot,” she says.

“
I’ll
miss it,” I press. “Let me handle the day-to-day operations, let me run the Inn. I
want
to run it.”

My mother blots her mouth with her napkin. “You mean gift it to you,” she says. “Because you certainly don’t have the funds to afford the property. You’re not earning an income because you’ve flushed your career down the toilet, and surely your savings have whittled down to nothing.”

“I’ll have the money if you allow me access to my trust,” I say.

She laughs, high and clear as a bell tolling her disapproval. “Borrow against it, you mean. As you know, you have no right to it until you turn forty or find someone suitable to marry,” my mother says, spitting out the words as if they offend her. “No, your father and I have provided you with quite enough already, and with such a poor return on our investment. I told you before you won’t receive any more support from us. Or have you forgotten?”

“Okay,” I say, drawing in a calming breath. Getting riled up will only serve to prove to my mother that I’m the emotional wreck she believes me to be. “Then I’ll secure a loan from the bank and buy it.”

“I’d like to see you qualify for one, what with a floundering business and no real assets at your disposal,” she says. “But if humiliation is what you’re after—and given your behavior the past several months, I assume it is—by all means, try. But I won’t put the sale on hold in the meantime.”

They’re right when they say insanity is
doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. And I’m clearly insane, because I keep hoping my mother will finally believe in me, support me, not think of me as a constant failure, but her attitude toward me never changes. And it will
never
change—a sobering fact I now recognize.

“I’d be disappointed if you did. You’ve never shown me the least bit of consideration, so why break the trend now?” I say, pushing my chair back and standing. “Do what you need to do, Mother, and I’ll do the same. After all, you’re the one who taught me to never accept no for an answer.”

I drop my napkin directly onto my nearly untouched plate of food and leave the room. I’m no closer to my goal of owning the Inn, and yet, I’m exhilarated as I breeze through the foyer, waving off Catalina as she rushes to open the front door for me. I can’t help but feel as if I’ve scored the first, and perhaps most important, victory. Maybe Ryan was right and tossing my so-called friends from the B&B had merely been practice for the main event.

But now I wonder how my decisions will alter my relationship with my father, if I’ve done something to irrevocably harm it. He got mad when he learned I was visiting Grammy J in the first place, so how will he react when he discovers I plan to buy the Inn and stay in Wilhelmsburg permanently? We’ve always been a team, my father and I, facing the storm that is my mother’s anger together. Now that I’ve stated my intentions and cut the strings holding me back, I worry I’ve incidentally severed more than I meant to.

As I strip off my suit jacket, tossing it carelessly into the back of my car, and climb into the driver’s seat, I know there’s only one way to find out. Fishing my cell phone out of my purse, I call my father’s office to ask his secretary if she can squeeze me into his schedule.

It’s now or never.

Magician that she is, Thelma managed to shuffle a few of my father’s appointments around and, at my suggestion, booked us a reservation at the Petroleum Club. I thought the conversation might go better without any lawyerly distractions or a large mahogany desk between us.

I follow the hostess into the dimly lit lounge area with a spectacular panoramic view of downtown Dallas. The room is packed with members waiting for their lunch tables to become available.