Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (3 page)

The waitress drops off my dish. I’m midbite when Samma fires off a question that catches me so off guard I nearly choke on a mouthful of omelet. “So, Margaret, how are you
really
feeling about Nick marrying Lillie?”

Piper and Faye exchange a conspiratorial look, and I wonder how many conversations they’ve had about this behind my back, how many jokes they’ve made at my expense.

“I didn’t realize you all were aware of it.” It’s strange how my voice sounds neutral and steady when it feels as if a fist has punched my chest.

“Oh, honey, of course we knew about the wedding,” Samma says with a laugh that’s as genuine as a cubic zirconia. “It happened
months
ago. As I understand it, Nick and Lillie have been waiting until after the Food Network filmed a special about the diner to take their honeymoon.”

Months
ago?

“We would’ve mentioned it, but we didn’t want to spoil the fun of you discovering it for yourself.” Faye smiles, but it’s anything but kind.

“See, your reaction is priceless. You look like a kid who just found out Santa Claus isn’t real. I can only imagine what it looked like last night after you ran into Nick,” Piper says, pointing at my face, which clearly betrays the unaffected air I’m trying hard to project. She nonchalantly steals a piece of cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto off my plate, as if we’ve casually been discussing if ankle boots are a fading trend or a classic style.

My stomach clenches so tight I worry my breakfast may ride up my throat. I know what I’m feeling is shock, but I’m not sure if it’s
Surprise, you’ve been punked,
or
Surprise, these women are even more vindictive
than you suspected.

I gulp down the remainder of the prosecco and toss my napkin onto the table. “I’m glad this situation amuses you all so much.” My tone is dry, stripped of all color, despite the anger bubbling up in me.

“Sweetie, we know it hurts that Nick married a waitress, but for God’s sake you need to put this whole mess behind you,” Samma says, patting my hand. “Though it is unfortunate you ran into Nick the way you did.” Her expression is smug, and the undercurrent of superiority in her words is unmistakable. She’s enjoying watching me fall.

Nick may come from the same background as us, but he’s never cared about wealth and the privileges it afforded. There’s always been something different about him—something deeper and utterly unattainable in its rawness—that puts him in a separate category. It’s these differences that make people like Samma, Piper, and Faye seethe with jealousy. While they’re stuck in predictable, cookie-cutter marriages that were entered into for status, ego, stability, Nick is living an adventure, something I’d once been a part of, if only for a little while.

“Besides, it’s obvious Lillie’s trash and Nick enjoys slumming it,” Faye says. “You shouldn’t want to associate with someone like him even though I know you can’t help yourself.”

I glance around the table at these women who have clearly never been my friends, merely appropriate social contacts my mother approves of, and the anger finally bursts out of me.

I’m done. With
all
of it.

“Oh, you want to talk about what we can’t help doing?” My voice is loud and unrecognizable, filled with something feral. “Let’s start with you, Faye, and your pathetic Botox addiction. I know you think you’re preserving your youth for inevitable husband number
three
, but the only thing you seem to be preserving is your total inability to fake anything. So how do you fake your orgasms? I wonder.” I focus my attention on Samma sitting beside me. “And,
sweetie
, Nick may have married a waitress, but are you really one to throw stones when you’re sleeping with the lawn guy? You should probably wash your clothes before Alan notices the grass stains.”

Pushing up from the table, I gather my purse and begin to walk away when Piper calls behind me, “What about your portion of the check?”

I stop and turn to face her. “Pull a hundred-dollar bill out of your wallet. You’ll have to unroll it and wipe off the white powder, but that should more than cover it, don’t you think?” Then I exit the restaurant and brush past the valet, yanking open the door to his stand and retrieving my keys without asking permission.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t wait another second to be gone.

3

F
our hours later, I arrive in Wilhelmsburg just before dusk. After brunch, I returned to my condo in Uptown Dallas, pawned off all my work obligations to other firms without a second thought, and packed my bags. I was driving to my grandmother’s bed-and-breakfast in the middle of nowhere before most people had indulged in an afternoon nap.

As I enter the central strip of town, the satellite radio finally acquires a signal—it’s been nothing but static for the last hundred miles—and the voices of the Randy Hollis Band fill the car, blindsiding me so I nearly ram into a carriage ride. My throat tightens with every verse, every note. Yet I can’t shut it off.

Memories surge up: the band playing at a dive bar to a small but captivated audience, me singing along in the front row; the guys—Matt, Karl, Jason, and Tim—writing music and lyrics for their debut album
Resolution
with Nick, the genius behind the band’s most popular songs that put them all on the map; the group of them sitting around a campfire, strumming a lazy melody on guitars while I listened, fireworks exploding over Lake Travis on the Fourth of July. Friendships I lost when they became country music superstars
and left me behind, when they chose Nick over me.

I force the memories away and bury them deep. The past doesn’t matter anymore.

I drive down bustling Main Street—the center of historic downtown that offers shopping, restaurants, art galleries, and wine-tasting rooms—and fight my way through evening traffic. It’s the most direct route in and out of Wilhelmsburg, a design I imagine the town council vigorously protects because it forces the throngs of tourists to pass by the locally owned businesses. The air outside is heavy with the smell of impending rain and sweet German pretzels baking at the Ausländer, the local pastry shop.

It’s impossible to picture my mother growing up here—a typical small town in Texas Hill Country with nothing but gossip to feed it. Where everyone attends the same church on Sunday and privacy is a foreign concept and teenagers cause trouble because what the hell else is there to do besides work in the vineyards or on a farm? Where the locals never venture beyond the county line but think they know the world.

Where you can escape and not be found.

But perhaps back then she wasn’t so tightly controlled the way she is now. Or maybe she never felt like she fit in here and that’s why she left at the first opportunity.

I’m watching a woman wipe chocolate ice cream off a kid’s face when the light turns red. I slam on the brakes, jerking my neck. Ugh, I could use a glass of Silver Oak Cabernet.

A couple crosses the street as the light changes, halting to kiss in front of my bumper. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I yell out my window. When they don’t budge, I honk. They jolt apart and glare at me as though
I’m
the unreasonable one. Everyone moves at a slug’s pace in this town. Stomping on the accelerator, I speed around them on my hunt for a wine bar not packed with tourists.

I stumble upon The Tangled Vine, which seems to be a local hangout in a limestone cottage a block off Main Street, and park my Audi coupe. As I’m walking to the entrance, one of my black patent Louboutins gets stuck in the many cracks marring the cobblestone path.

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me,” I mutter, along with a string of expletives. Slipping out of the shoe, I kneel and work on dislodging it. By the time I manage to yank the heel free, I’m sweating through my silk blouse, little pebbles are indented into my skin, and the signature red sole has been scuffed beyond repair. Eight-hundred-dollar pumps ruined. Screw the glass of wine, I’ll take the whole bottle.

Something cold and wet hits my face. The sky is streaked in shades of darkening gray and purple as the storm blows in. A gust of wind whips the trees. Another drop strikes my cheek, and two more land on my arm. Then, all at once, lightning cracks, thunder rumbles, and the swollen clouds burst.

I run for the covered porch as rain hammers down and shove the stubborn wood door open with my hip. The crowd quiets as I step into the warm, dimly lit room filled with plush couches, shelves stacked with wine bottles, and oak barrels serving as tables. Ignoring the stares, I head for the copper-clad bar flanking the side wall. I shake away the water dripping off me and settle on a stool.

“Excuse me,” I call to the bartender. He glances my way but makes no move to come over, too busy chatting with some guys about grape yields and this year’s harvest. I try again to get his attention, and when that fails, I snap my fingers. This time he doesn’t even acknowledge me. Irritation coils around me like a snake ready to attack.

People can be such scabs
,
I think as I walk over to the group and wedge myself between them, ending the conversation. Two guys raise their hands as they retreat a few paces, while another stands firm. A challenge gleams in his eyes, which heightens my aggravation, though I can’t deny he’s sexy in a dangerous way that invites trouble and advertises he’s up for anything—all things I’m not interested in. I’ve given up men.

“A bottle of Silver Oak Cabernet,” I tell the bartender—Possum, according to the tag clipped to his black button-up shirt.
What kind of name is Possum?

He cocks his head, giving me a good look at his big ears, freckled nose, and mop of shaggy curls dyed bright orange. He squints, as though I’m speaking in tongues. “We only stock varietals from the area.”

“Of course you do,” I say, my tone clipped, because the universe hasn’t had enough fun with me yet. “I suppose you serve your wine in a Solo cup as well. I’ll just take a water when you can squeeze in a moment to do your job.”

I stride back to my seat and power on my cell. The message icon pops up in the corner. I steel myself, confident it’s my mother. Sure enough her voice pierces my ear. I wince.

“How could you be so irresponsible, Margaret?” she says by way of preamble. “Where are you? Enough of this nonsense. Stop acting like a child.” I quit listening, deleting the message before I switch my phone back off and toss it into my purse. I massage my temples, but the throbbing doesn’t let up. At least Possum is capable of following directions, because a glass of water appears, and I drain it in seconds. Rain taps against the windows, and I focus on its methodic rhythm, which has the welcome effect of dulling my headache.

Someone slides in next to me—Mr. Roaming Eyes from the other end of the bar.
Fantastic.
He wears an easy smile and a smudged T-shirt with holes in the sleeves. He places something resembling red wine in front of me. “It’s called No Regrets, a Malbec and Petit Verdot blend.” The cracks in his hands are stained reddish purple, and there’s dirt underneath his fingernails. His skin has the kind of tan possible only from a lifetime of outdoor work.

Wrinkling my nose, I push the glass toward him. “No thanks. I don’t enjoy the taste of longhorn manure.”

His face drops, all humor gone. “I see you’ve still got that silver spoon stuck up your ass,” he says with an edge that instantly recalls my mother, who proudly displays her condescension like an heirloom china set.

“Excuse me?” I say as I take in his strong, stubbled jaw and defined cheekbones, broad shoulders, and honey blond hair that looks as if he’s been running a hand through it. “Do I know you?”

“Hardly.” He assesses me, as though searching for something. “Maybe if you
tried
the wine before insulting it, you’d discover how much you like it.” His accent has the clipped rhythm of central Texas—a mixture of a slow, musical drawl and a flat, nasally twang.

I flip my hair over my shoulder. “Doubtful.”

“So you’re close-minded and a snob.”

“Standards aren’t the same as snobbery. You’d know this if you had any. Perhaps you should refine your palate,” I say, crossing my legs, my pencil skirt riding up. His gaze locks on my exposed skin. Typical.

Over his shoulder I see Possum and his friends observing our exchange like we’re zoo animals. One of the guys—the bulky one with short, dark hair, a cherub face, and a cartoon moose tattoo on his forearm—notices I’ve caught him gawking and waves.
Cute.
I don’t reciprocate.

“My palate’s just fine. Go ahead. Take one sip and tell me it’s not good.” Mr. Roaming Eyes sets the wine in front of me again. His eyes dance with mischief, even as his expression remains neutral. “Prove me wrong. Hell, prove
Wine Spectator
wrong,” he says, referring to the magazine that’s the authority on the wine industry.

Irritation sparks in my chest, the challenge in his words coaxing it to the surface.
What a pain in the ass.
“Fine.” I take a drink without flourish. Immediately flavors of black cherry, chocolate, and espresso flood my mouth, followed by a smooth tobacco finish. Hints of violet linger on my tongue.
Shit, that’s delicious.

The smug grin on his face makes me want to slap it off, then tug him toward me and kiss those full lips.
Wait, what?
Pulling my shoulders back, I clear my throat and say with an air of boredom, “It’s passable, which isn’t saying much, since I expected grape-flavored vinegar.”

He laughs, and it stirs something inside me. He smells like spice and fresh-turned soil and a sweetness I recognize but can’t pinpoint.

“Fair enough,” he says, then signals to the bartender. “Hey, Possum, bring over the bottle and some more water.” He rakes a hand through his hair and turns to face me, his arm brushing mine. Up close, I realize how striking his features are—the slope of his nose, his full lips, his hazel eyes flecked with green and gold staring intently at me. My skin prickles as something electric grows between us, dangerous and uninvited. Then Possum refills my water, sloshing an ice cube on my wrist, and the thread breaks. Shaking my head, I draw away from him.

Mr. Roaming Eyes gestures to the bottle. “For you, in case you’re interested in any more vinegar.” His voice is as relaxed as a ratty sweatshirt, but it’s obvious he’s taunting me by the cocky smile still on his face. He flicks the water glass and says, “This is to wash it down.”

I open my mouth to retort, but he winks and walks away before I can fire the parting shot.

Mr. Roaming Eyes grabs a bottle of wine for himself and joins his friends in an adjacent room with a pool table in the center. Pouring a glass, he swirls the ruby-colored liquid, sniffs, and sips, watching a game already in progress. A girl dressed like the lead in a country music video—cutoff jean shorts, tight plaid shirt tied to show off her midriff, and cowboy boots—yells something to him about fixing her mess and throws him the cue stick. He captures it in midair and laughs. Once again I’m struck by the sound of it—deep and rough, yet threaded with warmth—and the conviction that I know it somehow. He stalks around the table and surveys the situation, studying the angles. After another drink of wine, he bends over and shoots, sinking the blue two ball into the right corner pocket. I can’t help but stare at the way his jeans fit his body perfectly, as if they’re old friends.

With his attention diverted, I sneak a sip of the Malbec and Petit Verdot blend, certain the previous one was a fluke. The taste is just as complex as before. Tipping the glass up to my nose, I inhale the aromas of red fruit and vanilla. No way this is made in the area. I inspect the label, which, along with
NO REGRETS
in block print, has an icon of a winking eye on it. I spin the bottle around and read the back.

Childish and yet an apt description of my life this past year. It was produced by Camden Cellars, an estate winery from right here in Wilhelmsburg.
Damn.

I’m in the middle of another sip when Mr. Roaming Eyes looks straight at me. I swallow quickly and grimace, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He points to the water and mimics guzzling it down. Bastard
.

His gait is slow and easy as he walks around the table, calculating the angles again. There’s an unhurried way to his game, like he prefers to take his time and focus on the details, and I wonder if he’s this way in all areas of his life. It’s enough to make me curious what that sort of attention would feel like when focused on me. I suspect it’d be a great deal more intense and satisfying than the obligatory foreplay I’m accustomed to.

“Thirteen ball, left side pocket,” I hear him call. He lines up and shoots. There’s a loud smack as the cue ball sends the orange-striped ball spinning off the rail and into its destination with a thud. He pauses for more wine before leaning against the edge, bridging, and tapping the cue ball into the maroon seven ball, which glides effortlessly into the back corner pocket.

The group whistles and applauds. Moose Tattoo bumps fists with him, while Big Boobs McGee wraps her fingers around his bicep and whispers in his ear. He nods at whatever she says, but by the way his gaze drifts around the room, I sense he’s not really listening. Perhaps they’re involved, or maybe he’s using her like Nick used me.