Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) (4 page)

Enough. He’s in the past
, I remind myself, blotting out the memories, cutting a black line through each one.

I empty the wine glass and pour another, filling it until the dark burgundy liquid is just below the lip. This time I take a gulp, then another, not even bothering to savor it. The alcohol burns my throat. I keep drinking until my body tingles and my head feels as fuzzy as a cotton ball.

“Careful, or you may convince Ryan you like it.”

I jump, almost spitting out the last of the wine. Possum stands across from me drying a decanter. There’s a high-pitched squeak each time the towel rubs against the surface. Under the lights, his hair seems to glow, as if lit from within. Too bad he claimed the name Possum, since Orange Crush would be more suitable.

I take a sip of water. “What?”

“The wine.” Possum jerks his chin toward Mr. Roaming Eyes—Ryan, I guess. The name doesn’t register, but the feeling that I somehow know him doesn’t dissipate. Ryan is hunched over the pool table, deep in concentration, the corners of his mouth turned down. I bet he’s the sort of guy who craves competition but hates to lose. The sort of guy who demands a rematch until he emerges victorious because losing is for losers, as my mother likes to say—one of the only sentiments we agree on.

“It’s tolerable,” I say, hoping the slur in my voice doesn’t betray my words.

Possum holds up the decanter, wipes off a mark, and adds it to a shelf with several others. “Right, that’s why you polished off the bottle,” he says, then strolls away without waiting for a reply.

If I’d wanted a passive-aggressive lecture, I’d have stayed in Dallas with my mother. I dig in my wallet and slap a fifty on the bar. The wine probably costs less than a fast-food hamburger, but it’s the only cash I have and I need to get on the road to Grammy J’s before she locks up for the night. Gathering my purse and keys, I head for the door, blaming my mangled stiletto for why I’m swaying and not the bottle of wine I’ve consumed.

“So much for grape-flavored vinegar.”

Ugh, people around here really are like scabs that won’t stop itching.

With my hand on the knob, I spin to face Ryan. He’s holding my empty bottle, that shit-eating grin ever present, and dammit, why hasn’t it become any less sexy?

“When the only thing in this place are sorry excuses for wine, I’m not left with many options,” I say.

He chuckles and says, “Come on, Stumbling Shortcake, I’ll give you a lift.” He steals the keys from my grasp and steps outside, leaving me with no choice but to follow.

4

T
he rain has turned into a mist that hangs in the air like a sheer curtain, the annoying kind that gets you wet but not to the point of needing an umbrella. I can feel the mosquitoes rising, ready to bite.

Ryan hits the remote lock button until my trunk pops open and grabs my Louis Vuitton luggage. “This way.” Crossing the lawn, he walks to a rusted navy and gray Chevy Blazer manufactured in what had to be the eighties.

“Excuse me. What’re you doing?” I ask, trailing behind him. My patent pumps squish in the grass, mud oozing up as my heels sink into the earth.

He tosses my bags into the back cluttered with random junk—an extra large funnel, buckets stacked eight deep, a half-zipped bag with bandanas poking out. As he slams down the hatch, a few peacock feathers escape and flutter to the ground. He jogs around to the passenger side and opens the door, empty wine bottle still in hand. “Hop in.”

I frown and fold my arms over my chest, my purse tucked against my side. “I’m not getting in there. You could take me into the woods and hack me into pieces.”

He shrugs, as if my actions make no difference to him, and settles into the driver’s seat. I lean inside the door. The world tilts, and I lose my balance. My forehead bumps against the frame.
Shit, that hurt
.

“I need my keys,” I say, massaging the tender spot. Ryan ignores me, tuning the radio until he finds a semiclear station. I snap my fingers. “Hello? My keys. Give them to me.”

He sighs like I’m an exasperating child who won’t quit begging for an ice-cream cone. “Are you staying on Main Street?”

“No,” I say, somehow managing to slur a two-letter word.

“Then have fun hitchhiking.” He sticks the key into the ignition and starts the rust mobile, the engine turning over and over until it wails to life. “Wilhelmsburg doesn’t have taxis and we’re all out of drunk drivers. Unless you’d rather I chauffeur you around in your Audi?”

I give him a glare that screams,
Not a chance in hell.

“Well, Stumbling Shortcake, it’s either huff it on foot or accept the ride. What’s it gonna be? The offer expires in five, four, three—”

“Fine,” I say, throwing up my hands.

Hugging my purse, I climb in, careful to touch as little as possible. The SUV smells of coffee and gasoline, and dog hair and dirt cover the dashboard and ripped leather seats. “How do you not have a disease?” I say, wiping my palms on my skirt, leaving a brown smudge on the fabric. Disgusting. I crack the window in an attempt to flush out the fumes, even though I know it’s futile—my clothes will reek of exhaust and be coated in filth.

“I’m immune from long exposure. Hold this,” he says, dropping the empty wine bottle on my lap. “Wouldn’t want you to lose it.” He puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.

We drive out of town in silence, the road empty and dark except for the pale glow of the headlights. The fine mist of rain coming in through the window seeps into my hair, causing the red wavy strands to curl. I peer out at the countryside as we pass, but all I see are shapes, the fields and rows of grapevines shrouded in blackness. The moon dodges in and out of clouds, and a few stars light up the inky sky. So different from nighttime in Dallas, with its skyscrapers outlined in neon lights and the constant
whoosh
of traffic on the highways. Where the stars aren’t visible for miles, obscured by the pollution hovering over the city.

Ryan hums along to the radio, his thumbs tapping a rhythm against the steering wheel. The opening chords of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” filter through the speakers—one of Nick’s favorite songs—and it’s like a whiff of ammonia under my nose. It’s amazing how something as simple as a song, something that once felt like a shared, intimate secret, now floods my mouth with the bitter taste of the knowledge that Nick never truly shared himself with me at all.

I shut off the music and continue staring at the dark, unchanging landscape. Ryan mutters under his breath and rakes a hand through his hair. I feel his gaze on me, goose bumps pricking up on my arms.

“What?” I ask, harsher than I intended. My buzz is fizzling like a wet sparkler. I need out of this car and to get someplace where I don’t feel like a guest who’s long outstayed her welcome.

“Just curious as to what Stevie Nicks did to offend you,” he says.

“An illicit affair and a string of bad choices.” I keep my voice even, but I wonder if he can sense there’s a story behind my words.

A small smile plays on his lips. “Messy can be fun.”

“So you have the maturity of a three-year-old,” I say. “Lovely.”

“Ah, I get it. Stumbling Shortcake’s had her heart broken,” he says.

I cast an irritated look in his direction. “Hardly. If anything I put them back together. Not that my efforts are appreciated.”

“So this is an issue of wounded pride.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’d feel the same way if you’d painstakingly helped someone rebuild their life only to have him choose the woman who broke
his
heart,” I say, swatting away a dog hair tumbleweed rolling on the dashboard.

The headlights sweep over a tall sign for Camden Cellars, the culprit responsible for my tipsiness. Ryan turns down a dirt path that seems to snake on forever. At first I think he’s messing with me, but then I notice a smaller sign pointing to the Bluebonnet Inn. The winery must border the bed-and-breakfast.

The Blazer rocks over bumps and depressions, muddy water splattering everywhere. Trees envelop us on either side, and occasionally branches scrape along the doors with the ill-mannered sound of forks dragging across fine china. My purse and the wine bottle bounce around in my lap. I press my hand against the roof of the car to prevent banging my head on it. The spot where I hit my forehead is still sore and probably swollen. He shifts gears and the SUV jolts, his fingers grazing my leg. I jerk like he’s burned me.

“Easy there, jumpy,” he says.

“You groped me.”

He barks out a laugh so loud it echoes. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re a wart.”

“Should you be insulting someone who’s doing you a favor?” he says as he pulls onto an even narrower dirt path that serves as the entrance to Grammy J’s.

“A favor? More like an abduction. You’re a kidnapper. A kidnapper with small ears.”

“Your flattery is quite endearing. Please keep going,” he says, his eyes flickering with amusement.

I shake my head, biting my tongue, and watch as the trees fall away and the bed-and-breakfast emerges like a life-sized dollhouse at the top of the hill. A wooden sign announcing
BLUEBONNET INN
dangles from a post sprouting from the ground like the wildflowers surrounding it. Ryan drives around to the rear and parks near Grammy J’s truck. The B&B is dark, save for a lamp lit downstairs.

He moves to open his door, but I stop him with a “Don’t bother.” He mumbles something too quiet for me to hear. Abandoning the wine bottle on the seat, I grab my bags and haul them to the base of the back porch, then walk over to his window, where he’s twirling my key ring around his finger. I hold out my palm.

“Still maintaining the wine tastes like vinegar?” he says, my keys whipping around and around in a taunt. I’d wear a cheetah print bodice and pleather pants before I’d admit otherwise. Why does he care so much anyway?

“Maybe I exaggerated.” I grab the keys midswing and tug them off his finger. “The wine tasted like grape cough syrup.”

Ryan captures my wrist, drawing me closer to him, and leans out the window. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me good night, and my heart stops. Clearly, I’m drunker than I thought, because why on earth would he do that and why would I want him to? We just met. Instead he raises a hand to my face and removes a leaf tangled in my hair before putting the SUV in reverse. “Joy’s a light sleeper and keeps a shotgun under her pillow. Don’t let her mistake you for a burglar,” he says with a chuckle. Only after his taillights have retreated down the hill does it register that I never told him where I’m staying.

I’m too tired to focus on that right now. Today has dragged on worse than a soap opera, my clothes are sticking to me like cling wrap, and the alcohol flowing through my veins weighs down my limbs. With the promise of a bed, I gather my belongings and fumble up the steps. One second I’m reaching for the doorknob and the next I’m splayed out on my back, my stuff scattered everywhere. My ankle throbs and my body is contorted in an unnatural way, but I’m so stunned from the fall I can’t move. A few beats later, the porch light clicks on and the door swings open, banging against the siding.

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked. Only instead of a loud
pop
there’s a drawn-out sigh. I peek and see Grammy J standing in the doorway, the shotgun propped under her robed arm, fingers fiddling with some kind of object. She’s staring at me with her mouth set in a hard line. The rocking chairs on the porch creak in the wind like in a horror movie.

“On your feet, child,” she says, nudging my hip with her toe. “Come sunrise you’ve got work to do.” Without a second glance, she tosses the object over her shoulder before stepping back inside. It lands on my stomach.

It takes me a moment to comprehend that my mangled stiletto has snapped clean off the shoe.

The wind howls, and I swear it’s the universe cackling at me.

I wake the next morning to the scent of fried eggs and the sound of feet creaking on the hardwood. It tricks me into believing I’m in Nick’s tiny bungalow, snuggled in his bed, while he fixes us breakfast. Soon he’ll call me into the kitchen and greet me with a kiss and a cup of coffee.

Except in the months we dated that scene happened only once.

The hard knock on the door plunges me into reality, and I remember I’m in Grammy J’s spare room. Everything hurts, made worse by the fact that the mattress has more springs than foam. It’s been years since I’ve been hungover. The door opens, and I drag a pillow over my face, smothering my moans. My head feels as if it’s stuck in a vice. The wine from last night sloshes around in my stomach, ready to ride up my throat.

The queasiness builds as I hear drapes
swoosh
aside and Grammy J’s squeaky steps move closer to me. Clinging to the blankets, I pray she’ll change her mind, leave me alone, but my efforts are as helpful as using a bowling ball for a flotation device. She rips away the covers and cold air assaults me. I grunt, curling into myself as though it’ll protect me. From somewhere in the house, the sound of high-pitched laughter pierces my ears.
Why are people in this town so damn happy?

“Up, up, up,” Grammy J says, punctuating each word with a clap. She snatches the pillow off my face and flings it away. “Lazy hour’s over, child.”

“Time is it?” I croak, my mouth dry as coffee grinds and just as bitter. I try to open my eyes, but they’re crusted together from the mascara I forgot to wash off. Rubbing away some of the gunk, I squint as sunlight streams in through the window, a spotlight on me. I miss the rain and the gloom and the thunder—they complemented my mood so much better.

“Late. The rooster crowed ten minutes ago,” she says. “Linens need washin’, the silver needs polishin’, and the back porch needs paintin’. More wrinkles are carvin’ into my face every second you lie there.” Her voice is impatient, but somehow she still manages to stretch out the vowels and meander around the consonants.

I groan. I came to the bed-and-breakfast for escape, not to do manual labor. Besides, this is why cleaning services and contractors exist.

“The laundry isn’t goin’ to fold itself,” Grammy J says. “Out of bed.”

“Tomorrow.” I need one day without people barking orders at me or telling me how to act, one day where I can just forget everything and relax. “I’ll do it all tomorrow.” I pat around for something to shield my eyes from the sun but come up empty.

Grammy J sighs, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a garden spade. She taps a foot on the floorboards, loosening some of the soil caked on her galoshes. Dirt footprints mark a trail from the hallway to the bed. Her pant legs are soaked, the denim bleeding from a navy to a crisp blue. Perhaps she was planting vegetables. In the midst of my tripping incident last night I didn’t get a good look at her, but now I see the years have aged her, made her skinnier and frailer, with a freckled nose and rosy cheeks that wished they could tan if not for her fair complexion. Her once-vibrant red hair has faded into strawberry blonde.

She scrutinizes me, her expression sharpened by the creases around her green eyes and mouth. For a moment, I swear I’m staring at my mother in twenty years—well, if I ignore the fact that my mother wouldn’t be caught dead with a bandana around her forehead or with dirt beneath her fingernails; gardening is only fit for the hired help. I brace myself in preparation for the onslaught of criticism coming my way.
What were you thinking causing all that racket? You behaved like a drunken fool, Margaret. An embarrassment to this family.

Only Grammy J says none of this. “You want to stay here, you earn your keep.” She turns and heads for the door, pausing beside my luggage heaped in a pile in the middle of the floor. She purses her lips. “And take a shower, child. I can smell you from downstairs.”