Once Upon a Wine (13 page)

“No one's buying this bar,” Summer declared. “Because you're not selling it. All you need is a little vacation.”

Jenna gave up arguing and sampled the strawberry wine again. “Before I can even consider adding this to the menu, let's talk volume. How much of this can you supply, and how often?”

Ginger winked at Cammie. “You can get us a good deal on the strawberries, right?”

“Here we go again.” Kat dropped her forehead into her hands.

“Ian already gave you a great deal,” Cammie said.

“Oh, I'd bet you can get us an even better deal,” Ginger said airily. “With your powers of persuasion? Maybe when he picks you up for that date he asked about?”

Cammie narrowed her eyes. “How did you know he asked me out?”

“I have my ways.”

“Do your ways involve going through my phone?” Cammie turned to Kat. “Help me; I'm being pimped out for produce over here.”

But Kat's attention had gotten snagged earlier in the conversation. “You're going out with Ian again?”

“I . . .” Cammie trailed off as she glanced around and realized that the music had died and everyone in the bar was listening to her. “Maybe.”

“You guys should come here for your date,” Jenna said. “The Whinery has an impressive track record with romances.”

“What? I thought this was the epicenter of drama and heartbreak.”

“Oh, it is. But it's so much more than that.” Jenna twirled her pink dishtowel. “I don't mean to brag, but this is basically the hot-husband emporium.”

Summer chimed in. “She has a point. Just think about all the people who have hooked up with their soulmates here: me and Dutch, Malcolm and Lila, Brighton and Jake . . .”

“And yet I'm still single.” Jenna tossed the dishtowel on the bar top in frustration. “Unfair and unexplainable.”

Ginger placed her hand on Kat's forearm. “You should take Josh here.”

“Who's Josh?” Jenna asked.

“Her husband,” Cammie said aloud. Then she silently mouthed, “It's complicated.”

“By all means.” Jenna uncorked a bottle of chardonnay. “Bring him over.”

“Mom, stay out of it.” Kat's expression darkened. “He's not going to come here with me.” Her voice barely audible, she added, “And I'm not sure how much longer he'll be my husband.”

Jenna turned the music back on, and everyone gave Kat some space. Everyone except Cammie and Ginger.

“There.” Kat's tone was tinged with relief. “I said it. My marriage is failing, and it's my fault.”

Cammie couldn't remember her cousin ever conceding defeat before. “Failure” was not a word Kat used. Ever.

“It's not like you to quit,” Ginger said.

“Maybe it is.” Kat shrugged. “First I quit skating; now I'm quitting marriage.”

“You didn't quit skating,” Cammie said. “You got injured. You had to retire.”

“And if you're having a hard time with that, you should let him know. Talk to him,” Ginger urged. “He'll understand.”

“I know he will.” Kat sounded increasingly glum. “But I don't want help or encouragement. I just want to . . .” She trailed off. Cammie and Ginger leaned in, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“I just want to sit on the couch for the rest of my life. Although, obviously, I can't do that with my lower back all messed up.”

“I'm no expert,” Cammie said, “but that sounds like depression.”

“I'm irritable and avoidant. When the going got tough, I ran off to a vineyard with my crazy mother.”

“I beg your pardon,” Ginger huffed.

Kat rested her chin in her hand. “I wouldn't want to be married to me, either.”

“I am not crazy,” Ginger insisted.

Cammie and Kat made vague conciliatory noises in her direction.

“Don't brush me off.” Ginger pounded the bar top. “I am a visionary. While you girls are busy talking about your boy trouble, I'm doing all the hard work.”

Cammie choked on her ice water. “Um.”

“Excuse me?” Kat said.

“Strawberry wine.” Ginger pointed to the proof. “A bar that's going to stock it.”

“Maybe,”
Kat emphasized.

“Well, what have
you
done?” Ginger countered.

“I made a website,” Kat shot back. “And bought a tractor.”

“I'm pimping myself out for produce,” Cammie said. “And weeding. And walking the fields. And keeping the grapes alive. You're welcome.”

“Well, there you go.” Ginger said, satisfied. “We're a stellar team.”

“So, how are the grapes?” Jenna asked when she refilled the candy dish near Kat. “Other than alive?”

“You know. Great. Growing,” Kat said.

The bar owner nodded. “I assume you have your plan in place for harvest and wine making?”

Kat looked at Ginger, who looked at Cammie, who looked at Kat. “Um . . .”

“You have a vintner lined up this late in the season, I'm sure.” Jenna started to look a bit worried. “Right?”

“We're working on it,” Cammie said. “Any day now.”

Jenna stopped doling out candy and regarded them with huge, horrified eyes. “Oh.”

“Don't worry about us.” Ginger patted her hair and took a sip of strawberry wine. “We have a plan.”

“We do?” Kat whispered.

Jenna looked dubious as she replenished the other candy dishes. “There's a wine festival in Maryland this weekend. Lots of wine
growers, winemakers, and wine tastings. It'd be a good place to network and meet potential vintners.”

“Where and when?” Cammie demanded. “We're going.”

“Yeah, we are,” Kat agreed.

“It's so nice to be together as a family again.” Ginger beamed.

When they got home, Ginger urged Cammie and Kat to come down to the cellar to admire her stores of strawberry wine.

“I can't. I have to go to the garden-supply store for— Wait.” Cammie held up her hand, her ears straining. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Kat cocked her head.

“I think I heard a knock at the door.”

The three of them fell silent, staring at one another.

Cammie heard it again: a soft but unmistakable knocking.

“We're ignoring it,” Kat declared.

“Seconded.” Ginger nodded.

“You guys.” Cammie put her hands on her hips. “We're running a place of business here.”

“But it's also our home,” Ginger said.

“And every time that door opens, it turns out to be a bunch of demanding visitors,” Kat said.

“Or a male stripper.”

Kat grinned. “We don't mind the strippers that much.”

“The point is, we need a little break from these surprises.” Ginger opened the basement door. “Whoever it is can come back later.”

Cammie glanced toward the parlor. “But—”

“I feel like we're bootleggers,” Kat enthused as they disappeared down the shadowed steps. “Next stop, making moonshine in our bathtub.”

“Hush your mouth,” Ginger admonished. “I'm no bootlegger; I'm an artisan.”

Cammie was not an artisan. She was a businesswoman—bottom
line. And a good businesswoman did not let potential customers languish on the porch in the hot sun just because she was feeling a little piqued. She marched through the parlor and yanked open the door, preparing herself for tourists, strippers, a traveling circus. Or Ian.
Please be Ian.

But it was Josh. Again.

“Oh! I mean, hi. I mean, come on in.” Cammie stepped aside to let Josh into the foyer. “Sorry about the wait, we were just . . . Um, is Kat expecting you?”

“Not until tomorrow.” He held a bouquet of yellow flowers in one hand. “But she said you guys bought a tractor that needed some work?”

“We sure did.” Cammie glanced toward the barn. “It's a beaut.”

“So I thought I'd come a day early and see if I can help. I called her, but she didn't pick up.” He looked around. “Is she here?”

“Downstairs in the basement with Ginger. They're bootlegging with strawberries.”

Josh didn't seem the least bit fazed by this announcement. “So, she's back from her date with the muscle-bound teenager?”

“It wasn't a date.” Cammie knew the expression on her face belied her calm tone. “She was showing him how to do an inward heel flip. Or something.”

“Wait. They went skateboarding?” Josh's placid eyes darkened and his voice went cold.

“Yeah. I thought you knew.” Cammie realized too late that she had made a huge mistake.

“Kat told me she was making a website for him. She didn't say one word about skateboarding.”

“She is making a website,” Cammie assured him.

“I cannot
believe
she went skateboarding with another man. After all we've been through together.” He seemed furious, and Cammie
remembered how she'd felt when Zach had left for another restaurant. When the person she loved shared their passion with someone else.

Josh pivoted and strode back out to the porch.

“Let me go get her.” Cammie started for the cellar door.

“Don't bother.” He strode down the porch steps. “I'm not going to keep begging her. If she wants to throw away our marriage for some stupid midlife crisis, that's on her.”

Cammie started to argue that thirty-two was too young for a midlife crisis, but stopped when she saw his expression. “I promise you, nothing's going on.” As soon as she voiced the promise, she wished she hadn't. How could she make such a guarantee? “She's just trying to figure things out.”

“That's the problem.” Josh was practically yelling at her from the driveway. “She does whatever she wants while I keep everything going at home. And I'm done. I'm done apologizing for living in the suburbs. I'm done apologizing for being a professor.” He smiled wryly at Cammie's expression. “You don't think I know how she feels about that?”

Jacques ambled out from the parlor, his wrinkly brown-and-white face even more wrinkled than usual. He looked dismayed by the proceedings.

“I know she loves you,” Cammie said softly.

“She loves me in spite of who I am and what I do?” The smile turned into a smirk. “How generous of her. She's willing to overlook the fact that I read Camus and go to faculty meetings and have a good, stable job with health insurance that covers all her trips to the ER.” He stalked over to his car. “I'm supposed to be impressed because she was some sort of celebrity in the skating world? I'm supposed to put up with an endless amount of bullshit because she needs to keep breaking her bones to feel alive? As Camus would say, fuck that.”

Cammie blinked. She'd never heard Josh curse.

“I'm done.” And with that, he threw down the bouquet, slammed into his car, and drove away, running over the cheerful yellow flowers in the process.

Cammie watched him go, then headed back into the house. “Hey, Kat? I think you better come up here.”

C
ammie stood outside the garden-supply store, fighting back a sudden, strong urge to weep. The bags of potting soil and fertilizer stacked by the door triggered a total recall of sweat, frustration, and manual labor.

She closed her eyes and took deep, measured breaths.
It's just fungicide. No need to panic.

Forcing herself to take one step and then another, she walked to the store entrance and opened the door.

The first thing she saw was Ian.

Okay,
now
you can panic.

He smiled when he noticed her. “Didn't expect to run into you here.”

“I know, right? Of all the garden-supply stores, in all the world . . .” She turned up her palms.

“Yeah.” He rocked back on his heels and held her gaze. “You never texted me back.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I wanted to, but . . .”

He rested one hand on a bag of potting soil, as if he had all the time in the world.

She fiddled with the silver bangle on her wrist. “I think the roses need fungicide.”

He held out his palm. “Let me see.”

“You don't have to . . .”

“Let me see.”

She took out her phone and pulled up the photo she'd taken of the rosebush leaves.

“Yep, they need fungicide. And if the roses need fungicide, the vines probably do, too.” He started toward a stack of yellow bags. “Try this.”

She followed one step behind him. “Thank you.”

“I'll come over tomorrow and take a look at the plants,” he said.

She wanted to touch him, to connect with him again on every level. It was all she could do not to rest her hand on his arm. But she held herself back because she wasn't a willful and selfish twenty-two-year-old anymore. She needed to consider his feelings, not just her own. “I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't ask me.” He picked up a pair of the yellow bags and walked her toward the register. “Three o'clock tomorrow?”

It would be so easy to give in and let him help. To rely on him. To say yes, to go out again, to kiss him, and much more.

“I appreciate the offer, but I can't accept it.” Her tone was cheerful but firm. She turned to the cashier and handed over her credit card. “And I hate to brag, but the grapes are still alive.”

“Grapes? Oh, you must be one of the ladies who bought the vineyard?” the cashier asked. “You settling in okay?”

“Absolutely. It's a steep learning curve, but we're figuring it out.”

“It's nice to have some new full-time residents.” The cashier seemed oblivious to the tension.

“I'm not really a resident,” Cammie replied. “I'm just here for a few months.”

“Mm-hmm.” The cashier plucked a flimsy painted wooden sign from the revolving display atop the counter. “On the house.”

Cammie glanced at the sign's message:
BLOOM WHERE YOU'RE PLANTED
. She returned the sign to its place on the rack. “You're too kind.”

The cashier shoved the sign at her. “I insist.”

“I couldn't possibly.”

But she was no match for the sunny, smiley blonde. The cashier waited until Cammie had her hands full, then tucked the sign into her purse. “Enjoy.”

“It's like shoplifting in reverse,” Cammie muttered, heaving the bags of fungicide onto a rolling metal hand truck. Ian followed her out to the parking lot, where she opened the trunk of Kat's car and attempted to wedge the bags into the tiny space.

“There's no room in there,” he remarked.

“I know. We're working on Kat to trade it in for a minivan.”

“Yeah? How's that going?”

“It's a process.” She managed to close the trunk, then studied the cracked, uneven asphalt.

He waited for her to glance up at him. “If you don't want me in your fields, come on over to mine.”

She hesitated. “For what? Another farming tutorial?”

“For old time's sake.” He put his hand on her back and walked her over to his truck. “And for fun.”

She couldn't suppress a smile. “We do have fun together.”

“Yeah, we do.” His voice deepened and she forgot all about the roses and the grapes and the encroaching fungus. “Come on.”

•   •   •

Cammie made small talk during the twenty-minute drive to Ian's farmland, but she had no idea what she'd said. Internally, she was
grappling with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—excitement and misgiving and desire.

She wondered what had become of the little patch of land where she and Ian had first planted strawberries. The strawberries that were supposed to entice her to stay with him, but had ended up helping him flourish long after she'd left. What would her life be like if she had stayed here with him all those years ago? Would she still be restless, longing for the dreams she'd given up, or would she have found new dreams to chase here in this tiny town by the sea?

Ian drove down a narrow dirt lane that led into the flat, dusty fields. When she glimpsed the rows of strawberry plants, Cammie felt as though she'd left civilization. They were surrounded by the simple, essential elements of soil and greenery. The sun seemed to shine brighter, and the air seemed fresher.

She could see the beauty in farming—when it was someone else's farm.

Ian stopped the truck and they both climbed out.

“So this is where you grow the magic strawberries,” Cammie marveled as she stepped into the rich, loamy soil.

“Your legacy lives on.” He reached down, plucked a ripe red strawberry, and handed it to her.

She bit into the berry and closed her eyes as sweetness flooded her mouth. “This is not natural. Nothing grown with plain dirt and water could taste this good. You're adding opium or crack or something. Admit it.”

They regarded each other for a long moment, both of them remembering, neither of them speaking.

Then Ian broke eye contact. “Come on, you know you want to count the rows.”

He took her hand and led her farther into the field. They walked in companionable silence and, for a brief moment, everything was perfect between them. No conflict, no regrets, no expectations. By the
time they started back toward the truck, a layer of heavy gray clouds had rolled in, obscuring the sun.

Cammie glowered up at the sky. “My weather app didn't say anything about rain today.”

“I keep telling you, you have to check the website I told you about,” Ian said. “It's much better than your app.”

They got back into the truck and sat on opposite ends of the bench seat. Neither one made a move to close the distance between them, but they both knew what was coming.

This isn't going to end well, but we might as well enjoy the beginning.

Ian looked at her, his gaze speculative. He seemed to debate with himself for a moment, then he turned the key in the ignition and put the truck in gear.

Cammie sat back in her seat, surprised at how disappointed she felt. The truck rolled along the bumpy dirt pathway bisecting the field. The gray clouds thickened, and a sprinkling of raindrops dotted the windshield as Ian attempted to make a tight turn over a concrete slab bridging a drainage ditch.

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Cammie said. “My aunt wants to buy bushels and bushels of strawberries because— Whoa.”

She braced her hand against the dashboard as the truck lurched, the back end dropping suddenly.

Two seconds later, she was looking up through the passenger-side window at the drizzly dark sky. She turned to Ian. “What was that?”

He looked mortified. “That was me turning into the ditch.”

“Oh.” She relaxed, repositioning herself against the bench seat.

“Sorry about that.”

“No problem. I'm sure this kind of thing happens all the time.”

He scrubbed his palm over his face. “Not really.”

She shifted her weight to compensate for the change in elevation. “So, now what?”

“Now I try to get the truck out of the ditch.”

Three minutes of futile tire spinning later, it became clear that the ditch had no intention of giving up the truck.

“Is this a farm-boy thing?” She couldn't resist teasing Ian as he assessed the situation, dirty and damp and frustrated. “Take a girl out in the fields, then ‘accidentally' get stuck in a ditch?”

“If I were going to ‘accidentally' get stuck in a ditch with you, I would have done it back there.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the vast stretch of strawberry plants. “Not by a main road, where a car will be along any minute.”

Cammie gazed out at the rock-studded dirt path. “I don't know that I'd call this a main road.”

“It's all relative.” He took one more rueful look at the truck's back end, kicked a tire, and helped Cammie out. “This isn't going anywhere without a tow truck. We'll have to walk into town.”

Before they even set foot on the so-called main road, the drizzle intensified to a shower.

Ian glanced up at the clouds, then at Cammie.

“No worries,” she said. “I don't mind a little rain.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Thirty yards later, the shower progressed to a downpour and the wind picked up, blowing sheets of water almost sideways. Thunder boomed overhead, and a white bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. They looked at each other, joined hands, and raced back to the truck.

Cammie sprinted next to Ian, freezing and soaking, heedless of the mud splashing on her shins. For a moment, she lost herself in the elements—sky and rain and the warm pressure of his hand holding hers.

They reached the truck, gasping and laughing as torrents of rain poured down on them. Ian opened the passenger-side door and they scrambled inside. Because the truck was angled diagonally into
the ditch, the long bench seat was slanted. Ian had to brace both feet against the floorboards to keep from sliding into Cammie.

Cammie took a moment to wring out her hair while she considered their circumstances. She was shivering, soaked, utterly bedraggled. . . . But she was in the driver's seat. Both literally and figuratively.

She held out her palm for the keys and he gave them to her. Metal clicked against metal as she started the ignition and turned on the heat. Warm air gusted out of the dashboard vents and raindrops drummed against the metal cab.

Ian glanced up. “Sounds like it's hailing.”

The rain came down so hard that Cammie couldn't even see through the windows. As she started to warm up, Cammie realized that her thin cotton T-shirt was plastered against her torso. Ian wasn't ogling, but she was very aware of how she must look: drenched and disheveled but finally able to relax.

“We're trapped.” She grinned, clasping her hands dramatically. “Helpless against the elements.”

“A car will be along any minute,” Ian predicted.

“In this weather? I don't think so.” She glanced down as a square of paper on the floorboard caught her eye. A torn seed packet with a picture of ripe red strawberries. She reached down and picked it up. “What's this?”

Ian ducked his head and she caught a glimpse of the boy he'd been when she first met him. He looked almost . . . nervous? “Oh, that's just . . .”

She watched him stammer, bemused by his sudden change of attitude.

“Those are the strawberries we grow.”

“Here in this field? These are your world-famous, patented strawberry seeds?” she clarified.

“Yeah, they have different kinds of packaging. This is for home gardeners.” He reached out to take the packet from her. But she hung on.

She examined the back of the packet, which specified when and where to plant the seeds. And then she turned it over and saw the name of the strawberries.

COB strawberries. All caps.

She furrowed her brow. “COB?”

Ian looked like he was internally dying a thousand protracted, agonizing deaths.

She shook her head, trying to make sense of everything. “Is this COB, like . . . ?”

“Yeah,” he told the windshield.

And Camille October Breyer was officially out of things to say.

He'd named the strawberries for her. Even after she'd left and broken both their hearts. He'd let her go and never contacted her.

But he'd named the berries after her. The berries they'd grown together right here in this field. The berries that could now be bought and planted all over the world.

“Oh.” A bittersweet mix of loss and longing rushed through her.

“I know.” He sounded chagrined. He still wouldn't look her in the eye.

She rested both hands on the steering wheel and watched the rain sluicing over the windshield. “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me.”

He finally looked at her. She held out her hand, beckoning him closer.

A deafening thunderclap shook the truck. They both started laughing, and then they were kissing while the raindrops pelted against metal.