Wild Abandon Page 12

  “He was an idiot for leaving you. And you turned out pretty great, despite your mom being a vile woman. Did she really kick you out when you were eighteen?”

  “Yep. She had an equally vile boyfriend who hated my guts. I traveled around for a while. Hitchhiked across the country. I guess we’re the same that way. You traveling across Europe, and me, the States. Difference is, you always had a place to go home to.”

  “What is that expression? What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” I say with a sarcastic expression.

  Nate chuckles into his burger. “Yeah, if that were true, I’d be an ox.”

  I laugh and chew on a fry, looking at his features while I eat. “You look like her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mom.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your face is very pretty for a guy. You’re not hard and pointy like some other guys.”

  “Are you saying I look like a girl?”

  “Yes, Nate. You look like a woman.” I take a giant bite of my burger, savoring the melted cheese and sautéed onions. I groan.

  And then I look up.

  “What?” I wipe the side of my face to make sure I don’t have a glob of ketchup on it.

  “I thought you were one of those girls who didn’t eat in front of guys.”

  “I don’t.” I take a huge suck on the straw of my chocolate shake.

  “Well, there goes my manhood.” He laughs even though he looks offended. “First, you tell me I look like a girl, and then you tell me I’m not man enough to not eat in front of.”

  I slowly put the shake cup on the table as I gauge his reaction. Does he really think I don’t think he’s manly?

  “Nate,” I say, garnering his attention because what I’m about to say will only be said once—mostly because it’s a pretty big deal and because we don’t have the kind of relationship that would warrant me ever saying it again. “You are the hottest guy I have ever met. Ever. You are beyond masculine in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I might have said your face is pretty, but that’s because your face is perfect. And I might be eating in front of you, but it’s not because I don’t think you’re man enough. It’s because I know that you don’t find me remotely attractive, and there’s no way you’d let anything happen between us.”

  Nate turns his head to me, his eyes wide in surprise. Our gazes lock, our mouths inches from each other. I can feel his breath on my skin.

  “You don’t think I find you attractive?” His brows furrow.

  My mouth opens, but there is nothing to say. Instead, I move my head from left to right ever so slightly, my eyes not leaving his.

  The intensity of the moment is making me nervous. He is staring at my mouth, forcing me to run my tongue along my bottom lip.

  His breath hitches, and the blacks of his eyes grow larger. He inches his body the tiniest bit closer to mine. I think he’s going to kiss me.

  We still, frozen in the moment, neither wanting to make the first move.

  Nate takes one more large breath, his body slacking, and then he backs away from me, causing me to pull my bottom lip in and wonder what the hell kind of awkward encounter that just was.

  Are things going to be weird now?

  Is he going to take me to my car and call an end to our day?

  Was there even more he wanted to do?

  God, I just told him I think he’s hot, and he didn’t reciprocate with a, Yeah, I think you’re pretty cute, too.

  Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

  I am such an idiot.

  “Come on, platypus, I have a few more stops I want to check out before they close.”

  Huh?

  Nate is standing by the garbage can, putting our trash away.

  “Platypus?”

  “Yeah, you make this face when you’re deep in thought. It makes you look like a platypus.”

  That’s it. I am officially becoming a nun.

  chapter TEN

  I haven’t seen Nate in a week. After our lunch at Gott’s, we went to a wine cave and then to a small boutique winery in Downtown Napa that also happened to be a microbrewery. We hung out and chatted for a few hours. The conversation was light yet stiff.

  Nate wasn’t the problem.

  I was the problem.

  Knowing I would be driving home, I didn’t finish my tastings. My car was still parked at Henley’s. Nate offered for me to stay over, but I knew another bender with him would be a bad idea. If I got drunk around him again, I’d most definitely say or do something to out myself.

  Yes, I have a huge crush.

  On Nate.

  And it’s bad.

  So bad that I haven’t gone on a single date in a week.

  It didn’t help that when I returned home after the wine tasting, Scarlet was standing on the porch with her hands on her hips and a foot tapping in accusation.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I went wine-tasting today.”

  “And last night?”

  “I stayed with a friend.”

  “What’s this friend’s name?”

  “Nate.”

  “You stayed at a boy’s house overnight! When’s his birthday?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Friends know each other’s birthdays. Doesn’t sound like much of a friend.”

  “Scar, can I get past you?”

  “Are you wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

  “No.”

  “Crystal, I am going to say this once. No man is going to buy the cow if he can get the milk for free.”

  Naomi was no better. She asked a million questions, and I didn’t have an answer for most of them.

  I’ve been preoccupying myself by working on the ranch, practically inventing projects as a distraction.

  One thing to note about summer in Napa is, the weather is all over the place. Yesterday, I was wearing capri pants and a cardigan. Today, I am sweating my tail off in a tank top and shorts. Sure, it’s not the most appropriate clothing for work, but as I’ve been getting down and dirty every day, there really is no need to get dressed up.

  Especially since it’s a hundred three degrees outside.

  Sitting on the grass on the road that leads into Russet Ranch, I have four cans of paint in front of me and a brush in my hand.

  You know the line, “If you build it…” from Field of Dreams? Well, if no one knows you built it, why would they come?

  So, I am repainting the outside sign. I’m not the best painter, but since the words already exist, I can keep with what is there and do my best at reviving the worn gray sign.

  Using red, blue, green, and white paint, I’ve spent the last three hours going over every portion. I paint a letter and then step back across the road to look at it from a distance. I’ve done this countless times, and the finished product is looking okay.

  Using my forearm, I brush the sweat off my head. My chest is beet red, and my kneecaps are starting to look crisp. I applied sunblock and am doing my best to stay in the shade of a large nearby tree, but on a day like today, it’s hard to avoid the sun altogether.

  I’m also starting to smell. Lifting my arms, I flap them up and down in a shameful attempt to air them out. I look like I’m doing the chicken dance, which shouldn’t matter. While I’m mid flap, a beat-up truck comes barreling down the curve and turns into the driveway. I hold my hand over my eyes to block out the sun.

  From the scowl on his face, I can tell he hasn’t been singing show tunes today. Wherever he just came from has put him in a bad mood.

  Big Ed rolls down the passenger window and looks over at me. “What in hell’s angels are you doing?”

  I motion over to the freshly painted sign. “What do you think?”

  He raises a chin and looks at the sign, inch by inch. His eyes rove back to me and then to the sign again. When he is finished with his inspection, he shifts the car in gear and shouts out the window, “Don’t be standing on the road, flapping away like a dang bird. Ever
yone’s gonna think I went to the mental clinic to find you.” With that, he drives up the road toward the ranch.

  I take one last look at the sign and decide my work is complete for the day. Gathering my cans, I walk back to the ranch and put the supplies away in the newly organized supply closet. This is another adventure I tackled this week. I want to get into Ed’s office, but that is off-limits.

  For now.

  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Walking into the main room, I am relieved to be in the shade and the coolness near the floor fan. I take a seat on the sofa and let the fan drill me in the face, calming my hot skin.

  “Here. You look like a hen in heat.” Big Ed places a carafe of ice water on the wagon-wheel coffee table and a tall drinking glass beside it.

  “Thanks.” I lean forward, fill the glass, and drink it down in one large gulp.

  Big Ed lifts his hat and wipes his brow with a handkerchief. Despite the intense heat, he is still in pants and a short-sleeved button-down. It seems to be his uniform of sorts.

  Just looking at his beard is making my own chin sweat.

  “Have you always had a beard?”

  “Have you always had long hair?”

  “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

  “Only when people ask me stupid questions.”

  Touché.

  I refill my glass and take another cooling sip, the ice water bringing my body temperature back to normal. Big Ed is looking down at the foot of the sofa where I have the portrait of the little girl resting against the cushion. From the way he’s staring at her, I have a sense this isn’t just a random painting he purchased for its intense brushstrokes.

  I get up and stand next to him. “Who is she?”

  “My daughter.”

  “I thought your wife couldn’t have children?” I’m being nosy, but he doesn’t remark. I swallow at the intensity on his face as he looks at the picture. “What’s her name?”

  His mouth is downturned. “Ellie. She was a surprise baby. After years and years of trying, Rosemary was finally blessed with her baby.”

  “How come she doesn’t come around?”

  “She’s…” He pauses. “She lives down in San Francisco,” he grumbles. “Ah, I don’t like to talk about it. After I lost my Rosemary, I didn’t think I’d be able to carry on. But I did. For her.” He leans on his cane, and his face pulls in. “It’s not a good story for a young girl like you to hear.”

  I place a hand on Ed’s shoulder and tilt my head to him. “Ed, I want to hear your stories. They’re the highlights of my day.”

  I smile at him, and he just stares back at me. Why, I am not entirely sure.

  I suddenly feel self-conscious. He must sense my unease because he stops looking at me and then looks around the room. The ranch looks the same as far as decor, but it is clean and orderly.

  He pouts his lips, and his eyes squint. “I was gonna teach you about the various wines, but you’re too dehydrated. You’ll be drunk as a skunk.” He hobbles out the front door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Despite the intense heat, I step out and join him.

  We walk down a long row of grapes. He tells me about how Russet Ranch once yielded small quantities of high-end wine. Some of the vines are a hundred ten years old, inherited from Old Man Russet’s grandfather. Another crop is something special. Ed spent years crossbreeding vines and experimenting to create the perfect blend.

  “Why do you let someone else harvest the grapes you worked so hard to create?” I’m holding on to him as we walk, more for his balance than for my comfort.

  He pats my hand. “Your wine is only as good as the love you put into it.”

  I nod and listen as we walk and talk.

  Ed tells me how every drop of Russet Ranch Wine was grown, harvested, fermented, bottled, and sold here. There were no mass deliveries. You couldn’t find it in a store.

  He tells me stories of harvest season and the smashing of grapes. I am surprised to learn people really do stomp grapes with their bare feet. Rosemary and Ellie would take their shoes off and dance and stomp until their soles were stained purple. Ed’s face lights up as he recalls the memory of his girls and their toes remaining discolored for days after a crush.

  His face isn’t as elated as he tells me how, when Ellie reached high school, her girlfriends would come over for a crush, wearing teeny-tiny bikinis—Ellie included. I can picture Ed rushing them all back inside to cover up before the workers could see them.

  Ed was a husband and a father. This crotchety old man was a humble, hard-working family man. He lost his mentor and his wife. His daughter is in San Francisco. Without them, he lost passion.

  We get to an intersection of sorts. The vines in front of us are growing diagonal in another direction. Ed looks up at the sun and starts to smile.

  “What are you so jolly about?” I tease. Jolly isn’t exactly the word you’d use to describe most people in his state, but for Ed, this is as jolly as he gets.

  “I haven’t walked out here in ages.” He looks back at me. His smile lessens but is still there nonetheless. “Haven’t had anyone around worth walking with.”

  “Ed, why did you close yourself off?”

  He lets go of my arm and walks over to the vines closest to us. He leans forward and holds out one of the grapes. “These are cabernet sauvignon grapes.” He places his hand around one of the leaves, cradling it. “See how the leaf has five lobes and an open petiloar sinus? The teeth are also rounded.” He looks at my confused face and continues, pointing to various areas of the leaf. “The lobes are these areas that jut out on the leaf. Almost like fingers. The sinus is the empty space surrounding the stem of the leaf, and the teeth are the serrated edges. See? They’re jagged and sharp.”

  To me, the leaf almost looks like a face. The way the holes—excuse me, lobes of the leaf are positioned, it looks like it has two eyes and a mouth.

  “This particular grape has a nice thick skin. It needs sunlight to shine through the leaf to get to it.”

  Ed walks over to the next set of vines, the ones growing in the opposite direction. These grapes are white. He takes a leaf in hand and explains, “Now, this is the cabernet sauvignon blanc. The grape is soft and can’t stand too much sunlight. What does this leaf remind you of?”

  I look at the greenery. It doesn’t have holes, as the red cabernet did. “It looks like a shield.”

  Ed nods and puts the leaf down. “The white grapes need more protection from the sun. They are fragile and easy to break through. But the red, even though it’s thick-skinned, still needs to be covered up. The trick is allowing just enough sunlight in to grow.”

  I stare down at the grapes, “I wonder if I am a red grape or a white grape. I act like I have thick skin but I tend to shut the light out.”

  Ed smiles, not disagreeing. “You and me—we’re white grapes. Protecting ourselves from the outside world. But you, Crystal, when you’re done growing, you will thrive and make a spectacular wine so rare that you’ll break a collector’s heart one day.”

  chapter ELEVEN

  “What about these with the Napa landscapes on it?” Naomi asks from the throw pillow section of the home decorator store she’s brought me to.

  Today, Naomi and I are shopping in St. Helena for my Russet Ranch renovation.

  Last night, instead of spending my time on MatchDateLove, I was on Houzz, HGTV, Pinterest, looking for inspirational photos for the main room of Russet Ranch.

  Naomi, with her keen eye for design, is helping me shop. We need all new everything for the space. Furniture, artwork, glassware, flatware, dinnerware, bathroom fixtures, rugs—yeah, everything. Well, except for the wagon-wheel coffee table and the picture of Ellie. I like that painting.

  We are starting with the basics—throw pillows. Naomi said we needed to find one feature that we will use as a focal point for the rest of the room. Looking at the throw pillows Naomi has in her hands, I twist my mouth an
d appraise them. They’re pretty with a burnt orange color, but I was hoping for something with more flair. Naomi continues through the shelves, finding sea greens and bright reds and even some purples. They’re all beautiful, and some of the colors are bold, but they’re just not right.

  I turn and start sifting through the nearby artwork when Naomi calls out my name.

  “Found them!” she exclaims like she knew exactly what we were looking for.

  I walk back over to her and take a look at what she has—two square-shaped pillows, each with embroidered peacocks in gorgeous blues, greens, and purples. The pheasant is standing tall with its back to us and is glancing over its shoulder. Instead of the open-feathered peacock we’re used to seeing, this one has its feathers down, draped behind it like a train. The feathers of the bird are a 3D design with blue fabric, each one overlaying the other and cascading down the pillow to create an extra length on the end. The illusion of the feathers falling off the pillow is exquisite.

  I know. It’s just a pillow. But this is the first time in a long time I’ve felt connected to anything. This ranch…I can’t explain it. I want it to succeed more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. I want to see it restored again, the way Ed once restored it.

  With love.

  With hope.

  For some reason, this has become really important to me.

  So, it’s not just a pillow. It’s the starting point.

  Naomi and I find two more coordinating ones with peacock feather embroidery. Next, we move over to the decor area where vases and centerpieces are kept. Naomi picks items that will bring out the colors in the pillows, saying I can scatter the items throughout the room. She also gets two fake flower plants in decorative vases and a couple of candles. I tell her there’s already a pale blue Persian-style rug, and she says I should try cleaning it first before buying a new one. Before we leave the store, we select new wine glasses for the wine tasting, drinking glasses for everyday use, silverware, and anything we can use behind the bar.

  The store owner is more than excited with our grand purchases. I pull the envelope out of my bag and pay for the items in cash.

  Naomi and I walk the bags outside and pack them into her trunk, which is so full she has to use her hip to get it to close. “You’d better not be planning on buying too much more, or I’ll have to tie you to the top of the car.”