Page 20 of Love You Truly

CHAPTER 8

Mallory

If it wasn’t so nice out, I’d have a better excuse for waking up in an irritable mood. It’s hard to open the window shades, see a bluebird sky, smell the late summer roses on the vines, and declare that life is crap.

But boy does life feel like crap right about now.

Doesn’t mean I can stay in bed wallowing, but it means I’ll have to put even more effort into seeming cheerful when I go into St. Helena this morning. I’m bound to run into someone, and it could possibly be someone who I’ll need to have in my corner when Felix comes around again. And I know he will.

That has to be the reason I’m in a mood. Two interactions with him in one evening would push anyone over the edge. Fortunately, Dash played along and that seemed to loosen Felix’s barnacle-like hold on me, at least temporarily.

The memory of how my skin flamed hot when Dashiell Corbett joked that I’d one day be his wife sends a new shot of warmth down to my bones. It irritates me.

I don’t want to feel anything around Dash, especially when he seemed to enjoy our charade a little too much. Almost like he was mocking me. That has me edging past irritable and into downright pissy.

The harder I tried to hide my mood, the more makeup I put on this morning. I spent extra time choosing an outfit that would act as my game face because anyone I see could be someone to work with when it’s time to grow our wine business at Autumn Lake. It’s smart to have friends instead of enemies.

As it turns out, the first person I run into is a pair of moms who used to be high school friends of mine. That’s right—we’re not friends anymore, mainly because they got married and stopped inviting me to dinner parties after my short marriage to Felix ended. Some married people only like to spend time with other married people, I guess.

They’re dressed alike in black workout tights and zippered jackets, blond hair in matching high ponytails. It’s irrelevant whether they’re coming from a workout or going to one—the point is to tell the world that they care about fitness.

“Mallory! What are you doing in town?” Meadow asks, pulling Jackie to her side and linking arms.

“Picking up a few desserts for the workers. They’ve been putting in long hours, so I want to keep them happy.” My glossy lipstick frames my teeth when I offer a full smile and hold up my bakery bag.

“Oh, good for you.” They look me up and down, eyes snagging on my Moncler puffer vest, dark-washed skinny jeans, and Blundstone boots. “How do you always look so put-together, even running errands?” Jackie says, clutching a to-go cup of coffee.

I don’t bother telling them that the boots are seven years old and because I’ve polished them and treated the leather well, they’ll last another seven. I don’t bother saying that I got the vest at an outlet store and saved money by buying the largest child’s size instead of the more expensive women’s medium. All my clothes are designer-perfect, and that’s the point.

“Aw, thanks. You’re sweet.” I smile and take a step back, fishing my keys out of my purse as a hint that I don’t have time to linger.

“Though I guess it’s what you have to do when you’re still single, right?” Meadow gives me an upside down smile that I hate.

“Totally,” I say with my brightest smile. “You guys are the lucky ones.” I hope my singsong tone sounds convincing since I’m lying through my teeth. Running around in yoga pants trying to fill the day until school pickup sounds awful to me. And then shuttling the kids to playdates? No thank you. I’m good.

“Oh, if you only knew. Tommy had hand, foot, and mouth disease last week, and Maggie spent half the night in my room because she had a bad dream. I’m exhausted,” Jackie says. Meadow nods.

“Well, you make it look easy,” I say. This time, my smile is genuine because her description of motherhood sounds harrowing, and I salute her.

We air-kiss goodbye, and I make a beeline for my car, desperate to get back to the farm before running into anyone else, least of all Felix, who seems to turn up at every pass.

On my way home, I stop next door with a bag of chocolate chunk cookies for Mary and the kids. Hearing those moms talk about the trials of raising kids makes me appreciate Mary, who does it for someone else’s kids.

I pull my Jeep into the driveway of the house and turn off the ignition. The first sound I hear when I pop the door open is the trill of children’s laughter coming from the backyard. Even with the white clapboard house between me and the kids, I hear them loud and clear.

I follow a path alongside the house to a gate that opens to the backyard. There I find Mary crouched behind twin toddlers who stand at small easels. The kids paint with gusto, each armed with a row of multicolored paint dishes and wearing oversized tee-shirts over their clothes to keep them clean-ish.

“You start with the face and then add the eyes and mouth,” Mary tells the three-year-olds.

“I don’t want to do it like that. I want to start with the eyes.” One of the tow-headed toddlers pops out his lower lip and sulks. “He’s not even painting a face.” He points at where his sibling uses both palms to swirl paint on the hanging piece of paper.

“Okay, it was just a suggestion. You’re the artist. You do it how you want.”

I can’t help but laugh at her attempt to reason with him. Mary spies me and widens her eyes in a silent plea of “help me.”

“Hey guys. What are you painting?”

The twin who is anti-paintbrush turns around and eyes me suspiciously until he recognizes me. “I’m painting a soccer player. I don’t know what he’s doing.” He gestures to his brother’s painting which is a swirl of color. His twin is too absorbed in mixing the paint on the paper to stop for commentary.

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