Page 15 of The Vineyard Crush

“The inventory check for the tasting room wines?” she prompted flatly, one sculpted eyebrow raised in a perfect conduit for her disapproval.

My cheeks flushed hot as the realization set in. The simple inventory task I had planned to blitz through in mere minutes had once again fallen into the abyss of my perpetual distraction and lack of follow-through.

“I…got a little sidetracked,” I hedged weakly, staring down at the sketchpad filled with frantic lines and abstract whorls. In the harsh light of Mom’s scrutiny, the raw creativity that had flowed so effortlessly mere moments ago now just looked like the misguided doodles of a child.

“Clearly,” Mom said dryly, her gaze roving over the chaotic mess surrounding my workspace with t+hinly veiled disdain. Even my half-hearted attempts at organization - the precariously leaning stacks of papers and binders - couldn’t conceal the crescendoing clutter.

Used glasses and plates circled my feet in a cult-like ring, giving semi-permanent shelter to desiccated food debris. It was as if an archaeological expedition devoted to unearthing the sedimentary record of my sorry eating habits had set up camp here.

Mom’s perfectly-sculpted mouth tightened infinitesmially, a minor eye-twitch the only hint of her swiftly escalating ire. I knew that look all too well - the mask of icy control mere millimeters away from shattering.

“You were supposed to have that inventory done over an hour ago so we could get our supply order in before the weekend,” she gritted out, each word fired like a precision missile-strike among the fallout zone of my disorder. “The Hodges have their Granddaughter’s birthday event here this Saturday and we need to be fully stocked.”

A leaden weight joined the existing pit of shame and embarrassment taking up residency in my stomach. In my urgency to answer the creative siren’s call, I’d completely spaced on the time-sensitive deadline looming for the wine prep. Yet another crucial responsibility flung recklessly onto the backburner while I indulged my whimsical fancies.

The frustrated creases in Mom’s perfectly taut features went supernova as I flailed for a plausible excuse or reassurance, coming up empty. She knew from over two decades of bitter experience that I was constitutionally incapable of following through on even the most basic tasks without distractions battering me off course like a twig in a cyclone.

“I’ll get it done right now,” I attempted feebly, tamping down the soul-deep urge to just curl into a defensive ball under her intense scrutiny. If I focused hard enough, shut out the cacophony of mental stimulus for just a short while, maybe I could handle this one productive thing.

Mom’s expression softened briefly, a flicker of wistful affection grazed across her features before the familiar, steely mask of disappointment resurfaced. She could never stay frustrated with me for long before the guilt crept in about being too harsh. Our hot-and-cold dynamic was utterly exhausting at times.

“Emma, you’ve had all day to work on this,” she said, the sharp edges taking on a weary undertone. “I need you to understand how important it is that you follow through. For your own good, my love.”

My heart clenched at the brief endearment, a fleeting balm over the insecurity her critique lacerated within me. She only trotted out those glimpses of tenderness after striking a particularly harsh blow, as if to soften the impact while still driving her point home like a nail through my emotional defenses.

“I’m not trying tohurt you,” Mom continued, each word purposefully enunciated as if speaking to a petulant child. “This business, relies on you being a responsible, functional adult. We can’t keep making excuses for your…your inability to stay focused.”

The dagger of her phrasing twisted deeper with that last part, slicing through the momentary reprieve her motherly concern had granted me. I felt myself crumpling inward, tender bones of self-worth straining under the weight of her disappointment and exasperation.

Hot stinging tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, blurring Mom’s exquisite features into an impressionistic mask of judgment and unfulfilled hopes. Even as a solitary bead of moisture traced a path down her impeccably sculpted cheek, her expression remained remote, regal - a study in emotional distance despite the intimacy of the moment.

“I’m saying these things because I love you and I desperately want to see you grow into your full potential,” Mom pressed on, her voice straining to remain measured and even. “You can’t keep coasting by on empty promises and creative whims.”

She paused, seeming to weigh her next words carefully. “It’s time you start truly pulling your weight and giving this your complete focus. Dad let you do whatever you wanted but you were a kid back then. You’re an adult now.”

The mention of Dad, landed like a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach. He had encouraged my creative pursuits, and understood my inability to function like everyone else. Losing his unwavering support and belief in my talents had been utterly devastating.

“Your brother Ethan has been shouldering so much responsibility,” Mom went on, her voice taking on a pleading tone that pierced me deeper than any criticism. “It’s not fair to him to have to compensate for your…your distractions.”

A rogue tear broke free, scalding a path down my flushed cheek as guilt swamped me. Of course, steadfast, serious Ethan was having to clean up my messes as per usual. While I flitted from shiny novelty to new like an overindulgent dilettante, he was anchoring our family’s hopes and dreams with an unswerving work ethic.

I was the feckless, frivolous one who always let people down in the end while he played the role of perpetual hero. No wonder he viewed me with such thinly-veiled contempt and exasperation most days.

Steeling her expression into one of resolved finality, Mom brushed at the matching tear stain marring her own cheek. “Emma please grow up.” And just like that she is gone.

I headed for the French doors, desperate for a change of scenery. The crunching gravel underfoot as I emerged from the shed was grounding, each bit of earthy grit grinding against the soles of my worn ballet flats offering a razor-sharp point of focus.

I set off aimlessly across the grounds, my mind a blissful blank for those first few steps. The late afternoon sun slanted rays of buttery warmth across the lush, undulating stretch of verdant vineyards before me. Sunbeams played along the coats of the free-range chickens scratching and pecking at the rich soil, catching their russet feathers in smears of glossy fire.

I inhaled the mingled aromas of ripe fruit and fresh turned earth, letting the sensory salve seep into my very pores as I ambled along the field’s perimeter. My feet found their own path, drawing me deeper into the heavy-headed rows of grapevines, drunk on the fragrance of late summer’s bounty.

Eight

Emma

Somehow my aimless wandering had steered me towards the edges of our property line abutting the rambling ranch next door. I wasn’t even fully conscious of where my feet were carrying me until I glanced up and noticed a strange, shadowy figure perched atop the roof of the ranch house’s main building.

A spike of adrenaline zipped through me, my breath catching in my throat as irrational fears took hold. Was someone trying to break into the place? Should I call the Sheriff’s department? The rational part of my brain quickly overcame the fleeting panic. Of course it wasn’t a burglar - it was just the surly ranch owner himself, Ridge.

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