Page 12 of The County Fair Queen

"These things happen?" I said, doing my best to hide the agitation in my voice. She ignored me, choosing to take another sip of her wine rather than address her newfound favoritism.

On the table, there was a tray of chicken-fried steaks, a serving dish packed to the heavens with mashed potatoes, and a decorative trough of candied carrots. A wicker basket filled with dinner rolls sat in the center of the table, steam still rising from the sourdough balls. We each had a glass of Fletcher Family Vineyard muscadine wine, and as Jordy took his first sip of my family's legacy, his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Dear God, that's delicious," he said.

Aunt Lurlene nodded. "It's the muscadines, sweetie." Jordy took another sip before pausing, staring at the glass, and downing the entirety of its contents in one go. When he wasdone, he belched. His eyes doubled in size, and he turned toward Aunt Lurlene.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry, Grandmama. How terribly uncouth."

She chuckled as she reached across the table and patted his hand. "There's no finer compliment to a winemaker, sugar. Best you believe that."

Jordy stared at the bottle in the center of the table, as if considering pouring himself another glass. His gaze lingered, and I could almost see the pros and cons lists as the points appeared in his mind. Eventually, he poured half a glass before handing the bottle back to me.

"Don't let me have any more after this. Even if I beg." Downing the glass in one chug, he set it to the side before turning back to Aunt Lurlene. "So, Phillip rants and raves about these muscadines, but he's yet to let me try one. Are they just some sort of grape?"

Aunt Lurlene gaped at him, as if he'd just whipped out his penis and pissed all over the table. All I could do was grip the arms of my chair and brace for the oncoming lecture.

"Just a grape?" she said, clutching her hand to her chest. "Just a grape? Sugar, it'sonlythe single-greatest fruit this side of Tanner County. They're positively divine, dear. Remind me to have Preston bring you a sack of them when he gets done tomorrow evening. No one leaves Fletcher House as a muscadine virgin. They're special to this part of the country. A southern staple; tried and true. My daddy always told me it was because God knew they were little balls of perfection, and they needed somewhere perfect to grow. If you ask me, there isn't a place more perfect than Tallulah, Texas." She picked up her glass, held it at arm's length, one eyebrow raised as if she was seeking the secrets of the universe in its light-pink liquid. "They're a tricky flavor to explain, you see. We've gottwo kinds that grow down here. Bronze and red. The reds… oh, sugar. You haven't lived until you've had one of them. It's like a little explosion on your tongue. The skin is rough and has a little twang to it, but once you've cracked the flesh…" She closed her eyes, pulling her mouth into a small circle, like a smoker upon exhale. "Goodness gracious. It's like fruit punch and strawberries and half a gallon of sugar." Her tongue peeked out, spanning the length of her lips as if she was trying to recreate the flavor by sheer will and determination. "It's a bit like a honeysuckle; you can't really explain the flavor, you just have to experience it. You'll want to mind the seeds, though. Most people spit them out, but a gentleman doesn't spit." She reached across the table and took Jordan's hand. "Spitting is terribly tacky, don't you think?"

Jordan nodded, his eyes wide with affection. "I swallow."

I was going to fucking murder him. Right there at that table. There was no debate. No weighing of options. His life was forfeit. Before I had the chance to lift my steak knife to his throat, the screen door in the kitchen creaked as it opened, then slammed shut with a deafening thud. My anger at Jordy dissipated when Preston Fletcher skulked through the door.

"Sorry," he said when he finally reached Aunt Lurlene. After giving her a kiss on the cheek, he took his seat at the head of the table and straightened his eating utensils. He spread a napkin over his lap and then set to rearranging the salt and pepper shakers until they were perfectly placed. I knew what this was. He was avoiding me. Hoping to dawdle long enough for me to forget he even existed. Fat chance.

"Preston," I said, staring at his down-turned face.

Time had been kind to my father. After a decade and a half had divided us, it was surreal to see him in the flesh. The long, flowing blond locks he had when I was growing up had been shaved down to a buzz-cut, the blonds having been sun-bleached silver over time. He had a few more wrinkles; two across his forehead and more in the corners of his eyes. His trademark mustache was still in place, but a forest of hair grew around it now. It was a thick brown and silver beard, sculpted to perfection.

"Phillip," he said.

We filled our plates as Aunt Lurlene gave thanks. When she was done, I held the candied carrots out to Jordan, but he didn't take them. I looked up from my plate to see what had him stalling and almost vomited when I realized his eyes were locked on my father. Jordan's tongue darted out, wetting his bone-dry lips, and I was barely able to hold down the bile rising in my throat. I kicked him under the table, mouthing'stop eyefucking my father'when he finally managed to look my way.

Preston Fletcher was not an unattractive man, so I couldn't fault Jordan for letting his gaze linger longer than it should. It's also why I didn't say a word when they dropped to the tuft of hair peeking out from under his shirt. Why I didn't call him out for batting his lashes like a common whore, rasping'Mr. Fletcher'like he was ready to crawl under the table and swallow him whole. What I did object to, however, was the way he stroked my father's skin when they shook hands. I gave Jordan another kick under the table, but realized I must have missed when my father howled out, "Son of a bitch!" at the top of his lungs.

"Oh, Preston," Aunt Lurlene cried. "What would the neighbors say?"

Jordan snickered, but my father just jerked his hand away and shoveled a forkful of candied carrots into his mouth. I didn't know how he managed to chew and scowl at the same time, but the combination was nauseating.

"Did you stop by the freezers like I asked, baby?" she said, ignoring her food and setting her sights on the wine.

He nodded, swallowing the metric ton of carrots he'd been hoarding in his cheeks. "The haul from spring is still going strong," he said after swallowing. "Pulled out a little over double what the mayor asked for last week. He always undershoots it."

Since inheriting the vineyard, Aunt Lurlene and my father always provided the town with enough to get them through the festival. Their father—my great grandfather—used to charge them to the city. When she and Preston took over, they gave them away free of charge. "We've all got to do our part for God and country, Turnip," she used to say to me.

"So, Mr. Fletcher," Jordan said. "Is that what you do here? Just run around and pluck grapes?"

Preston chuckled, a sound I'd only heard a handful of times, and never meant for me. "No," was all he offered Jordan in return. Aunt Lurlene and I were used to his quiet ways. In my younger years, I might have even come to his defense, just to ease a bit of the tension he'd unleashed on the room. I was twenty years past caring enough to cover for him. "You got a real funny accent."

Jordan blushed and looked down at his plate before darting his eyes in my father's direction, batting his lashes seductively. "Thank you,sir."

My father blushed.

"He manages the vineyard, sweetheart," Aunt Lurlene said. Her voice was a little sharper when she added, "Part time."

"Aunty," he said.

"I sure do wish he'd give up that job of his in town and manage the day-to-day here. Could you imagine the sheer volume of wine we could produce with a full-time manager? Goodness, we'd probably go global. Might even be able to open the vineyard for tourists again. Wine tastings, festive family gatherings. Maybe rent out a few of our rooms like a bed-and-breakfast operation. Could you imagine? Oh, sure, he keeps on telling me'One day, Aunty. One day,'but I'm starting to think 'one day' isn't ever going to come."

---