Page 27 of Corkscrew You
“Shelby, you’re the winemaker. Everything to do with making wine is your domain, and I respect your expertise. Everything else, including the budget, is my responsibility, and I hope you’ll respectmydecisions as well.”
“So I get to make wine but I can’t spend any money doing it?”
Now he’s the one looking annoyed. Well, I wouldn’t sound so petulant if he wasn’t being so figging patronizing!
“Setting aside the fact that there’s fuck-all money to spend, you can make requests for whatever you need, and I’ll do my best to make it happen. No guarantees but I’ll do what I can. If the request is reasonable, that is.”
He just had to throw that in, didn’t he? That little jab.
“Fine.”
I’m leaving.
“I’ll make my wine, you operandize, or whatever. And never the twain shall meet.”
I’m at the door. Determined to haveonemore say.
“But if you want coffee, you can get your own from now on. And if Iris puts gator milk in it don’t come crying to me!”
ChapterTen
NATE
Shelby has given me a lot to think about. Such as – how do you milk a gator? Apart from carefully.
Come on, Nate. Stop hiding behind jokes. You acted like a complete heel just now and you know it. You hid behind a wall of corporate-speak instead of being honest and upfront. Shelby didn’t deserve that.
But would being upfront have been any better? What should I have said – I’m shitting myself because I think I might be falling in love with you? It’s not a statement to inspire confidence. I’m her boss, for one, which I just made abundantly clear in the most asshole-like way. But the truth is Iamin charge and that means making decisions that are rational, not emotional. How could Shelby trust that I’ll do what’s best for the winery and not just what would please her? How couldItrustmyselfto do that?
Then there’s the whole knotty, gnarly mess of my previous relationship. And my reluctance to accept that I was the author of my own downfall. Now that the hurt of being jilted has subsided a little, I’ve been able to get a better handle on what kind of hurt it actually is. And I can tell you that it’s not betrayal and it’s not heartbreak. It’s shame. Because I failed.
When I met Camille at Harvard, she was going out with a rich and successful older guy. I was nothing but a debt-laden student. I thought I loved her but I can see now that my feelings for her were more proprietary. She was mine, a prize. Evidence that I was a winner.
The guy she dumpedmefor was a musician. A drummer in some Norwegian death metal band. I didn’t even know shelikeddeath metal, that’s how shitty a boyfriend I was. She dumped me because I put her second. Way,waysecond, aka last. I shut out all extraneous information, like requests for us to spend more time together, and focused entirely on the work. Because building up that winery was another prize to be won. A bigger prize than Camille.
In short, I behaved like an arrogant ass, and I got what was coming to me. Mr Perfectionist-Hates-to-Lose failed publicly and spectacularly. But it was my ego that got hurt, not my heart. And it might be my ego that’s fuelling this bout of jealousy. Might be that I don’t know what it even means to be in love.
As I said, none of the above exactly inspires confidence. If I were Shelby, I’d keep a wide berth.
Oh, yeah – that’s exactly what I just forced her to do. Good job, Nate. Why not burn the winery to the ground like you have with the rest of your life? It’ll save time.
Shit, and then there’s Dad. Anxiety about him – and Mom – is my constant companion, along with the nagging feeling that I should be doing more to get him to see sense. But so far, my brain’s stayed empty of bright ideas. Every medical fact we present to him, he counters with some spurious ‘research’ that he totally believes is also fact. And if he continues to blatantly ignore the toll his stubbornness is taking on Mom, the woman he loves most, then he’ll be impervious to any emotional blackmail us kids try to pull on him. So what’s left? He drops dead and we all stand around his corpse chanting, “We told you so”?
Which reminds me that I haven’t checked with the twins to find out whether they actually did manage to take Mom to lunch. I should be getting on with the winery accounts, like I told Shelby, but right now, I want to talk to someone who doesn’t think I’m acompletePOS.
“We were just about to call you!” says Izzy.
My little sister always sounds bright and breezy, but the pessimist in me has to double-check. “Everything OK?”
“Mom refused to take time out for lunch, sigh, but shehasagreed to come for a quick tea and scones at that cute new place down the road from us with the cows. You want to join us?”
“The cows?”
“The ones that you pour milk out of!”
“Iz, I’m no farmer but I’m pretty sure you don’tpourmilk out of cows.”
“These ones you do,” she tells me. “I’ll drop you a pin. We’ll be there at three.”
