Page 4 of Kiss My Glass
“I did not know that,” says Nate. “Congratulations.”
I’d half expected him to pour cold water on the idea. But I guess he needs me more than I need him right now. And even though we do butt heads, I’m fond of my big bro. Plus, who knows what kind of hidden vehicle gems are under tarpaulins in barns around Flora Valley. You’d be amazed what people hang on to when they’ve no idea how much it’s worth.
“I’ll sort things out here, and come up mid July,” I say. “And I appreciate that you reached out. I know you had a choice of airline today, so thanks for flying with Dan-Air.”
“You’re a dick” is my beloved brother’s parting shot. “But I’m grateful. And I owe you.”
It’s possible he might live to regret those words.
ChapterThree
FRANKIE
Seems Worse isn’t done with me.
I thought it had backed off, because when I went to quit my job, my bosses had a sudden change of heart about shipping me off to Icepick, Minnesota. Apparently, I’m super valuable to the firm – one of their rising stars – and they’d hate to lose me. I explained the situation with my sister and, lo and behold, they offered me six weeks’ special leave. Without pay, of course. They’re lawyers, not humanitarian aid workers. I checked the fine print of their offer because I am also a lawyer, then signed it. I worked the weeks of my notice period, asked my neighbor to keep an eye on the house, and patted Murray and Phillip goodbye. Last night, I packed up my car with a small suitcase, a large amount of home brew gear, my pickleball paddles and wiffle ball, and at dawn this morning, I hit the road.
Nine hours later, driving through Verity, the closest small town to the family winery, I’d started to think that maybe this wasn’t such a bad decision. Verity is ridiculously picturesque, with one main street that looks like it’s been pickled in early 1900s aspic. I drove past The Silver Saddle, the locals’ preferred drinking establishment that I intend to enthusiastically patronize. Past the world’s worst pizza joint. Past the Cracker Café, owned by Iris, who’s proud of her Florida roots and possibly killed by hand the stuffed alligator that adorns one wall. Past Bartons Hotel, which was bought a few years’ back by a rich, posh British guy named Ted. On the outside, Bartons has echoes of the old watering hole it used to be, but on the inside it’s like a velvet-lined, jewel-studded Birkin bag, pure luxury that’s not for mere mortals. I was introduced to Ted at Shelby and Nate’s wedding. My impression was surprisingly favorable, but I won’t be drinking at a place that serves cocktails made with pine pollen and butterfly pea flower tea. Nate said he had one with octopus milk in it. I’m barely okay with adding a hint of citrus to my homebrew.
I might have also been sucked in by the summer beauty of the place. The lushness of the foliage, the pops of orange and yellow wildflowers, the homemade signs selling free-range eggs, freshly picked strawberries, and organic leafy greens. Not that I eat leafy greens, but it’s nice to know there’s plenty for others. It’s July and by mid-August the grapes will be hanging heavy on the vines. At Flora Valley Wines, we grow organically, we harvest by hand, and we stomp by foot to break the skins to release the grapes’ color and flavor. It’s the oldest and most demanding way to make wine but Dad wouldn’t hear of doing anything with machinery. “Rollers crush the stems and seeds,” he’d say. “And all their harsh tannins come right out into your wine. Make it taste like shit.” Unlike my sister, Dad swore like a trooper. He wanted his epitaph to readHey, cancer! Fuck you!but Mom rightly vetoed that. Despite making constant jokes about having cancer, Dad fought it hard right to the end. I think all us kids couldn’t quite believe it’d get him, but it did. I came back home for the funeral and left again pretty quickly afterwards. My excuse was a new job, but the truth was I couldn’t handle being around that much collective grief. I was forced to be independent from a young age and I still like to handle things in my own way. And on my own.
My independent nature might be why I’m still single at twenty-six. More likely, it’s because most single men my age are immature, self-centered jerks. Every so often I dip a toe online only to find it’s still sewer water. Being what my high school PT teacher so delightfully once termed “a bigger girl”, I make sure I’m open about that. Show a full-length photo and list all my vital statistics so there’s no surprises when we meet in person. Yet somehow, men continue to be surprised. The last one came out with this gem: “I guess I was so focused on your pretty face, I forgot to check out the rest of you.” My faceispretty, but it’s also capable of expressions that can make a speeding locomotive back up and take a dirt road. The guy left the bar in such a hurry he forgot to take his knock-off Gucci sunglasses with him. I’m wearing them now.
And I’m glad of it, because as soon as I take the turn up the gravel driveway that leads to Flora Valley Wines and the old family homestead, my summer-mellowed mood vanishes, and I can feel my eyebrows slant downwards like an Angry Bird. I didn’t have a terrible childhood, certainly not compared to some of the kids I come across through my work, but it was tough being the youngest of four. Especially as I wasn’t loud and jokey like my oldest brother, Jackson, calm and patient like my next brother down, Tyler, or Dad’s favorite, which was my sister, Shelby.
I suppose, to be fair, I was a tricky kid. I have a tendency towards defiance and some pickiness around food. Dad was loving towards us all, but when the vineyard got busy, he drove us like we were building pyramids in Egypt. No rest, no excuses. No summer camps. No hanging out with friends, wiling away the long, hot days. And Mom – well, let’s just say that she had a lot on her plate. Four kids, and a husband who refused to do anything the easy way. Which meant a huge amount of effort for a chickenshit amount of money. If Mom hadn’t been an artsy hippy who loved to grow herbs and vegetables, we might have been regulars at the soup kitchen.
In short, in case you hadn’t gathered by now, coming home makes me tense. I think the word some people use is “triggered”. Even though I have a job that pays well, a decent balance in my savings account, and thanks to an unexpected inheritance from an aunt, my own home, as soon as I’m back in Flora Valley, I feel unsettled, unstable, like everything is suddenly precarious. I know it’s irrational, but knowing only makes it worse.
There it is again. Worse. Haunting me.
I motor carefully up the gravel driveway. My car is a 1967 VW Karmann Ghia two-seater convertible. It’s baby blue, and deeply impractical. I would not part with it for the world. I park it in the shadow of the new Flora Valley Wines pick-up, a sedate replacement for Dad’s ancient rattling Dodge. I remove the sunglasses and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Eyebrows still angry. I push them up with a finger, but they snap right back down again. Might as well give in and, like the scorpion in the parable, accept what’s in my nature.
“Frankeeeeeee!”
Shelby’s outside the front door, waving both hands above her head like a lunatic. It’s hard to miss the pregnancy bump stretching her T-shirt but in all other respects she looks exactly the same: petite, strawberry-blonde, and dressed in her standard summer uniform of faded cotton tee, denim cut-offs low-riding under the bump, and ratty sneakers. I’m inmystandard summer uniform of fifties-style sundress, this one in yellow and white gingham, cropped cardigan, and strappy sandals. I have a yellow chiffon scarf holding back my hair. I’m the poster girl for retro cute, and I love the false impression it gives about my personality. People expect demure and sweet. They get me.
Shelby is also grinning like a lunatic. She’s so pleased to see me, and I can’t help but be pleased to see her. My sister is a genuinely nice person, open hearted and unfailingly positive. It’s impossible not to feel happier in her presence. My eyebrows respond accordingly. It’s safe to take off my sunglasses.
“You lookadorable!” Shelby gives me the best hug she can with a bump in the way. “How can you possibly look so fresh after such a long drive? I’d be a crumpled, stinky mess!”
“I spritz,” I tell her. “And I use men’s deodorant.”
“That’swhy you smell so sexy.” Shelby releases me from the hug and grabs my arm. “Come on inside. We got some beer in specially, and Nate’s made cheesy dinner food.”
“Wait.” I pull back, and Shel looks at me, worried.
“Are you okay?” I ask her. “Truthfully now.”
My sister takes a deep breath. “I’m a little scared. I’m verybored and restless, and I’ve got six weeks of this to go. It sucks.”
“But you and the baby are doing all right? Medically?”
“So far.” Shelby rubs her bump. “Baby’s fine and kicking up a storm at night. If it happens when you’re around, I’ll let you feel – it’s wild!”
“Sure.” I hope I’m never, ever around. It’d be likeAlien.
“And I get monitored every week,” adds Shelby, glumly. “I’m on tablets, and Nate’s bought a blood pressure cuff so we can check at home. He may also be thinking about shutting me away in a nunnery for the final month so he can be sure I’ll take it easy. Nuns are fierce, you know.”
