Page 18 of Kiss My Glass
“Okay, here’s the truth,” she says, rapidly. “I’m glad Mom’s overseas right now. She’s great, don’t get me wrong, but I always feel like she wishes we’d sold Flora Valley Wines. That it was gone and out of the family forever. I feel…” Shelby gets to grips with her thoughts. “I feel like Mom genuinely has to force herself to visit me here. Like being back here saps her soul or something. Does that sound crazy?”
No, it does not. A little woo, but fundamentally sane. I tend not to share personal stuff with anyone, especially family, but this revelation of Shelby’s has sparked one in me.
“She was over the winery life years ago,” I say. “All my childhood, I felt like she wasn’t present.Like her body was here but her inner being was somewhere else.”
“Oh, Frankie.” Shelby looks stricken. “I always worried that you felt you were on your own.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry. I should have been a better older sister.”
“How?” I’m not saying it to be rude. “We were allin the same boat. Caught between parents who loved us, sure, but didn’t value us, not really. Mom and Dad never saw us as us. As Jackson, Tyler, Shelby, and Frankie. We were cogs in the big Armstrong family/Flora Valley Wines machine. We were Borg. No individual identity.”
I’ve gone too far. Shelby’s face is all pale and tight. Teach me to break my rule about sharing personal stuff.
“Ignore me,” I say, brusquely. “I’m in a bad mood. Let’s talk about something else.”
Shelby is never upset for long. Sometimes, I marvel that we’re related.
“How about you and I go somewhere for lunch?” she suggests. “Somewhere close, so I don’t get overtired. Like Iris’s café? Or The Silver Saddle? We could get a burger there.”
I wonder where Danny, Nate and their mom are going to be. Probably that upmarket place in the center of Martinburg that sells chi-chi kitchen wares. It’s well patronized by ladies who lunch.
Before I can respond, Shelby’s phone beeps. Again, she frowns.
“It’s Chiara,” she says. “But I’ve no idea what she means. It says, ‘One down. One to go.’”
Chiara, Jordan, and Shelby have been a ride-or-die trio since elementary school. They were nice enough to me growing up, but I was never going to be invited into their group. I had my own friends at school, but we’ve all long since drifted apart. Chiara, Jordan, and Shelby will be tight forever. And, yep, I’m envious.
I’m also wary of Chiara. Jordan’s like Shelby, outgoing, cheerful, and kind. Chiara likes knowing things you don’t, and she uses her beauty as a weapon. As I said, both of Shelby’s besties treated me well, but I’ve always had the sense that Chiara views me like a cute, short, bad-tempered toy, an angry Furby. One she could play with, if she had the mind.
Shelby texts a reply. Another beep. “Oh, goody. Chiara can come to lunch, too! She gets off at twelve thirty, so we’ll meet her at The Silver Saddle at one.”
Oh. Goody.
ChapterTwelve
DANNY
Ithought I’d have time to prepare for the first family visit, but no. Mitch rang Nate at the crack of dawn and insisted we both present ourselves mid-morning for parental inspection. As Nate said to me when he roused me out of sleep, might as well get it over and done with.
I’m not hung-over, but I’d like to be. Having dropped her bombshell, Chiara set a limit on cocktail consumption because I need to be on my best form to impress Frankie. A wasted effort, because now I might not see Frankie at all today. I’ll be interrogated and disparaged by my father instead. If I were hungover, I’d have an excuse to imbibe hair of the dog. Being slightly drunk would at least cushion me against the worst of it.
“You were at Bartons last night,” says Nate.
Luckily, he’s driving, otherwise I might have veered into the other lane in surprise.
“Does everyone know my business?” I’m pissed, and I think I have a right to be.
“It was a guess!” protests Nate. “Bartons has this unique aroma, and I thought I could smell it on you.”
“Aroma?” I sniff my shirt, even though it’s clean on today. “Of what? Money?”
“I think it’s more likely to be the bouquet of a thousand and one bonkers cocktail ingredients quietly mutating in the Bartons cellar.”
“My drink had acorns in it,” I say. “And some kind of tincture. I’m not even sure what a tincture is.”
“Meet anyone?” Nate asks, all casual-like.
“No,” I reply, curtly. “Had two cocktails. Avoided the gaze of the international arms dealers. Went home.”
