by Liz Talley
“Lord, Tippy, that’s TMI.”
Tippy Lou laughed, stopped the swing, and stood. “It’s too hot out here. Let’s go inside and have some tea.”
“Or wine,” Daphne said, holding up the portable wine chiller containing the vintage Ellery had bought at the farmers’ market and left for her to try.
“Not for me. I’ve decided to give up drinking anything except whiskey and then only when I have a chest cold. And that’s because my grandmother swore by it. Of course, I suspect she was a closet alcoholic.” Tippy Lou held open the old screen door.
“Why would you give up drinking? That’s what makes life tolerable,” Daphne joked, stepping into the house and back in time. Tippy had kept the velour couches, hand-hooked rug, and Home Interiors decorations her aunt Maude had used circa 1982. Even so, the house comforted, like going back and being in one’s childhood . . . as long as childhood contained incense and a full-size statue of an earth goddess.
Tippy Lou went into the kitchen, which featured Formica counters filled with a collection of cheerful teapots and stacks of bills. “I got a whole mess of okra out of the garden this morning. They’re tender, too.” Tippy passed her a wrinkled brown paper bag.
“Thanks, Tippy. You coming for dinner? It’ll be the last dinner before they rip my kitchen apart.”
“Is it all veggies this time?”
“No. Meat loaf.”
“I’ll take a rain check. You know I’m opposed to eating things killed with a sledgehammer.”
“Thanks for that image,” Daphne muttered, accepting the chipped teacup filled with the wine Tippy had opened. Tippy set about making herself a cup of tea while Daphne sipped the surprisingly good wine and enjoyed the absence of whining saws and hammers beating a rhythm on the side of the house.
Tippy plonked down beside her. “So tell me about this guy.”
“There’s no guy. I was joking. My contractor Clay wrangled an invitation to dinner. His brother, Lawrence, too. You know the Caldwell boys.”
“Knew their daddy. He was a hell raiser and filled out a pair of biker pants nicely.” Tippy sipped her tea, her blonde eyebrows arching. “I can read you, you know. You sure you don’t have something cooking with that boy?”
Boy. Exactly.
“No, he’s a kid. Well, man. But you know. He just mentioned liking home cooking, so I told him to stay for dinner if he wanted. No big deal. I was joking earlier since you implied I was a tight-ass. I’m going to complete my online dating profile, and I’m on chapter twelve of the book you gave me.”
Tippy studied her for a moment. “You’ll find a lot to like about the perineal sponge—it’s erectile tissue, you know.”
“Please, Tip,” Daphne said, gulping her wine.
Tippy Lou gave her a cat smile. “So you’d rather talk about the sexual benefits of a younger guy?”
“What? No.” Daphne nearly choked.
“You like him.”
“He’s way too young for me.”
“I’m reading your aura. It projects horniness and confusement.”
“Confusement is not a word, and I’m not horny,” she lied. Because she was something. Which again was both disturbing and a relief. “I’ll admit I need to start dating—”
“Or fucking,” Tippy interrupted.
Daphne made a face. “Language, Tippy.”
Tippy Lou snorted. “Sorry, Emily Post.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You’re right. I need something more in my life, but not with Clay. Ellery dated him in high school, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not for long, and is she dating him now?”
“You know she isn’t. She’s engaged to Josh.”
“Who has his own aura issues, but he’s not our focus at present,” Tippy Lou said, removing the tea bag and taking a sip. “It’s not like you’ll go to jail for doing the Caldwell boy. He’s legal. If you got an itch, and he’s willing to do a little tickling, let him, for goddess’s sake.”
“I will not,” Daphne said, setting the cup down harder than intended. Sudden tears welled in her eyes. To even entertain what Tippy Lou was suggesting made her feel dirty. Very, very dirty.
And tempted.
The last two years had been hard on her ego. Rex had found someone else pretty quickly. And yeah, it had been difficult seeing him happy with another woman, but Daphne had elected to ignore dating and sexuality and . . . just emotional complication. She’d spent her time traveling to book signings, attending large conventions, and flying into big cities for meetings at large boardroom tables where they set a bottle of water at one’s elbow and then proceeded to talk about obscene amounts of money, production schedules, and foreign rights. She’d gone from wiping up apple juice to nodding her head as if she knew what all those executives were talking about.
Problem was, she’d been Ellery’s mom, Rex’s wife, and John’s daughter for so long that she didn’t know how to be just Daphne. Not to mention she’d never had sex with anyone other than Rex. Being intimate with someone else made her feel as if she might break out in hives. What if she wasn’t good at it? How would she know if she sucked at lovemaking? Were the backs of her knees wrinkly? Her butt saggy? Her vagina stretched out?
She should probably start doing Kegels.
Tippy Lou gave her a soft smile. “You’re so hard on yourself, Daph. You worry about things that don’t matter. I’m not telling you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, I’m just saying life is short, honey. I know people say that all the time, but it’s true. And in that short life, you deserve some happiness, some comfort . . . some good sex.”
“Of course I do, but with the right person,” Daphne said, polishing off her wine. She eyed the bottle and thought about having another glass but decided instead to take it with her. Surely a nice rosé would be good with dinner. “I should get going. I need to get started on dinner. You sure you don’t want to come down and have a bite?”
“I’m good. Enjoy nature’s bounty,” she said, eyeing the crinkled bag of okra. “Including whatever the universe brings you in goodness.”
Daphne rose and set her cup in the old farmhouse sink, tucking the okra beneath her arm. “The universe has brought me plenty of goodness over the last few months. Dixie Doodle is getting her own show, my daughter is engaged and living in Shreveport, and I have a contract on a new house. I’m enjoying nature’s goodness.”
“But you’re not getting off,” Tippy Lou reminded her with a smirk.
“Since you’re so obsessed with having an orgasm, maybe you should screw Clay yourself.”
“That poor child couldn’t handle what I got,” Tippy Lou said, pouring herself another cup of tea.
Daphne laughed. “You’ve smoked too much dope, old woman.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ellery shouldn’t have come to One Tree Estates.
Driving west had seemed like a good idea a few hours ago when Josh canceled their lunch date. Again. But now she felt like a thirteen-year-old staking out the hot quarterback’s locker.
The gift shop at One Tree Estates had only a few patrons, which made Ellery feel even more exposed. She browsed a rack of snarky wine-centered greeting cards while eyeing the tasting room beyond the sliding barn door.
Maybe Evan was in there pouring wine. Or working in the adjacent distillery, where they made vodka from grapes. Or maybe he was picking up his daughter from school, tousling her ginger curls and laughing about the silly antics of Farting Fredric Mooney, the scourge of the second grade at Hickory Hill Elementary School.
Or maybe Ellery had lost her damned mind for driving an hour and a half away just so she could . . . what? Spy on Evan?
Why was she so intrigued by him? She’d just sent him an email that morning after she’d woken with the revelation that she was trying too hard to make her life perfect when that didn’t exist. Of course, knowing this and doing it were two different things. But for some reason she had to tell him her thoughts . . . because he would understand exactly
what she meant.
Dear Evan,
Have you ever tried to wear a shoe that doesn’t fit? I do that all the time. Or maybe the vision in my head doesn’t always match the reality. Take every holiday. I imagine hot cider by a roaring fire, people gathered around singing carols, and everyone laughing at the joy of it all. A crown roast sits on the table, and there are piles of presents under the tree. Like the perfect commercial. But then you wake up Christmas morning, and the coffee machine is busted, you have a sore throat, and someone bought you socks. Reality versus fantasy. Sometimes it’s more fun to live in a fantasy world. Maybe that’s why I write children’s books. It’s so much nicer in my pretend world.
Best,
Dee Dee O’Hara
“Miss, can I help you?” a woman with frizzy red hair and a gorgeous silk blouse asked, interrupting Ellery’s thoughts.
“Oh, I’m fine. Just browsing.”
“Is this your first time visiting the winery?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ellery said, placing the card with the monkey drinking from a goblet back in its slot. “I bought some wine at the Provenance Farmers Market in Shreveport a few weeks back. We drank it all. Since I was close, I thought I would come by and pick up some more.” And try to catch a glimpse of the owner, like some kind of nutcase who wasn’t engaged to the perfect—albeit distracted—guy.
“That’s awesome. We had good success at the farmers’ market there. We’re working hard on expanding our distribution and letting people know there’s a stellar winery here in East Texas. I’m glad we made such a good impression,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Marin Dorsett. My brother and I own the vineyard.”
Ellery put her hand in Marin’s. The woman’s grasp was cool and firm. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ellery.”
She intentionally left off her last name. Better to be on the down-low. Just in case.
“Have you visited our tasting room? We have several varietals here that we don’t normally distribute. Our anniversary white blend just rolled out last month. It’s really complex but refreshing. You can only buy it here.”
“I’ll do that. So tell me about owning a vineyard. Working with family is always hard, right?” Ellery asked, hoping her question sounded nonchalant and not like a fishing expedition for info on Marin’s brother.
Evan’s sister had rounded cheeks, a sprinkling of freckles, and bright-blue eyes, which made her both adorable and chic at the same time. “You could say that, though I cannot lie, my brother, Evan, is pretty spectacular. My father actually started the vineyard when we were children. Our mother left for greener pastures, and my dad, Bear McCallum, bought this acreage. It had been crosscut, and only one scraggly tree stood in the middle.”
“Thus One Tree Estates?” Ellery asked.
“Exactly.” Marin chuckled. “The name was a no-brainer; the actual building of a vineyard, inn, and restaurant, a little more difficult. My father knew how to grow oranges—he was originally from Florida—but not grapes. Big learning curve, but as you can see, it worked out. My brother went to college, majored in business, and then spent a few years working in California and Oregon vineyards, learning everything there is to know about growing grapes. Once he came back with all that knowledge, we expanded, adding more grapes and buying more land. We’re really proud of what we’re doing here.”
“You should be. The wines are good,” Ellery said.
“That’s good to hear, especially from someone so young.”
“I’m not that young,” Ellery said, hating that she did indeed look so young. “It’s the ponytail. I’m turning twenty-three in ten days.”
“Oh Lord, sugar, that’s young. I’m thirty-three and feel like I’m fifty years old. Three kids will do that to you. Well, it was nice meeting you. Buy some wine. Tell your friends. Bring them back with you. We love new patrons.”
“I will,” Ellery said, smiling as Marin disappeared through the tasting-room doors. Quickly, Ellery grabbed two goblets embossed with the One Tree Estates logo and walked to the register.
The woman working the gift shop wrapped up her purchases and handed her the bag with a smile. “No wine?”
“I’m going to the tasting room before I buy.”
“Why don’t I hold these for you then? That way they don’t accidentally get knocked over and broken. Not that anyone in our tasting room ever gets a little sideways.” She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Ellery. Just Ellery is fine,” she said, then walked toward the tasting room, preparing herself to see the handsome man who sent her daily emails. But Evan wasn’t behind the bar. A young guy with a faux-hawk wearing a Soundgarden T-shirt stood polishing glasses and conversing with two older men in business attire. He looked a little older than her, but definitely under the age of thirty.
He nodded at her when she entered. “Welcome to the tasting room.”
“Well, hey now, things are looking a lot prettier around here,” one of the businessmen said, giving her a crocodile smile.
Being friendly was a Texas pastime, but she was not in the mood to be hit on by guys skipping out on work for a late liquid lunch. “Thank you, sir, and thank you,” she said to Faux-Hawk.
“You sure you’re old enough to drink?” Faux-Hawk asked, eyeballing her.
“You sure you’re old enough to serve?” she countered, showing her dimples.
The older guys hooted. Faux-Hawk’s mouth flatlined. Who wore a faux-hawk anymore, anyway? That was so last decade, and even then it had been stupid. But it suited this guy in some way. Maybe because he didn’t seem to be the kind to give a rip what anyone thought about him.
“Saucy, ain’t she?” the other business guy commented.
“Don’t worry, I’m old enough,” she said, scouring the list of pours, deciding the two old guys reminded her of the cranky guys on The Muppet Show. “I’ll try the anniversary blend Marin recommended.”
Faux-Hawk looked as if he might ask for her license, but then shrugged and pulled a bottle out of the iced bin lining the back wall. He handed her a glass with a very small pour. Maybe she shouldn’t have been such a smart-ass.
The wine was good—light, crisp, with a taste of pears or something. She tried to remember her tasting class. Chalk, lime, and smoke were words she remembered being batted around. She hadn’t paid a great deal of attention because her palate obviously wasn’t sophisticated enough to discern differences.
“Mm,” she said, draining the glass. “That’s good.”
“You’re supposed to taste it, not shoot it.” Faux-Hawk gave her another sample.
“I know how to do tastings. I prefer to skip the swishing and spitting.” But she took the second sample and spent more time rolling the vintage on her tongue. It was acidic but not terribly so. And maybe she tasted Texas sunshine in the second pour.
“What do you think?” the plumper of the two businessmen asked.
“It’s good. Nice and bright,” she said, happy she’d remembered that particular term from the class. It was one Josh liked to use when they went out to dinner. It’s too bright. I prefer a more subtle wine.
“Try this one,” Faux-Hawk said, taking the glass she’d set down and pouring a sample from another bottle. “This is our rosé. Little dry but has a nice finish. Perfect for hot fall afternoons.”
“You sound like you memorized that,” Ellery said, sticking her nose in the glass so she looked like she knew what she was doing. “Nice bouquet.”
Faux-Hawk quirked a dark eyebrow as if he knew she had no clue about wine.
Ellery sipped the rosé, trying to not toss it back and get out. This guy made her uncomfortable with his discerning gaze and smoldering Adam Levine vibe. “I like it.”
“Want to try something else? The Syrah? We have a red anniversary blend.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” one of the business guys commented.
All three watched her. “I think I’ll just take three bottles of the first one. The white ann
iversary blend.”
Faux-Hawk nodded and wrote the order down, collected the wine, and placed it in a cardboard carrier. He had nice forearms and a tattoo on his biceps—a swirl of ink dipped below the edge of his T-shirt sleeve. She wondered what the tat was. She almost asked him when he took her credit card, his fingertips brushing hers, his mouth quirking at the Minnie Mouse on the card.
“Disney fan?” he asked.
“Yeah. I get points. What? You don’t like Disney World?”
Faux-Hawk shrugged a shoulder. “Never been, but it seems . . . I don’t know . . . kinda basic?”
“Yeah, basically fun,” she drawled, trying not to prickle at his comment. He looked like the kind of guy who thought climbing mountains or biking through a desert was a vacation. She preferred mouse ears and Dole pineapple whips. Nothing wrong with a little Fantasyland.
Ellery signed the pad he flipped over with her finger. The wine was more expensive than she expected, but pride kept her from asking him to take a bottle off. Faux-Hawk flipped the pad back and handed her the receipt. “Thank you for your patronage, Ellery.”
“You’re welcome.”
The two older guys looked at each other. Then one of them looked at Faux-Hawk. “You should get her number, Gage.”
Ellery’s eyes widened, and she stepped back.
Gage shook his head. “Ignore them. They’ve had samples of everything, which means”—he turned to the two guys—“they’re buying at least a case.”
“No worries,” Ellery said, lifting the carrier. “I don’t live here, anyway. And I’m engaged, so there’s that. Not that your whole gruff, bossy wine-pourer thing isn’t attractive.”
“I’m not bossy,” he said, his dark eyes drilling into her.
“It’s okay. I’m not, either,” she said.
The smile that curved Gage’s lips changed his entire face. He had green eyes, a scruffy jawline, and the whitest teeth she’d ever seen. He could do toothpaste commercials with that smile. “Yeah, you don’t seem bossy at all, and don’t worry, I wouldn’t have asked anyway. It’s obvious you’re not my type.”
Ouch.
The two businessmen looked like Bambi in headlights. One lifted his eyebrows and looked away. The other picked up his cell phone and pretended to check messages.
