Some Sort of Happy

by Melanie Harlow

  “YouTube?” John squinted at me. “Do we have a YouTube channel?”

  “We will. I hope.” I smiled at him as I unrolled the sleeves of my white blouse. It was a warm day for May, so I’d cuffed them this morning, but the cavelike tasting room always stayed cool with its stone floors and walls. To me, it was a little dark and dungeony, and the fancy French furniture was definitely tired and uncomfortable, but the Rivard family was all about tradition, and resistant to change. Even though I was technically just the assistant tasting room manager, I thought I could help to modernize the place a little bit—not only the look of the tasting room but in other ways as well. After all, if I was going to work up the nerve to ask for a raise so I could afford an apartment, I’d better prove my worth. “I also have some ideas for additional summer events. I’m going to talk about it all with Mrs. Rivard as soon as possible.”

  “Actually, she does want to see you.” John set one glass down and picked up another, holding it up in the dim light thrown by the ugly old brass chandelier overhead. “She said to send you to her office when you arrived.”

  “Oh.” That was a little odd. I usually didn’t meet with her in the mornings because we did vineyard tours then. “Do I have time? Isn’t it like quarter to ten already? We’ve got two groups booked this morning.”

  “I’ll cover for you here. Go ahead.”

  An uneasy feeling weaseled its way under my skin. “Did she say what it was about?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Just said to send you.”

  I tried a joke. “Should I be worried?”

  “No idea. But you should probably go now. She doesn’t like to wait around.”

  No, she didn’t. Miranda Rivard was a stickler for many things—punctuality, manners, tradition. She was the family’s third generation winemaker, although the Rivards had farmed this area long before that, and she was entirely dedicated to preserving its history. That devotion was nice when it came to saving the lighthouse or securing historical landmark status for an old home, but difficult to work around when it came to convincing her to update her tasting room or embrace technology.

  As I took the steps up to the winery’s large, ornate lobby—also outdated, I wondered why I was being summoned like this. Could it be something positive? Why couldn’t I shake the feeling it was something bad?

  At the far end of the lobby, I opened the heavy wooden door labeled Offices. Mrs. Rivard’s—I didn’t dare call her Miranda—was at the end of the long hall, but that morning I wished it were longer. I walked as leisurely as I could, my gaze on the frayed teal carpet runner. When I reached her door, I stood with my hand poised to knock and gave myself a little pep talk.

  Relax. There’s no way Miranda Rivard watches Save a Horse. It’s probably something about the social media accounts you suggested setting up.

  Right. That had to be it. Smoothing my skirt and squaring my shoulders, I knocked twice and waited.

  “Yes?”

  I opened the door and poked my head in. “John said you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Skylar. I do. Come in.” She gestured to the chairs in front of her desk and my stomach lurched.

  Stop it. This is where you interviewed, so it’s probably where she conducts all her employee meetings. I’ll just leave the door open. No one gets fired with the office door open.

  “Shut the door. Have a seat.”

  Fuck. I’m so fired.

  I approached the chairs and stared at them, like maybe if I chose the right one this would go better for me.

  “Sit, sit,” Mrs. Rivard said a mite impatiently. She looked exactly the way you imagine a witch would look in real life—sharp features, shrewd eyes, long skinny fingers—but without the bedraggled hair. Her silver bob was perfectly even and hung in one shiny sheet to her chin. She wore very little makeup but her skin was actually pretty good for a woman her age, and I briefly considered opening with a compliment. I reconsidered when I saw the critical look in her eye, the firm set of her mouth.

  Slowly, I lowered myself to the edge of one brown leather chair, desperately trying to think of a way to change the tone of this meeting. Speak before she does! Open with something positive!

  “I’m glad you wanted to meet with me this morning, Mrs. Rivard, because I had an idea I wanted to run by you for a video series.” I tried the beauty queen smile on her.

  Fail.

  “Skylar,” she said firmly, linking her fingers together beneath her chin, “I’m afraid I had to make a difficult decision.”

  I kept a ghoulish smile frozen in place. “Oh?”

  “Yes. It’s about your position here at Chateau Rivard. You see, our brand projects a certain image, and—”

  “Mrs. Rivard,” I broke in. “If I could just—“

  “Don’t interrupt,” she said sharply.

  Fail.

  “As I was saying, Chateau Rivard is very serious about its reputation. We are the oldest winery in this area and have always been dedicated to quality, professionalism, and tradition. We stand out in the market because we are more upscale, and we cater to discerning wine drinkers who expect our wines—and our staff—to be beyond reproach. Do you understand?”

  I sighed. “Am I here to be reproached?”

  “When you interviewed, I was pleased with your appearance, your family’s history in the area, your role as former Cherry Queen, and your enthusiasm for our wines.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I regret to say that I’m afraid those initial impressions have been eclipsed by your recent behavior on television and the subsequent media attention to it. Specifically, this morning’s article in the Peninsula Press.”

  “What article?” I asked, gripping the arms of the chair. My Froot Loops churned in my stomach.

  “You’ve not seen it?” She raised one thin brow and glanced meaningfully at the newspaper on her desk.

  “No.” Panicking, I jumped up and grabbed the paper. My eyes scanned the headlines—and there it was.

  FORMER CHERRY QUEEN MORE TART THAN SWEET.

  Oh God.

  I read the article quickly, my heart sinking with every snarky comment and embarrassing rehash of my misdeeds on the show. The writer mentioned how proud everyone had been to see a “hometown honey” on television but how that pride had withered as the weeks went on. Who’d have thought we’d ever see our sweet Cherry Queen drunk on vodka and suggestively riding a mechanical bull? he asked.

  “What? That’s not even right! It was tequila, not vodka!” I blurted.

  “I hardly think that detail makes a difference.” Mrs. Rivard’s tone was arch.

  Maybe not, but I was hoping for more erroneous statements in the article, things I could point to and say, That wasn’t me! I never did that! I never said that! But unfortunately, everything he’d written about was something shown on screen. He ended the article by condemning me for the terrible things I’d said about where I came from, where my family still lived and worked, and scorned me for insulting good people with my catty, callow words, the same people who’d crowned me Cherry Queen and happily allowed me to represent them all over the country.

  The country! The farthest I ever went as Cherry Queen was an Elks Lodge in Flint!

  But it wouldn’t serve me now to be defensive. If I wanted to keep this job, I needed to apologize and agree that my behavior was not appropriate.

  “Mrs. Rivard, I’m very sorry about the show. I agree, the way they are portraying me is not very…appealing.”

  “The way they are portraying you? You don’t think your own actions were…unappealing?” She mocked my use of the word.

  “Well, yes and no. I mean, I did do and say some things I shouldn’t have, but the editing makes it look much worse. People have to realize that.”

  She tilted her head. “Perception is reality, Skylar. I’m surprised you haven’t learned that yet.”

  Fail.

  I didn’t know what to say. She was right. My entire body felt as if it were shrinki
ng.

  “And I’m afraid that the way you’re perceived now isn’t the image I want in a front-of-house employee.”

  I said nothing as the heavy shame of being fired settled over me like thick gray fog.

  “I’ll mail you a check for your last week. Good luck.” She stood, and I took it to mean I was dismissed.

  “Thank you,” I said morosely.

  “I’m sure you’ll find another job,” she added when I was at the door. “You were a good salesperson, and many comment cards specifically mentioned your name as a positive aspect of our tasting room experience. But I might suggest moving. People have long memories in small towns.”

  I nodded and slipped out without meeting her eyes, desperate to stem the tidal wave of tears I felt gathering momentum inside me. She didn’t deserve to see me cry.

  Skirting the crowd in the tasting room, I quickly ducked into the employees’ room and grabbed my purse and keys, then rushed out again without even saying goodbye to John. I was sure he knew I’d been fired. How humiliating to think about our earlier conversation—he’d known I was going upstairs to get canned, but let me chirp away about YouTube videos!

  Choking back sobs, I got into my mother’s battered old SUV and drove away, allowing anyone who watched to perceive the reality of my middle finger out the driver’s side window.

  At first I was just going to go back to the guest house and crawl back under the covers, but I found myself passing the road that led to my parents’ farm, unwilling to explain the situation to my mother yet. Without consciously thinking about it, I kept going north, straight to Lighthouse Park at the tip of the peninsula. I’d been back for weeks but hadn’t yet visited this spot, a favorite of mine as a child. My dad used to take my sisters and me for walks on the paths there, pointing out the “Indian Trees” with their trunks bent at extreme angles by Native Americans hundreds of years ago to mark the trails. We’d hunt on the beach for fossils and tour the lighthouse, and he’d tell us about the ghost of Mable Day—a lovelorn sixteen-year-old girl from New York whose wealthy parents refused to let her marry a sailor she met while summering here. When he sailed again without marrying her and his ship was lost at sea, she drowned herself in the bay. I could still hear my dad’s hushed, eerie tone as he delivered the final line: And if you listen carefully at night, you can hear her crying in the wind.

  Those were the kinds of stories I’d shared with guests in the tasting room, thinking that local color always helped to make a sale—it gave them an emotional investment in the product, something to talk about when they uncorked the bottle back home.

  I parked in the near-empty lot and walked past the lighthouse and down the dozen wooden steps to the beach, where I slipped off my heels. The breeze off the water was cool, as was the sand beneath my bare soles.

  Glad to have the beach to myself, I moved a little closer to the water and plunked down in the sand, tucking my flared striped skirt around my legs. Leaning back on my hands, I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to the sun.

  Come on, think. Refocus. So no acting jobs materialized from Save a Horse, but did you ever really think they would? No. And instead of considering the consequences of acting like an evil twunt on national television, you jumped in and did it just to please those producers and stay in the limelight. The problem with you is that you never think ahead—you just grab on to opportunities here and there without ever thinking about what will happen if things don’t turn out perfectly.

  I frowned. This was not peppy.

  But I had to face it—many things in my life could be summed up with the phrase, It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Rollerskating down that slide in fifth grade. (Lost my balance.)

  Waterskiing in a bikini at the sophomore class picnic. (Lost my top.)

  Shooting whiskey with Tommy Parker before climbing in the bed of his pickup at the senior class bonfire. (Lost my virginity.)

  Actually, it wasn’t a terrible first time, from what I can recall, although that’s not saying much—the memory is a bit fuzzy to this day. But Tommy was sweet to me afterward and we hung out all summer before he left for college in the fall. Three years later, when I was in contention for Cherry Queen, I was a little nervous he’d show up telling everybody about the time I’d “displayed poor conduct” in the back of his truck, which would make me ineligible. But he didn’t—he was a good guy, just like most of the people I knew around here. I felt awful that I’d said such nasty things about them.

  And the shitstorm was only getting bigger. When I thought about the article about me in the paper, I wanted to make like Mable Day and disappear under the water. My reputation was shot. Tearing up, I lay back on the sand, covering my face with my hands. God, I’d made such a mess of things. Once upon a time, I’d been admired and respected around here. Played the starring role in every production. Waved from floats and pedestals. People had asked for my autograph. Taken pictures with me.

  Now I was reviled.

  But what could I do to show everyone I wasn’t that bitch from the show? That I was still the same girl they’d always known, just a little older and wiser—OK maybe not wiser, but at least trying to learn from my mistakes? I’d signed a contract forbidding me to talk about my time on Save a Horse, so it’s not like I could come totally clean. There had to be another way to remind them I was still the girl they were proud to call their own.

  Wait a second—that was it! I’d go back to my roots by reaching out to the Cherry Pageant people! All the festivities were coming up in July, and maybe there would be a role for me as a former queen.

  I sat up with renewed energy. Yes—this was perfect. I’d repair my reputation by embracing my community, getting involved, doing good deeds. I’d donate my time and energy to needy organizations. I’d work any event at the festival they wanted me to. I’d visit schools, cut ribbons, kiss babies, pick cherries. They probably wouldn’t pay me, but that was OK. My parents would let me move in with them for the summer, and after the festival, my reputation would be repaired, my confidence would be restored, I’d find a new job somewhere, and start saving up for my own place.

  I took a deep breath, and the cool, damp air revitalized me. It smelled both earthy and clean, like the woods and the water, like the springs of my childhood. A rebirth. Getting to my feet, I brushed the sand off my skirt and turned around, proud of myself for coming up with a solution, like a real grownup.

  To my surprise, I was no longer alone on the beach.

  A man sat about twenty feet away, forearms draped over his widespread knees, hands clasped between them. He knew I was there, he must have seen me when he arrived, but he said nothing as I made my way to the steps and never looked away from the water. He had a nice profile, actually. Short dark hair, strong jaw covered with neatly trimmed scruff, nice ears. Sounds weird, I know, but I got the Nixon ears that stick way out, which is why I rarely wear my hair back and always notice ears on other people.

  He wore aviator sunglasses, jeans, and a light brown jacket, and when I got closer I noticed he had a thick notebook next to him on the sand, the old fashioned spiral kind with a bright red cover. Intrigued, I nearly said hello, but something about the utter stillness in his pose told me he didn’t want to be bothered, and the greeting stuck in my throat.

  Maybe he watches the show, I thought glumly. Maybe he knows exactly who I am and just doesn’t want to talk to me.

  My spirits withered a little as I reached the wooden steps, where I realized I hadn’t picked up my heels from where I’d been sitting. I pivoted sharply, but somehow my ankle didn’t get the message and I went down hard on my hands and knees in the sand. A little squeak escaped me as I hit the ground.

  Oh God. Please don’t let him be watching me.

  A few seconds later I heard his voice.

  I saw her. Of course I saw her.

  I thought she was crying at first, because she was lying on her back, hands over her face. Although I was disappointed not to have the beach to
myself, I felt a tug of sympathy and thought about asking if she was OK. But when I got closer and realized it was Skylar Nixon, I hesitated.

  Skylar Nixon.

  I hadn’t seen her in ten years, but I knew it was her. That hair—so light blonde it was almost silver against the sand. Her fingers covered her eyes, but I knew they were blue. Not a bright or sharp blue, like a gemstone, but sweeter, softer, like faded denim. I didn’t know this because of any extended time spent gazing into them directly, but from staring at her senior yearbook photo every night for a year while feverishly jerking off to the fantasy of her straddling my body in the dark.

  But I’d bet every guy in our graduating class had that fantasy. She was just so beautiful.

  We didn’t run with the same crowd back then—mostly because she had a crowd and I did not, which was fine with me. In those days, I preferred solitude. I sought it. Much easier to be alone with my anxiety than have to explain it to anyone.

  It was still easier.

  But I wasn’t that kid anymore, and here was a chance to prove it. Maybe this was serendipity.

  I started walking toward her, and suddenly the voice in my head spoke up. Don’t do it. She’s too lovely, too fragile. You’ll hurt her.

  Suddenly the disturbing image of Skylar gasping for air, my hands around her neck, lodged in my brain, along with the question, What if I choked her?

  I stood there, paralyzed, desperately trying to push the thought from my head, and then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to do that. I had to talk back.

  Stop it. Those fears aren’t rational. I’ve never choked anyone.

  I hadn’t, had I? My mind suddenly went into overdrive, sifting through years of memories, trying to find the one where I must have choked someone. That’s why I was thinking about it now, wasn’t it?

  Rational thought tried again. No! This is fucking ridiculous. You’ve never fucking choked a person!