Once Upon a Wine

by Beth Kendrick

  A high, indignant bark interrupted Kat’s attempt at damage control. Jacques waddled into the room, sniffling and snorting. He made his way over to Cammie, sat down at her feet, and stared up at her with reproach.

  “Calm down,” she told the dog. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something here?”

  He responded by letting his tongue loll out the side of his mouth. Then he wandered over to Wendy, sniffed her shiny patent shoes, and barked again.

  Wendy glanced at Cammie. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to go count the rows. We usually do it first thing in the morning, but we missed it today, so he’s sulking.”

  The French bulldog lay down with a phlegmy sigh and stuck his lower lip out even farther.

  “Counting the rows?” Wendy started writing again. “What does that mean?”

  Cammie explained about walking the fields and checking the crops. “He thinks he’s a farm dog.”

  “He has no idea what he’s doing, but he tries. Bless his little heart.” Ginger smiled.

  “This is his second career,” Kat said, rubbing the faded scars on her arm. “He used to be a show dog.”

  Jacques glared at all of them. He knew when he was being patronized.

  “A show dog?” Wendy didn’t look up from her legal pad.

  “Yeah, he won a bunch of ribbons—best in show and all that jazz—and then he busted his tooth.” Kat lifted one of Jacques’s jowls, displaying the missing fang. “So he’s reinventing himself.”

  “Interesting.” Wendy stopped scrutinizing every detail of the parlor and focused on the dog. “If it’s all right with you, I would like to count the rows with— What’s his name?”

  “Jacques.”

  “I would like to count the rows with Jacques.” She clicked her pen and waited.

  Jacques got to his feet and trotted over to the screen door.

  “Are you sure we can’t tempt you with some strawberry wine?” Ginger got a clean glass out from under the bar. “It’s hot out there.”

  “Well.” Cammie could see the journalist’s resolve crack. “I guess one little glass couldn’t hurt.”

  While Jacques pawed the screen door, Ginger poured four generous servings and distributed the glasses.

  “Cheers!”

  “Cheers!”

  “Cheers!”

  Woof!

  chapter 24

  “That was delightful,” Ginger said after she’d sent off the reporter with a hearty hug, a few bottles of strawberry wine, and many admonishments to drive safely and watch out for the broken traffic light at the edge of town. “Kat, you never told me PR work was so much fun.”

  “I’m glad you had a good time,” Kat said. “Jacques is still here, right?”

  “Present and accounted for.” Cammie nodded toward the corner, where Jacques was zonked out on a little plaid dog bed.

  “Good. I think that reporter would have dognapped him if she could.”

  “But she can’t.” Cammie gazed at her exhausted canine sidekick. “She sure did like him, though. I think he’s going to be the star of the article.”

  “I can live with that.” Kat turned to Ginger. “You guys were huddled up by the barn for a long time. What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, this and that.” Ginger fluffed her hair. “I told her all about the history of the town, the heartbreak tourists, and the magic dog . . .”

  “But the grapes, Mom. You talked about grapes? And wine? Right?”

  “Sure, sure.” Ginger didn’t sound entirely convincing. “Oh, and what’s Twitter? It’s like Facebook, right?”

  “Sort of, but not really,” Kat said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Wendy said she’s going to put up a picture of the vineyard on Twitter.”

  “Wouldn’t that be Instagram?” Cammie wondered.

  “You kids and your social media.” Ginger threw her hands up.

  “Well, let’s look up the magazine’s social-media accounts.” Kat grabbed her tablet from the coffee table. A few moments later, the three of them were looking at Ladies First’s newest trending topic.

  “‘Three chicks and a dog,’” Kat read. “Well. That’s . . .”

  “Accurate,” Ginger concluded.

  Cammie exclaimed over the photo of Jacques counting the rows, his snout dusted with dirt. “Look how serious he is.” She paused, squinting at the screen. “Look how many likes he’s getting.”

  “Wow.”

  “Damn.”

  “He should be the official ambassador for this place,” Cammie said.

  “Yes,” Kat said slowly. “He should. Jacques, buddy, you’re the new face of Lost Dog Vineyards.”

  Jacques snorted in his sleep.

  “Wait, wait, there’s another picture, too.” Cammie clicked on the link. “Of strawberry wine.”

  “Anything about the grapes?” Kat asked.

  “Um, not that I can see.”

  Kat shrugged and conceded defeat. “All right, here’s the deal: We’re changing our brand.”

  “But . . . but talking points.”

  “We’ll come up with new talking points. The reality is that no one cares about our grapes. That’s fine; we can’t really do anything with the grapes until fall, anyway. Right now, strawberry wine seems to be gaining traction.”

  “Impressive,” Cammie said. “I feel like I’m at a marketing meeting.”

  “If the powers that be want strawberry wine—and apparently they do—we’ll give them strawberry wine. But we need to make it visually appealing. Cammie, you were absolutely right when you said we need a cute bottle and an unusual label. Hell, maybe we should put Jacques on it.” Kat drummed her fingers on a wine barrel. “Who do we know that can draw?”

  “Not me,” Cammie and Ginger said at the same time.

  “There must be someone in this town who can. That’ll add to the handcrafted, locally sourced aspect. Come on.” Kat got to her feet and located her car keys. “Road trip.”

  The three of them opened the front door to find a group of tourists on the porch.

  “Hi!” one of them said. “Do you guys do wine tastings?”

  “We do, but not right now,” Kat said.

  “I’ll stay behind,” Ginger volunteered. She shooed Cammie and Kat out the door.

  As Cammie passed, one of the visitors said, “The land here is so beautiful. We were wondering: Do you let people help pick the grapes at harvest time?”

  “Absolutely,” Cammie said. “Just leave your name and number, and we’ll be in touch.”

  “Oh, thank you!” the woman gushed. “I’ve always wanted to work at a vineyard. It sounds so romantic.”

  “It is,” Ginger assured them.

  “Every day,” Kat added.

  “Living the dream,” Cammie finished. And with that, she set off in search of someone to help them put a snaggletoothed French bulldog on a bottle of booze.

  • • •

  “You know everyone in this town,” Cammie said to Jenna at the Whinery. “Who has graphic-design skills?”

  “We need a really cute bottle label,” Kat added.

  Jenna pressed her lips together for a moment. “No offense, but you might be better off focusing on the wine right now instead of the packaging.”

  “Oh, it’s not for the wine wine; it’s for the strawberry wine.” Kat turned to Cammie. “And I didn’t want to say anything in front of my mom, but I have an errand to run before we get serious about label designs.”

  “Why didn’t you want to say that in front of your mom?” Cammie asked.

  “Because.” Kat examined a loose thread on her sleeve. “I have to go to that little boutique on the other side of the street.”

  “Which boutique?” Cammie tried to remember the last time Kat had voluntaril
y gone clothes shopping for anything besides sneakers and skateboard-logo T-shirts.

  “Retail Therapy?” Jenna suggested.

  “Yeah, that one.” Kat looked steely and determined. “Could I get a shot of whiskey, please?”

  Cammie glanced at the clock. “It’s pretty early for the hard stuff.”

  Kat straightened her shoulders. “Lingerie shopping requires hard liquor. Fact.”

  “Hold the whiskey,” Cammie told Jenna. “I’ll go with her.”

  “You coming with me will make things even more awkward.” Kat shuddered. “I don’t need you. I need whiskey.”

  “Don’t worry; Retail Therapy is great,” Jenna said. “No awkwardness whatsoever.”

  “Clearly, you’ve never been shopping with me,” Kat said. “I can make any retail situation awkward. You know all those fun shopping montages in romantic comedies? With the bubbly groups of girls and the cheesy music? Yeah, shopping with me is the opposite of that.”

  Jenna patted Kat’s hand. “Beryl’s the owner. Tell her I said she needs to take good care of you.”

  “Cue the cheesy music.” Cammie practically dragged Kat toward the door. “We’re off to make a montage.”

  • • •

  “Riddle me this.” Cammie side-eyed her cousin as they emerged into the afternoon sunlight. “If you hate shopping so much, why are you going shopping?”

  “It’s part of the rebranding campaign.” Kat trudged toward the boutique with all the enthusiasm of a shackled prisoner.

  “For the wine?”

  “No, for me. I’m trying out a new identity. I was Kat the Skater. But now I’m not. Now I’m Kat the Future Vintner . . . and Kat, Josh’s Wife. So I’m going to build a new brand.”

  “A wife brand?” Cammie tried to follow. “That’s . . .”

  “Brilliant?”

  “Um . . .”

  “What’s my alternative at this point? We’ve tried everything else.” Kat ticked off her efforts on her finger. “We tried ignoring the problems, we tried communicating, we tried taking some time apart . . .”

  “You tried building a website for a twenty-year-old male stripper,” Cammie added.

  “Like I said, we tried everything. And none of it worked. Time for a new approach.” Kat picked up her pace as they crossed the street. “Josh and I have established a bunch of patterns over the years. They worked great for us when he was the mild-mannered professor and I was the adrenaline junkie. But now everything’s out of whack. I need to restore our equilibrium.”

  “With lingerie?” Cammie paused to admire the sparkly rings displayed in the window of the Naked Finger, an estate jewelry store. “I don’t see how a few frilly nighties are going to pull your marriage back from the brink.”

  “Me, neither. But I have to do something; he texted me this morning.” Kat’s expression darkened as she showed Cammie the message on her phone: We need to talk. Call me ASAP.

  Cammie’s heart sank as she read this.

  “The words ‘We need to talk’ have never led to anything good in the history of mankind,” Kat said.

  “Well,” Cammie said, trying to be optimistic, “maybe he’s . . .”

  “Finally decided to divorce me because he’s so perfect and I’m such a harpy?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? It’s true! He’s sweet and steady and dependable, and I’m a walking, talking nervous breakdown.”

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “After I rebrand. Josh is used to seeing me in this.” Kat glanced down at her baggy jeans, Chuck Taylors, and T-shirt. “I need to shake things up. Speaking of which . . .” She looked appraisingly at Cammie.

  “Rebrand yourself. Leave me out of it.”

  “I bet Ian would love you in some black lace.”

  Cammie tried not to think about Ian . . . which meant he was all she could think about. “I’m not buying anything. I’m broke, remember? I didn’t even have enough to make rent last month.”

  “Then you’re very lucky to have a generous cousin who wants to finance your dating life.” Kat pulled her wallet out of her jeans pocket.

  “No,” Cammie said firmly as they approached Retail Therapy. “I can take care of my own dating life.”

  “You sure about that? Because your dating life seems to be a little uneven these days.”

  Cammie jerked her chin toward the store window, which featured a polka-dot indigo halter dress. “You go pick out whatever it is you want to pick out. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Ugh.” Kat made a face. “You are so boring.”

  “Because I won’t go into debt buying lingerie for a guy I’m not sleeping with?”

  “Yes.”

  “Luckily, you’re exciting enough for both of us.” Cammie leaned against the warm brick wall and pulled out her phone. “I have some e-mails to answer. Now stop harassing me and go pick out something pretty.”

  “You’re supposed to be helping me. You can’t have a shopping montage all by yourself—don’t you know anything?”

  “I’ll help you,” Cammie promised. “Soon.”

  Kat checked her watch. “Give me an exact time.”

  “Five minutes.” She held up her hand before Kat could argue. “Five minutes. I’ll meet you in there, I swear.”

  After Kat finally went into the boutique, Cammie skimmed her e-mails until a shadow fell over her. She glanced up and saw Ian. He must have finished his work in the fields early—he was freshly showered and wearing a clean gray T-shirt and jeans.

  “Hey.” He smiled when she met his eyes.

  “Hi. I—” She put down her phone and tried to look casual. “I’m waiting for Kat. How are you?” She was talking too fast, but she couldn’t seem to slow her racing heart, racing thoughts, or racing speech. She was thinking about everything they’d done last time she’d seen him.

  Everything they’d done . . . and everything they hadn’t done.

  “I haven’t seen you since . . .” She trailed off, blinking against the glare of the sunlight. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Not that I’m ignoring you. Or you’re ignoring me.” Stop talking, stop talking.

  Ian kept smiling. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly under the brim of his ball cap, but his posture was confident and relaxed. “I’m glad you’re not ignoring me. I’ve missed you.”

  She gave up on pretending to be cool. “I missed you, too.”

  “Let’s go get a drink.” He brushed his fingers along her jawline and tilted her chin up.

  For a moment, all she could register was the feeling of his skin against hers. “I can’t.” Her throat felt dry. “I promised Kat I’d help her pick out some underwear.”

  Ian seemed very, very interested in this topic. “Are you picking out underwear, too?”

  “Um, not right now.” She didn’t know where to look.

  “You should.” His voice deepened.

  She brushed back an errant strand of hair. “I don’t have any reason to buy fancy underwear.”

  His gaze never wavered. “Yes, you do.”

  She glanced away first, ducking her head and shifting her weight. “Anyway, I should probably get in there.”

  “Go for it.” His voice was positively smoldering now. “And when you’re done buying underwear, we’re getting a drink. I’ll meet you at the Whinery.”

  “Oh.” She wrapped her hand around his wrist. “Okay.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” he asked.

  “Fifteen minutes.” She let go of him and took a few steps back. “Oh, and, Ian?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you like leopard print?” She grinned. “’Cause I do.” She managed not to look back as she sauntered into the shop.

  Her saucy smile faded when Kat approached, brandishing two negligees like they were weapon
s.

  “Black or pink? What do you think?”

  Cammie backed away. “I don’t have an opinion. You’re the one who’s going to be wearing it.”

  “Black is so predictable.” Kat fretted. “Badass boarder girls wear black. Always. It’s played out.”

  “Okay, then get the pink one.”

  Kat frowned, deliberating. “It would be a change, that’s for sure. I can’t remember the last time I wore pink.”

  “The dress with the bow that your mom wanted you to wear for senior pictures, so you dyed your hair blue?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” Kat smiled at the memory, then returned her attention to the pink negligee. “I’m not sure I can pull this off. I mean, I’m covered in scar tissue, and I have three piercings in my ear.” She held the gauzy material at arm’s length. “This is made for someone sweet and shy.”

  “That’s exactly why you could pull it off,” Cammie argued. “By itself, it’s demure. But if you wore it, it’d be subversive.”

  Kat brightened. “I like subversive.” She must have picked up on Cammie’s excitement, because she gave her a knowing smile. “So, have you changed your mind about spending a few bucks on some black lace?”

  Cammie struggled to maintain a poker face. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw you talking to Ian out there.” Kat led her to the back of the store. “You guys were both undressing each other with your eyes; you might as well be wearing something sexy to take off.”

  Cammie couldn’t deny this. “Be that as it may, I’m not—” She stopped as a bit of red embroidery caught her eye. “Hold on. Are those strawberries?” She picked up what turned out to be a pink balconette bra.

  “They’re strawberries, all right.” Kat ran her fingers over the little red berries dotting the silky fabric. “How fitting.”

  “Do they have matching panties?” Cammie dug through the pile. “They do. The right size and everything.”

  She tried to put them back on the shelf, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually let go.

  “If you don’t buy those, I will,” Kat threatened. “I don’t know why you’re torturing yourself. Life is short. Buy the strawberry undies. Sleep with the swarthy farmer.”