Once Upon a Wine

by Beth Kendrick

  “I know.” Cammie ran her fingernail along the chipped laminate tabletop. “I just don’t want to screw it up.”

  Jenna shrugged and moved on to weighing the merits of waffles versus crepes. “Then I’m going to tell my broker to get serious about looking for other bids.”

  Cammie dug her phone out of her pocket as a text came in. She scanned the message, then pushed her mug away. “I have to run. Kat says a bunch of people just showed up at the vineyard. We need all hands on deck.”

  “Isn’t it kind of early for a wine tasting?” Jenna asked.

  “Oh, they’re not there for the wine. They want to meet Jacques. We charge them the tasting fee as the price of admission.”

  “Jacques?” Jenna took another huge gulp of coffee. “The dog?”

  “The patron saint of Lost Dog Vineyards.” Cammie tossed down some cash. “Coffee’s on me.”

  chapter 31

  The bride showed up unannounced on a sweltering afternoon in late July.

  Cammie and Ginger were sitting on the front porch, watching Josh and Kat trundle along in the rusty red tractor.

  “They look so happy,” Ginger said. “That tractor has really brought them together.”

  “And, bonus, the dead vines are gone,” Cammie added.

  Ginger’s phone chirped, and she glanced at the screen with annoyance. “Hold on, I have to get this. It’s the distributor—again.”

  “It ain’t easy being a strawberry-wine mogul.”

  “No, it is not,” Ginger agreed. “I told them twice already, the next batch won’t be ready until next week.” She made a noise of impatience as she put the phone to her ear and stepped inside the house. “Darryl, for the last time, you need to be patient. Good wine is like alchemy. My process is sacred.”

  As the screen door slammed behind Ginger, a battered old Jeep drove up the narrow gravel road. Cammie got to her feet, preparing to welcome a new group of impromptu wine tasters. But when the Jeep stopped, she recognized the couple in the front seat. She shaded her eyes with one hand. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in South America?”

  “Tomorrow.” Bronwyn climbed out of the passenger’s side, careful not to step on the hem of her long, gauzy white sundress. “My flight leaves at six a.m.”

  James came around from the driver’s side, looking dapper but casual in a crisp white shirt and khakis. “I head to Oklahoma on Wednesday.”

  Cammie frowned, confused. “Well, then, why . . . ?”

  Bronwyn took her beloved’s hand and beamed. “Today’s our wedding day.”

  “I thought you decided to postpone.”

  James gazed at Bronwyn with sheer adoration. “We decided to postpone the wedding, not the marriage.” He reached into the Jeep’s backseat and pulled out a small bouquet of daisies, which he handed to Bronwyn. The young couple looked expectantly at Cammie.

  “Um . . .” was all she could manage. “Do your mothers know about this?”

  “God, no.” Bronwyn looked horrified at the very idea. “And no one’s ever going to tell them.”

  “They can still have their big wedding,” James chimed in. “Today is just for us.”

  “Is Ginger here?” Bronwyn asked. “She’s the one I spoke to on the phone.”

  Cammie bounded up the porch steps and called through the screen door, “Aunt Ginger? Did you talk to—”

  “Bronwyn! James!” Ginger bustled back to the porch. “Sorry, Cam, I forgot to tell you. I’ve been so busy with the strawberry wine.”

  Cammie looked around at all the happy, hopeful expressions. “Forgot to tell me what?”

  “We’re having a tiny little wedding and you’re going to be a witness.” Ginger made a shooing motion. “Go put on something pretty and tell Kat and Josh to come in.”

  • • •

  The wedding was small, simple, and surreptitious.

  In her casual white dress, Bronwyn no longer looked like a diffident daughter. She looked strong and confident, a woman coming into her own. “We’re ready,” she announced, taking James’s hand.

  Cammie looked around. “But who’s going to marry you?”

  “I am.” Ginger strolled over. “Basic vows, right? Nothing fancy?”

  “No frills,” Bronwyn said. “We’re keeping it old school.”

  Cammie stared at her aunt. “Since when are you allowed to officiate wedding ceremonies?”

  “Since I got ordained on the Internet.” Ginger beamed. “I figured if we’re going to be having a lot of weddings here, I need to be prepared. So I went online, a few clicks, done. Easy peasy.”

  Bronwyn surveyed the barn and the vines and the house. “Let’s do it by that tree over there.” She strode briskly across the lawn. “Now, what about witnesses?”

  “We’ll be your witnesses.” Kat and Josh joined them under the shade of the huge old tree.

  Bronwyn and James looked into each other’s eyes. Kat and Josh were gazing at each other, too.

  All of them had come together in this moment because of failure. Ginger had failed to accept her limitations. Kat had failed to appreciate her husband and her marriage. Cammie had failed at her dream of owning a restaurant. They had all failed spectacularly.

  And it was beautiful. Failure had set them free to find new dreams, to rebuild relationships, to discover who they really were.

  “I guess we can get started.”

  Everyone turned to Ginger, who produced a few printed sheets of paper and began reading from them. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

  • • •

  After the ceremony, while James and Bronwyn were setting a world record for Longest Kiss in History under a loblolly pine tree, Ginger pulled Cammie aside.

  “Cammie, hon, remember those papers I gave you to look at?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I want to sit down with you tonight and go over your notes. I set up an appointment with a business attorney in Rehoboth tomorrow. We’re going to go forward with the distribution deal.”

  “How’d you find the lawyer?” Cammie asked. “A bad lawyer is worse than no lawyer, you know.”

  “I know. Geoffrey recommended him.” Ginger reached up to cup Cammie’s face in her hands. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

  “I’m so proud of you.” Cammie hugged her aunt and closed her eyes. For a moment, she allowed herself to pretend that she was embracing her mother, that her mother could still see and hear and share her life. After years of trying so hard to be stern and unsentimental about this, Cammie softened and let herself feel. She expected a rush of unbearable grief—she had felt certain she’d be swamped with sorrow—but instead she felt lighter. Hopeful.

  For the first time in recent memory, she was sure that her mother would be proud of her. She allowed herself, in that moment, with her face pressed to her aunt’s shoulder, to remember what it felt like to be loved unconditionally.

  Ginger let Cammie hold on as long as she needed to, then let her go when she was ready. And bonus: She pretended not to notice that Cammie was a teary-eyed mess.

  “Good?” Ginger asked.

  Cammie nodded. “Good.”

  Ginger looked at her expectantly. “Well, then. Don’t you have places to go and people to see?”

  “Only one place and one person.”

  chapter 32

  The Whinery was gearing up for yet another jam-packed evening.

  “I have good news and bad news,” Cammie announced as she took a seat at the bar.

  “Bad news first,” Jenna said. “Always.”

  “The bad news is, you can’t carry my aunt’s strawberry wine here because she’s selling exclusive distribution rights to some guy she met at the grocery store.”

  “What?” Jenna put down the glass she was checking for hard-water stains. “A guy at th
e grocery store?”

  “Some fast-talking entrepreneur in a T-shirt and flip-flops.” Cammie recounted the conversation. “Kat and I thought he was all talk and no action, but we were wrong. Oh, so wrong.”

  “Some of these summer residents are serious business,” Jenna said. “They’re so successful, they don’t need the fancy suits and ties anymore.”

  “I guess you know you’ve arrived when you can get a deal done in shorts and sandals.”

  “Well, I’m happy for her.” Jena paused. “You’ll still sneak me bootleg bottles when no one’s looking?”

  “Obviously.”

  “All right, then. What’s the good news?”

  “The good news is, I’m hoping that your broker hasn’t found a buyer for this place yet.”

  Jenna put down her dishtowel. “We haven’t, actually.”

  “I’m ready to make you an offer.” Cammie looked around, taking in the candy and the chandeliers and the cocktails. A bar by the beach, full of charm and character. Just what she’d always wanted.

  “Finally.” Jenna rested her elbows on the bar. “What’re you thinking?”

  Cammie threw out a number. The maximum she could possibly afford.

  As soon as the words left her lips, she knew the answer was no. Jenna regarded her with a mixture of pity and disappointment.

  “I’m sorry.” Cammie wanted to shrivel up with shame. “That’s the best I can do right now.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Jenna said. “I’d love to sell this place to you, but I need at least twice as much.”

  Cammie had known that buying the bar was a long shot, so she decided to settle for the next-best thing. “Even if I can’t buy it right now, maybe I could work some shifts on weekends? I’m sure you could use a break sometimes.”

  “I could use a break right now.” Jenna pulled a keyring from her pocket, slipped off a tarnished brass key, and pressed it into Cammie’s palm.

  “Wait, what?”

  “You’ve run a bar before, right?”

  “Yeah, I’ve run a whole restaurant.”

  “Then this should be easy.” Jenna untied her black apron and draped it across the bar. “Lock up when you’re done for the night.”

  Cammie stared down at the key. “But how do you know you can trust me?”

  “It’s a small town. I know where you live.” Jenna lunged for the door. “You’re officially hired as bartender. I’m paying you minimum wage. Congratulations, and I hope you get some big tips.”

  “But—”

  Jenna looked back over her shoulder, her eyebrows lifting. “Think you can handle the weeknight crowd?”

  Cammie picked up the apron, her fingers trembling with nerves and excitement. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Call if you need anything.” Jenna pushed open the swinging metal door to the back room. She raised one fist in the air. “Parole starts now. I just got out of prison, baby.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, and, Cammie? Good luck with the health inspector.”

  As the door closed behind Jenna, Cammie surveyed the pink and toile walls of what the bartender described as prison. But she didn’t see obligation; she saw opportunity. She tied the apron on, washed her hands, and got to work.

  • • •

  “It’s avant-garde and a little bit boisterous. Some people might even go so far as to call it obstreperous,” Cammie told the trio of women poring over the wine list.

  The three heartbreak tourists oohed and aahed over Cammie’s wine expertise, then asked one another what they should order.

  “It’s all good,” Cammie assured them. “But you need to choose now, because it’s last call.”

  “Already?” The tourists looked crestfallen. “Can’t you stay open for another hour?”

  “Not tonight.” Cammie smiled inwardly and wondered whether Kat, Ginger, and Jacques were entertaining late-night wine tasters at the vineyard right now. “But we’ll be open later on Friday and Saturday.”

  Fifteen minutes after she’d poured the last few drinks, she turned down the music, turned up the lights, and began ousting the late-night stragglers with a combination of finesse and firmness. Finally, twenty minutes after the official closing time, she had the bar to herself—and glasses to wash, a floor to mop, and receipts to tally. She’d been on her feet working nonstop since Jenna waltzed out the door, but she didn’t feel fatigued. On the contrary, she felt energized, triumphant, abuzz with adrenaline.

  This was what she was meant to do. And this tiny, unlikely bar in this tiny, unlikely town was where she was meant to do it.

  If only she had more time and money to make it happen.

  She crossed her arms and surveyed the black and pink barroom. She wanted this so badly, but she couldn’t have it—not yet, anyway. Maybe later, next season, next year. Maybe it was for the best that she couldn’t squander her new windfall the way she’d squandered the inheritance from her mother.

  Maybe and maybe not. Only one thing was certain—she needed to take out the trash. She tied up two bulging black plastic bags and wrestled them out the back door and into the Dumpster in the alley. She wiped her brow as the Dumpster’s lid clanged closed.

  While the sound still echoed against the tall brick walls on either side of the alley, Cammie heard a low, booming bark. She glanced over her shoulder to see a huge, shaggy black dog standing at the far end of the alley, wagging his tail and watching her with dark eyes that glinted in the moonlight.

  Cammie and the dog regarded each other for a long moment, both of them waiting, though she wasn’t sure for what. Finally, she stepped forward and extended her hand.

  “Hey, buddy. You want a treat? A bowl of water? Come here!”

  The dog took a single step toward her, his tail wagging faster. Then he turned around and trotted off into the mist blowing in from the ocean.

  She stared at the pavement where the dog had been standing, and was puzzled, but positive that she’d just witnessed a good omen. Rubbing the back of her neck, she headed inside. While she was rummaging through the supply closet in search of clean dish towels, she heard the front door open. The front door she was certain she’d locked.

  She hurried out of the closet, calling, “Sorry, we’re closed.”

  “My timing is perfect.”

  She recognized Ian’s voice but was still shocked to see him when she pushed through the swinging metal door. He stood under the crystal chandelier, totally out of place in his worn jeans and dusty work boots, amid all the pink and toile. She braced both hands on the bar. “What are you doing here?”

  “Finding out if the rumors are true.” He took in the black apron and the stack of towels in her hand.

  She put down the towels and ducked out of her apron. “What’ve you heard?”

  “I heard you want to buy this bar.”

  “Oh.” She forced a big, brave smile. “Well, you heard wrong, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t want to buy this bar?”

  Cammie grabbed a glass and poured the last splashes of a bottle of tempranillo into it. “Oh, I do. But I can’t.” She took a sip of wine, then offered it to him. “This is all I’ve got left. We’ll have to share it.”

  He accepted the glass. “What if you had a partner?”

  “A wine-drinking partner? Yes, please.”

  He smiled and handed the glass back. “A business partner.”

  She stilled, watching his face.

  “Could you swing it if you had someone to go in on the sale with you? Fifty-fifty?”

  She kept staring at him, overwhelmed but afraid to speak. Afraid to hope.

  He started to look concerned. “You okay over there? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

  “I . . . ” She coughed, then managed to rasp, “Are you serious?”

  “I’m seriou
s. We can write up a letter of intent tomorrow.”

  Cammie tried to envision how this could work. “So you’ll be . . . what? Like my silent partner?”

  “Oh, no, I’ll be right here. In your face and in your ear.”

  “But we close after midnight. How are you going to get up at four in the morning?”

  “I’m not. I’ll let my brother handle early mornings.” As soon as Ian said the words, he started backpedaling. “Some of them. Maybe four a week. Maybe three.”

  “But you don’t know anything about running a bar,” she pointed out.

  “You’ll teach me.”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “Ninety percent of restaurants fail in the first year.”

  He smiled again, slow and warm. “Odds don’t apply to us. You’re going to make it work.”

  “We’re going to make it work. If we do this.”

  He stepped closer and took her hand. They stood in the cool silence, holding on to each other with the glossy bar top between them.

  “Cammie Breyer, will you be my business partner?”

  “I will.”

  He leaned over, closed the distance, and kissed her. When he finally pulled back, he didn’t ask her to stay. He didn’t tell her he loved her. He didn’t say they’d be partners forever.

  He didn’t have to.

  One look and they both knew.

  chapter 33

  Six weeks later

  The dawn broke crisp and clear on the day of the grape harvest. Cammie had set an alarm but didn’t need it—she woke up at four thirty a.m., wired and jittery.

  She lay perfectly still in bed, but her energy must have been contagious. Ian stirred and threw one arm around her.

  “You okay?” His voice was thick and heavy with sleep.

  “I’m great.” Cammie felt like a child on Christmas morning. “It’s harvest day! Finally!”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Ian protested.

  “And you call yourself a farmer? Shame on you.” Cammie started to get up, but Ian held her close.