“Sorry,” said Red again, hurriedly washing her hands at the kitchen sink. “But this couple is worn out from lack of sleep. The girl keeps crawling into their bed in the middle of the night.”
“I suppose you know what you’re doing,” said Grandma, setting down two filled plates on the tiny table. “Sit down, why don’t you, and I’ll say grace.”
After the ritual, Red sliced into her soft potato. “The meatloaf smells heavenly. I’m starved.”
“Probably didn’t take time out for lunch.”
How did she know?
“So. Tell me what’s going on with this wedding you’re helping plan for Junie. You’re always running, like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“There’s not much to plan, actually.” After Red’s mother disappointed her, Grandma had raised Red with a stricter hand. Now that she was an adult, Red preferred to keep some aspects of her personal life to herself, to avoid Grandma’s scrutiny. Most of the time when Grandma thought Red was wedding planning, she was actually with Sam.
“Junie’s an only daughter, and her mom is taking charge.”
“A blessing in disguise, what with all the hours you put in down at your practice. And I thought I was a hard worker, back when I was working two jobs to make ends meet.”
“Actually,” said Red, dotting her potato with butter, “I’m a little disappointed. I was kind of looking forward to having more of a hand in it. Not that I begrudge Junie’s mom. It’s her daughter’s wedding. She’s entitled to do things her way.”
“You always were the first to want to lend a hand.”
“That’s why I became a therapist in the first place—to help people.”
“That’s you, a bit of a Pollyanna. Giving people more credit than they deserve.”
Red recognized that for what it was—a dig at Red’s mom, now residing in one of Portland’s less savory neighborhoods with her latest in an endless string of broken men.
“I’ve told you before, Grandma, it would be healthier for you to let go of your resentment where my upbringing is concerned. I have.”
“You’re just like your mother. You got too big a heart. That’s going to get you into trouble one day.”
“I like people, that’s all,” said Red, scooping up a forkful of meatloaf.
Grandma pointed at Red, her knuckle gnarly from the menial jobs she’d worked over the years to feed and clothe her only grandchild. “Your mama likes people too. Likes fixing them. Likes it so much she put them before her own flesh and blood, before giving you a stable home life. Why do you think you’re so stuck on finding the perfect house?”
Red remembered the year she lived at Sunrise Trailer Park—though someone had painted an ‘i’ over the ‘u’ to make it look like ‘Sinrise’. The park was close enough to the school that she could walk. Half the time it was drizzling. But instead of ducking her head, Red’s eyes greedily soaked up every house along Vine Street. There were the cozy, Craftsman-style bungalows with board siding and distinctive, four-over-one double-hung windows. The boxy colonials whose front doors, brightly painted in hues of tomato and Kelly green, tempted Red to reach for their shiny brass door knockers. And the gingerbread-trimmed Victorians, ornate as wedding cakes. That early impression was what had brought her to the defense of one of them just last year, when it was slated to be torn down after the original owners passed and their far-flung heirs neglected it for too long.
The town of Newberry might be architecturally diverse, but in Red’s childhood imagination, the interiors of those houses looked exactly the same. Each one had the same plaid couch, wood paneling, and comforting familial chaos of her favorite TV sitcom. Though the day might bring problems and bickering, by bedtime all the family members returned to the fold and whatever troubles had arisen were settled. Just like in the show, the children in those houses went to bed secure in the knowledge that a team of two adults—whose number one priority was their children’s wellbeing—slept down the hall.
At the far end of Vine, the sidewalk ended and the smooth pavement dropped off to the gravel road. Barking dogs strained against their ropes as Red shuffled past. Dish TV antennae jutted out with tangles of wires beside portable air conditioners. The older model cars of the residents came to rest at random angles, as if straightening them out wasn’t worth the trouble.
Red held her breath on trash day when she walked past the stinking black plastic garbage bags and melting cardboard boxes. Even at that age, she already recognized it as the smell of just getting by.
Here a pair of flowered curtains fluttered in a kitchen window; there some discarded cinderblocks had been repurposed for a flower bed. But unlike the Vine Street houses, you never knew what you might see inside the trailers. Red’s only hope was in knowing that they never stayed anywhere for long. And sure enough, by the next year, she and her mother had moved to an apartment and Red rode the bus to school.
“Stop worrying about me, Grandma. I’m fine. I can take care of myself now. Not just me, both of us. I’m making decent money…finally.”
“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about love.”
Now was probably not the time to tell Grandma that she’d just signed on as a consultant with the senior living center. The added responsibility might be pushing it, but the extra money would come in handy.
Red sipped from her water glass and tried not to think about “love”—especially not “love” and “Sam Owens”.
“All right. I’ll stop harpin’ on it before I start soundin’ like one of your whatchamacallit, meetings, is it? Or sessions?”
“The second one.”
“One more thing, and that’s all I’ll say.”
Red sighed, wishing she had a dime for every time Grandma said that was the last time she’d say something.
“Lord knows this world needs all the givers it can get. But there comes a time when you need to start putting yourself first. One of these days you need to realize that some people can’t be fixed. And your time’s better spent hunting for the right kind of man, the steady type who’s looking to settle down, than chasing after houses.”
Chapter 4
Once in a while, Red did manage to get an entire hour for lunch. In the middle of the week, she called up Keval to ask if she could bring her salad over.
Truth be told, she had an ulterior motive for stopping by the consortium. That RSVP in her bag was getting more tattered by the day, and she was still trying to figure out a way to get Sam to go with her.
She crossed Main Street, walked down the block past the café, and around the corner. The public area of the building Manolo had built for Sam last summer was bright and uncluttered. Behind tall windows sat tables, dining chairs, some comfy upholstered couches, and a bar where wine aficionados could sample local products. It was nothing like the settlement-era house the consortium had started out in, where Sam still resided. Apparently Sam was blind to the dinginess of the old building.
Then again, not everyone was as preoccupied with houses as Red.
She spotted Keval in his usual seat, behind his computer monitor.
“How are you?” she said, a little out of breath.
“Okay,” he replied, in a very “not okay” voice.
“You sure? You sound kind of down.” She plopped into the visitors’ chair.
“I still don’t have a date for Junie’s wedding and the RSVPs are due next week,” he said.
“What about that new guy in town? The one who bought Curl Up & Dye?”
“Jordan.” Keval got a dreamy, faraway look.
“That’s right, Jordan. Why don’t you invite him?”
“Have you seen Jordan Hasselbeck? He’s from Seattle. He’s way too hip for me.”
“Are you kidding me? With those mad sideburns of yours and those”— she peeked under the desk—“er…fitted, jogger pants? Have you looked in a mirror latel
y? Trust me, Keval Patel, you are plenty hip. Who says he wouldn’t go? He’s probably lonely. You know how it is when you move to a new town. I bet he’d jump at the chance.”
“Maybe.” He sighed, unconvinced. “Who are you going with?”
She hadn’t seen that coming. “Uh,” she hesitated, “no one, yet.”
“I know!” Keval brightened. “We should go together. Neither of us has anyone else, right?”
Red envisioned slow dancing with Keval, she in her fitted, salmon-colored dress and ivory wrap, Keval in his mustard-colored pants with the green stripe down the side. They’d look like a hotdog in a bun with relish.
Grandma’s words sprang to mind. You need to put yourself first.
But Keval was her friend, and he needed her. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt his feelings. And her hope of going to the wedding with Sam was growing dimmer by the day.
She got a reprieve in the form of an angry voice from down the hall.
“Why do you even list a customer service number if all I get is a recording? Do you think I have all day to sit on hold? I’m trying to run a business here!”
Keval cringed.
“What’s going on?” asked Red.
“You know the new wine subscription program? We’re having a computer glitch on our sign-up page.”
Red rose slowly, gazing in the direction of the yelling.
“I’m paying you for a service, and I expect service.”
Keval bit his lip.
Holly Davis, the sales manager, and Mona, Sam’s newest employee, popped their heads out of their respective spaces.
Red took off down the hall.
Keval half rose from his seat. “Don’t go,” Red heard him plead from behind her. “Give him time.”
But she kept going until she was standing in the doorway of Sam’s office.
The face Sam put on for the outside world was that of a supremely competent businessman with an endless supply of jokes. But Red had gotten a glimpse behind the façade: the fleeting rages, gone almost as soon as they started, using work as an avoidance tactic, and above all, the reluctance to let anyone get too close.
She watched him pace his small office like a caged lion, his attention fixed out the opposite window.
“We’re paying a lot of money for this broke-dick service of yours. We’ve already promoted it and you assured me it’d be up and running yesterday. What’s it gonna take to give you a sense of urgency?” Pause. “Put a manager on the phone. And don’t keep me waiting another fifteen minutes, or—what the—hello? Hello? Dammit!”
Something whizzed past Red’s ear.
When Sam saw her standing there, he came flying around his desk.
“Doc. You all right?”
“I’m fine.” She picked his phone up off the floor, dusted it off on her shirt, and handed it to him. “What’s going on? You look upset.”
“Upset? Damn right I’m upset. My vintners have gone to a lot of trouble and expense to haul cases of their wine over here to ship to subscribers starting today, and now I find out there are problems with the website?”
“Take a deep breath.” Red lowered herself into the chair across from Sam. “So what I hear you saying is, you have wine ready to ship, but customers aren’t having a positive subscribing experience. Is that right?”
“Right.” He kept up his restless pacing. “How am I supposed to fix it? Do I look like a programmer?”
Maybe, if said programmer had smoldering eyes, a nose that listed slightly left, and flat abs.
“What about Keval? Can’t he help?”
Sam scraped a hand through his hair, making it stand adorably on end. “If he could get into the system, but he’s locked out.”
Finally he took his seat, mirroring Red’s calm body language.
Worked every time.
“I’m really sorry you’re going through this.”
He shook his head, his tempest having blown itself out as quickly as it had started. “I’ll figure it out,” he said in a more rational tone.
He blinked as if seeing her for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“I had an actual lunch hour, for a change. Thought I’d eat with Keval, al desko.”
He began gathering the papers strewn across his desk. “First time for any project is bound to hit a few snags. I’ll be here till midnight working it out.”
“Have you eaten? I could get you some food.” Her next appointment would be at her office in a half hour, but if she only ate a few bites of her salad she could run down to Poppy’s and pick up something to go for him.
“I’m meeting a grower around Lafayette in”—he checked his watch—“ten minutes,” he said, standing up, patting his pockets. “Where’d I put my keys?”
Red spotted a set on the end table next to where she sat. She dangled them aloft, and he swiped them from her finger on his way out the door.
“Thanks,” he said with that grin that made her weak.
When had her happiness become dependent on Sam’s moods? It was unwise. But she couldn’t help it.
She followed him into the hall. “I hope you get things straightened out,” she called to his back.
In his wake lingered a clean, masculine scent. She closed her eyes and sniffed like a dog with its head out the car window.
Sam should have his own candle.
She opened her eyes to see Holly staring at her with a blank expression and back in the reception area, Keval with his fingertips pressed to his lips.
Red breezed past Holly with a casual wave of her fingers. But there was no reply, just the sensation of pitying eyes boring into her back.
When she reached Keval, he said, “Oh. My. Gosh.”
Red frowned, glancing over her shoulder at where Holly and now Mona stood, both with shell-shocked expressions.
“What? Why are you all looking at me like that?”
“You got it bad,” said Holly gravely.
Red scanned her exposed skin for obvious signs of disease. But freckles weren’t contagious.
No. She couldn’t have it all over town that she was gaga over Sam Owens.
What if he got wind of it? They had an unspoken agreement to be mature about their arrangement. Modern and unfettered and free.
She waved off Holly’s exaggerated pronouncement with a smirk. “I’m the shrink around here. I’ll do the analyzing.”
But her denial must have looked as phony as it felt.
“You’re in love with Sam,” Keval stated matter-of-factly.
Red met each pair of eyes in turn.
“No I’m not,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as them.
“Yes,” said Holly, slowly closing in on her like a zombie. “You are.”
In love. From a scientific point of view, she had to admit the evidence deserved serious consideration. She’d been carrying around these mushy feelings for far too long. Something was going on.
“Maybe.”
Keval took her by the arm and led her back to her chair. Everyone started talking at once.
“Are we the first to find out?”
“That is so exciting! How long have you known?”
“Does Sam know?”
“One at a time, please! Yes, about a month, I think, and no.”
“Sit,” said Keval, pressing on her shoulder, giving her no choice.
“I’m in love. I’m not an invalid.”
In love. There. She’d said it out loud.
Sweet relief flowed through her. She’d been struggling under her burden even longer than she thought. She fanned her face while the three fussed and fluttered around her.
“What can we get you? Some water?” Without waiting for an answer Holly dashed over to the water cooler, opened the spigot and scurried back, sloshi
ng water in her wake.
Keval upended his brown bag and there was the sound of crinkling plastic wrap. “Here.”
Red lowered her cup from her lips. “What’s this?”
“Vegan sandwich. Hummus and cashew cheese. Clean protein.”
What little appetite she’d had disappeared. Gently, she pushed it away. “Thanks, Keval, but that’s your lunch. I still have my salad. I’m fine, you guys. Really.”
“That’s why your cheeks are all pink.”
“When aren’t my cheeks pink? It’s a package deal. Comes with the hair and freckles.”
Keval hauled his chair around his desk to directly in front of hers, facing backward. He straddled it and folded his arms across its back. “I want you to tell me everything, starting from the beginning. Go.”
The temptation to get it off her chest was overwhelming.
“I—”
What was she doing?
She sealed her lips and sprang to her feet.
She’d made a colossal mistake. She couldn’t tell Sam’s entire staff that she’d been sleeping with their boss for months on end. It might not violate any HIPAA laws, but it was a gross breach of trust.
“I didn’t come here to talk about my love life. I have to get back to my office. I have clients coming….”
Keval glanced at his smart watch. “It’s only twelve twenty-five. We have plenty of time.”
Red picked up the bag containing her untouched salad.
“It’s too late now,” crowed Keval. “The cat’s out of the bag.”
“None of your beeswax.”
Maybe she could grab some bites between clients.
“He has no clue, does he?” Keval stood too and rested an elbow in his hand, tapping his lips. “Now that I think about it, you and Sam are perfection together. Who else could handle his ups and downs?”
He turned to his coworkers. “Imagine…a saner, calmer Sam. No more approaching life like it’s a battlefield.”
“No more pushing things to the edge,” said Holly.
“We call him El Capitan behind his back,” confided Mona.
Keval and Holly gave Mona a scathing glance.
Then Keval’s eyes narrowed. “The wedding,” he said to Red. “You’re not committed yet?”
Kisses Sweeter Than Wine Page 3
