“Quit being such a drama queen. They’ll forgive you once you flash that Cherry Queen smile at them.”
“Ha. Maybe I should dig out my crown and start wearing it around town. Remind them they liked me once upon a time.”
“Does that mean you’re staying here for good?”
Picking up my drink, I took a slow sip. “I guess so, although I promised Mom I’d be out of this guest house by the end of the month. It’s rented for all of June, July, and August. That gives me about three weeks to figure out where to live, or else move in with them.” I grimaced into the glass. “God. I’m such a loser. Moving in with my parents at age twenty-seven.”
“You’re not, Sky. But if you still want to be an actress, why not go back to New York and try again? A lot of people don’t break out right away.”
How many times had I heard that over the last few years?
I thought about it, swirling the ice around in the glass. Could I take the New York audition scene again? All the rejection was so disheartening. Then there was living in the city itself. New York had such frantic energy, at every time of day during every day of the week. Once upon a time I couldn’t wait to be a part of that. Of course, I’d romanticized it entirely—the life I’d imagined included actually getting the jobs I auditioned for and being able to pay my rent with plenty left over for shoes, blowouts, and trendy nightclubs, where I’d clink glasses with elite theater people who called each other darling and invited me to summer with them in the Hamptons.
Needless to say, that’s not how it went.
I spent four full years in New York, and the last year I paid my rent solely by bartending, lying to my parents, my sisters, and anybody else who asked about going out on auditions. How pathetic is that? I mean, plenty of people lie on their resumes about their successes, but there I was lying about my failures, making up jobs I didn’t get.
That beer commercial? They went younger.
That legal drama? Turns out they wanted a brunette.
That web series about vampire nannies? Never heard back.
So after spending my entire childhood dreaming of being an actress—and vowing to everyone I would become a star if it killed me—in the end, I wasn’t cut out for it. Or maybe I just wasn’t good enough.
Either way, it was really depressing.
I was debating the move back home when the opportunity to do Save a Horse came up, and since I hated the thought of coming back a failure, I figured I’d give it one last-ditch effort to find success.
In hindsight I probably should have just crawled out of the ditch and held up the white flag. Or better yet, told someone to shoot.
“I don’t know, Nat. I…didn’t really love living in New York.” Admitting how homesick I’d been seemed like another failure.
“Well, what about going back on the cruise ships?”
I made a face. “Nah. Two years was enough for me—I only did it for the experience. And the money.”
“Then stay here,” she said firmly. “Your roots are here. Your family is here. You’ve got a job you like. You can find a place to live.”
“I do like my job.” I looked over her head out the window again. “And I did miss it here,” I admitted carefully. “But won’t everyone think I’m a big fat failure?”
“Fuck them!” Natalie said in a rare outburst. “What do you care what people think of you anyway?”
I shrugged, wishing I didn’t care. But I did. So much it hurt. My ten year high school reunion was three weeks away, and as it stood now, the girl voted Most Likely to Shine would walk in there with a pretty dull story—Failed Actress with No Plan B.
I wanted to be able to say I’d achieved something in the last ten years. But the problem was, I hadn’t. I had no career, no husband or children, no home of my own. Everybody else there would have pictures of their beautiful families to show and stories of their successes to tell. And what did I have?
Seven seconds on the mechanical bull.
And some really nice shoes.
Two
Skylar
The next day, I showed up for work at Chateau Rivard’s tasting room hoping no one at the winery had seen the previous night’s show.
“Morning, John,” I called to the tasting room manager.
“Morning, Skylar.” He was inspecting wine glasses behind the long, curved wooden tasting counter. In his fifties, he was thin on top and thick through the middle and way, way too serious about wine, but I liked him well enough. He’d taught me a lot in the last month.
“Just give me a sec and I’ll help you.” I went to the employees’ room in the back and stowed my purse and keys in a locker before joining him again. “Anything new for today? Oh, I wanted to ask you about doing some videos this month. I had an idea for a series of tasting clips, just short ones for our website and the YouTube channel, that would teach people about tasting different kinds of wines but not be snooty or overly preachy, you know? Just something fun and approachable, and we could highlight our riesling for summer.”
“YouTube?” John squinted at me through his glasses. “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, 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. If I was going to work up the nerve to ask for a raise, 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 an 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—things like 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 log cabin, but difficult to work around when it came to convincing her to update her tasting room or embrace technology.
I fretted as I took the steps up to the winery’s large, ornate lobby—also outdated—and waved a distracted hello to a few employees at the help desk. Why was I being summoned like this? Could it be something positive? Why couldn’t I shake the feeling it was something bad?
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. Standing with my hand poised to knock, I 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 gray 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. However, 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.
It didn’t work.
“Skylar,” she said firmly, linking her fingers together beneath her chin, “I’m afraid I had to make a difficult decision.”
I kept the 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. 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.”
I faked that enthusiasm, I felt like telling her. I didn’t know anything about your wines, but it was a job interview and I’m an actress. “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.
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, how I’d insulted 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! I thought ungraciously. 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.”
I didn’t know what to say. She was right. My entire body felt as if it were shrinking.
“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 conversation this morning—he knew I was going upstairs to get canned, and there I was chirping about YouTube videos!
Choking back sobs, I got into my mother’s battered old SUV and drove away from Chateau Rivard, 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. Instead 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—an old 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.
After parking in the near-empty lot, I walked past the lighthouse and down the dozen wooden steps to the beach before slipping off my heels. The breeze off the water was cool, as was the sand beneath my bare feet.
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, tilted
my face up to the sun, and tried to give myself a pep talk.
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. 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 local production. Waved from floats and pedestals. People had asked for my autograph. Taken selfies with me.
Happy Crazy Love Boxed Set Page 2
