Some Sort of Happy

by Melanie Harlow

  “Sound like he really likes you too, then.”

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  “It also sounds like you need your own car.”

  I groaned, dropping my head back. “Yes. A car. An apartment. A job. Grown up things.”

  “Well, here you go.” She set the resume in front of me. “Step one. Go get it.”

  I took a deep breath. “You think I can?”

  “I know you can.” She lifted her tea with two hands. “What’s with the insecurity? Since when have you ever lacked confidence about something?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “Since Mom told me I wasn’t a special snowflake.”

  Jillian choked on her tea. “What?”

  “Don’t laugh! I know it sounds ridiculous, but Mom gave me this pep talk”—I made little air quotes—“last weekend, the day I moved out of the guest house, basically telling me that I need to quit whining, go out, and get a life for myself, because I’ve spent years getting everything handed to me and being told how pretty I am.”

  Jillian shrugged. “Kinda true.”

  “Thanks,” I said flatly. “Jeez, no wonder I like being around Sebastian. He’s always telling me how amazing and beautiful I am.”

  “And you are.” Jillian patted my hand. “But you’re gonna have to work for what you want, too. Nothing comes free.”

  Later that night and all day Sunday, I spent a good amount of time researching Abelard Vineyards, and consequently, the Fourniers. On the About the Owners page of their website, I discovered that they’d met while she was vacationing in Paris and married in Provence. There was even a wedding picture, and I gasped when I saw it.

  “What a beautiful couple!” I angled my laptop toward the kitchen Sebastian so he could see. He was putting dinner together for us while I took notes on the winery. “This is her? The woman you met?”

  “That’s her,” he confirmed, going back to slicing potatoes.

  “Look, they got married at his family’s villa. Isn’t that romantic? A villa,” I said dreamily.

  “Maybe you should start with an apartment,” he teased, throwing the potatoes onto a baking sheet.

  “Hahaha. I don’t even mean to live in—just to visit a place like that would be amazing.” I clicked on the picture to make it bigger. “I’ve always wanted to go to France. Have you ever been?”

  “Nope. That would require getting on an airplane.”

  I looked up at him, surprised. “You don’t fly?”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “How’d you get back and forth from New York?”

  “I wasn’t back and forth all that much, but when I was, I drove.” He stuck the tray in the oven and set a timer.

  “Oh.” I stared at the picture for a minute, not really seeing it. I was kind of bummed about this. “Are you scared of flying? Or you just don’t like it?”

  “I don’t like it. In general, all forms of transportation make me edgy. Too many possibilities for tragedy to strike. But driving a car, at least I have some control. There’s enough anxiety in my life without adding airplanes to the mix.” His movements had gotten stiff and his voice sounded a little testy, so I decided to drop it.

  “Got it. OK, it says here that she got her business and master’s degrees at Michigan State and ran an event planning business in Detroit for years. And he was a professor in New York. A master’s,” I mused. “And married to a professor. I bet she wants someone better educated than me.”

  “Stop it. Or you get no meat tonight.” He looked at me threateningly over one shoulder as he turned the steaks in their marinade.

  I held up my hands. “That is a serious threat. Stopping.”

  “Tell me what else it says.” He tossed the chunks of potatoes in some olive oil.

  “OK, let’s see. Here’s some press clips about the winery.” I read the sound bites out loud, followed links to full articles, and took plenty of notes. Apparently, Lucas Fournier purchased the land from a grower who was trying to expand the red wine scene in Northern Michigan, which hadn’t taken off the way the white did. He was particularly interested in making Gamay and pinot noir, so the next thing I did was research those grapes. I also read that Lucas Fournier had opened a successful absinthe bar in Detroit, and I read an interview in which he talked about being modern without sacrificing authenticity. About being willing to take risks. About trusting your gut even when common sense tells you otherwise.

  Before I knew it, an hour had passed and Sebastian was asking if I was ready to eat.

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” I said, sliding off my chair at the breakfast bar. “What can I take out?” We were going to eat on the patio, at a little outdoor dining set he’d bought at an antiques store this weekend.

  “It’s all ready.” He opened the door for me and I stepped out, gasping with delight when I saw the little dining nook under a tree in one corner of the patio. He’d put a light blue tablecloth on the round table, set it with candles, and strung lights in the branches above. “It’s not a villa in France, but I hope you like it.”

  “Oh my goodness! This is perfect!” I clapped my hands and grinned at him. “Thank you so much for making dinner. Sorry I wasn’t better company tonight.”

  “I’m just glad you’re here. I know your mind is elsewhere.” He pulled out a chair for me, and I sat down.

  “I’m learning a ton. Did you know that the Duke of Burgundy banished the Gamay grape from his kingdom in 1395 because it competed too well with pinot noir, which was his favorite? He called it an evil, disloyal plant.” I laughed, spreading my napkin in my lap. “Kind of funny that those are the two grapes Lucas Fournier has.”

  “I did not know that,” said Sebastian, sitting across from me. “Tell me more, since we are drinking the Duke’s favorite tonight, an Abelard Pinot Noir, in fact.”

  My heart fluttered as he poured. I loved the way candlelight played with the light green of his eyes. I loved that he’d just made steak and potatoes and salads for us and set up this beautiful, romantic little spot. I loved that he’d encouraged me to go after this job, which I was even more excited about now that I knew more about the forward-thinking young owners. I loved the way he touched me, like he still couldn’t believe I was there and might disappear at any moment. I even loved that he looked at me with sadness in his eyes sometimes, because I knew it meant that he was struggling with things in his mind but letting his heart win. He hadn’t had any episodes the entire week.

  At least not that he’d admitted.

  But I’d given up trying to guess at every expression on his face, every silence he retreated into, every tense one-word response to a question I was hoping he’d answer in elaborate detail. I accepted him for who he was, and how hard he was trying. The chance he was taking with me. I knew how difficult it was for him, and I loved him for it.

  Holy shit, what?

  You heard me. I love him for it. Just a little. Shut up and let me.

  I picked up my fork, dropping my eyes to my plate. That was OK, right? To admit to yourself you’d fallen for someone? I mean, it didn’t have to be a big deal. It was just a feeling. A nice feeling, in fact. A nice, deep feeling. Who wouldn’t fall hard and fast for someone like Sebastian?

  And God knows I like things deep, hard, and fast.

  I stifled a laugh as I stuffed my face with potatoes, and Sebastian looked at me a little funny but didn’t say anything, which only made my feelings stronger.

  But I wouldn’t say anything to him. Jesus Christ, I could only imagine what he’d do if I told him I loved him. I didn’t really have any hang-ups about it—I came from the theater world where everyone loved everyone, loudly and proudly (of course you could hate someone in that world and still love them loudly and proudly too, but that was a different matter)—but I felt that Sebastian wasn’t the type to use or hear a word like love lightly.

  “So what do you think I should wear to my interview?” I asked with mock seriousness. “The navy and white striped skirt or the b
lack dress? This is life or death, so think hard. I really want this job.”

  “Hmm.” He sliced off a piece of New York strip and chewed while pondering. “I’m a little partial to the black dress for obvious reasons, but I also like the striped skirt. You were wearing it the day I saw you at the beach.”

  My jaw dropped. “You remember that?”

  “Of course I do. With a white blouse and bare feet.”

  “Well, I actually had shoes, just not when I ate sand in front of you. God, that was so embarrassing. I wish I could go back and undo it.”

  “Don’t you dare.” He picked up his wine glass. “If you hadn’t fallen on the sand, I never would have talked to you.”

  “Never?” I asked incredulously. “Come on. Yes, you would have. You came in to the shop later that day.”

  He shook his head. “I came into the shop because I’d just come from my therapist’s office. And the reason I’d called an emergency meeting with my therapist was because of my run-in with you.”

  I set my fork down. “So you’re saying if I hadn’t fallen on the beach, you wouldn’t have talked to me, you wouldn’t have needed that appointment, and you wouldn’t have been in the shop that afternoon?”

  “Exactly.”

  I sipped the wine and let the flavors mingle on my tongue. “Do you think we’d have found each other eventually?”

  He shrugged. “Hard to say. I probably would have done my best to keep avoiding you.”

  “Why?” I set my glass down. “I thought you always liked me.”

  “Fear. It’s powerful.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” But I hated the idea that we’d been such a near miss. In my mind we were destined to meet. Fate was powerful too, right? “So maybe…it’s a good thing I got fired? I mean, that’s what led me to the beach.”

  “Maybe.”

  My mind was already working backward. If Sebastian and I were the real deal, not only was it a good thing I’d gotten fired, but it was a good thing I’d done Save a Horse, a good thing I’d hated New York, and a good thing my career as an actress hadn’t taken off. Not only that, but it was a good thing he hadn’t married that tart in Manhattan. My God—Sebastian could be married right now! Eating dinner in some New York apartment with some other woman across from him! Someone who didn’t understand him at all.

  For the first time, I felt grateful for the crappy decisions I’d made in the last year, because they’d all led me to this table, this man, this moment. It gave me a little boost—maybe, somewhere deep inside me, there was a woman who knew what she wanted, and what’s more, she knew what to do to get it.

  • • •

  Tuesday morning dawned bright and sunny. A good omen, I thought. Per Sebastian’s advice, and because I thought it would bring me good luck, I dressed in the navy striped skirt, pairing it with a bright pink blouse this time. Based on the web site and the wardrobe I’d seen in pictures, Mia Fournier looked like a woman who appreciated color.

  I’d spent Monday night at home since I’d wanted to get a good night’s sleep and look refreshed, and Sebastian and I tended to stay up too late when we were together. My mother made me eat breakfast (a cherry turnover, which I ate standing up and leaning over my plate so I didn’t drip on my blouse) and wished me luck before heading out.

  While I was brushing my teeth, my cell buzzed with a text from Natalie. Break a leg this morning! Love you!

  When I was almost out the door I texted back thanks, and noticed I’d missed a message from Sebastian too. You don’t need luck today, but I bet it’s with you. Let me know how it goes. I’m thinking of you.

  I smiled, pulling the door shut behind me. I did feel lucky, but I also felt confident for the first time in weeks.

  Abelard Vineyards—named, I’d learned from an interview with the Fourniers, for a medieval French scholar who had a tragic but passionate love affair with a young student of his—was only about a ten-minute drive from my parents’ farm, about midway between it and Sebastian’s cabin. As I drove up the tree-lined drive, my heart started to pound. The place was absolutely breathtaking.

  The architectural style was French, but rather than the dark, formal faux-chateau style of the Rivard family, the Fourniers had built a Provencal-style villa of light weathered stone with a faded red tiled roof and shutters painted a soft blue. It was luxurious without being imposing, authentic but not stodgy.

  The gravel drive circled in front of the main building, and I followed signs to visitor parking. When I got out of the car and looked around, I saw that the vineyards stretched out behind the buildings, a big red barn sat off to my left, and a sign pointing to the tasting room was straight ahead. Since I was meeting Mia Fournier in the tasting room, I followed the sign down a narrow gravel path around the side of the villa, admiring the flowers and herbs planted along the way.

  Around the back was a large patio with tables and chairs, where guests could sit and watch the sun set over the rolling fields. Jutting off the stone building was a covered, tiled area lined with built-in upholstered benches and long picnic tables on either side of double doors. Six chairs lined the other sides of the tables, and adorably chic little topiary trees in clay flower pots rested on the tables. It was absolutely stunning, and already I wanted this job so badly I could taste it.

  The glass doors to the tasting room off the patio were propped open already, allowing for plenty of natural light and a soft breeze. When I walked in, I noticed right away how the two-story ceilings and ample windows let in plenty of natural light, and the colors in the light stone walls were echoed in the neutral couches and chairs, which were grouped in one large sitting area in front of a huge fireplace at one end of the room. The plank floors were a medium-toned wood, as were the large square coffee table and several end tables. The one bright spot of color was a massive floral centerpiece on the coffee table—probably three dozen roses in various shades of pink.

  Guess I wore the right thing, I thought with a smile.

  “Hello! You must be Skylar.”

  I turned and saw a petite, curvy woman with long, wavy brown hair walking toward me from the other end of the room, where a curved wooden bar lined with stools took up one entire wall.

  I smiled, moving toward her. “Yes. Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” We met in the center of the room and she held out her hand. “I’m Mia. Welcome to Abelard.”

  I took her hand and met her eyes, noticing we were probably about the same height, although I wore heels and she wore flats. “So nice to meet you. The place is stunning. I’m in love.”

  “Thanks. It’s been a long road to get here, but we’re happy with it. Can I offer you something? Coffee or tea? A glass of wine?” She laughed, putting a hand on her slightly round belly. “I can’t join you, but it’s never too early for wine.”

  “Congratulations. Sebastian mentioned you were expecting. That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes, our third. I thought we were done after two, but my husband had other ideas.” She rolled her eyes. “When we first met, he didn’t even want kids. Now he wants an entire litter!”

  I laughed, wondering how old she was. She was radiantly beautiful with lovely skin, little tiny smile lines around her eyes the only sign of aging on her face. I wondered what it was like to be as happy as she looked.

  “So anyway.” She fluttered a hand. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you. I do love the Abelard pinot, but I should probably complete my interview before I indulge in it.”

  She smiled and started walking toward the couches. “Let’s sit over here. I was going to do this back in my office, but it’s such a beautiful morning.” She sat at one end of a large couch and I chose a high-backed chair adjacent to it.

  “It is. And I love the way you designed this so your guests have this gorgeous view, even when they’re inside. And that air!” I inhaled, taking in the scent of the fields outside. “It’s like you’ve made the sight and smell of the land the grapes are planted o
n part of the tasting experience. You’re hitting all the senses.”

  “Oh God, my husband’s going to love you.” She smiled, settling back on the couch. “So tell me about yourself.”

  Taking a breath, I started with my roots on Old Mission and growing up here. I talked briefly about performing on cruise ships and my time in New York, but emphasized that I’d really missed home and my family and had decided to return this spring. “I didn’t really love living in a big city,” I confessed. “Maybe the shopping, but other than that, I prefer life here.”

  “I agree.” She nodded. “Lucas, my husband, lived in New York when we were first dating, but when we decided to move in together, I was really glad we agreed on Detroit. It’s a fun city, but it’s less crowded and manic than New York.”

  “Yes, I read that he opened an absinthe bar there? The Green Hour?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Done your homework, I see.”

  I lifted my shoulders, felt a blush warm my cheeks. “I figured I’d better. You run a pretty impressive operation here. If I want to be your assistant, I need to know my stuff.”

  She laughed. “Thanks. So what else did you learn?”

  “Well, I know that you ran a successful event planning business for years in Detroit, so I figured you might want to expand the event schedule here…maybe start promoting Abelard as a wedding venue? Possibly host small corporate events?”

  She looked amused. “Go on.”

  “I researched pinot noir and Gamay, the two red wines your husband makes here, and learned quite a bit about why those wines should do well even in a cool climate like ours, and how our position along the forty-fifth parallel mimics the growing conditions in other parts of the world where those grapes do well. Part of that I knew because of growing up on a cherry farm,” I admitted. “Cherries do well here too for many of the same reasons—the soil, the hilly land, the water surrounding us.”