The Crush

by Heather Heyford

  Chapter Fifteen

  Driving down the lane after work on Thursday, Junie’s headlights picked out more two-by-fours added onto the porch frame. The linguini with anchovy and walnuts she found in the fridge gave her the perfect excuse to call up Manolo before she considered the wisdom of it.

  She nibbled a nail, counting the rings until he picked up.

  “Santos.”

  Every time she heard him say that in his deep voice, she melted a little bit more.

  “I have a problem,” she teased, surprising herself with her unaccustomed brashness. “I don’t do anchovies.”

  “You won’t even notice them. They’re just there to add a layer of depth.”

  “Promise?”

  His silence lasted a beat too long. Junie’s foolish smile faded. When would she learn? Men like Daryl and Manolo didn’t do promises.

  “What if I told you I used artisan ranched, milk-fed, organic anchovies?”

  “Oh, well, in that case . . .” She laughed, relief coursing through her body.

  “I noticed you started adding on to the porch.”

  “Finally got all the boards cut to size.”

  “Have I told you how much I appreciate your help? Especially after you put in a full day at Sam’s?”

  “It’s been nothing but ‘stand by to stand by,’ waiting for the consortium approvals to trickle in before we can start digging the foundation. I’d rather saw lumber out in your dad’s barn any day than sweet-talk zoning officers. I like to keep my hands busy.”

  Junie felt again the illicit thrill she’d felt on the day they’d met with her hand sheltered in his, beneath the bar where no one saw.

  “While we’re on the subject of the porch, I’m going to pick up some more lag screws, then I’ll be over again tomorrow afternoon. Then I have an early flight to Dulles Saturday.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I have Reserves one weekend a month. These past few months, it’s been in Virginia.”

  “Oh.” All the wind whooshed out of her sails. “I was hoping to show you some more wineries this weekend.”

  “Won’t work.”

  After all his flirting, his abrupt one-eighty felt like a slap in the face.

  “Now that all the lumber’s cut, I only need nineteen more man hours to finish the porch.”

  “Nineteen? That’s an odd number. Not twenty?”

  “This is what I do. The consortium comes first, so depending on what’s going on there, your porch should be done by the end of next week.”

  “Oh.” That meant he wouldn’t be hanging out at her place much longer. “Great,” she said weakly.

  “Right.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. Well, enjoy the linguini.”

  “I will.”

  Junie slowly lowered her phone to her side. At least he could have told her when he’d be back.

  She recalled yet again what Sam had said that first day, before she’d even opened the tasting room door to Manolo: “Last I knew, Lieutenant, you had women in, let’s see—Fort Bliss, Fort Belvoir, New York City . . . ”

  She started. Was Fort Belvoir in Virginia? Jealousy seeped into her veins. But other than a couple of phone calls, what sign had Junie given him to indicate she wanted more than just someone to fix her porch and share his father’s recipes? Come to think of it, she’d done just the opposite, turned down his offer of dinner not once, not even twice, but several times.

  Then, a lightbulb went off. What if she surprised him tonight? Showed up to sit down together to whatever wonderful meal he’d cooked up, instead of sharing it over the phone? Maybe she was only setting herself up for deeper disappointment, but the idea took hold. What did she have to lose?

  * * *

  All Friday morning long, while Junie suckered vines and pulled weeds, she tried to picture what Manolo would be doing at the exact moment that she pulled in tonight, an hour earlier than he expected her to. Would she find him outside, perched high on a ladder, nail gun in hand? Inside, at the stove, sampling a steaming pot of soup for just the right spices?

  Around three, while she showered for work at Casey’s, she thought of picking some wildflowers and putting them in a vase. Pulling out the real cloth napkins. She would change out of her server’s uniform, too, put on something nice.

  A couple of hours later, while her hands were busy schlepping platters of meatloaf and instant mashed potatoes to her regulars, she was conducting a mental sweep of her drawers and closet, in search of something not made of flannel or denim.

  As six-forty-five approached she started getting really nervous. Lying didn’t come easy to Junie. Sure her guilt was written all over her face, she went to her boss and told him she had a splitting headache and had to go home early.

  People told little white lies to get out of work all the time. But not Junie. She was a business owner. She couldn’t help but put herself in Casey’s shoes. Casey was a considerate boss, a kind man, and a friend to her late father. He let her choose the early dinner shift to fit around her winery schedule. Plus, he let her work on a seasonal basis so that her waitress job wouldn’t interfere with the fall crush. By walking out in the middle of this evening’s dinner business, she was forcing him to don an apron to pick up the slack, to keep patrons from complaining that they didn’t get their food fast enough.

  She found herself scurrying to her car, then caught herself and, with great effort, slowed her steps. Sick people didn’t hurry.

  But, as she drove to the farmhouse, anticipation overcame remorse. She was so charged up, her teeth felt like they were floating in her gums. She couldn’t wait to see the surprise on Manolo’s face when she showed up unexpectedly!

  There was his truck, parked in its usual place. More two-by-fours had been nailed up on the side porch. But Manolo was nowhere in sight. She imagined him inside, looking adorably ridiculous in one of her grandmother’s frilly aprons that Mom had left behind.

  Junie bounded up the steps to the front door, mouth watering, wondering which Santos family specialty Manolo was whipping up tonight.

  “Watch out!”

  She almost ran into him as he walked out the door with a large covered container in one hand and her extra house key in the other.

  “Manolo!” She eyed him up and down. He didn’t have on an apron. As a matter of fact, he was looking pretty spiffy for someone who’d been doing construction all day, in his Italian leather loafers and navy blazer. “Are you leaving?”

  His normally smooth smile wobbled. “Er, yeah.”

  Her eyes fell to the container in his hand. “What’s that?” she asked, dreading the answer.

  “Pizza.” He tossed his head over his shoulder. “I left you a good-sized portion,” he said with the same consoling voice Mom used to use when she’d thrown something together last minute to tide Junie and Storm over, before she and Dad went out to a fancy restaurant. That voice had never fooled her then, and it didn’t fool her now.

  “Did you eat already?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  She tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Didn’t it make perfect sense, Manolo taking food back to his apartment to eat? Especially if he’d eaten already and what he held in his hand was leftovers?

  “Did you see the side porch?” he asked, too brightly.

  “Uh, yeah.” Junie didn’t care about the porch right now. All her energy was focused on figuring out this puzzle. “So . . . I got off a little early today,” she said, in case he hadn’t noticed.

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Good for you.”

  “You could stick around if you want.” She eyed his container meaningfully. “We could eat together.”

  “We could . . .”

  She braced herself for what she knew was coming.

  “. . . but I, um, made plans.”

  After twenty-eight years of perfect reliability, Junie’s knees picked that moment to threaten to collapse.

  Manolo gestured with the container in his hand. “I�
��m taking this somewhere else tonight.”

  Junie had put no restrictions on Manolo’s use of her kitchen. Then again, she’d never dreamed he would cook for someone else. The concern in his face—or was that pity?—only made it worse.

  “Sorry, Junie. If I had known—”

  Too late, she saw that those dark eyes held secrets and motivations she would never be privy to.

  “No, no, don’t worry about it!”

  His hands full, he lifted his elbows in an apology as he and Junie circled in an awkward pas de deux. “I asked you to go out with me, like five times. . . .”

  And she’d turned him down every time.

  Now he was facing the front door. He edged backward toward the front porch steps. “I’ll be back next week to finish the side porch.”

  “Sure!” she replied with a grin that felt as fake as a rhinestone engagement ring. “See you then.”

  Edging farther away, he said, “It’s going to be great. Even better than you thought.”

  “Sure it will. Have a good time!”

  “You okay?” he asked, pausing before descending the stairs with a concerned look on his face.

  “Fine, fine!” She laughed shakily. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  There was uncertainty in his step as he retreated, leaving her standing there, a balmy spring evening stretching before her with nothing to do and no one to do it with.

  He held up a hand in farewell as he strode to his truck, and she waggled her fingers back at him, feeling like a gawky adolescent.

  Junie closed the front door softly and wilted against the other side.

  She had eaten next to nothing that day both out of nerves and to save room for this special night, but now the thought of putting Manolo’s pizza in her mouth made her want to retch. Dry-eyed, she shoved off from the door, changed back into the jeans she’d had on this morning, and went out and ripped suckers off grapevines until it got so dark she was doing it by feel and not by sight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday morning, Junie heard a car. When she saw her mom’s SUV pulling down the drive, she was disappointed that it wasn’t tourists, until she realized how much she had missed her.

  “I see the new porch guy is working out,” called Mom, retrieving a cardboard carton from her back seat.

  Junie crossed the grass to meet her. “It should be finished sometime next week.” She’d just as soon keep the builder’s identity out of it. She still felt like a gullible fool after last night.

  “Finally finishing the house will make it much more salable.”

  Figures that would be Mom’s first reaction.

  Mom thrust the box toward her.

  “What’s this?”

  “I’m returning some things.”

  Junie peered inside. “Grandma Hart’s crazy quilt?”

  “You’re the only one who would want that faded old thing.”

  “Her brass candlesticks?”

  “None of those antiques look right in my new place. They should stay here. They’ll be good for staging. For homebuyers who are into that whole country thing. You know. Baskets and dried baby’s breath and all that crap—I mean, stuff.” Mom left Junie holding the box and headed toward the house. “I’m thirsty,” she called over her shoulder. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”

  Junie struggled to keep up under the weight of the box. “You took all the tea. Remember?”

  “There must be something in here.”

  Mom poured herself some water from the dispenser on the fridge door, then opened it and ducked her head inside. “Are you hungry?” Before Junie could answer, she came out dangling a clear plastic bag. “Where did this come from?”

  The irregularly shaped pizza was obviously homemade. But Mom knew Junie was a klutz in the kitchen. She wasn’t merely bad at cooking—she seemed to be afflicted with some inherent disability.

  Mom peeled it open and sniffed. “What is this? Mind if I take a bite?”

  “It’s pizza,” said Junie flatly, stating the obvious. “Go ahead.”

  “Mmm! This is scrummy! Want me to warm you up the other piece for your lunch?”

  Junie swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’d rather go out.” Without waiting for a response, she headed for the living room. “I’ll go change quick.” She scurried up the stairs in an attempt to put distance between herself and Manolo’s handiwork. Because that wasn’t just plain old pizza. That dish was like her wine. Created with thought and care, infused with the essence of the maker.

  “Wait!” her mother called, her mouth full of pizza. “Where’d you get this?”

  Upstairs in the bathroom, Junie turned on the water full force to drown out Mom’s voice. She took her time splashing her face with cold water, changing her shirt, hoping all evidence of the pizza would be disposed of by the time she got back to the kitchen.

  Crossing the living room, she grabbed her bag and called, “Where should we go?”

  But Mom didn’t answer.

  Junie came to an abrupt halt when she saw her cramming the second slice into her mouth, her cheeks pouching out like a squirrel’s.

  “You don’t even like pizza.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s covered with cheese, you know.”

  “I know!”

  “And that looks like meat.”

  “I know!” Mom exclaimed, gulping. “But this—this is the best pizza I’ve ever had.” She folded up what was left and crammed it into her mouth. When she’d swallowed that, she said, between licking her surgeon’s fingers, “I’m serious, Junie. Where’d you get that?”

  “A friend made it.”

  “Well,” she said, wiping sauce from her mouth, “I could eat an entire pie.” She rinsed her hands and only then noticed Junie had changed her top. “I’m sorry. You wanted to go out. I won’t be able to eat another thing all day.”

  Junie sighed. “It’s okay.” She’d lost her appetite. She sank into a kitchen chair. “How was your first week in your new townhouse?”

  “Lovely! It’s very spare and modern. Here, look at these. . . .” She pulled photos up on her phone, handed it to Junie, and leaned over her shoulder to run commentary.

  “Spare, indeed,” said Junie, scrolling through Mom’s pictures. “White walls, white rugs . . . is everything white?”

  “I like white.”

  Sterile was more like it. Operating-room white.

  “Speaking of friends, who’s this latest man you started telling me about?”

  Behind Junie, Mom stood up to her full height. “What did you hear?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Nothing. Did you meet him online like the other ones?”

  “Noooo?” Her reply rose in a question. Mom’s astronomically high IQ went down the tubes when it came to men.

  “Am I supposed to keep guessing?”

  She smiled coquettishly. “It’s too early to talk about it.”

  Fine. Junie didn’t want to talk about Manolo, either. Not that Manolo was Junie’s man. Not in any way, shape, or form.

  Mom sat down catty-corner to her and drummed her fingers. “Have you thought any more about Portland?”

  Junie slid her mother’s phone across the table and took a drink of cold coffee, wincing at its bitterness. “Mom, can we drop the whole Portland thing? You know how I feel.”

  Mom folded her hands. “If you’re absolutely sure, I won’t try to persuade you to move any longer.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then, I have another proposition.”

  Now what?

  “First, tell me. Do you truly believe this will be the year you finally start turning a profit?”

  Junie nodded enthusiastically. “Sam says the valley’s getting more recognition by the day. All I need to do is get the right people here during the crush to create enough buzz to get a distributor. That’s what everything hinges on.”

  “I’m trying my best to be supportive. How many years have I heard that? But if I can’t g
et you to change your mind, then how would you like to buy me out of my interest?”

  Junie blinked. Dad’s will had divided the property among Mom, Storm, and Junie. No doubt it had seemed like a good idea, back when everyone presumed both kids would someday make the winery their living. And then Storm had walked away. Since then, Junie had lain awake countless nights after watching Worst-Case Scenario, fearing that Storm would show up out of the blue someday and meddle, make some crazy decision reversing all her hard work.

  But if she owned her own third plus Mom’s, that would give her controlling interest. No one could touch her.

  “It would also help me with my mortgage on the townhouse.”

  She should have known there was more to it. “Why would you buy a townhouse if you couldn’t afford it?”

  “I opted for higher monthly payments and a shorter term. That means I’ll have it paid off sooner, but in the meantime, I’m feeling the pinch.” She lowered her head and folded her hands on the table. For a long moment, the only sound in the farmhouse was the ticking of the mantel clock in the living room. “I might have overextended myself a bit. But I just want to move on, Junie.” There was desperation in her eyes, raw yearning in her voice. “I want to dance again. As much as you need to hang on to the past, I need to let go of it so that I can live again, even if I have to cut back on my lifestyle a little. Can’t you find it in yourself to understand? I’ve tried to be compassionate with you all this time. Now, I need you to show me some empathy.”

  Junie met her mother’s earnest gaze. The computer dating, now the townhouse. Suddenly, Junie saw the woman across from her in a different light—not as her mother, but a vibrant yet lonely young widow, stuck in a backwater town with people she had nothing in common with.

  “Where am I going to get the money for that?”