by Kenzie Reed
“We brought a little housewarming gift for the newlyweds!” Carrie sings out, holding a wicker basket full of jams, jellies, cheeses and crackers.
Then they take a look around. Their jaws drop as they stare around the empty interior.
“Oh no. You’ve been robbed. And on your wedding day. My God, they took everything,” Tonya says in a hushed voice. “Have you…have you reported it yet?”
“Shut the door!” I cry out. “I don’t want the cat to escape.” I almost say “my uncle”, but I catch myself just in time. Whew, close one.
Carrie quickly obeys.
“We weren’t robbed,” I add. “We’re just building from the ground up.”
“So, ahh…” Tonya says, her gaze slowly sweeping the empty space. “This is on purpose.”
“Yes, isn’t this exciting?” I gush. “We get to start completely from scratch. That’s why we chose this house. So we could build our future together.”
I glance at Donovan, and I’m sparkling with malicious glee. We won’t have to move to his family’s guest cottage. He’s stuck here now.
He twitches his mouth up in an angry smile and sets my pocketbook down on the counter. “We sure are.”
“But isn’t it a little…” she glances at Donovan “…rustic, compared to what you’re used to?”
“He loves rustic,” I enthuse.
Donovan bobs his head with a manic enthusiasm. “Sure do.” Okay, he’s starting to sound a little crazed.
“Well, I’d be delighted to help,” Tonya says. She pulls a notepad from her purse. Her sister already has her notepad out and is scribbling madly. “So, what style are you thinking of?”
“Italian farmhouse,” I say, at the exact same time Donovan says, “Modern industrial.”
“Their first fight.” Carrie says happily, and scribbles on her notepad.
“Not at all. The kitchen is going to be modern industrial and the living room is going to be Italian farmhouse,” Donovan replies smoothly. Oh, he’s good.
“Or possibly the other way around.” I shrug. “We’re going to flip a coin. And we’re planning on decorating it together. We appreciate the offer, but we don’t need any help.”
“But I know that your aunt recently lost several employees, and the season is just starting, which means you’re going to be so busy.”
She did? I didn’t know that. Since I got here, I’ve been spending all my time visiting my aunt at the hospital, finding her a rehab center, then working on the barn-house. I’m going to have to sit the vineyard manager down tomorrow and work out what’s happening with the business.
“And Donovan’s got that big international company to run. Whenever will you find the time?” Tonya widens her eyes with faux concern.
“Well, we’ll just make time.” My smile is starting to crack around the edges.
“I’ll be happy to give you a discount,” Tonya coos. Between Tonya and her sister, I don’t know which one I am more tempted to drown in one of our wine barrels.
“Unless you’re not planning on staying around for that long,” Carrie says accusingly.
Carrie. Definitely Carrie. Glug, glug, glug.
However I do not want to give Tonya, and by extension Carrie, license to pop in here any damn time she pleases.
“I’d also prefer to wait for any big expenses before the property sale goes through,” I interject.
Carrie’s eyes widen in delight. “Futuristic Robotix is facing cash-flow problems?”
“No, we are not. If you ever even hint at that in any way, my lawyers will bury you so deep they’ll find your charred remains barbecuing at the Earth’s core.” All good humor has vanished from Donovan’s voice, and the fury sizzling off him crackles through the air.
Carrie’s expression melts from merry spite to anger.
“That’s not his decision, it’s mine.” The friendliness is leaching from my voice. “I’m a modern woman, and I have no intention of treating my husband like a piggy bank. I insisted that we’re going to pay for everything fifty-fifty.”
“I see.” Carrie is rigid with anger, her eyes blazing.
This is going terribly. I’ve been married for a few hours, and everything’s falling apart already. I’m desperate to alleviate the tension.
“Perhaps we could use some help just with the living room,” I say to Tonya.
“Great! And maybe a little help with the kitchen and the bedroom and the bathroom, and the loft room upstairs.” Tonya flashes me a big smile full of white veneers. “And of course you’ll want to improve on that outdoor seating area. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning with the contract.”
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, you came in uninvited and interrupted our honeymoon. The door’s that way. Shall I draw you a map?” Donovan’s voice is a knife-edge of anger slicing through the air.
Carrie sniffs, stuffs her reporter’s notebook in her purse, and stalks out, with her sister at her heels.
Great. Now we’re going to have Tonya poking around in our beeswax for the next few weeks at least, with her sister no doubt keeping her company. Isn’t there any other news in Greenvale worth reporting?
“This is your fault,” Donovan and I say at the same time.
“Jinx,” I mutter sullenly. “You owe me a soda.”
He looks around, thick brows drawing together in an angry scowl. “If we’re staying here, you owe me a lot more than that.”
Chapter Seven
DONOVAN
Our honeymoon is the stuff that dreams are made of – if you dream of being married to a woman who would shank you as soon as look at you.
I drive over to my parents’ house to fetch my suitcases, and return to find Sienna sitting in front of the fireplace in one of the two folding chairs, next to the rickety folding table. She’s changed into jeans and a white T-shirt with her aunt’s vineyard logo on it, purple grapes surrounded by a wreath of leaves, with a jaunty Italian flag jutting from the right side of the wreath. Her clothes hug and caress her curves, taunting me with denied possibility. Her body is stiff with tension.
As I flip through a spy novel, she sits with her back to me, ignoring me and reading through the office files from her aunt’s vineyard. She occasionally lets out a low groan. Must be pretty bad.
Sitting on the kitchen counter are a few battery-operated lanterns for when it gets dark tonight, since there’s no freaking electricity yet. No electric, no Wi-Fi. The words keep repeating themselves in my head.
Through the enormous picture window, I see the sun melting into the horizon, drenching the dark silhouettes of pine trees with dark red radiance. My stomach is rumbling, and I’m debating driving into town to pick up a protein smoothie. That would look weird on my wedding day, though. I could always go over to my family’s house and grab something to eat, but then my mother would want to know why, and she’d make all kinds of catty remarks about Sienna.
Annoyed, I stand up. I’m about to ask her if she’s gone on a hunger strike or what, but I’m distracted by noise outside the window.
Standing there on the emerald lawn are her cousin Rocco, his kids, Sara and Cesare, and a small herd of angry goats. “A terrifying mob has assembled,” I call out to my wife.
She shoots me a squinty-eyed look of disbelief, gets up, and comes to peer out the front window. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. That’s just my family.”
I look over her shoulder, inhaling the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo. “I was talking about the goats.”
She grins, waving at them enthusiastically through the window, then turns her attention back to me. “Aren’t they adorable? Did you know they’re highly efficient lawnmowers?”
“You mean your family? Doesn’t surprise me. Is it hard on Uncle Vito’s dentures?”
That earns me a delicate snort of contempt. “You’re not as funny as you look.”
She walks out the door, and I trail behind her, meeting them by the outdoor table. Standing beside the goats is one lone duck with raggedy-look
ing feathers.
“Why is there a duck with that herd of goats?”
“Oh, that’s Ducktape. The rest of the ducks don’t like him for some reason. Makes him sad. He hangs out with the goats, and sometimes he sleeps on the back porch here. I’ve got a little spot set up for him, with a bed and everything. He may end up moving in with us – he seems to like Aceto.”
All right, whatever. It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve heard about the Ribaldi family.
Her cousins look like they’ve just come from the barn. Muddy laced-up boots and jeans, dirt-splotched T-shirts. They’re very hands-on with their cattle and goats, and they make some of the finest organic cheeses in the Pacific Northwest, although acknowledging that is grounds for expulsion from the Witlocke clan.
Rocco sets a couple of canvas grocery bags down on the table, and Sara and Cesare, shooting me dirty looks and muttering to each other, pull out plastic-wrapped steaks, barbecue sauce, a bowl of salad, a bottle of vinaigrette, and salt and pepper shakers.
“Do you want me to get the grill started?” Rocco asks Sienna.
Something about the implication that I can’t take care of my wife – even if the marriage is fake – rankles me. “I’ve got it, thank you,” I snap at him.
Sara’s pulled out a box of eclairs, and Cesare is setting paper plates, silverware, and glasses on the table.
Rocco puts his hands on his hips and leans in towards me, his jaw jutting out. “I’ll just wait here to make sure you don’t accidentally blow our girl to kingdom come.”
Macho Man doesn’t know who he’s screwing with. “No, actually, you’ll move your ass out of here before I–”
“Hey! Time out!” Sienna quickly steps between me and Rocco.
Cesare’s glowering at me, all young bravado, shoulders hunched up and fists clenched. Sara’s eyes are sparking with that Ribaldi fire, and she looks like she’s about to claw my face off.
Sienna looks around at all of them. “Dial down the testosterone, folks. Do you guys want this property deal to go through, or not? Because if you do, our respective families need to pretend we don’t want to flay each other alive and use each other’s hide as boots.”
“Ew!” Sara looks at her with dismay. “Cannibal. Who hurt you?”
“I’m not a cannibal,” Sienna says patiently. “More like Buffalo Bill. I’m talking about wearing people, not eating them.”
“Oh thank God, that’s much more normal,” Sara says dryly.
Sienna shakes her head at them.
“We all just need to chill here, okay? I’m doing the heavy lifting here. I’m the one who has to play wifey all summer. All you guys have to do is not pick fights.” She links her arm through her cousin’s. “I’m hungry. Let the man grill me some meat.” She leads him back over to the table.
I light the grill and bustle around, throwing steaks on the grill as Sienna and Sara get to work mixing the salad and setting out the desserts. Cesare shoots me dirty looks from under thick, dark brows.
Rocco ignores them all and stares at me with a burning intensity.
Enough of this already. I wave him over. I’m not putting up with his macho bullshit.
Sienna throws her hands in the air in exasperation as he stalks towards me. “Guys!” she yells.
We ignore her. We’re about to start a dick-measuring contest that I plan to win.
“Something you want to say?” I keep my voice low, but I can’t keep the anger out.
“Yes. Don’t hurt Sienna. She’s a good person. Way too good for you.”
I glower at him. “Don’t hurt her? Don’t insult me. You’re the ones who forced her into this.”
“She was meant to marry one of Phil’s boys. They’re assholes, but harmless assholes. You, you’ve specifically had it in for our Sienna all her life.” Rocco chews his lower lip. “You’re right, though. I never should have let her do this.”
“Let me guess, Linda talked you all into it.”
Rocco’s gaze slides away. Linda’s been a pain in their collective asses her entire life. Year after year, she’s come and gone, sometimes dragging Sienna with her, but mostly dumping her with Fernanda and Nuccio and vanishing with whatever man she was chasing, or married to, at the time. Then she’d come back and live at Uncle Vito’s house for free, playing mommy just long enough to get Sienna’s hopes up, mooching off the family until she whirled away on her next “business trip”.
This time, from what I’ve heard, relations between the family and her are so icy that she moved out after a few days and rented an apartment in town. She’s renting from Mia’s family, in fact, and working at their restaurant.
The Ribaldis can’t stand Linda and her flighty ways, but somehow they let her manipulate them into doing crap like this. She’s very good at charming and wheedling when she needs to be.
I’m right, but he’ll never admit it. “Linda wasn’t the main deciding factor. We all want what’s best for the family.”
“And the hell with what’s best for Sienna, right?”
“As if you ever cared about her,” Rocco spits.
“As if you did. I grew up here, remember?”
And I remember a lot. Sitting high up in a tree on my property, watching Sienna play by herself in the woods. Watching her build houses out of sticks and vines. Watching her burn a stack of letters in the woods one day, then run off crying. I still don’t know what papers she burned, but I leaped out of the tree and burned my hands and clothing, extinguishing the flames before they grew into a raging forest fire.
Surprisingly, Rocco doesn’t argue. “We were all so busy with keeping the farm afloat. And she was such a tough little girl.” He scowls down at the ground and scuffs the dirt with his boot. “She was very independent. She never seemed to need anything,” he says, with a touch of defensiveness.
Yes, because she learned not to. Because the two people she should have been able to turn to, she couldn’t depend on – her parents.
“Next you’ll tell me that she had a roof over her head and plenty to eat, so what did she have to complain about?” I say in a low, heated voice.
“She never complained,” he huffs indignantly.
I don’t even dignify that with a response. I just fix his face with a long, hard stare. His face slowly crumples and his gaze drops. For once, the big macho man has nothing to say.
He shakes his head and walks over to Sienna.
“We’ve got to go,” he says loudly, with his back to me. “Call us if you need anything at all. We’re always here for you.”
“I know that,” she says to him, patting his arm. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
He throws his big, brawny arms out and hugs her, hard. She looks surprised for a moment, then hugs him back. When she steps back, she gives him a reassuring smile.
“It’s fine,” she says soothingly. “Everything’s fine. I don’t mind doing this. It’ll be over in no time at all.”
Well, ouch. Like I’m a disease she can’t wait to purge from her system.
They turn to go, and the goats trail after them. Ducktape waddles after the goats, giving us a forlorn look back.
“You can come by any time!” she calls.
“She’s talking to the duck!” I yell after them.
She elbows me. “Say thanks for bringing the dinner.”
I’m still pissed off at Rocco’s attitude. “You say thank you.”
“Oh my God, what are you, twelve? I wonder if that’s grounds for an annulment. The fact that you’re emotionally underage.” She calls out to her family’s retreating backs, “Thank you very much for dinner!”
“We’ll get our own groceries tomorrow, thank you!” I bellow.
Cesare holds up his hand and gives me a middle-finger salute without looking back. Sara follows suit, then the two bump fists as they’re walking.
She elbows me in the ribs. “You Witlockes. You just have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“Oh, like you Ribaldis are any different?”
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br /> “Well, yes, because we’re better at it and win more often.” She smirks.
“No you don’t,” I say, which isn’t true, but if I don’t answer her, then she’s getting the last word. Also, she’s probably being too generous when she estimates my emotional age at twelve.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I’ll be right back.” She heads for the house.
She returns a couple of minutes later with a bottle of Syrah, two glasses, and a wine key. I serve up the steaks and salad, and she expertly opens the bottle and pours us each a glass.
Good move on her part. Yes, she manipulated me into sleeping in a literal barn with no electricity or kitchen, but it’s hard to stay cranky when you’re sipping excellent wine. And her aunt’s wine is nothing short of a miracle. Drinking Ribaldi wine is treason for a Witlocke, but it’s not actually the first time. It’s just the first time I haven’t had to sneak it.
I hold up the bottle. “Vincent Van Goat?” I say, reading the label. “Where do you get your wine names from?”
“It’s named after the wine block where it was bottled.” Different areas of vineyards can have varying topography, sun exposure, and soil, so many vineyards are planted in sections called “blocks”. My family does it too, but ours are numbered.
“How many blocks does your aunt have?” You’d think I’d know all about the vineyard that’s located next door to my family’s, but the Witlockes are fiercely dedicated to pretending the Ribaldi’s winery is beneath their notice.
“Nine. Vincent Van Goat, may he rest in peace even though he was a real asshole, Billy the Kid, and Scapegoat, who are both old but still alive. Those are the Syrah blocks. Then there’s Quackerjack, Duck Norris, and Webster, named after cousin Rocco’s ducks, of course. Those are the Pinot Noir blocks. And the Riesling blocks are Moona Lisa, Cowabunga, and Cowlick.”
Like her aunt, she loves the wine and everything that goes with it. The grapes, the soil, the magic alchemy that goes with creating a truly great vintage. She’s smiling as she talks about the wine blocks, lit up from within as she swirls her wine and looks down at it with a warmth that she’s never spared for me. Well, not for a long, long time, anyway. And I’m entirely to blame for that. The thought makes me feel a little hollowed out and sad.