by Kenzie Reed
“Well, there was literally no other choice.”
“I suppose you enjoyed yourself,” she says bitterly.
“Well…”
My cheeks redden with embarrassment. I mean, yes, of course. I am continuing to enjoy myself with Donovan every night, with a nooner frequently thrown in. I’ve enjoyed myself on the kitchen counter, the sofa, the living room rug, the back porch – yes, Donovan enjoyed my back porch while we were on the back porch… Anyway, she doesn’t need to know details.
“It wasn’t too awful.”
“I can’t believe I raised you to betray me like this.”
“I didn’t betray you!” I protest. “I was doing it to save the vineyard and the farm. There was absolutely no other way. Do you want me to show you the paperwork?”
“What does the farm have to do with anything? Did you plant the new vines on Vito’s property too?” She flashes a look of deep hurt at me. “Did you think Minnie wouldn’t tell me? She blabbed all about how amazing they look.” Minnie’s one of the best friends that we swore to silence. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to tell her not to mention the fact that I’d done some planting.
“Ohhh.” Comprehension finally dawns. I went ahead with the project and planted the new blocks of wines in May, with the help of the vineyard manager and his sons. “The vines. Of course. I mean, no, I only planted them on your property.”
“What did you think I was talking about?” Fernanda demands suspiciously.
I reply with a weak smile. “The website.”
“We already discussed the website. It’s a waste of your time and my money. You weren’t talking about the website. Do you think I’m stupid?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“Of course not.”
“Then what are you talking about?” she yells. “You’re not too old to put over my knee!”
First of all, yes I am. If she tried to put me over her knee, I’d break her. And secondly, she’s never spanked me in her life.
“Aunt Fernanda. I’d appreciate it if you lowered your voice and didn’t yell at me.”
“Don’t you tell me how to speak!” she shouts, so loudly that her voice rings off the walls. A nurse’s aide pokes her head through the door.
“Everything all right?’
“Why don’t you ask her? She’s the one who knows everything!” There are tears of rage in Aunt Fernanda’s eyes. Actual tears.
I am struggling to keep my voice steady and calm, but I want to cry. Aunt Fernanda’s never attacked me like this before. “I never said I know everything.”
“Okay, so now I’m a liar?”
It finally hits me. There’s no way to drag my aunt out of her self-pity spiral. It’s like trying to push the Leaning Tower of Pisa back up straight. Either she’ll snap out of it, or she won’t, but nothing I do, nothing the family does, is making any difference.
“You know what?” I stand up and grab my purse. “It doesn’t matter what I say or how hard I work on your vineyard. You’ll still insult me and denigrate everything I’m trying to do.”
“What you’re trying to do is steal my vineyard right out from under me!”
“I’m what?” I’m so shocked I can barely speak. I stand there for a few seconds, reeling, trying to breathe. “You…what do you want me to do? Shall I go back to Seattle? Do you want Sara to run the vineyard instead?”
“Now you want to turn my Nuccio’s vineyard over to a child who’s just out of diapers? I don’t care anymore. You’re going to take my vineyard, and there’s nothing I can do about it. That was your plan all along. Well, you’ve won. I hope you’re happy. Get out!” Tears fill her eyes, and she twists away in her chair, glaring out the window.
“I will!” I storm towards the door.
“And don’t come back!”
“Why would I?” I yell from the doorway. “If you want to see me again, you can call me and ask nicely, and be prepared not to insult me while I’m here. Otherwise, I’m out.”
I make it out of the rehab facility before I start crying. I cry all the way home. My eyes are swollen, my nose is stuffed up; I’m a disgusting mess.
Donovan is in the kitchen, cooking up a grilled cheese sandwich with tomatoes. My absolute favorite. He’s taken to greeting me at the door with treats whenever I come home from a visit to Aunt Fernanda. Last week it was Nanny Sue’s cookies.
“How did it go?” he calls out. I sniff hard and fish in my purse for some tissues, and blow my nose. It makes a honking noise louder than Rocco’s entire flock combined. Donovan turns around and looks at me. “That bad, huh?”
He gathers me into his arms and hugs me, and I sink into his comforting warmth. There’s a hard tension behind the hug.
“What is it?” I ask, and I take a step back. He lets his arms fall to his sides.
His whole face radiates regret, his eyes crinkling, mouth pursed. “I have to go to home for a couple of weeks because we’re on the verge of losing this deal. I’m leaving on Monday.”
He called it home, and didn’t even notice. My stomach ties itself in a knot.
I nod. He’s leaving. Of course. “I understand.”
“Hey.” He runs his thumb over my lower lip. “I’ll video-call you every day. And you’ll have to put me on video so I can talk to Aceto and Ducktape.”
“Don’t call me if you’re too busy.” I lift one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
“Don’t retreat and shut me out just because I have to go on a normal business trip.” His voice is gently chiding. “We’ve already discussed this. It’s not me leaving you. I will be back before you know it.”
Part of me just wants to beg off and go sulk in the bedroom, or even better, the winery’s office. But I made a promise to myself and to him to be better about communicating, and I’m going to keep it.
“It’s just that you said you were going to fly home. Like being here in Greenvale is just a temporary thing. That kind of hurt. And it doesn’t even make sense that it hurts, because we already know that you’re going back to Los Angeles forever after we sign the property deal.” My insides quiver. I’m raw and open and naked.
“Hey. No, no, no. I’m not just walking away from you and Greenvale once the land is sold.” He loops his arm around my waist. “Home is where you are. Once I get past this deal and I can think straight, we’ll sit down and we’ll figure this out. I promise you.”
Home is where you are.
Those words fill me up like warm soup on a cold day, a balm to my aching soul.
“Thank you,” I say, with a wavery smile. “And thanks for putting up with my crazy.”
“There’s nothing crazy about expressing any concerns that you have. If I’ve done something to upset you, I want to know. Now sit down with me, eat this grilled cheese, and tell me what happened with your aunt.”
“Only if you eat some too. And don’t start with me about the dad bod thing. Someday, even if it’s decades from now, you will have a dad bod, and you will still be the sexiest thing since sex was invented.”
“For you, I’d eat a dozen grilled cheese sandwiches. Now, you’re going to eat melty cheese and drink some wine and tell me all about your day. Okay?”
I burrow my face in his shoulder. “Better than okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
SIENNA
The first Monday in June is traditionally also the first meeting of the Greenvale Fall-fest’s Downtown Decorating Committee. In the past, due to the feuding between the Witlockes and the Ribaldis, the decorating committee has been split in two.
Downtown Greenvale has two main streets for commerce. There’s Main Street, which runs ten blocks. Every September, it is decorated by the Witlockes, in a style that the Ribaldis like to refer to as “Constipated Traditional”. Shady Oaks Lane, which bisects Main Street and is eight blocks long, is decorated in a joyously creative fashion, by my family.
This morning, it was announced in the Greenvale Herald that in recognition of the reconciliation of the two familie
s, the committees have now been combined.
The article had no byline, but it’s obvious who was behind it. The very same lady who will be covering the article for the paper – Carrie. Word has it that she’s been getting increasingly frustrated that she hasn’t been able to find a way to undermine Marcus’ deal.
Our meetings are held Monday afternoons, in the community room at the town’s Parks and Recreation center. I show up to our meeting five minutes late, because Donovan and I had goodbye sex before he left for Los Angeles. I walk in happily flushed and exhausted and trying to hide the smile on my face.
Most of the Witlockes are assembled on one side of the table, sitting next to Brooke and Fraser, and Pastor Miranda Barnes from the Wine Knot wedding chapel, who are also on the committee. My family sits across from them, with Jamie and Pamela, who’s also a regular on the decorating committee. That’s got to be a real thrill for Mr. Witlocke. Carrie’s sitting at the far end of the table, watching us with bright, angry eyes.
Everyone’s got notepads and pens, and they’re sipping water, tea or coffee as they wait for me. I’m not sure that having hot liquids at this event is a great idea. Or pens. Or anything else that could be used as a weapon.
Brooke flashes me a slit-eyed look of dislike. Fraser leans back in his seat. “Donny-boy too busy to come with you? Hey, my car’s a little muddy. Maybe he can come over this evening and get some practice in.” He and Brooke high-five each other.
Toni smiles tentatively and waves at me, but her mother glares at her and she wilts, her hand quickly sinking back down onto the table.
“Now there’s the look of a woman who’s having great sex,” Pamela says when I sink into the chair next to her.
“Pamela. Could you please use your indoor voice?” I nudge her with my elbow.
“My husband and I had great sex last night,” Brooke announces loudly. “Four times. How many times did you guys have sex?”
“Lord have mercy.” Miranda blanches.
“Some of us like to keep private things private,” I say loudly.
“Less than four,” Brooke says to her husband.
“Can we please get this started?” Rocco glares around the table.
“By the way the Witlocke and Ribaldi families are getting along so well these days that Jamie Witlocke is working at the Ribaldi winery,” I tell Carrie. “Would you like to get a picture of the two of us?”
Carrie stands up and unenthusiastically snaps a couple of shots, then sinks back down into her seat.
“I think that’s fantastic.” She settles back in the chair with a feral smile. “The feud is a thing of the past. How wonderful is that, for everybody?”
A lightning bolt of alarm zaps my nerves.
“Shiznit,” I whisper to Pamela. “She’s up to something.”
“I mean, that feud is so old,” Carrie coos. “It goes back to 1930. Whatever started that silly old thing, anyway?”
Oh, hell. No she didn’t.
“Francesco Ribaldi stole one of our sheep and molested it.” Montgomery Witlocke speaks up so loudly that his voice booms off the rafters. “But no hard feelings. After all, their union spawned this fine family of thieves you see before you, and for ninety years they’ve kept the town entertained with their sad attempts to destroy us.”
He glares straight at me as he speaks.
Seriously? He’s that peeved about me hiring his daughter?
Chairs scrape as they’re shoved back in a prelude to a brawl, and a low muttering rumbles around the table. The air in the room crackles with angry energy.
“Daddy, please.” Toni puts her hand on his arm. He shakes it off.
“Actually, Mr. Witlocke’s memory is faulty.” Uncle Rocco’s fists clench as a vein bulges in his head. “Not surprising – long term venereal disease is known to cause hallucinations and confusion. What started it all is that the Witlockes poached a flock of our geese. They have a long history of larceny and libel. And making very mediocre wine.”
“That swill you call wine wouldn’t win a single award if your women weren’t doing special favors for the judges.” Donovan’s mother spits out the words staccato-style, like bullets.
“You frozen-faced bitch!” Rocco’s wife Katherine leaps to her feet and hurls the contents of her tea in Diana’s face. It drips down and splashes on her cream-colored jacket, leaving yellowish splotches.
“You ruined my Chanel!” Diana shrieks. “Would you like me to spell that for you, you low-rent peasant?”
“Would you like me to break your nose or your teeth, you past-your-prime old cow?”
Montgomery leaps to his feet. “You stole my daughter!” he bellows at me, and slips in the spilled tea and falls on his butt.
“Look what you did to my brother!” Phillip shouts. He bends over to help Montgomery up, and also slips, and falls on top of them.
“You’re trying to kill my husband!” Diana wails.
Both men stagger to their feet.
Donovan’s cousin Brandon lunges across the table at my cousin Cesare, and the two of them roll on the table top, raining blows on each other.
Fists, cups, and chairs go flying. Toni ducks under the table.
“Knock it off!” Pamela yells to no avail.
Jamie leaps on top of the table. “Team Ribaldi!” she shouts, pumping her fist in the air. Oh yeah, that’ll help.
Carrie stands at the end of the table, snapping picture after picture. I barrel over to her, snatch her camera, and bolt from the room.
She chases me down the hall, down the front steps, and onto the sidewalk, screeching, “Give it back! Give it back!”
I don’t stop until we’re half a block from the rec building. Then I skid to a halt and spin around to face her, so abruptly that she stumbles and almost falls.
“Assault and theft!” she squalls. “That’s what I’ll have you arrested for, for starters.”
“No, you won’t.” My voice is very calm as I hand her camera back. She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.
“This is pathetic, even for you,” I say to her. “You’re creating the news, not writing it. And I’m going over to the paper right now to have a lengthy conversation with your publisher. I should have done that from the very beginning.”
“I didn’t…” Her voice trails off, and she looks a little less sure of herself.
“You put the announcement in the paper today saying that the two committees had merged. Then you started that fight. You’ve been trying to manipulate the Witlockes and the Ribaldis behind the scenes from the day Donovan and I got married, and I’m done with your crap, Carrie,” I say heatedly. “If your publisher is foolish enough to go ahead with this story after I talk to him, and I doubt he will be, I’ll put up our response on the Ribaldis’ website, detailing every last thing you’ve done. You know damn well it will go viral. And your newspaper will suffer for it.”
“Your families are public figures and I’ve been writing about you from the day I got hired at the paper! There is literally a ‘Ribaldi-Witlocke’ beat, just like the education beat and the crime beat! I’ve been writing about this feud for nineteen years! This is a legitimate story!” Her eyes burn with fury.
“Not when you’ve become involved in the situation via your ex-husband, and not when you are creating the news rather than reporting on it.”
Her face reddens.
“Carrie.” I shake my head slowly, the heat fading from my voice. “You’re better than this. You’ve won awards. You’ve changed lives. You exposed that judge who was taking bribes from abusive husbands and giving them sole custody of their kids. You exposed the congressman who sexually harassed his underage interns. And this is the level you’re stooping to? Making a story happen, and even worse, doing it to serve your own selfish purposes?”
She swallows hard. Then she looks down at her camera and starts pushing buttons.
“I’ve deleted all of the pictures,” she says stiffly. “I won’t write a story about what happened this afte
rnoon.”
“You will send another reporter to cover the decorating committee meetings, and you won’t cover anything to do with Ferguson, or the property sale, or our families. You are not capable of being objective. And because of that, if I ever see you publish another single word about us, I swear to God, Donovan and I will come after you. You’ve let your personal drama turn you into a selfish, manipulative cow, and I’m frickin’ done with it, Carrie.”
Her face flushes red, and her gaze drops to the ground.
“You’re the ones who are selfish. All you care about is the money, but this deal doesn’t just affect you, it affects the whole town.” Her voice is husky with anger. “We’re talking about five hundred houses in a subdivision. Thousands of people moving in. A huge potential impact on the environment. And I am telling you, there’s something shady about this property deal, and I don’t just mean your obviously fake marriage.”
“Then give the story to another reporter at your paper,” I say icily. “I’m not trying to get in the way of legitimate investigations.”
Her gaze slides away. “I tried,” she says frostily. “They did a really weak investigation and then let it go.”
“Because there’s nothing to uncover!” I shout. “You looked into it, your other reporter looked into it, and you came up with nothing! For the love of God, get the hell over yourself and move on!”
Carrie looks wretched and defeated. “I will not write anything to do with your families or the property sale.” She turns around, her shoulders slumped.
I’ve won. I should feel great.
I don’t.
I hurry after her as she stalks off. “Wait.”
“What now?” She glares at me, tears beading on her mascaraed lashes. “You want to gloat?”
“No. I want to talk. Carrie, you really need to move on from this bullshit with Marcus.”
“Oh, I need to move on?” she sneers. “From my husband of twenty years?”
“Carrie. I know – the whole town knows – how badly he treated you. He’s an asshole. He treated you horribly.”
“If you’re about to tell me I’m better off without him, don’t bother.” Her eyes are red-rimmed, and tears brim and spill over.