“What do you care? You’re the one who said he was a catch.” My hands are flying out and up and around.
“I said you picked a good one. I didn’t say he was good enough for you!” He stops and corrects himself, changing the path of the conversation. “And what are you doing, working at Russet Ranch? I thought you were a cellist.”
“I am a cellist.”
“At a winery?” His feet are wide apart, and his hands are on his hips. “You could work anywhere else in the world, but you landed at Russet Ranch?”
I think about his question and answer as honestly as I can, “Sometimes, the path you’re on isn’t the right one for you.”
Nate’s eyes burn. “Is that what you’re doing, Crystal? Switching things up?”
“Yes,” I say with surety in my statement. “Haven’t you ever tried something wild? Something different?”
“There are a lot of things I’d like to try, but I don’t go around changing the course of other people’s lives because I’m acting on a whim.”
He is making no sense, and it’s really pissing me off.
“Why do you care who I date? Or where I work? Or what I do, period? You already told me to stay away from you. This, here…it’s just…” I can’t even find the right words. “It’s plain cruel.”
Nate stops and leans against the wall. He takes his hat off and rubs his head in aggravation. His hair is longer by an inch or so than it was the first time I met him. He places his hat back on his head and then looks back at me, remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I’m exasperated.
He lets out a deep sigh. “For treating you the way I did. The way I have. You don’t deserve that.”
“Damn right I don’t,” I throw in, as if I’m arguing with him on the subject even though he just apologized.
We stand there for a moment, a standoff of looks and sighs and one person starting to say something but then stopping when the other starts to talk as well. We have so much to say yet absolutely nothing to talk about.
Nate finally breaks our stare-off and then looks down at what I’m wearing. His eyes widen slightly in appreciation. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” I don’t know what more I would hope for him to say. Fucking beautiful.
“Brent’s a good guy. If you like him, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I look down and kick a few scattered pebbles on the ground. “I don’t know how much I like him. He asked me to go away with him this weekend. I think I’m gonna go.”
Nate nods and kicks the same pebbles. “Going away. That’s a big step for someone you don’t know how much you like.”
I agree but don’t argue. I look at Nate. He looks so out of place. Vulnerable and unsure like this. It’s not the same guy I was friends with. I stand up straight, square my shoulders, and decide to be the one to attack the giant elephant in the room—or alleyway. Whatever.
“I understand you have a girlfriend.” He pops his head up and I continue, “I respect that. And the fact that you pulled away from whatever that was happening between us in the poolroom…well, that just makes me respect you even more. You have morals.”
“Crystal, I —”
“Let me finish.” I want to get this out before he says something to ruin it. “Before you started pushing me away, we were having a good time. I know I seem like the type who will talk to anyone, but I choose to confide in only a few. I like you. As a friend. We don’t need to be best friends, and I understand our wine-tasting adventures won’t happen again. But I’d like it if I could go to Henley’s again and say hi.”
“You can do more than just say hi, Crystal.” Nate moves off the wall and comes closer to me. “I like you, too. As a friend. And I promise, I won’t push you away.” He smiles and then adds, “Or follow you into restaurants.”
I grin. “Yeah, what the hell is that all about?”
“I saw you, and…it doesn’t matter. I felt like shit about the last time I saw you.” He then corrects himself, “The last two times I saw you.”
We are standing so close. Too close. Closer than a man and a woman who are just friends are supposed to be standing. But I don’t move back. Neither does he.
“So, I guess I’ll see you when I get back from Tahoe,” I say, my voice a whisper, as I stare into the sea of olive green.
Nate swallows and nods his head. “Tahoe.”
“Tahoe,” I repeat. Then, I remember I have a date waiting for me inside. Reluctantly, I back up and make my way toward the door.
Nate grabs my hand, and with a powerful force, like a magnet being pulled to its opposite, I swing around to face him, colliding with his chest and feeling his heart beat in unison with mine.
“Go somewhere with me. Tomorrow,” he says. His eyes are searching mine, worried.
Worried I might say no.
I should say no. I know Nate. He runs. He hides. He pushes away.
But I can’t say no to him.
So, I say, “Yes.”
chapter FIFTEEN
Ethel Merman.
“Everything’s Coming Up Roses.”
It’s being whistled.
By me.
I’m walking through the rose garden, toward the adorable round man in suspenders and a trilby hat. He’s humming his own little ditty as I come up behind him, and he stops as I approach.
“Nice to see someone finally pulled out of her little slump,” Ed observes.
“I wasn’t in a slump.”
“You played nothing but breakup songs all week. If I didn’t like you so much, I would have fired you. What’s the change? Mr. Moneybags finally win you over?”
My hands fly to my hips. “How did you know I was dating Brent Montavale?”
“I do have friends,” he says defensively.
I make an harrumph sound at him and wonder which friend spilled the beans. “Handsome Harry?”
“Mountain Mark. He works up at the Montavale Estates. Saw you two galloping in the fields,” Ed says with a sarcastic yet teasing tone.
I smile at the back of his head but keep an annoyed voice. “Well, looks like I’ll have to do a better job of keeping my private affairs private.”
“You do that,” Ed says as he places a rose into the basket. “I have a feeling though that Mr. Montavale isn’t the one who’s been keeping your heart occupied.”
Sometimes, my dear Ed is too intuitive for his own good. He saw Nate drive off the other day. He probably thinks it was a lover’s quarrel.
“We’re just friends.”
“What’s that old expression? Men and women can’t be just friends?”
“We can, and we are. He has a girlfriend. And I have Brent.”
Ed gets up and grabs his basket. “You can handle just being his friend without compromising his relationship with this other woman?”
“I’d rather have him as a friend than not have him at all.”
Ed seems to accept my answer, and I follow him into the ranch. He places the basket on the bar and then takes out a knife to remove the thorns.
I sit on a stool and watch him work. I’ve watched him do this for what feels like a thousand times. There’s always a fresh bouquet by the front door. But he prunes many, many more than that.
Ed places the stems he has de-thorned on the bar and moves on to another bunch. “Rosemary believed these were magical roses. She said they could cure the greatest heartbreak and most severe of bad days.” Ed smiles to himself.
“Love never dies,” I recite the words Ed once said to me.
“Love never dies.” He wraps the stems in twine and hands a small bouquet to me. “For you.”
I lean over the bar and give Ed a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Ed.” I hop off the stool and grab my bag.
“What do you have? A hot date or something?”
I shrug. “More like a lukewarm outing with a friend.” I swing around and head out to my car.
When I get to Nate’s house, I can’t fathom
leaving the flowers in the heat, so I bring them with me. Nate opens the door, and his eyes instantly land on the red petals.
“You do know this isn’t a date.” He’s skeptically eyeing me.
“They’re not for you. They’re for me. They’re my magic roses.” I brush past him and open his kitchen cabinet to grab a glass to leave them in.
Nate stares at the glass as I fill it with water, and then he smiles to himself. “I believe in magic roses.”
I’m surprised by his comment, so much so that I make a face at him. I make a face for so long that the water overflows from the glass.
“Don’t kill the magic roses.” He grabs the glass and places it on his table. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”
He won’t tell me where we’re going, but I’m assuming it’s another vineyard. Something small like the wine cave we went to. I ask him ten times in the short drive, and he just smiles and shakes his head.
When we pull into a large field, there is absolutely no mistaking what we are about to do. In the middle of the grass is a giant wicker basket lying on its side and the world’s largest balloon splayed out on the grass.
I swallow down my anxiety. “Um, Nate, don’t you think this is something you should have asked someone if they were comfortable with doing it before you went ahead and booked it?”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to try it.”
“Saying something and doing something are two very different things.”
Nate grabs my hand. I didn’t realize how tightly I was gripping the center console.
With his other hand, he pulls my chin, forcing my gaze away from the hot air balloon in front of us and onto him. “Are you going to tell me the woman who packed up her life on a whim in search of love and adventure is afraid?”
“I’m not afraid of heights.”
He raises a brow. “I know. I took you on an air tram. You said this was something you wanted to do. What are you afraid of?”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Dying. Falling to my death. Not living to see thirty-one,” the answers easily flow out of my mouth.
He lowers his forehead and makes sure I’m staring directly into his eyes. His voice is low and assured. “Crystal, do you think I’d make you do something I didn’t think was one hundred percent safe?”
“No.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I’ve been dying to do this my entire life.” He lets out a megawatt smile and gets out of the car.
I release a deep breath of nervous energy and follow him out of the car.
We stand back as the burners roar, inflating the giant balloon. The lump in my throat is still there, growing heavier with every inch the balloon expands. As it grows, it rises from the ground, pulling the basket into an upright position. Nate grabs my hand and pulls me toward the basket. When it is at maximum capacity, he helps me as I place a shaky foot on the footrest and am hoisted over the side by the pilot.
Nate climbs in and holds on to me tight. Clearly, I look like I need the support.
The burners continue to roar and then silence.
Gently, we are lifted into the breeze, and I bury myself into Nate’s chest, so I can’t see the ground beneath us become smaller and smaller. I focus on everything Nate—the hard planes of his chest, the smell of cotton from his shirt, and the way his hand is stroking my back, calming my nerves.
Nate leans his head down and whispers into my ear, “If you don’t look now, you are going to miss out on something spectacular.”
I lift my head from his shirt and look up into the sky. “It’s pretty. It’s blue.” I bury my head back into him, satisfied with the amount of time I was able to lift my head.
Nate’s chest rumbles with the light laugh he’s giving me. “Give it one more chance.”
I peek my left eye out of the confines of Nate. I hold on to him tightly as I lean to the side just a touch and peer outward.
We are flying, gliding over the corridors of grapes and over the magnificent valleys. We drift between the mountains and sail peacefully into the heavens. There is no wind. We are the wind. We are the sky and the earth and everything beautiful in this world.
I release my hold on Nate and look down at the treetops and stunning panorama of Napa Valley.
Nate has a look of elation. Like a kid in a candy store, he takes in every sight, inhales every bit of fresh air, and basks in the intense silence of the moment.
The pilot points out various locations down below and even fires up some history of the valley. I’m sure Nate’s heard it all before, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows I want to learn it all.
Our trip is over before I know it, and we head back toward the field.
A red structure below catches my eye. “There’s Russet Ranch!”
It looks so beautiful from up here. From the vineyard to the garden. Even the old garage looks great. I’m looking down, beaming, and I smile when I catch Nate staring at me.
“You really love that place, don’t you?” he asks.
“It’s magical,” I say. I go back to looking down as we head closer to the field.
When we gently touch ground, I look over at Nate and say, “We should do that again!”
He laughs and tips the pilot.
I’m still beaming at the experience when we get into the car and drive back to Nate’s house. I put my hand over his, more to get his attention than anything romantic. He turns to me.
“Thank you. That was amazing.”
Nate blushes. “It was my way of saying I’m sorry. Are we even now?”
“Most definitely,” I say.
My tummy decides to growl, causing his eyes to dart to my screaming stomach.
“I should have fed you first. Come inside.”
I follow him in, and before I know it, we’re moving about his kitchen, gathering ingredients for dinner. For a man living alone, he certainly has a stocked fridge. I assume his girlfriend keeps it stocked, but I don’t bring her up. The last time I did, he didn’t talk to me for two weeks. I don’t want to ruin the moment. If this is the relationship we’re going to have, then I’m okay with that.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t been eyeing every corner of the place, looking for a photo. I mean, how serious could it be if he doesn’t even have a photo of her lying around? Then again, he doesn’t have much as far as decor.
Nate is sautéing garlic, and I dice the onions as he asked. He’s making his grandmother’s Sunday sauce. A tradition he grew up with and still keeps every week. I look in the refrigerator and grab the ground meat. When he tells me to start on the meatballs, I just stare at him with uncertainty.
“You’re making that face again,” he says.
I snap my lower lip away from my teeth. “I don’t know how to cook.”
“You love food! How do you not know how to cook?” He’s bemused.
“Never had a reason to.” This is the first time I actually wish I did know how to cook.
Nate puts his arm around my waist and pulls me in front of him by an open area of the counter. His fingers pin me at the hips. “Today, you have a reason to.” He places a bowl on the Formica and hands me an egg.
“What are we making?” I say. I’m a little breathless.
“Meatballs.”
Yes, meatballs. I knew that.
Nate’s an excellent teacher. He hands me the ingredients and tells me what to put in the bowl and when. I don’t mind getting my hands messy, so I dig in, knuckles deep, and grind the meat.
When I mention to him that I’m pretty sure my dad’s meatball recipe calls for day-old bread, he leans into the pantry cabinet and pulls out a stale loaf of Italian bread with a huge smile on his face. “Mine, too.”
We talk about our favorite foods and how I love to travel, having been all over the world. Nate’s experiences have been minimal, only traveling the two years after high school before landing in San Francisco, but he definitely has his fair
share of culinary discoveries.
“Lobster in Boston,” Nate shares.
“Chocolate lobster bisque in Paris,” I counter.
“You didn’t eat snails, did you?”
“It’s called escargot. And, yes, they were delicious!” I lick my lips, and he makes a mock vomit face.
“Kansas City Barbecue. Hands down.” Nate is frying the meatballs as I roll them.
I nearly moan out loud at the thought of my favorite barbeque joint in Kansas City.
“Arthur Bryant’s,” we say in unison before laughing.
Small world and all.
Our conversation is flowing comfortably, like two old friends who’ve gotten together for Sunday supper for years. That is, until we get into the great pizza debate.
“Chicago? Are you kidding me?” I hold the salad tongs up at him, mid toss.
“Deep dish or no dish. It’s the only way.”
I feel like a knife has been stuck in my chest. Okay, I’m being dramatic. But you cannot tell a native New Yorker that any pizza other than New York pizza is the best. And you certainly, most definitely, cannot compare it to Chicago-style pizza.
“There are three things New York does better than any other place in the world.” I hold up my hand. “Pizza, bagels, and hot dogs.”
“Aren’t they called dirty-water dogs? And they’re sold from a cart.” Nate is making a face of disgust, more because he knows it’s pissing me off than anything else.
“A street dog is the most amazing thing on the planet.”
“How can a girl who ate spaghetti bolognese in Rome call a hot dog from a street vendor the most amazing thing on the planet?”
I laugh at him. “Unlike some people, I am not a culinary snob. I like the finer things in life, but I also know how to appreciate the basics.”
I’m waiting for him to look back up at me with a witty remark. Instead, he just smiles as he drains the pasta in the sink.
“I know. It’s one of the things I like about you.”
I would contain my blush if I were the blushing type of girl. I’m not. At least, I wasn’t. I turn my back and take a seat at the table.
Nate takes out a bottle of cabernet and has a seat as well. “I know you’re not crazy about wine, but I really want you to try this. It’s from a vineyard here in Napa.”
Wild Abandon Page 17