Intoxicating

by Heather Heyford

“Look, I apologize. I didn’t know there’d be this much fuss, either, but what can I do? Kick everybody out? You want my advice, just ignore the rubberneckers.”

  She whooshed out a breath. “Easy for you to say.”

  “Do you want me to just tell everyone there’s been a change of plans? I can do that.”

  That wouldn’t be an auspicious way to start out. “No.”

  He checked his watch. “Your choice. I’m not rushing you, but it’s five after. I imagine your friends have other things they could be doing.”

  The door swung open, heralding four more people.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Sam.

  Poppy used the opportunity to center herself.

  When he returned, she sucked in a breath. “Let’s do this,” she said on an exhale.

  Sam smiled. “You’ll do great.”

  He escorted her over to the table. “Can I have everyone’s attention?”

  The room quieted.

  “If you just happened to stumble in on this fine autumn afternoon hoping to sample some Willamette Valley wines, you’re in for a double treat. You locals already know my good friend, Poppy Springer, from her parents’ café on Main Street. What you may not know is that Poppy is preparing to take her sommelier exam. We’re happy to support her by doing a mock table service. Now, for those who aren’t familiar, becoming a certified sommelier is a daunting process. An important part of it is demonstrating excellent serving skills. Poppy’s pretend customers here are going to pepper her with questions to see how well she can answer them. I’ve set out an assortment of wines ahead of time that they can choose from. Poppy will have to guess what they want from their hints and then pour it according to highest industry standards.”

  He looked around the table, rubbing his hands together. “Are we ready?”

  “Ready,” they responded.

  The spectators jockeyed for the best viewing positions.

  Poppy smiled nervously.

  “We’re awfully thirsty over here,” said Demi.

  “Let’s get started, then,” said Sam brightly. He raised his glass to Poppy. “Good luck.”

  “Good luck!” came a chorus of voices from around the room.

  Poppy approached the table. “How is everyone tonight? I’m Poppy, and I’ll be happy to take your order. Who would like to start?”

  To Poppy’s surprise, Keval trained his phone camera on her and proceeded to video her.

  That wasn’t part of the plan.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, breaking character.

  “Don’t pay any attention to me. Just keep doing your thing,” said Keval without lowering the phone.

  She would deal with Keval later.

  “I’ll start,” said Holly.

  Poppy decided her best option was to ignore Keval. If she was going to be a model, she’d better get used to being on camera.

  “What are you thinking this evening? Anything on our menu catch your eye?”

  “I’m hungry for a juicy steak. What would go best with that?”

  “You can’t go wrong with a pinot noir for its earthy truffle notes.”

  “Sounds good!”

  Maybe this won’t be so terrible.

  She moved clockwise around the table to Rory. “And you, sir?”

  “I’m vacationing here in Pinot country, but I prefer white wine to red. What can you recommend?”

  “Do you like a soft, buttery wine or a crisp, green apple flavor?”

  Those who knew Rory broke out in knowing smiles. Around these parts, the name Stillman was synonymous with cider.

  “Definitely apple.”

  “I’d try one of our excellent Rieslings. They’re aged in steel tanks instead of oak barrels, which gives them a bright edge that’ll make your mouth water like a tart Granny Smith.”

  Rory laughed. “Sold.”

  She moved to Junie. “Ma’am?”

  “Today is my birthday. I want to order a couple bottles of champagne for the table.”

  Junie’s birthday was in April. She was just doing her job, trying to think up a way to stymie Poppy.

  “First, happy birthday! What a great way to celebrate, with champagne. To clarify, only wines made in France using what’s called the champagne method can technically be called that. I’ll be happy to show you one. Or we have a lovely sparkling white wine from California that’s a great value.”

  “The California will be fine. Can you get that for us now, before you finish taking everyone else’s order?”

  Poppy glanced at Holly. “If it’s all right with you?” Technically, since Holly had established herself as the host, she called the shots.

  Holly nodded. “It’s fine. But could you upgrade that sparkling wine to champagne?”

  “No, no,” Junie protested.

  “I insist,” said Holly. “My treat. And could you get that right now? We really are thirsty.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Poppy set six champagne flutes on a service tray and carried it to the table, distributing a glass before each diner. Now came the tricky part. A bottle of champagne had as much air pressure as a car tire.

  The room went silent. Most of the spectators were in some aspect of the wine business. They knew as well as she did that more people were killed each year by flying corks than by horses, falling icicles, or football injuries.

  Poppy’s palms were damp and slippery. Carefully, she held the serviette over the top of the bottle as she loosed the wire cage around the neck. One slip, and she could see the headline on Keval’s blog: “Wine Tasting Takes Deadly Turn as Inept Sommelier Takes Out Innocent Bystander.”

  A manslaughter charge could significantly lower her odds of passing her test if the judges got wind of it.

  A stray hair escaped from her ponytail, tickling her forehead. She held her breath and twisted the bottle.

  The cork came out with a gentle hiss. She poured a little into a glass and held the bottle with the label showing while Holly took the first sip.

  After Holly nodded her approval, Poppy circled the table clockwise, filling first the ladies’ glasses. One, two, three . . . she counted the seconds to be sure she was pouring them to the same level on the first try. Then she went on to pour the gentlemen’s in the same way.

  Flawless, if I say so myself. From the corner of her eye she noted nods of approval from the peanut gallery.

  After the table had toasted and downed their glasses, it was Demi’s turn to order. So far, she had been on her best behavior. Poppy remembered Red saying that people had changed over the past decade. Maybe Demi had changed, too. Poppy was always inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt. And with the way things were going so far today, she was gaining confidence, as well.

  She approached Demi’s right side. “And for you?”

  Demi drained the last drop in her glass. “I’m loving this champagne,” she said, smacking her lips. “How about another round?”

  This really was turning out to be a piece of cake, thought Poppy as she retrieved another bottle.

  Once again, the cork came out without injuring anyone and the first glass was approved.

  But no sooner had Poppy poured the round when Demi said, “It’s a beautiful fall day. What do you say we take this party outside?”

  No one seemed to know how to respond. Leaving the designated setting wasn’t part of the script.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” She looked at Poppy and, with a smile that would melt butter, said, “We’ll take our drinks outside, at the picnic table. You go first; we’ll follow.”

  “Certainly.”

  Poppy got the tray and went around the table again, aware of all eyes intently fastened on her as she painstakingly collected the brimfull glasses, hoping no one noticed how she trembled.

  When the tray was filled, she carried it in her left hand toward the door and let herself out, the glasses tinkling like wind chimes.

  Outside, she dispersed the glasses around the picnic table
and waited with her bar towel over her forearm for the diners to arrive.

  And waited.

  After what seemed like forever, Sam poked his head out. “Come on back in. Demi changed her mind.” Then he lowered his voice and with a conspiratorial smile added, “Once a bitch, always a bitch.”

  Sam remained in the open doorway to hold the door for her once she’d collected the champagne flutes yet again.

  She shook her head. “I appreciate it, but no one will be holding any doors for me during my exam.”

  Sam shrugged. “Your call.”

  Again, she managed both the tray and the door. As she crossed the room to the sound of sleigh bells, her face was on fire.

  Demi had made a fool out of her in front of all these people.

  Still, she’d survived. What could happen now?

  As she reached the table, her rubber sole caught on something, pinning her foot behind her while momentum kept the rest of her moving forward. At the end of Poppy’s arm, the tray teetered as she tried to save the pricey champagne at risk of hurting herself, but too late.

  The world started spinning in slow motion, heightening her awareness of details around her. The blue plaid shirt of the cellar master. The fold marks on the unironed tablecloth. The horror on Junie and Holly’s faces, and the triumph on Demi Barnes’s.

  A wave of champagne preceded the forward motion of Poppy’s body.

  Throughout the room, hands flew to mouths. There were gasps, followed by the sound of shattering crystal.

  Poppy’s foot came out of her shoe at the same time her hands and knees hit the floor.

  The metal tray banged against the back of Demi’s chair, clattered to the ground, and rolled across the floor until it hit someone’s ankle. There it spun like a top for what seemed like forever, finally coming to rest with a metallic clatter.

  Keval caught the whole thing on video.

  Heath’s arm shot to Keval’s hand and pushed his phone to the table. “Turn that thing off.”

  He was the first one to reach Poppy, followed closely by Sam. Heath lifted her up from behind, one hand supporting her elbow, the other curved around her rib cage beneath her breast.

  “Ohhhh!” Demi shot to her feet and shook her arms, flinging sticky-sweet droplets across the table onto Junie and Keval and the others. “She got me soaked!” Her cries drowned out Poppy’s yip of pain when her bare heel went down on something exquisitely sharp.

  Heath guided Poppy to his chair next to Demi’s and immediately knelt and cradled her foot in his lap. “Let me see.”

  He snatched his napkin from the table and held it to her heel.

  As Poppy bent to see red bleeding into the white linen, Heath reached up, and with his fingertips to her breastbone, pressed her into her chair back. “Don’t look.”

  First day of summer vacation after fifth grade. A broken Coke bottle, half-buried in the mud on the bank of Chehalem Creek. Ever since then, Poppy couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

  But too late.

  Her stomach roiled. Her strength seemed to seep out with her blood until her head swayed backward in a most humiliating manner.

  Hands cradled her head, and she opened her eyes to see Sam’s concerned face, inches from hers.

  “You’ll be all right.”

  Then Sam and everything around him began fading into oblivion.

  Her hearing was the last to go. From far away she heard Sam say, “That’s it, folks. Thanks for coming . . .”

  Chapter Six

  Poppy rested her bandaged foot on the dashboard while Heath drove her car from the primary care clinic in McMinnville back to her parents’ house.

  “That went well,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Does it hurt?” asked Heath.

  “Just my pride.” She pulled her phone out of her bag. “I’ve got to catch Keval before he posts that video. You’d think he’d have enough sense not to without being told, but then again, it is Keval. You know how he loves drama . . .”

  “Too late,” said Heath.

  Poppy’s hand froze. “What do you mean?”

  “That was real-time video he was shooting.”

  “Real-time? As in, live?”

  “On the new social media site set up for the reunion. With an automatic notification to every one of his connections.”

  “Oh no!” Her hand with her phone in it dropped to her lap. “Think of how many contacts Keval must have!”

  “And every one of them can share with their contacts.”

  Painstakingly, Poppy typed Clarkston Class Reunion into her phone.

  “Aaarrgh!” she moaned after she watched the horror movie starring herself. Her head fell back against her seat.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? This has almost a hundred views! Wait—”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “Cory Anthony saw it.”

  “How is that possible?”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Poppy and Heath looked at each other and said simultaneously: “Demi Barnes.”

  “I’m fried. I’ll never be able to walk down Main Street again. I might as well quit.”

  “You fell. People fall.”

  “I didn’t just fall. I fell reaching for my life’s goal—which happens to be public knowledge, now that I was stupid enough to tell Demi Barnes about it!”

  Heath’s frown made Poppy immediately regret complaining. Heath could withstand a great deal of pain, but he couldn’t bear to see another creature struggle. His menagerie of scruffy pets was testament to that.

  She threw her hands in the air. “Okay. I won’t quit. But from now on all my practice sessions are going to be private.”

  “No. You can’t do that,” said Heath.

  “You want me to subject myself to public humiliation again?”

  “You have no choice. You have to avenge yourself. Show Cory Anthony and everyone else that you have it in you to fight for what you want.”

  “But what if I don’t have what it takes? Service was supposed to be the thing I’m best at, and I totally screwed it up! What if I bomb in the actual test?”

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You have to think like a proton.”

  Poppy scowled. “A proton?”

  “You know. Positive.”

  “Talk English to me.”

  “Protons have a positive charge, versus electrons, which are neg—”

  “You’re making my head explode.”

  “You’ve got to get Keval to post a new video, this time of you doing something well. Replace the bad impression in peoples’ minds with a good one.”

  “I can see me now, limping around the table, waiting on diners.”

  “Give it a couple of weeks. Work on the other parts of the test while your foot heals.”

  “Invite Keval to film me doing a blind tasting?”

  “What could go wrong—as long as you’re seated this time?”

  * * *

  Heath held the door while Poppy used her crutches to hobble into the house.

  “Poppy!” exclaimed her mom. “Are you okay? I’ve been trying to call you the past couple of hours! Why didn’t you pick up?”

  “I take it you saw.”

  “Of course I saw. I’m Facebook friends with Keval.”

  My own mother.

  “Sorry. I had my phone turned off turned for the tasting.”

  “Here, sit down on the couch. What did the doctor say? Was there much blood?” Mom glanced at Heath, standing in the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets. “She doesn’t like blood. Ever since that day she stepped on that broken Coke bottle—”

  “You okay, then?” Heath asked Poppy, one foot pivoted toward the exit.

  “Oh, sure. You don’t have to stay. Thanks for taking me to the clinic.”

  “Do you want me to run you home, Heath?” asked her mom.<
br />
  “I’m good.”

  Heath’s new house wasn’t so close that you could see it from Poppy’s, but it was an easy walk. Over the years, they’d each done it hundreds of times.

  “Thank you for taking care of our girl,” said Mom. “But don’t rush off. Don’t you want to come in? Joe’s out jogging.” She went to the window and peered anxiously up and down the road. “I worry about him every time he goes out, that he’ll get hit by a car or have a heart attack or something.” She turned back to Heath. “I brought home stickies from the café. They’re yesterday’s, but they’re still good.”

  Heath slid one hand from his pocket to wave awkwardly. “No thanks. I got some stuff to do to get ready for the workweek.”

  “Sunday evenings always go by so fast, don’t they? It’ll be Monday morning before we know it.” She looked at Poppy’s foot and it dawned on her. “How are you going to work tomorrow? You’ll have to take some time off.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You can’t wait tables on crutches.”

  Mom meant well. But when would she start treating Poppy like a grown woman who could make her own decisions?

  Heath stuck his head back in the door and said, “The doctor said she’s to stay off it for at least a week.”

  Poppy stuck her tongue out at him. “Tattletale.”

  Some grown woman I am.

  “A week!” aped Mom. “Well, we’ll manage for a week. Maybe our part-timer will want some extra hours. Heath, are you sure you don’t want a sticky? Wait—I’ll wrap some up for you and your dad.”

  Mom disappeared around the corner.

  “When can you get together to practice a blind tasting?” Poppy asked Heath as they listened to the crinkling of plastic wrap from the kitchen.

  “I’ll get the key to the consortium from Sam. We can do it after hours. I didn’t mean ‘do it.’ I meant sneak in. To do the tasting. You know. Alone. Without anyone watching.”

  Poppy hid her amusement.

  “Don’t worry. I know what you mean.”

  * * *

  Mom gave Heath his buns and watched him start to walk down Chehalem Creek Road. “Such a sweet boy. And after all he’s been through.”

  The Springers and Sinclairs were friends even before Mom offered to let Heath hang out with Poppy after school every spring and fall during their elementary school years while Heath’s dad labored at his tree nursery.