Intoxicating

by Heather Heyford

  She looked around again at the people she used to know so well. She might have changed her appearance a little, but on the inside, she was the same old Poppy. But now they were telling new stories—unfamiliar stories about events she hadn’t been to and people she’d lost track of. Life in Clarkston was going on without her.

  What am I doing here? These were her people. She missed them. She had come to make herself feel better, but in doing so had made some of them feel bad.

  Where do I belong?

  She wasn’t sure anymore.

  But she couldn’t let Heath go like that. She took off after him.

  “Poppy. Wait.”

  It was Red.

  “Think.”

  “But—” She looked longingly after Heath, just out of reach.

  “Do you want to make it worse?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Make up, and then reject him, over and over again?”

  She scowled. “I didn’t reject Heath. I went to Portland to pursue my passion. It had nothing to do with him.” With us.

  “That’s not how he sees it.”

  Poppy grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and downed half of it. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Have you forgotten his history?”

  Now her anger channeled itself in Heath’s defense. “There’s nothing wrong with Heath. It’s not his fault his mother couldn’t deal.”

  “Of course it’s not. But it’s human nature to question our own worth just when our self-esteem is hurting most. Remember how much you hated being reminded of that silly senior superlative right after you lost your job at the wine shop?”

  Realization began to dawn.

  “His brewpub,” she reflected, her anger waning. “That’s why he stopped progress on it.”

  Red nodded. “Shortly after you left.”

  Poppy started toward him again, but again Red reached out to stop her.

  “I have to find him! To explain.”

  “And then what? Walk away again? Who are you trying to make feel better by going after him now? Heath? Or yourself?”

  She paused, her chest rising and falling. Her head was a whirl of conflicting emotions, the two sides of her divided in a contest of self-control.

  “It’s not fair. Every time I go, I hurt Heath. But if I’d stayed, I’d be giving away what I fought so hard for.”

  “Life’s not fair. And having choices can be hard. You’re my friend. I don’t judge, and you don’t owe me any explanations. But Heath’s my friend, too, and it pains me to see him hurting. All I’m asking is for you to recognize that for every choice you make, there are consequences.”

  Poppy looked at Heath, alone as usual, his head bowed over his untouched drink, and bit her lip. All their lives, she had considered it her calling to comfort him. And right now, he looked like he’d never needed comforting more.

  But as usual, Red was right.

  She floundered for something to latch on to, to keep her from hurting him more than she already had. Before she knew what she was doing, her nails dug into Red’s soft flesh.

  “I can’t do this,” she said breathlessly.

  “It’s okay,” said Red.

  “No, it’s not. I have to go.”

  “Let’s go outside on the patio.”

  “No, I mean I have to leave.”

  “Come on,” said Red maternally, leading her toward the door. “I’ll go out with you.”

  But once they were outside, Poppy kept on going, toward her car.

  “When I’m away from him, I can pretend he’ll always still be there. That things will never change. But every time I see him, he’s like a drug, and I’m an addict. I want him again. It’s so intense. And you’re right. It’s not fair to him.”

  At the real risk of twisting an ankle, she forged ahead, her spiky heels sinking into the soft earth with every step.

  Red scurried to keep up. “You’re feeling fragmented. But self-awareness is the first step to getting a grip on your feelings.”

  Poppy stopped and faced her friend. “Stop analyzing me! I’ve got this. I know what I have to do. I just can’t come home anymore.”

  On she marched.

  “I respect that,” said Red to her back.

  Poppy threw up her hands and whirled back around. Her spurt of activity must have helped the blood flow to her head. Clarity was coming back. Or maybe it was just that she was at a remove from Heath, her trigger. At any rate, she became aware of the absurdity of her surroundings, standing out in the middle of a tire-rutted meadow dotted with wood violets in high heels. She squinted. Spending most of the past four months indoors, she’d forgotten how bright the midday sun could be.

  “If I do come back, I can’t see him.”

  Like the good therapist that she was, Red said nothing, just let the gravity of Poppy’s own words sink in.

  Around the time Poppy reached her car, it struck her that she was still referring to Clarkston as “home.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Hey.” looked up to see Mona Cruz at his elbow.

  Heath looked up to see Mona Cruz at his elbow.

  Not ten feet away from them, Junie and Manolo accepted yet another offer of good wishes. They smiled into each other’s eyes, then kissed.

  Heath looked away.

  “When you’re surrounded by all that gushiness, it’s kind of hard not to feel left out, isn’t it?” she observed.

  In answer, he quietly sipped his ale.

  “Are you in love with Poppy?”

  Heath jerked his head toward Mona in surprise. “That’s a pretty blunt question.”

  “I’m a blunt person. Saves a lot of time.” Her expression was transparent and kind.

  He considered. “Love is the most powerful force in the universe. It can’t be broken down to the molecular level.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She chuckled, looking askance at him.

  “Poppy and I are friends. That’s it. There’s no romance, no love.”

  “Good try. But I don’t believe a word of it. Let’s switch gears. What’s this about you starting a brewpub? I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “I thought about it. It’s the latest trend. But I changed my mind.”

  “How come? Clarkston needs something like that. This whole town is being overrun by wineaux. If you ask me, it’s high time we beer drinkers take a stand. Speaking of, where’d you get that brewski? I’ve been dying for one.”

  “You want one?” he asked, signaling the bartender. “It’s all brought in from my brewery for the party.”

  “Is that right? What do you recommend?”

  “Give her a Newberg Neutral,” he told the bartender.

  “I’ve always preferred craft beer to wine. A bit of a hophead, if you want to know the truth.”

  “That so?”

  “It’s not just the beer, it’s the culture. You know what they say: ‘Beer people are good people.’ I found that out when I was living down in California. Everyone from the brewer to the distributor to the bartender is nice, and interesting, and often, funny.”

  Heath turned toward her, drawn by their common interest.

  “What’s your favorite?”

  She laughed and held up her glass, examining the golden brew. “Whatever I’m drinking at the time. Except for that mass-produced stuff I call ‘beer water.’ Seems like every time I visit a new brewery and meet the staff, I leave with a new favorite. Craft brewers care about the product, plus they’re super welcoming. They put their hearts and souls into what they make. But, hey, who am I telling? You know that.”

  “I know about the production end . . .”

  She cocked her head, as if waiting for him to finish. “Yeah?”

  Dare I say what I’m thinking? He’d had just enough beers to do it. “What I’m missing is the welcoming gene.”

  “Well, all you need is someone to do that part for you.”

&n
bsp; “That’s the problem,” he said, going back to his drink. “You just hit the nail on the head.”

  “Why not me?” she chirped.

  He swung his head back to her. “You?”

  “Sure! I used to tend bar. I’m a walking proponent of craft beer. I know that it is better for you than red wine. It has more nutrients and fiber and antioxidants. Craft beer may have more calories and higher alcohol than the regular kind, but because it’s more flavorful, you drink less of it. What with all the different styles plus the seasonal brews, you can drink something different every time.”

  Heath scratched his chin.

  “Plus, if you haven’t heard, I need a job.”

  He studied her. “How long you been back in town?”

  “Six months. I’m through looking for something else, somewhere else. I found out that whatever it was I was looking for couldn’t be found on the outside.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Self-acceptance.” She tapped her chest. “Turned out it was right in there, all along.”

  Daryl Decaprio sauntered up on Mona’s other side and started talking to her.

  She certainly was outgoing, almost as much as Poppy. And with her enthusiasm for the subject, she’d be perfect for a brewpub’s front-of-house. That is, if he were looking for someone.

  After a moment, she climbed off her stool. “Thanks for the beer!” she said cheerfully. “See you around!”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  After her disastrous trip home to Junie and Manolo’s party, Poppy realized that while her professional life might be skyrocketing, her personal life kind of stunk.

  The only friends she’d made—if you could call them that—were her coworkers at Anthony’s. And the only thing they had in common was their job. Morgan kept his personal life private, and Stu, understandably, spent all his free time with his wife and baby son.

  Most of the servers were from the city and already had full social lives.

  She had more invitations to restaurant openings and art exhibits and charity events than she could handle. But nothing lasting had come out of them.

  Was it any wonder she was lonely? That she didn’t yet feel like she belonged in Portland?

  It didn’t help that she worked the very hours that most other people her age were out and about.

  Back home, her café clientele represented a cross section of the tiny town, from the growers at the farmer’s market whom they bought their produce from to the banker who held their mortgage and everyone in between. Regulars were just that—they showed up often, some on a daily basis. Not only did they like to pass the time of day with the Springers, they talked to each other, too, craning their necks over the booths to add their two cents to an overheard conversation, getting up from the counter to sit for a spell with neighbors at a nearby table or just to have a cup of coffee and shoot the breeze.

  Anthony’s patrons came from all corners of the city, the state, and even beyond. They tended to either be in awe of Poppy in her position as a rare female sommelier or not know the difference between her and the food servers.

  And then there were the useful associates Cory cultivated like charms on a bracelet.

  Late one April evening, Cory introduced her to a well-dressed man dining alone in the evening’s final seating.

  “Poppy Springer, I’d like you to meet Simon Matthews.”

  The man looked Poppy over with frank appreciation. “So, this is the lovely new lady somm I’ve been hearing so much about,” he quipped in a British accent. His manicured hand reached for hers and held it for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.

  “You’ve heard of Simon. The syndicated wine columnist from London? He’s on a tour of the American wine country.”

  As in, print? Poppy could hardly let on that she never read anything longer than a few sentences, and that, on her phone.

  If you haven’t, pretend you have was the message in Cory’s eyes.

  “Oh! Yes! So nice to meet you, Mr. Matthews.”

  A waiter appeared at Cory’s elbow, looking stressed. “When you’re finished, can I have you for a minute?”

  Cory looked pulled in two directions. “Poppy will take good care of you,” he assured Simon before leaving to put out whatever fire had erupted.

  “I have no doubt,” said the man, with a gleam in his eye.

  Following some pleasant chitchat and a look at the menu, Mr. Matthews unblinkingly accepted her suggestion on the best wine to pair with his meal. The appetizer and entrée went off without a hitch. Now, as she was pouring his third glass, he smiled and said, “Your shift is almost finished, is it not?”

  She glanced around the room at her few remaining tables. There would be no more wine ordered tonight.

  “Almost.”

  “You must have been on your feet for ages. Care to sit down for a bit?”

  He smelled pleasantly like lavender and leather, and although she guessed his age to be only mid-thirties, he looked like he probably had a valet waiting for him back in jolly olde England.

  Despite his undeniable swoon-worthiness, Poppy searched for a tactful way to explain that sommeliers did not sit down with diners. But over at the hostess station, Cory caught her eye. He gave her a nod so small she might have imagined it.

  “Do, please.” Simon pulled out the seat next to him.

  “Well. Okay, for a minute.”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  She gave him her little spiel about the wine shop and how she was basically self-taught.

  “Amazing. You and I have much in common. I am largely self-taught, as well. You see, I have a condition in which letters and numbers appear all topsy-turvy. Quite problematic at times. Couldn’t make heads nor tails of it until way after the other lads, I’m afraid.”

  Poppy’s eyes grew wide. “You have—dyslexia?”

  “Sorry.” He smiled endearingly. “Do you think you can overlook my shortcoming? Because I should be devastated if it should in any way interfere with our budding friendship.”

  “No—I—” Poppy stuttered.

  “Sorted it out on my own, eventually. Had to, so I could fulfill my dream of becoming a writer. Hard to make those who haven’t experienced a learning disability understand.”

  “Oh, but I do!” she said. “I have dyslexia, too!”

  “You don’t say? Quite the coincidence. Well then, it appears we have more than just wine in common.”

  They talked until closing. Once, she excused herself to tend to her tables, but Cory came over and told her he would see to it.

  Afterward, she let Simon walk her down the street where Cory wouldn’t be, as Simon said, “looking over their shoulders,” and buy her a nightcap.

  “It’s been lovely to meet you, Poppy. I’m leaving tomorrow for California and points south, but I’ll be back in a week. I’ll let you in on a secret, if you’ll promise not to tell. Not even your boss.”

  “I promise.”

  “It’s true that I’m here on assignment. But I’m also contemplating a move. I’m interviewing for a position with a wine association here in Oregon.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m taking a month off to explore the area. It would be lovely to have a tour guide with your extensive knowledge of the local terroir.”

  It took her a second to realize he meant her.

  Well, she had an easy out. “I’d like to help you, but we’re so busy around here . . .”

  “I’ve known Cory for years. I could put in a word.” He gave her a meaningful look as he sipped his wine.

  A little wave of panic stirred in Poppy. What about Heath?

  “You seem a bit reluctant. Have I overstepped? Are you spoken for?”

  Am I? She didn’t know. This was the first time the question had come up since she moved.

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  Simon took her indecisiveness in stride. “There’s no hurry. Think about it, and I’ll ring you up when I’m back this w
ay. Sound good?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” What else could she say?

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  That night in bed, Poppy hugged Heath’s dog tight.

  Customers had flirted with her before. But she’d never been tempted. And yet sooner or later, she was bound to meet someone she was attracted to.

  Who wouldn’t be tempted by the likes of Simon Matthews? He was confident, charming, and successful. And wonder of all wonders, he knew firsthand what it felt like to have been born with a learning disability—and to have successfully battled it.

  It was possible that nothing would come of his job interview. But it wasn’t the prospect of starting a long-term relationship that bothered her. It was not knowing where exactly things stood with her and Heath.

  Maybe she was making too big a deal out of this. She could go out with Simon, and Heath might never know.

  But she would.

  Poppy’s female coworkers pounced on her the day after Simon Matthews had made his appearance. Word had gotten around that Cory had finished up her shift for her and they’d been seen leaving together.

  Poppy tried to downplay the whole thing, but it wasn’t easy when she was being peppered with questions and told how lucky she was to have been singled out by such a hot guy.

  Days later, they were still talking about it.

  She needed to touch base with something solid and real and familiar, to get her bearings, before she gave Simon her decision.

  On her next day off, she rose at dawn, as usual. But this time, instead of subjecting herself to Dieter’s punishing lunges and curls, she canceled her workout and headed south.

  It had been four months since she’d left Clarkston, but her Mini seemed to know the way by itself. This morning, virtually every traffic light she hit glowed green. It seemed like a sign.

  Between the bedroom community of Sherwood and Newberg, the first towns on the edge of wine country, subtle signs of spring caught Poppy’s eye. The blossoms of an Oregon grape flashing yellow amidst the brown scrub awakened her city-numbed senses. She noticed fuzzy willow catkins lining the road. Robins congregating in the pastures where here and there, horses had been let out to graze the pale new grass.