“You said you wanted a relationship. That’s the only way it’s ever going to happen.”
“What’s one got to do with the other? You’re being irrational.”
“Just trust me, will you? He can’t go back there.”
“I was such a fool to fall for you.”
“Red—”
She slid into the seat and reached for the door handle.
Sam stepped between her and the door.
“Move,” she said tightly, blue eyes blazing.
“Listen to me,” he said, leaning down to eye level, one hand on the roof. “I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? You’re crazy, Sam Owens. You’re brash and arrogant and repressed. You have no clue how to be in a relationship. And if that weren’t enough, you’re a bald-faced liar.”
He stood up and thrust out his chest. “I’m proactive. I don’t back down.”
“You treat life like it’s a battlefield.”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” he barked. “It’s a tough world out there.”
“It’s not your job to make it safe for everyone.”
“I stand up for what I believe in.”
“Instead of relating to people, you try to control them.”
“I strive to protect what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours! I never will be. Anything we could have been, you’ve ruined.” The rain came down in earnest, splotching the front of her shirt. “I’ll tell you one thing—from now on, my life will be divided. Before today and after today. Now move.”
Sam staggered backward.
Red’s car lurched forward a foot, knocking over his bike with a sickening clatter of metal. Seemingly without a care, she rammed the gearshift into reverse and backed out of her space.
He stood there in the rain, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, and watched the Impala’s taillights glow red in the rain.
Chapter 25
Red was so furious she could hardly drive.
How dare Sam treat her this way.
Oh, he might look like he had his act together. He was doing an amazing job running the wine consortium. But she knew better. Beneath that effortlessly seductive exterior, that square jaw softened by the requisite, lumbersexual stubble was an arrogant narcissist who didn’t know the first thing about how to love.
Every callous thing he had ever done came back to her. Like how he considered what they had simply a means to satisfy their basic, physical needs. How in the company of their friends he treated her no better than any other, random woman.
He was the last man on earth she should want as a partner.
To think of all the nights’ sleep she’d lost over him, going back to when they were just kids. Sam was one of the characters that had led her to go into psychology in the first place. To this day, she still couldn’t fathom how he’d willed himself not to cry that time he fell off the monkey bars and the bone was sticking out of his forearm. Or the time when he was at bat and that fastball broke his nose.
Red had yet to diagnosis George. He might have dementia, and then again, he might not. But after Sam’s outburst, she was inclined to do the opposite of what he wanted, professionalism be damned. It would serve him right.
* * * *
When Red got home, Grandma stood at the table, emptying Albertson’s grocery bags.
“I remembered who he is.”
“Who whom is?” asked Red with foreboding, rising wearily from picking up a wet leaf Grandma had tracked in.
“Sam Owens. He’s that boy who got his nose broke back when you were in ninth grade. The one you made me take to the hospital.”
Red hadn’t forgotten that incident. But from the way Grandma had acted—as if Sam weren’t good enough for her—she hadn’t been anxious to remind her.
“So?”
“You wouldn’t believe what I found out about him today,” said Grandma, closing the cupboard on a large box of Lipton Tea Bags.
Red didn’t know if she could take anymore bad news today. Her head was still pounding from her confrontation in the Woodcrest parking lot.
“I talked to your mama today. Wanted to tell her about that house you found.”
Red sighed. “If I had wanted to get Mom involved, I could have asked her months ago.”
Ignoring her, Grandma plowed ahead. “She gave me an earful. Did you know Sam has a sister by the name of Cindy about the same age as her? Cindy and your mama went to school together in McMinnville. Stayed friends even after they got out of school, until Cindy moved to Arizona.”
“How did you two figure this out?”
“I told her you were seeing this boy named Sam and then about that saltbox house you’re so excited about. But it was the strawberries that did it. She remembered the place. The chickens and everything.
“This Cindy always talked about this way littler brother of hers. She felt guilty not taking him in when her mom left, but she couldn’t stand to be around their dad. Psychodad, she called him. That’s how she left home…the mom, that is. The strawberry money.”
Red’s handbag fell to the floor with a thump.
No wonder Sam hated strawberries. She pressed her fingertips to her temples.
Grandma yammered on. “Haven’t you learned? Some men are beyond fixing. If you keep on being Suzy Sunshine, you’re going to end up going down the same road as your mama, and look where it got her: throwing away her life on one broke down man after another… Sophia. Look at you.” She frowned. “You’re soaking wet. Why, you’re shivering.”
“I’m going to go get out of these clothes,” Red said through chattering teeth. As cold and miserable as she felt, she was grateful for an excuse to get away.
* * * *
Red peeled off her clothes, wrapped her head in a towel and donned a bathrobe. Then she walked sedately over to her bedroom window, threw up the sash, and opened her mouth to scream.
Just in time, she snapped her mouth closed.
The worst part of being a shrink was not being able to vent in public. She couldn’t afford to scare away her clients.
She had to settle for a sigh.
She lowered herself to the edge of her bed.
Poor Sam.
Poor Sam? Where had that thought come from?
But in spite of her anger, her concern for him wouldn’t let go. She knew firsthand what it was like to lose your mother. At least she had had Grandma, however shortsighted she was. Sam had been stuck with a cold, uncaring father. No wonder he had issues.
Numb, she lowered herself to the edge of her bed, trying to make some sense of everything she’d learned. She should hate Sam, not feel compassion for him.
Maybe Grandma was right. Maybe she was attracted to fixing broken men, just like her mom.
Sam boded nothing but trouble. She should run from him as fast as she could. He was like a lion—proud, imposing, but ultimately, treacherous.
She fell back on her bed.
But he made her laugh with his stupid jokes. And that wasn’t all. She bit her lip. Whether in bed, a deserted vineyard, or anywhere else they happened to make love, in their most intimate he made her feel cherished. If she lost him, she’d spend the rest of her life making comparisons.
What was more, Sam wasn’t the only one who’d behaved badly. She’d used professional techniques to her advantage to get him to open up about his issues.
He’d given her no choice.
No. There was always a choice.
It wasn’t as if she’d tried to dupe him behind his back. She had asked for and received his permission.
But she was a psychologist; he wasn’t. And she’d used her professional knowledge to manipulate him for her benefit. She’d bartered sex for secrets.
He might be repressed, but she was unethical. Instead of acting like a p
rofessional, she had screamed at him. Called him crazy. A therapist never told anyone he was “crazy.” Psych 101.
She put her face in her pillow and screamed. Crazy was exactly what Sam Owens made her. Crazy with a capital C.
And now she was tasked with diagnosing his father. No matter what she concluded, her decision would have a far-reaching effect on Sam’s life.
A vision of Sam standing in the rain, yelling at her, came back to her.
“‘It’s all in your hands,’” he’d said. “‘You can’t let him go back there.’”
Or what? What was so important that he had to rush over to Woodcrest in the pouring rain to tell her?
She had lashed out at him, called him irrational. But he wasn’t always irrational. He was a natural leader who didn’t make a move that wasn’t well thought out. Despite his shadowy past, in two short years his dedication had inspired the respect of every grower and winemaker in the county.
There was something about that house. Something so painful it made him resort to outright lying…to her, of all people.
She’d been spending all her time trying to get others to talk. Now she was in desperate need of someone to talk to.
Chapter 26
The landscape surrounding Broken Hart Vineyards swept out before Red in the evening light like a painting, the house and outbuildings as much a part of the hillside as if they had grown out of the soil, just like the towering Douglas firs and the white oaks hung with mistletoe. Fertile vines dripped with fat, purple clusters. Everything was settled and orderly.
The bucolic sight should have calmed Red. Instead, it only served as a reminder of what she was missing. What her life had always missed.
A movement in the distance caught her eye, and she saw Junie putt putting along a row of vines atop her little orange tractor.
Red parked and found Manolo on the patio of the tasting room, sweeping beneath the tables and chairs.
“Junie’s out spraying. Probably be out there till dark.”
“She waved to me on my way in.”
“Beautiful evening. You’re welcome to wait. Something to drink?”
“No thanks. I came to see you, actually.”
“Me?” Manolo leaned on his broom handle and grinned. “Sorry, but I’m taken.”
“It’s about Sam.”
“Ah.” He went back to work. “Sounds serious.”
“You know that house I’ve been talking about?”
“The one you call the saltbox.”
“Did you know that’s the same house that Sam grew up in?”
He picked up a windblown branch too big for the dustpan and tossed it into a pile. “I’m from back east. Didn’t meet Sam till the service.”
She peered across the vineyard at the tractor. “I wonder if Junie knew,” she murmured.
“She didn’t say anything to me.”
She sighed. So she couldn’t find out anything about the house. There must be something Manny could tell her. “What was Sam like when you met him? What was his job?”
Manolo dumped the contents of the dustpan into a trashcan and propped the broom in a corner.
“Let’s go in.” He held the tasting room door open and followed her inside. “You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to Sam.”
Hearing that only worsened her growing guilt.
“Why do I have to hear that from you? Why doesn’t he tell me himself?”
“Sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“You won’t mind if I do.”
Red expected Manolo to reach for a wine bottle. But instead, he poured himself a whisky, neat. He took a sip and set his glass on the bar with a tick. “What’s Sam told you about his time overseas?”
“Not much. That’s why I’m here. I was hoping maybe you could fill me in.”
“Not really my place.”
“Manny,” pleaded Red, leaning over the live edge slab of oak that was the centerpiece of the bar. “I’m at my wit’s end. I thought Sam and I were finally going somewhere. He was starting to open up to me. And then, this afternoon, I found out he lied to me about something so basic as the house he grew up in.”
She filled Manolo in about consulting with Sam’s dad. “Why would he do that? He knew how much that house means to me.”
“Tell me something,” said Manolo. “What makes someone decide to be a psychologist?”
Red shrugged and took a breath. “No one survives childhood without some bruises, do they? In my case, my parents loved me, but they had issues. They couldn’t keep it together enough to raise a child,” she said matter-of-factly. “My dad left early on. Mom brought home so many men I started losing track of them all. Finally, my grandmother intervened. I’ve been with her since I was nine.”
“And studying psychology helped you come to terms with that?”
“When I was little, I took all the blame on myself. I thought if I could just get better grades, help more around the house, I could make my parents happier, keep them together. A teacher noticed I was struggling and referred me to the school psychologist. That was my introduction to talk therapy. I got some more help after I went to college. Saw a series of therapists. From them I learned it’s better to be honest and open. It’s not what happened that causes people grief so much as how they process it.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“I never said it was easy. I said it was healthy.”
“You knew you were loved. And you had your grandmother. There are some people whose wounds have been buried for so long they don’t even remember where to find them.”
“Who are we talking about here?” Red said.
“I got a wedding coming up, and I don’t know if my own father is going to come.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He’s still hung up on me not following him into the family business.”
“That must be hard for you. Is that why you didn’t go back to New Jersey after the Army?”
Manolo folded his arms on the bar. “Like I said, sometimes talking just doesn’t cut it.”
“Did you try talking about it?”
Manolo huffed. “Trust me. I got three sisters. All they do is talk, talk, talk. Growing up, they took my side with my old man time and time again. All it did was make him dig in his heels.”
“So you distanced yourself,” she said without judging. “Put a whole continent between you and your problem.”
“Well,” he said with a grin, “there was Junie. I’d have gone to the moon for her.”
“But from what Junie told me, you’d already been living like a nomad for some time before you met her.”
“Alls I’m saying is, sometimes talk’s not enough. Sometimes a person’s got to take action.” He lifted a case of wine from beneath the counter and started unloading it, lining up the bottles on the counter.
“Like that list of songs you came up with the other night.”
“I might have over-stepped. I was only trying to be helpful.”
“I’m just saying. Years of talk therapy and you still can’t get over wanting to make everything all right.”
Red’s face began to burn all over again. Her lips thinned.
“Isn’t there anything you can tell me that would help me understand where Sam’s coming from?”
Manolo’s hand paused on a bottle of Junie’s pinot noir. He thought for a moment, then spoke in measured words. “You’re a shrink. You know there’s a limit to how much a man can take. Sam had the kind of assignment that can mess with a man’s head even when it’s short-term. Problem with war is, you can’t clock out at five PM. You got to stay as long as it takes. That’s what Sam did, because that’s the kind of soldier he was, the kind of individual he still is: fully committed to the people and principles he cares a
bout.”
“I still feel like if I could just get him to open up...”
“The way you opened up just now when I brought up your need to fix everything from my play list to Sam’s psyche?”
A bud of realization unfurled.
Manolo let it sink in for a moment before going on.
“You want my advice? Here it is.” He leaned on the bar and met her eyes straight on. “Hang in. Sam’ll open up when he’s ready.”
Humbled, she looked away.
“Or—”
She looked up again.
“—he won’t. Only you can decide if that’s a gamble you’re willing to take. For both of your sakes, I hope you are.”
Chapter 27
When Sam woke up, he knew without looking at the calendar what day it was.
Still, he went to work like it was any other day.
Later that afternoon, he headed out to Broken Hart Vineyards, knowing that like him, Manolo would be on his own.
On his way in he saw a handful of customers milling around the patio, admiring the view while they sipped wine.
He found Manolo behind the bar, taking inventory.
Sam slung his camouflage messenger bag onto the barstool next to him. “Got any beer back there?”
“This is a wine tasting room, buddy,” replied Manolo, recognizing Sam’s voice without having to look up from his electronic tablet. “Can’t you read the sign?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
Manolo took one look at him and said, “One beer, coming right up.”
He popped the top off a Deschutes IPA and the cap clattered to the counter. “Nice man bag, by the way.”
“Didn’t ask you.” Sam took a long pull on his bottle.
“So,” said Manolo, putting aside his tablet for the moment. “You gonna tell me what’s crawled up your ass? Or do I have to guess?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Your choice.” He paused. Then he said, “Might as well tell you. Red was out here last night.”
Sam averted his eyes. “She tell you she’s the specialist they called in to diagnose my dad, too?”
Kisses Sweeter Than Wine Page 13