At the Corner of King Street

by Mary Ellen Taylor

  “Sorry about the hot water, babe,” Scott shouted down the hallway. “Lost track of time while I was showering.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “See you at the party.”

  “Love you.”

  “Me, too,” he said as he left.

  Out of the shower, I toweled off and then twisted my hair in the towel. I changed into a white sundress. In my former life, there would have been time to shop for accessories or maybe another dress, but in my new life, I was grateful to be clean. A quick application of makeup added pop to my features and instead of drying my hair I twisted the curls into a French twist. Ringlets framed my face and, again, it wasn’t the super sophisticated look once planned, but it worked.

  I dug a pair of older sandals from the closet, momentarily wishing for time to buy new shoes, and slipped them on before heading outside. The sun settled a little lower on the horizon and cast a warm, lovely glow over the rolling land covered with green vineyards. For a moment, I stopped and stared at the sunset, realizing how much I missed it the last few days. Soon, I’d be back. Soon my life would be normal again.

  The crunch of gravel heralded the arrival of our guests and I forgot about sandals, sunsets, or normal.

  The flash of a camera bulb told me the photographer was here. God, I’d forgotten all about him.

  A grinning Scott stood at the entrance of the tasting room as the guests arrived. I nestled close to his side, and the two of us greeted guests before George drew me away with questions about serving sizes and limits.

  “Everyone gets a half glass and we’ll limit the number of servings to three.”

  “Some people will want more.”

  “I’m not sanctioning drunk driving.”

  George glanced at the bartender and held up his hand as the man prepared to pour a glass of wine. “We have a guest who’s already on his second glass.”

  My gaze settled on the man at the bar. Mr. Dixon. He was a rich and well-connected landowner who was known in town as a drunk. “Three-glass limit, George. If he has an issue, send him to me, not Scott. I’ll deal with him.”

  “Sure thing, Addie.” As a waiter passed with a tray of whites, George grabbed one. “Have a glass.”

  I accepted the glass and took a long sip. The dry white slid over my tongue and I welcomed not only the flavor, but the kick of alcohol that softened so many edges that hardened over the last couple of days. I took a second sip. “Thank you.”

  “What the heck happened to you in Alexandria? You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

  “It was a six-pound, six-ounce truck.”

  “What?”

  “Just family stuff. But thank you for asking.” I dug my cell from my pocket to see if Grace called me back. No calls. Was that good or bad? Carrie wasn’t easy and Grace wasn’t patient. The two were not a good mix.

  Scott came up to me, his grin nervous and expectant. “Are we ready to get started?”

  I slid the phone back into my pocket. “We are in about five minutes. I have a detail or two to check and I’ll kick off the night.”

  His grin softening to genuine, he leaned in and kissed me on the lips. “Have I told you how much I love you?”

  “Never enough. Never enough.”

  “After tonight, I’ll do a better job of it. I won’t be so distracted.” A local newspaper reporter moved toward us and Scott glanced away. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I know.”

  I moved to the ladies’ room and dug the phone out. I dialed Grace’s number. She didn’t have a cell but a rotary phone hung on the kitchen wall. No answering machine made the entire setup Stone Age. Who didn’t have a cell? The phone rang three times, four times, and then a breathless, “What the hell?”

  “Aunt Grace,” I said, lowering my voice and moving into one of the stalls. I closed the door and locked it. “How’s it going?” In the distance, Carrie’s cries echoed off the high walls of the warehouse apartment.

  “I called Daisy. She’s got a boy who’s only seven months old. She knows babies. She’s come over to the house.”

  “Daisy McCrae.”

  “Daisy Sinclair. And yeah.”

  The girl I remembered was rough and tough and always looking to start a fight. That summer we all ran together, Daisy did a fine job of making her sister Rachel cry. “Can you put her on the phone?” Outside I heard the hum of the crowd blend with the guitar music. Laughter mingled with the clink of glasses.

  “Addie?” The voice was feminine and gruff, and I immediately pictured the long-legged hellion.

  “Daisy.”

  “The baby’s fine. Cranky as hell, but fine. She was almost asleep when you called.”

  Picturing Carrie’s red face crying, I jabbed tense fingers through my hair. “Sorry. You have plenty of bottles?”

  “You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”

  The bathroom door opened, and I hunched a little lower. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Long story. But I’ll see Grace by ten tomorrow.”

  “Okay. We’ll survive.” Her voice softened. “Do what you got to do. We’ll manage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No worries. Got to go.” The line went dead, and I was left to stare at the phone. A toilet flushed. I hurried out of the stall, washed my hands, and moved straight to the tasting counter.

  The next several hours blended like a mixture of our grapes. Sweet moments mixed with sour notes, but all in all, the evening came together as planned. Scott charmed the crowd. The wines, for the most part, were a hit. The cake earned laughs as Scott cut into it and the photographer snapped pictures. Mr. Dixon found his way to several more wineglasses and when the man slumped in his seat, George and I escorted him out so his wife could drive him home.

  We received dozens of orders—not a stellar breakout, but enough to generate buzz. Launching a wine was a building process. We pressed enough grapes this year to bottle thirty thousand bottles. Certainly the night was not enough to get us on the world stage, but it was a start.

  Under the exhaustion, satisfaction hummed. Mission accomplished. I’d have savored the moment but there was still much followup to do. Guests to call about their reactions to the event and the wines. More media calls. So many plans . . .

  It didn’t matter what the plans were, because I was driving back to Alexandria to sort out an issue that refused to be settled.

  Close to midnight, I was collecting glasses from the tables and placing them in the glass cases, which would be picked up tomorrow. George pulled all the extra bottles of wine and placed them in the fridge and boxed up what little food remained for himself and his wife. Scott was outside talking on his cell to a restaurant owner in Lexington who enjoyed the evening and wanted to schedule an event at his restaurant.

  As I dropped glasses into their slots, the door opened and closed. Scott leaned against the doorjamb, his face a blend of euphoria and exhaustion. I flashed back to the last time we made love and he wore a similar look. A good kind of exhaustion, he’d said then.

  “Why don’t you leave those for the morning?” he asked, crossing to me. He took a glass from my hands and wrapped his arms around me. “God, you feel good.”

  I relaxed into his embrace. “So do you.”

  “You did a stunning job.”

  “Thanks. So did you.” I kicked off my shoes, put an apron on over my dress, and undid the French twist.

  “We were a hit.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair and massaged my scalp. “It was a great start.”

  He leaned back and studied my face. “That’s not the enthusiasm I expected.”

  “I’m excited.”

  “But not exuberant. Why not?”

  “Always better to be a little excited and find out later it went so much better than y
ou expected.”

  He kissed my forehead. “You’re my serious Addie. The one who is always expecting disaster.”

  “And you’re my dreamer. That’s why we make such a good combination.”

  “We’re the dream team.”

  “Yes.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Come to bed.”

  Resisting his gentle tug, I shook my head. “I really have to finish the glasses. They’re being picked up very early. Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll be in soon?”

  He rested his chin on my head. “I should help.”

  “That’s okay. You had a long day.”

  A sigh trickled from his lips and he leaned back and studied my face. “You wouldn’t be mad if I left you to this?”

  “No. No, I wouldn’t. Just go.”

  He kissed me again, and I savored the touch of his lips against mine and the feel of his chest pressing against my breasts. I loved touching Scott, and in his arms I almost, almost felt like I was safe from the world.

  He left me to load the remaining glasses. By two in the morning the last of the glasses were packed away, the table linens shoved in laundry bags, and the counters wiped. The tasting area sparkled.

  When I slipped into bed next to Scott, I lay on my back, my body exhausted, my brain too jazzed with nervous energy and caffeine. A few hours sleep would have to do. Maybe tomorrow night, Carrie and I could sleep.

  March 1, 1751

  Dr. Goodwin remains fragile, but he is getting stronger. I saw Mistress Smyth at the market and she told me she heard Faith attended my son’s birth. She tells me also that Faith delivered the pastor wife’s baby. A girl. Mother and child are doing well. Mrs. Smyth heard Faith spun magic around the woman and relieved her birthing pains. “It’s a sin,” she whispered. “A sin.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “What do you mean you’re leaving?” Scott stared at me over a toasted bagel loaded with cream cheese.

  “I’ve got to run into Alexandria.” I wriggled into clean jeans and a white top that floated above my waistline. “It’s going to take me a couple of weeks to sort it all out.”

  “A couple of weeks?” He sat up, leaning heavily on his elbow. “But you just got back. I thought you’d handled your family crisis.”

  “I’ve gotten some of it handled, and I’ll fix the rest in the next few weeks.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Two or three.” Okay, it was four weeks, but I’d tell him that later.

  “Shit, Addie. You’re going to be gone almost a month. Who’s going to take the orders or coordinate the press?”

  “I will. I’ve forwarded the phones to my cell and George will keep the day-to-day operations in play like he always does.”

  “What’s going on with your family?”

  From my top drawer, I grabbed clean underwear, T-shirts, and shorts. “Truly, it’s not that exciting.”

  “If it’s taking you away for three weeks, I want to know.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled on his shorts, and crossed to me. He cupped his hands on my face, the worn callouses brushing my cheeks. “What’s going on with you?”

  His hands, warm and welcoming, tugged at the secrets locked away. “Family stuff.”

  His darkening gaze searched mine. “I don’t know any information about your family. You never, ever talk about them.”

  “Because they’re a lot of drama. And I hoped I’d left them behind for good, but more drama has caught up to me.”

  He rested calloused hands on my shoulders. “Let me help.”

  As much as I wanted to share this burden with him, I feared the telling of one secret would lead to another and another and then one day he’d know the darkest part of me that I could never share. “I don’t want to drag you into this.”

  “Honey, you’re important to me and whatever is an issue for you is an issue for me.”

  Scott believed what he was saying. He wanted to believe it. But Janet and Carrie were not sprint races; they were twin marathons that would exhaust the toughest of runners. Scott could lend his attention to events outside the vineyard for short bursts, but for him to put all this on hold to take care of a fussy baby and her mentally ill mother, well, that went beyond what he could handle. I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.

  His thumb traced my jawline as he held my face. “Honey, let me help.”

  I pulled his hands from my face and kissed the palms. “I’ll make a deal. If I can’t figure this out in a couple of weeks and put it behind me, then we’ll talk.”

  A frown wrinkled his brow. “Either way, we need to talk.”

  In four weeks, with Carrie settled into a good home and separating me from Alexandria, I was fairly certain I could talk to Scott about my family. We would never get into the dark and dirty secrets, but I could skim the surface enough to satisfy him.

  “Two or three weeks?”

  A smile curved the edges of my lips. “Four at the outside. It won’t be long.”

  “Four weeks?” He pulled me against him, and I could feel his erection pressing into me. “I don’t like it when you’re gone.”

  “I don’t like being gone.” Some of my resolve melted and for a moment, temptation whispered, “Stay. Just stay.” I wanted the past to leave me alone. I wanted this life with Scott. I wanted . . .

  My wants would have to wait. Like it or not, Carrie needed me and she was as stuck in this mess as I was. Neither one of us asked for the hand we were dealt.

  Before temptation could speak again, I slipped out of his embrace and grabbed a handful of clothes from the dresser and shoved them in my duffel bag. I zipped up the bag and hefted it on my shoulder. “I’ve already packed my laptop and papers in the car so I can work remotely. This time of year, the work I do is all office related.”

  “What about the website and the pictures from the photographer?”

  “I’ll take care of it in Alexandria.”

  He shook his head and grabbed my wrist in his hands. “Four weeks, Addie, and if you’re not home, I’m coming after you.”

  His declaration warmed my heart. “You won’t have to track me down. I’ll be here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I drove the gravel drive of the vineyard, the dust kicking up around my back tires. Through the cloud of dirt I saw Scott standing by our house, waving before he turned and vanished into the house.

  Tightening my grip on the wheel, I slowed at the main road, turned right, and followed the twisting pavement through the small town of Middlebrook and then toward the interstate. Five days ago, leaving the country, I was angry and filled with resentment I couldn’t voice. Now, well, I wasn’t happy about returning to Alexandria, but a grim determination settled over me. I wasn’t embracing my past, but I needed to deal with it head on or it would chip away at my future.

  When I arrived at the salvage yard at eleven, Grace was waiting for me at the top of the stairs with a crying Carrie. Without a word, I dropped my bag and purse in a heap at the top of the stairs and took the baby. A few days of experience taught me to check her diaper and ask, “When was the last time she ate?”

  Grace turned toward the kitchen, her limbs moving stiff and slow, as if she aged twenty years in the last twenty-four hours. “She took a bottle at two but refused all since. I tried, but she won’t take it.”

  “Where’s the bottle?”

  “Kitchen counter. By the sink.”

  As I moved closer to the kitchen, Carrie’s cries grew louder and more impatient. I reached for the bottle and checked the temperature on my wrist. Warm enough. The nipple popped in her mouth, and she suckled immediately. Her little body remained tense and her tear-streaked face tight with tension. When I began to sway back and forth, she slowly relaxed.

  Grace raised a brow. “She would not do that for me. Not once. Almost like she figured out the B-Team was in charge
.”

  I moved to a kitchen chair and sat, cradling the baby in my arm. “I’m hardly the A-Team.”

  She poured a cup of coffee and then dug out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. She splashed a generous amount in her coffee before she took several slow sips.

  She waved her mug toward the baby. “The kid isn’t stupid. She understands you’re the best person in her corner now. Without you, she’d be a number in a foster home family.”

  I settled Carrie a little closer to me and the remaining tension furrowing her little brow vanished. “I’m not a permanent solution, Grace. Janet is her mother.”

  Grace scoffed. “Janet’s got a good soul, but she’s not a mother. She’ll maybe want to try at some point, but she won’t be able to handle the heavy lifting. She never has been able to handle it.”

  “Just like Mom.”

  “Your mother had a soft soul. She loved you and Janet. She just couldn’t do it.”

  I pulled the bottle from the baby’s mouth to give her a chance to let her milk settle. Too fast down meant it came right back up. Carrie fussed a second or two before I settled the nipple on her lips again. “You could have taken us.”

  Grace sipped her coffee once, twice. “I’m not cut out for parenthood, Addie.”

  “Who’s to say I am? I’m pretty darn good at running a business. I like my independence. I’m not so different than you.”

  “You are very different from me.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because you came back. I’d have stayed at my vineyard and not come back.” She finished the last of the coffee, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and pushed away from the counter. “I need sleep.”

  As the baby suckled, I eased back in the chair and listened to Grace’s feet shuffle along the hallway. Her bedroom door closed and the lock clicked.