by Elise Faber
Delicious. Boys and I say thanks.
I smiled at the picture that accompanied the words, Tammy in her uniform, a slice of cinnamon apple bread in her hand, several crumb-filled pieces of foil on the table in the background. I typed a quick reply.
Sorry we couldn’t grab a meal. Unfortunately, I had to get back.
No apologies necessary. There will be other times.
That I wasn’t sure of.
Hope to see you in California soon.
A beat then:
Don’t be a stranger. I miss having a friend I can talk ALL the shit with.
That made me grin and answer.
It’s good we know our own strong points.
Word.
I was just typing up a response when my cell buzzed again.
Sorry to run. Duty calls.
Be safe. Talk soon.
Tammy didn’t reply, and I set my phone on my nightstand, stomach rumbling, my emotions strung tight. I couldn’t sit across the table from Artie and Pierce and perfect little Brenna and not feel lonely, not feel longing.
It wasn’t that my biological clock was ticking—though I wasn’t against the idea of having a kid any longer—rather, my friends were just such a solid unit. They knew each other in a deep, meaningful way, and that wasn’t something I’d had, even with Aaron when we’d been together.
Maybe that wasn’t fair.
Aaron and I had known each other deeply. It was just that our level of understanding, that deepness had made any difference in the end, not when what we’d wanted was so mutually exclusive.
Stay. Go.
Family. Freedom.
Never would have worked.
I walked into the little kitchenette, fingers itching with the need to cook something, to bake anything, to focus on the ingredients, on the science, on things that made sense. If I added the right amount of baking soda, the loaves would rise. If I baked them too long, they would be dry. If I forgot to add eggs, they would be an utter disaster.
Flour, sugar, oil, and eggs into a homogenous mixture. Apples for moisture. Cinnamon for spice.
My cell rang as I was stirring everything together, Talbot calling in on FaceTime. I hit the button, grinned at his pajamas.
“You’re wearing them,” I exclaimed happily.
He wagged a finger at me, eyes narrowing. “You and I need to have a word, missy.”
My stomach clenched, and I let the whisk fall into the bowl. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem?” He threw up his hands, not helping my stomach-clenching issue. “The problem is that you bought me these stupidly expensive pajamas, and now my body revolts with anything less than the silky gloriousness on my skin.”
I snorted, shook my head, lips curving despite the heaviness sitting on my heart. I loved this man so much.
He never failed to make me smile, never played the Hollywood ego, not that any of my clients did. I had too few hours in the day to deal with elitist bullshit, so I was choosy with who I took on.
“That’s better,” he said, face softening. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay. I’m home.”
“Did something—?”
“No.” A shake of my head to accompany the lie, because a lot had fucking happened. “My dad’s okay. It was just more comfortable for everyone if I came home early.”
“Comfortable for him?” he asked. “Or for you?”
“How did the interviews go?” I replied rather than answering, going for subterfuge instead of truth.
He fixed me with a stare. “Maggie.”
“What?”
“You’re baking. You’re home after a day, when you said you’d be gone a week. And I repeat,” he said. “You’re. Baking.”
“I bake.” Sometimes. Okay, hardly ever anymore. Only when I was really upset.
Which Talbot knew, since we’d share one too many old-fashioneds during our last press tour and had played two truths and a lie.
Ugh.
“Marjorie Allen—”
I scowled at the use of the full version of my old lady name. Marjorie made me feel like I should be wearing a house dress and curlers. “Remind me not to drink with you anymore.”
“I like your name,” he said. “It’s classic and slides off the tongue like—”
“Interviews,” I interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence.
“Baking,” he countered.
I sighed, knowing that while he might not have ego, he rivalled me in stubbornness. I either was going to give in and dish, or I’d need to hang up and silence my phone.
And if I took option two, I’d be fending off Artie in all of five minutes because he’d sic her on me if I tried to avoid him.
“You’re the worst.”
“I’m the client who made it through all the interviews without any snafus, who was charming and trustworthy, and who didn’t insult a single person, either unintentionally or on purpose.”
I tugged at my straight brown hair. “You want to make me go prematurely gray, don’t you?”
He paused, considering. “I think you’d look cute gray.” A beat. “Marjorie.”
“Ugh!” I dropped the whisk into the bowl, picked up my cell, and stomped my way to the couch. “What? What do you want to know? That my dad was the same old mean bastard and I got my feelings hurt? That, worse, Aaron was there, and I—he—”
I dropped my chin to my chest.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he murmured into the quiet. “You deserve better from your dad.” He sighed. “But you know what my next question is going to be, right?”
I did.
I played dumb anyway. “So, things got tense and I came home. End of story. I’m going to work on not caring so much, on trying to accept that my dad and I won’t have the type of relationship I crave.”
Quiet. Then, “I’m glad, Mags. That’s the right call, I think. But you also know that’s not what I’m going to ask.”
“I think I hear the timer,” I said, standing. “I gotta go.”
“Nice try, babe. You were still mixing when I called.” His glare held me in place, even through the screen of my cell. “Who’s Aaron?”
I wrinkled my nose, debated answering for a few more heartbeats then told him the truth. “My ex.”
“I thought you didn’t date.”
“What?” I asked, shocked as I sank back down onto the couch cushions. “I date.”
“Since when?” he countered. “I’ve never seen you with a man or woman who wasn’t a client. And since Eden, Artie, and Pierce are married, and you’re clearly not trying to get into my pants . . .”
He trailed off.
I frowned. “I have a life outside of you guys.”
“Do you?” he asked. “Because while I know that Artie and Pierce have slowed their schedules in the last few years, Eden and I are busy as ever.”
“I date,” I replied stubbornly.
“Are you counting attending a work function and talking to another man, or woman, as a date?”
I was. Dammit.
“That’s not the point.”
Talbot snorted. “That’s exactly the point.”
“Snorting isn’t cute,” I said.
“Good thing I don’t care about being cute, and even if I did that I have a talented publicist to help me figure that out,” he said and added, voice gentling, “One who any man or woman would be lucky to date.”
“Man,” I said. One in particular, who made my heart alternate between aching and skipping a beat, who sent my nerves into shock, who filled me with longing. And memories. And wishes that somehow things could have been different.
“What?”
“I’m attracted to men. “Just for the record. I like men.”
“Ah, so ex-Aaron is Aaron with an A.”
“Yeah.” I pushed to my feet again, crossed to the kitchen, well aware my tone sounded miserable.
“That good, huh?”
“I’ll remind you that
I bake to forget my f-feelings,” I told him, hating when I faltered over the last word, misery trailing through me again. “Not to relive them.”
“Babe.”
I sighed. “Aaron and I were high school sweethearts, okay? He wanted to get married. I wanted to live a bigger life. He’s still living in Utah and is the one who called to tell me my dad was in the hospital,” I said, giving Talbot the Cliffs Notes version. Then I shook my head and positioned the phone near my mixing bowl. “He’s also never forgiven me for breaking things off between us, and he had some choice words to say when I saw him at the house.”
“Asshole.”
I shook my head. “Unfortunately, not. He’s hurt. I broke his dream to take mine.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Not bullshit,” I said. “But also not fair of him,” I added when Tal would have continued protesting. “Still, I said my piece, told him he needed to get over it and move on like an adult.” I shrugged. “Not sure any of that got through, but I’m at as much peace about it as I can be. I didn’t want to hurt him, and I’m sorry he was hurt. But even if I could go back and change the past, I wouldn’t.” I smiled at my friend through the phone. “I like my life now.”
“Mags.”
Please don’t push for more details.
I didn’t think I had the strength to churn them all up again, not when they’d been a constant rejoinder for the last day and a half.
“I love you.”
My breath caught. There was a reason he was the biggest star right now. Tal was gorgeous, sweet, and could be all too charming. “Too bad you’re not single,” I said, picking up the whisk and starting to stir.
He grinned, but it was a brief flash before concern bled through his expression. “You sure you’re good?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”
Or I would be fine. Eventually.
Talbot was quiet for a few more moments and when I heard him start to speak again, I braced myself. As mentioned, he rivaled me in stubbornness, and I really just wanted to forget my old life back in Utah for a bit. Not avoidance so much as self-preservation.
Thanking when he began talking again, it was about work.
He filled me in on the interviews, highlighting the key points, telling me that my new assistant, Sam, who was cutting his teeth on his first big solo PR gig, had done a pretty good job of keeping everyone on topic and on time. I was thrilled to hear it. Sam had sent a report to me via email, but nothing really mattered unless the client was happy.
“I’m glad,” I said when he paused for air.
“Me, too.”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him I was going to let him go, but then Talbot transitioned from business into a hilarious anecdote about the director, who was apparently scared of flies, lurching off his chair in the middle of a shot, dumping it over and frightening the cast and crew half to death before running in circles to, “Get it away. Get it away!”
By the time the reenactment was done, I was in stitches, tears pouring down my cheeks.
“I shouldn’t laugh,” I said. “But . . .”
Talbot was chuckling, too. “I know, but I feel okay doing it now. Especially since we took care of the fly, and Ralph spent the rest of the day poking fun at his phobia.”
“That’s good.”
He nodded, and I smiled at him, the ache in my heart not quite as painful.
“I know what you’re doing,” I told him, wishing he was here so I could give him a hug.
“Yeah, what’s that?” he asked, all innocent.
I shook my head. “Thanks, Tal.”
His expression gentled. “Anytime, babe.” Then he grinned, mischief back on his face. “Just so you’re aware, I ordered a giant blow-up fly to be delivered to set tomorrow.”
I burst out laughing. “They have those?”
“They sure do. In fact, they have all sorts of blow-up animals . . .”
I listened to him talk as I poured the batter into the loaf pans, as I slid them into the oven, as I set the timer and waited.
And by the time we hung up, my baked loaves were cooling on the counter, and I didn’t feel flayed open any longer.
I was stitched back together.
My family, my real family, had done that.
Seven
Aaron
“She’s trash, I tell you,” Warren muttered, hobbling in through the door to the bunkhouse.
“Claudette?” I asked, familiar enough with the Warren Show at the moment to know he was unhappy having a nurse ordering him around.
“No,” Warren snapped, eyes darting around the room, as though he was uncertain for a moment where he was, but before that inkling really processed, his next words had me reeling. “The other one . . . my daughter.”
Was this a She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named situation?
But I had work to do, and so I needed to kindly kick Warren out of here. Once, this had been the perfect partnership, the two of us in league railing against the unjust world . . . or really, the unfairness that was Mags leaving. Now, that was getting a little old.
Especially as several weeks had gone by, and I couldn’t get her words out of my head. Was I to blame? The logical part of my mind told me it made sense—
Shaking myself, I tuned back to Warren, just in time to hear, “And did you know, she told Claudette to make sure I’m taking my medication?” He huffed. “Like I’m a child. She’s the child. She’s the piece of trash I should have gotten rid of long ago.”
Fury.
Not at Maggie, but at Warren.
She might not be in Utah every weekend, but she did a good job of taking care of the old man, especially when he didn’t want to be taken care of, when he fought her about everything from the gardener to the housecleaner to the guy who’d come out to clean the gutters.
“I should have thrown—”
“Don’t,” I gritted out.
Warren’s gaze found his. “What?”
“Don’t say that about Maggie.”
He sniffed. “I can say what I want.”
“Not around me.” Not any longer. Not when her words were running through my mind every night when I went to bed. Not when, with each day that passed, it was harder and harder to deny she was right.
“I can do what I want,” Warren muttered, but he turned away, headed for the door before I had a chance to rebut that. “Stupid hands. Always overstepping. Never know their boundary.”
I frowned as the door slammed behind him, thinking it had been a long time since I’d been simply a hand helping out on this ranch.
But also . . . Warren was Warren.
Crochety. Inexplicable. Warren.
Sighing, I opened my laptop, took a few moments to find my place again, and got back to work.
It had been three weeks since I’d come back to the ranch and found Warren splayed on the concrete, and I was getting the hell out of Dodge.
Storms were coming in regular intervals, snow was piled high on the side of every road, and Warren was back on his feet, slightly wobbling but doing a good enough job of getting himself around the house.
Though, I couldn’t say I’d had much to do with that.
Claudette had driven him home from the hospital and promptly taken over, running the ranch with an iron fist I’d come to respect. I’d spent my days in meetings and going over reports, but now, my business in town was completed, and I was ready for my next round of travel.
Even after nearly eight years in the business, I still wasn’t quite sure how I’d fallen into the wine industry. Of course, I knew how, but it was still almost a surprise when I thought about what I did for a living.
But here I was with vineyards in Italy, France, Utah, and . . . California.
Temecula. Southern California’s wine country and the location where our biggest seller was grown.
Our Chardonnay had a velvety texture and just the right amount of sweetness.
But, surprisingly, our Utah varieties were taking off. I’d
thought it a bizarre crop for the state when I’d first snagged a summer job at the only winery nearby between my freshman and sophomore years of college. The man who’d owned it, Carlos, was eccentric to say the least, and everyone in town thought he was insane for picking Utah, even crazier for growing something called ice wine.
The grapes were harvested in December or January, when they froze on the vine, and then pressed for juice still frozen. It made for an intensely sweet wine, albeit unusual. But as the market had grown for the variety, Carlos had taken me under his wing. I was a business major with my eye on an MBA; he was the green thumb. We’d become partners—hello, student loans—but it had funded both my education and an investment into the business.
And then the business had paid off my loans.
And then we’d bought into Temecula.
Then France in the Loire Valley. Finally, Italy in Abruzzo.
Carlos had returned to his native Italy to manage our European investments, and I’d stayed on to manage the U.S. side. We still crossed paths regularly, both making sure to keep our fingers on the pulse of all our locations, but the division of locations suited us . . . and the variation in time zones.
My business partner was still eccentric and experimental, but we’d both worked like hell to build our own slice of the wine industry, our tiny empire of four wineries. Kings of the Grapes, as Carlos liked to say.
I figured I was more the King of the Spreadsheets, but I let Carlos do his thing.
For now, our Utah grapes were nearly ready for harvest, and the staff here had things well in hand. So, I was heading out to California to meet with my marketing team and an actor they wanted to utilize to help promote our wines. After that, I would walk through and approve, hopefully, a new planting area we were going to seed in the spring. Fires had taken out a chunk of our vines the previous year, and if we were investing in rebuilding part of the acreage, Carlos and I wanted to make sure the money was worth it.
Okay, I wanted to make sure the money was worth it.
Carlos had walked the grounds in bare feet and declared, “This is the spot.”
Luckily for me, and the reason our business had been successful so far, was that Carlos could be reasoned with if logistics proved impossible. However, that was rarely necessary, because Carlos’s bare feet technique was damned near infallible.