by Tif Marcelo
Has it only been a week since San Francisco?
I’m realizing that sometimes you don’t truly know what you’re missing until the thing that was taken away comes back to you. This week, I pretended to move on because there was no other choice. Now that Mitchell’s here, I’m mourning the time we spent apart, the love I wasn’t able to express.
“I heard what you said.” I fix my gaze between his eyes to keep myself from falling to pieces. “And I appreciate what you did, but I don’t know if I can do this, Mitchell. When I agreed to the live stream in the beginning, I was stupid and naive to think this wouldn’t bite me in the butt. I was wrong, and I’ve lost a lot.”
Mitchell takes my hand. “Then don’t let us go. This thing between us is real. It is absolutely real, and we have to fight for it. I love you. And if I have to make up for it every single day . . . If I have to come up here and weed these gardens and fix your plumbing just so you’ll talk to me and give us another chance, I will. You know, I came home missing something. I was searching for something that would put me back together. And I realize what I needed was someone who saw me despite my being broken and loved me for it anyway. Yeah, it took the show, took the cameras to make me see it, but there’s no doubting it now. I can’t do this life without you, now that I know what it feels like to have you in it.”
My chest seizes with joy. He brought everything to the table: this grand gesture of commitment to me. A commitment I can easily return. But I have my own words to say, thoughts I must articulate.
“Can I . . . can I hold your hands?” I ask. When he nods, I take them into mine. They’re rough and callused, dry from his work in the vines. They represent who he is—this valiant, get-in-the-ground messy, brave soul. He took me on like his family vineyard, willing to work for me, for us. Yet he doesn’t seek control. Just as he trains the leaves back to cajole the grapes, he doesn’t force his decisions. He wants me to choose him, too.
I entwine my fingers with his, and our connection sparks like live wires. I inhale deeply and gauge what to say, but I exhale, giving up, going with my heart. “I think too much, you know?”
I look up to Mitchell’s confused face, so I try again. “My temper, my assumptions, my doubts. They’re out of control, like knee-jerk reactions. They’ve served me well in business and in surviving, but not so much in everything else. I pushed you away, and I risked throwing us away.
“When we’re together . . . when we were pretending to be together, I was happier than I ever was with anyone else for real. For those moments, I felt like I could have it all, the career and the guy and the love, you know? When we got back from our week without the camera, I was fully committed to you, whether or not you were ready. Coming back here and realizing our lives are too complicated? I got scared again.”
“My brother, he didn’t mean—” he starts to say, but I gently lay a finger on my lips.
“It’s not about Levi, not really. It’s about us. In the beginning, I thought leasing Lavenderhill would change my life. But it’s you. It’s you who changed it.”
“Come here.” He pulls me to him so my back is against the island and he has both hands on my waist. His eyes are pleading, glassy.
I palm his face with both hands, and despite my flowing tears, I conjure a firm tone and make my final demand. “But for this to work, I want to be first in your life—”
“You are first—”
“Listen, please. One rule, only one thing: it’s you and me. We talk to each other first. We figure things out together. Even on our worst days—”
“On our worst days, through my sleepless nights, at every sunset. It’s just you and me.”
He stops me with a kiss before I can rebut, and for the first time ever, I don’t vie for the last word. My body settles into his hold, into his arms. Into his promise. With this man, I’ve already won.
This won’t be a new beginning for us, but a continuation of our version of paradise.
Paraiso.
41
MITCHELL
It’s been quiet since the cameras left two weeks ago. Not that the rest of the vineyard is silent, because it’s everything but. We have a full crew on board for our late August harvest, and the sound of hard work is music to my ears. There are enough cars coming up and down the driveway to Paraiso, and despite Bryn’s initial aversion to having a new paved driveway, it has served us well. Our combined customers have easily filled every open spot on the hill.
“You were right about the parking lot,” I say to Levi, who’s gathering his things at his feet. We’re at the curb of Sacramento Airport’s departure area, and he’s finally leaving, three weeks after he originally promised Ruby he’d be home. He’s grown a beard since arriving and gotten some much-needed sun, looking more like our father than ever.
“I knew I was.” He mutters, then a wry smile appears on his lips. He pops my truck door open and gives me the side-eye. “But you were right about everything else.”
“Say what?” I raise my eyebrows. “Did you say I was right?”
“Yeah. You were right about the winery, about you being home. About me being out of line. You were also right to put me in my place. I wanted to fix things, but I fucked up, and I’m sorry. You’ve got this, though. Dunford is in the best hands with you.”
He sticks out a hand for me to shake.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask.
“You too good to shake my hand?”
“No, dummy. This warrants a hug.” I grip his palm and pull him toward me, hook his neck with my elbow.
“Hey, I’m not promising never to stick my neck in Dunford’s business.”
“I know, and I’ll be here to push back if needed. You’ve always taken care of us, and I appreciate it. And I love you even if you do fuck up sometimes.”
“Damn, your girl has made you sappy,” he says, though his voice wavers.
“What can I say? H-E-A.”
Part 7
DRINK
Accept what life offers you and try to drink from every cup. All wines should be tasted; some should only be sipped, but with others, drink the whole bottle.
—Paulo Coelho
Epilogue
BRYN
I’d just taken my first sip of after-dinner coffee when the announcement rang in my ear. It rang in my ear because the bride—my new cousin-in-law, Camille—was speaking into the microphone next to me, staring at me in the face. “Everyone, it’s time for the bouquet toss.”
“I’m busy.” I try to ignore the fact every single person at our table is looking at me, including Mitchell, who just caught the garter. He’s twirling the blue lace on his finger like a prize, rubbing it in that he practically shoved half the men to the side and leapt for it.
Because, competition.
I bet him a week’s worth of dinner dishes he couldn’t catch the garter, and he bet me a week’s worth of weeding I couldn’t catch the bouquet.
But I didn’t think he’d go for it. After all, there are implications to catching these things—superstitions. It’s the kind of subject Mitchell and I try to avoid among the Aquino and Dunford clan, who are clamoring for marriages and babies, and who have sufficiently impressed upon us we should . . . you know, get engaged or something.
It’s only been a year since I moved into Paraiso, nine months since Paraiso opened, seven months since Dunford Winery’s opening. Only a month since we moved into the guest house together.
Which doesn’t qualify us for that kind of talk, does it?
It’s not for lack of want, or love, because what we have feels permanent, steady, and solid. He is my partner in every way. In business, in pleasure, in friendship. Not to mention that when I see him interacting with kids in town, my mind wanders to him as a father . . .
“Are you a fraidy cat?” Mitchell whispers, pulling me from my thoughts as Camille drags m
e by the arm. She’s stunning in her spaghetti-strap, loose-fitting wedding dress, which hangs on her easily and beautifully, her simple braid draped over one shoulder.
“Bryn is never, ever scared,” Camille says. “C’mon.”
I head to the dance floor, also known as Paraiso’s deck, amazingly decorated with lights and flowers. Camille and Drew’s wedding is not the first at Paraiso, but I have to admit, it’s the best thus far. During the live stream crisis, I approached the only person I thought I could partner with and asked her for advice. Chef Ellie not only invested financially in Paraiso, she created a new feature—weddings—and it has become wildly popular. For privacy, she now lives in a newly constructed, modern, tiny house a half mile down the road.
I am surrounded by females of varying ages who are literally stretching, warming up to catch the bouquet, and talking smack. Victoria has casually disappeared—I’m going to have to badger her later. I eye Ellie in her chef’s jacket and waggle a finger at her.
“Sorry, girl. Working, you know!” she yells.
The crowd laughs as I swallow my pride. I shake out my body to relax. Must keep my focus on the win. Just think: No dishes. No dishpan hands. No scrubbing out pots and pans—yuck.
Camille holds up the smaller secondary bouquet of lavender and daisies from the other side of the deck and shakes it. “Are you ready?” She yells it like a cheerleader. Her lips form into an infectious glorious smile. Behind her is my cousin Drew, whom I call pogi, because he still has that sweet baby face. He’s wearing a Barong Tagalog—a formal Filipino sheer shirt of intricate design—and is holding the real bouquet, which is as big as his torso.
She turns around so her back is to us. At Drew’s signal, everyone yells, “One . . . two . . . three . . .” and Camille hoists the bouquet in the air. Damn, she has a stronger arm than I anticipated, and I step backward, using my arms to make way behind me. The flower girls start to scream as I push them aside. The grown women curse something fierce, but it doesn’t deter me from getting myself into position. The perfect position. I didn’t grow up with Drew and not learn how to catch a football. I didn’t watch the 49ers for nothing.
The bouquet comes down in a trajectory, faster now, and I squat, sticking my butt and arms out. I leap up, only to see another woman do the same.
Oh no she won’t.
I throw an arm out like my father used to when he stopped suddenly at a red light when I was in the passenger seat. Clothesline the woman with sheer precision.
Yes. My face takes the full force of the bouquet, and petals scatter on the floor as I tuck it into my chest like a wide receiver, protecting it as I come down to earth. And wouldn’t you know, some of the women have the nerve to stick their arms into my hold. To which I answer with a couple of hell-nos. I hear my aunt hiss with disapproval at my potty mouth, but I don’t care.
I win, baby. I win. I point the flowers at my man, who’s nodding approvingly, as Camille envelops me in a hug.
“Oh my goodness, what’s that?” She’s pointing at something shining, among the sprigs of lavender. On her face is a wicked smile.
I dig inside at her prodding, pulling out the lavender sprig, where there’s a ribbon attached to a tag. It reads, “Your rain check.” Tied with this tag is a simple gold band.
My breath catches, and I’m suddenly dizzy. My hand clutches the ring to my chest as cheering erupts. When I look up, Mitchell is on bended knee.
Dear Reader,
As an Army veteran and a twenty-year Army spouse, I’m surrounded by the wonder, the challenge, and the thrill of being around our nation’s soldiers and their families. I’ve witnessed the effects of decades of conflict, and I believe that every person who sees war is affected by it, from the smallest to the largest of ways.
Mitchell Dunford doesn’t represent a specific person, nor does his PTSD encompass everyone’s experience. And while PTSD is not meant to be the central plot in this book, it was important for me to show that it exists and changes lives. I wanted to show that it affects people forever and on a daily basis, and occasionally PTSD is just under the surface, fueled sometimes by regret. What might be forgotten, however, is that despite this, there is also joy, laughter, connection, and love. There is help. There is an after.
I hope you connect with the honor and character of Mitchell Dunford. He represents the very heart of our men and women in uniform. Thank you for reading East in Paradise.
Sincerely,
Tif
Acknowledgments
This book would not have come into the world without my editor, Kate Dresser, and my agent, Rachel Brooks. You are the best cheerleaders an author could have. Thank you for supporting the two halves of my life in this work: my heritage and my military life. To Molly Gregory, Christine Masters, Theresa Dooley, Min Choi, and everyone at Gallery and Pocket Books for bringing this book to life.
To Captain Robin O’Sullivan, PsyD: Thank you for your incredible insight and candid thoughts about PTSD and insomnia. I could have not moved forward without your input.
Special thanks to early reader Mae O’Donnell, for your thoughts on our shared FilAm experience. Aaron Leong of 4th Wall Productions, who helped navigate the camera/live stream world—it took this book for us to get in touch after two decades, and I’m thankful for it. Kristy Crombie of McEnearney Associates Realtors and Brison Rohrbach of McEnearney Commercial for answering my random questions! All mistakes are my own!
To my dearest #girlswritenight group: April Hunt, Rachel Lacey, Annie Rains, and Sidney Halston, for our running DMs and emails that make me feel like you gals are right next door. To Stephanie Winkelhake, for helping me remember the sight, sound, and feel of the Sierra foothills, among other things—thank you. And, of course #5amwritersclub, my Twitter fam: donuts and caffeine for everyone!
To my Fabulous Four: one day you’ll read this book, and I hope it helps you seek the common in the difference. To Greg: you might blush when I read you passages, but you know you love the H-E-A as much as I do. Love you!
Finally, to my readers: thank you for coming back to read Bryn and Mitchell’s story! Your support has been monumental, and I can’t wait for you to meet the next couple on their own Journey to the Heart.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
WEST COAST LOVE
Volume 3 in the Journey to the Heart series!
Available December 2017 from Pocket Star Books
Part 1
STARTING POINT
Neo, sooner or later you’re going to realize, just as I did, that there’s a difference between knowing the path and walking the path.
—Morpheus, The Matrix
July 31
From: Olivia Russell
To: Victoria Aquino
RE: Callback
Dear Victoria Aquino,
We have reviewed the sample video you submitted to our open call for a new television food-show host. West Coast Eats would like to invite you to audition in person. Attached is our callback schedule, and I look forward to chatting with you to confirm your appointment.
Sincerely,
Olivia Russell
Producer and Editor
West Coast Eats
(310) 555-EATS
1
VICTORIA
August 8
The best part of the journey is the beginning: the anticipation, the planning, the ability to dream and map out the greatest potential. With very little expectation, everything is possible. Days are a blank slate, and only good moments can be envisioned.
It’s at the beginning of my trips where my bullet journal gains the most use. I fill pages with scribbles and wannabe self-taught calligraphy, with inspirational quotes like Be in the moment and Face to the sun. Tiny doodles of flowers, arrows, and hearts trail across pages in different thicknesses and textures
from gel pens and markers. The optimism shines like the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge through the Northern California fog. Unstoppable. The inspiration from these journals are the launchpad of my food and travel blog, Gutóm—which means hungry in Tagalog—where I’m free to wax poetic and make a living at the same time. Best job ever.
Yet, rarely do my journals show the middle of my journey, where the road muddles and stops and sometimes detours, nor does it depict the shuddering realization that I’ve accidentally taken the wrong turn. These pages don’t reflect the moment of despair, my decision to turn around, or my panic to want to head back to the starting point, back to my Pollyanna attitude.
And they sure don’t tell me what my next step should be.
Under the mattress of my sister’s guest bed, my home now, indefinitely, I tuck my journal away. I won’t be needing it for a while. For the first time, I’m not looking forward to my next adventure. The compass whose needle once pointed to my personal true north has proven erroneous, and I no longer trust it.
The cherry-red hard-shell suitcase packed with most everything I own is open on the mattress, my belongings inside still in perfect order. With how much I travel, there’s no room for mess, and I’ve learned to live with little. Usually, when I unpack, there’re more dirty clothes than clean, the remnants of the trip memorialized in the wrinkles and musk in my clothing, in the half-used tube of travel toothpaste, in the layer of dirt under my walking shoes.
The stuff I’m unpacking today is all still clean, tightly rolled, tucked together.