Nine
“Wait, tell me what to do again?” Sage asks, practically bouncing on her stool.
We’re seated at the tasting counter at Murphy’s Bend. The decor is traditional—a curved chestnut countertop lined with high-backed stools and pictures of the Murphy clan covering the walls. They’re not just selling wine; they’re selling their family story. And clearly it’s working for them. The place is packed, even though it’s a weeknight. In fact, Sage and I are lucky we managed to secure two spots.
Gaskel’s review didn’t upset their business nearly as much as I thought. Maybe Moira was right that his opinions weren’t the be-all end-all. Then again, the renowned critic didn’t die after trying their wine.
“Stick your nose in the glass—all the way—and breathe in.” Sage does as I say, getting a drop of wine on her nose. “List the first scents that come to mind. The more specific the better.”
“Cream soda and apples.” She looks at me questioningly, her fiery red hair like an exclamation point to her black slacks and stark white blouse. As always, there’s some nerd canon present, today a Deathly Hallows pendant around her neck.
I hold a hand over my chest in pride. “You’ll be a master sommelier in no time.”
“Really?”
“Well, no,” I say. “It takes years of hard work to achieve that level, but you’re well on your way.”
Sage raises her glass to her lips, but then pauses. “Do we drink now?”
I nod enthusiastically and we clink our glasses together, glasses I surreptitiously rinsed with water from a community pitcher before our tasting began. I don’t trust anyone.
Their chardonnay is good, but not great. There’s an artificial flavor, like movie theater popcorn, that gives it an unpleasant muskiness. Gaskel’s review was actually pretty spot-on. I dump the remainder and munch on a cracker to cleanse my palate.
“So how are things?” I ask.
Sage finishes the subpar wine with a shrug. “The Manual is pushing me to decide my next step career-wise. We’ve been having lots of ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ talks,” she says with air quotes. “Not sure I’m ready to move on, though. Things are good as is.”
Sage has no idea she’ll be making multiple major life decisions very soon. “You’ll rock whatever it is you decide to do. Just take your time. There’s no reason to rush into anything.” Hopefully she’ll remember those words when Jason proposes.
“If I took a job in corporate, my workload would be more manageable.” She frowns. “Jason’s always on me for working too much.”
“Pfft,” I say with a wave. “Jason could stand to work a little bit harder. What’s he doing tonight, anyway?”
“Frisbro practice.”
“Hopefully the rest of his teammates show up,” I say, thinking of my meeting with Max later. If he’s exhausted, he might be less guarded.
“Yeah . . .” She trails off and sighs. “He’s acting weird. Standoffish. Last time this happened, he planned a trip to Vegas with his buddies and neglected to tell me about it.”
I click my tongue and gently remind her, “That’s because he had just borrowed money from you.”
“Sometimes I worry I’m wasting my time with him.”
My throat bobs, all my opinions threatening to burst forth. Really, there’s only one thing that matters. “Does he make you happy? Like, legit, happy?”
She opens and closes her mouth, hesitating. She stares at the photos of Murphy family members smiling down at us from behind the bar as if they hold the answer. “Of course he does,” she finally says, a little too quickly. “He’s always been there for me. He’s a nice guy.”
“You deserve pure, undiluted happiness. If Jason doesn’t do it for you, there are plenty of nice guys out there.”
“You know it’s not that easy. Remember Guy?”
“No one will let me forget,” I mumble, my earlier conversation with Liam fresh in my mind.
Guy and I let our relationship drag on six months longer than it should have, both of us clinging to what was easy because we were too scared to face the unknown. He was the shoulder I desperately needed to lean on until, all of a sudden, he let me fall. I was just the idea of what he wanted in a girlfriend instead of the real thing.
I continue, “In retrospect, I wish I’d ended things sooner. Love and comfort are two different things.”
“Everything is always clearer in retrospect.” She waves her empty wineglass. “Hey, how do we get more?”
As if on cue, Moira glides over, the epitome of chic in a fitted jumpsuit and suede pumps. Her long blond hair is loose around her shoulders, the maroon highlights adding dimension to her style. “What did you think of the chardonnay?”
“Delicious,” Sage answers, saving me from having to fumble around my rather harsh opinion. “What’s next?”
“The Bend It Red, light-bodied and fruity.” She pours a splash into each of our glasses. “Carrick, get over here.” She waves her husband over while Sage and I go about sniffing and sipping.
Even though Carrick was at my opening, I didn’t get a good look at him. Granted, he’d been covered in cherry wine at the time and, frankly, I’d had other things to worry about. But now I give his looks the full appreciation they deserve. Carrick is ruggedly handsome, dimpled chin and dark hair with streaks of silver running through it. I may drool a little bit on the counter.
He rests a hand on Moira’s lower back and addresses me. “This one will not stop gushing about you and your wine,” he says in a thick French accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He flashes his pearly whites at me.
I steal a glance at Sage. Her rosy cheeks say she’s as smitten as I am. “You have an impressive setup here.” I gesture to the crowded area.
“It keeps us busy. Too busy sometimes.” He slides a hand in the pocket of his fitted khakis, eyebrows furrowed.
Questions flood my mind. How did this worldly pair meet and come to own this winery together? How is it their chardonnay is so lacking when their Bend It Red is so superb? I snap back to the present. These are mysteries for another time.
“We got the invitation to your party,” Moira says, beaming at me. “Consider this our formal RSVP.”
“What party?” Sage asks.
“A last-ditch effort to save my winery.” I cross one leg over the other, bobbing my foot up and down.
“We went through a rough patch a few years ago,” Carrick says, a weariness entering his eyes. “It takes a toll, but your wine is good. You will be fine.”
This seems as good an opportunity as any to slip in a reference to Gaskel. “Opinions vary. Gaskel certainly wasn’t impressed with my chardonnay, although that could have been the poison. Unfortunately, we’ll never know.” I cock my head to the side, studying their reactions.
Moira looks at me imploringly. “Darling, I told you to move on from that. Focus on the next harvest. That’s what we’re doing, right, dear?” She squeezes her husband’s shoulder, but there’s an unspoken tension between them.
Carrick gives a tight-lipped smile. “Excuse me, please. I must see to our customers.”
He wanders to the other end of the tasting bar and dutifully pours tasters for a group sitting there.
“I should help,” Moira says. “If I recall correctly, this was your favorite.” She winks at me and then pours Sage and me each a full glass of the Bend It Red before traipsing off.
“That was weird,” I say when Moira is out of earshot, drumming my fingers on the countertop. I stop when I realize my mom does the same thing when she’s nervous.
“No kidding,” Sage grumbles. “Talk about relationship problems.”
“Maybe. They seemed fine until I mentioned Gaskel.” I stare after Moira, absently touching my leather purse, which is hanging from the back of my stool. Liam’s prints are tucked inside. I have a sudden urge to reexamine them, to see if there’s one that places Carrick anywhere near Gaskel’s glass.
“I suppose my invite to your fancy party got lost in the ether,” Sage says, half of her wine suddenly gone. I can’t blame her; the wine is really quite delicious.
I swivel toward Sage while shamelessly rubbernecking Moira and Carrick. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured, especially with everything else you have going on.”
“Count me in,” she says. “We can continue my wine education.”
At the end of the bar, Moira whispers something into Carrick’s ear and then disappears down a hallway in the back corner. Carrick laughs with a patron, but his good humor is obviously forced. He excuses himself, all charm, and follows after his wife.
I only have a split second to make a decision. It turns out the threat of professional failure is a wonderful motivator.
I slide off my barstool. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” Sage asks, but I shush her.
“Just have to check something,” I answer vaguely, darting down the hallway after the troubled couple.
Their hushed voices beckon to me. I tiptoe down the hallway, my leather sandals padding softly against the hardwood floor. The air smells dank, of spilled wine and cardboard. I stop in front of a doorway that leads to what I’m guessing is one of many storage rooms. A stack of wine crates blocks my view.
“I cannot keep pretending everything is okay,” Carrick whispers, his accent imbuing his words with even more passion.
“We just have to get through the summer,” Moira says.
“And then what?”
There’s a long sigh. “We’ve been through this. I can’t take a season off, not when my family’s legacy is at stake.”
One of them paces back and forth—Carrick, I guess, by the weight of the footsteps. “You forget, this is my legacy now, too. Not just yours.”
“Of course, dear. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” he says, exasperated. “One season will not matter. Our wine will be better because of it, not this weak tord-boyaux we are making now.”
I wince. I don’t speak French, but I can tell tord-boyaux isn’t a good thing. Carrick might be a dreamboat, but insulting his wife’s craftsmanship doesn’t seem very sensible. At least neither of them has a glass of wine in hand. I’d hate to see more wine—even mediocre wine—wasted on another one of their fights. That is, if their argument at my opening wasn’t a well-orchestrated diversion.
“Those people out there expect something new.”
“Then let’s give them something really special.” Carrick paces again, his steps growing faster and more agitated. “We need to keep the promise we made to each other. You must follow through.”
I chew on my bottom lip, puzzling over Carrick’s words. What promise? What is it that Moira has to follow through on?
When Moira speaks next, it’s in such a hushed tone I almost miss it. “I wish you could forget Gaskel’s review.”
“And live in denial like you?” He snorts and utters something in French. “What is she doing here, anyway?”
Wait, are they talking about me? My breath hitches as I press myself closer to the doorframe. If I could, I’d melt into the wall.
“Parker is welcome here, just like every other customer.”
Oh God, they are talking about me. I feel a sharp stab of embarrassment.
“The last thing we need is to be associated with her,” Carrick says.
I’m tempted to defend myself, but I stay frozen, continuing to eavesdrop on this bizarre conversation.
“Come now, she had nothing to do with Gaskel’s death.” The certainty in her voice takes me aback. I’m honored to have her on my side, unless her confidence stems from knowing who is actually responsible.
“Do you remember how hard it was to start something on your own?” she asks. “I don’t know the story with her parents, but I didn’t get a strong sense of familial support at her opening.” I feel another stab, this time of vulnerability at a near stranger picking up on my family drama. Moira continues, “It seems like she could use some guidance.”
“You have always had a soft spot for strays.”
“It’s served me well in the past.”
“Me also,” he says softly, making me feel like I’m intruding on a private joke.
Having heard more than my fair share, I slink away from the door and attempt a stealthy retreat.
I fail miserably, tripping over an exposed floorboard.
I curse under my breath. Damn these sandals and their overextended toe. Over my shoulder, the door creaks open. Carrick freezes in place, his dark eyes widening.
Heat rushes to my face. “I was just . . .” I trail off, searching for a feasible excuse. “Looking for the bathroom.”
He frowns, chiseled lines etching deeper into his face. “It’s by the entrance. You cannot miss it.”
Carrick watches me for a moment too long. He knows I was eavesdropping. That I heard their conversation. Sweat beads on my upper lip.
I hate playing the ditz, but it’s my only option. “Right,” I say, giving what I hope comes across as a flirtatious giggle. “I’d better slow down my tasting.” I feign a slight wobble, even though I’ve never felt more sober.
When he responds with a full-bodied laugh, I relax, but only slightly. “It happens to all of us. A hazard of the trade.”
“Who are you talking to, love?” Moira’s hand rests on Carrick’s shoulder as she gently steps around him and into the hallway. “Oh, Parker, were you looking for us? You’re probably anxious to continue your tasting.”
I mentally kick myself for not thinking of that excuse. “Something like that,” I mumble.
Moira links arms with me and we stroll back to the main room, Carrick following close behind. I feel his gaze on my back, silent and calculating. My skin crawls. I want nothing more than to hightail it out of here, pronto.
But if I flee, I may as well confess to spying on them. My best bet is to act normal and finish the tasting.
We return to the tasting bar, where Sage has bonded with a couple of dames over their shared lack of wine-tasting knowledge and, more recently, their lack of wine. Moira and Carrick get busy pouring tasters, much to Sage’s and the dames’ satisfaction, and I get busy pretending my stomach isn’t twisting itself into knots.
The next hour is excruciating. We sniff, swirl, and sip our way through mediocre wines, none of which come close to the flavor achieved in the Bend It Red.
I squirm in my seat, my eyes flitting about. I’m hyperaware of everything, the back of the stool digging into my shoulder blades, the laughter bubbling up around me, and the way Carrick’s eyes bore into me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
How is their business doing so well? Are all of these people loyal to the legacy of Murphy’s Bend? Or are they newbie tasters like Sage, who don’t know decent wine from tord-boyaux?
I rub at the nape of my neck where my hair stands on end. Sage side-eyes me, mouthing, What’s wrong?
Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought.
I shake my head and mouth back, Nothing, and we proceed to taste an overly tannic cab.
We finally finish with a dessert wine, a syrupy port that clings to my throat as I swallow. I dump the rest of my glass, exhale a sigh of relief, and stand up quickly, ready to be rid of this place. Sage shoulders her purse and follows my lead, bidding a cheery farewell to the dames.
I flag down Moira and try to hand her my credit card to pay, but she waves me off. “It’s our treat, darling.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course,” she gushes. She pulls Carrick to her side and away from the crystal glass he was drying with a towel. Her knuckles are white as she clings to his shirtsleeve. “We’re glad you came in.”
She’s so good-natured, her eyes kind and understanding, I almost feel bad for eavesdropping. That is, until I catch Carrick studying me. He smiles when I meet his gaze, but it’s less Prince Charming and more Big Bad Wolf.
“Yes,” Carrick says. “We will see you at your party.” The way he says it sounds like a threat.