Chapter 10

The Old Grant

One shower, oatmeal breakfast, and phone charge later, I gather Ben, Aunt Ro, and Uncle Paul outside on the back lawn to discuss my strategy for dealing with Vero Roseto’s sudden popularity. As usual, my strategy involves a lot of improvisation and faking like I know what the hell I’m doing. But fortunately, my instincts usually end up being spot-on, and my fake confidence becomes real. While my aunt and uncle are tense, and Ben leans casually against a fence post, I stand confidently astride the collapsing deck’s stairs in my borrowed denim shorts and oversize tee.

The bottom step whines under my weight. Clearly, we can’t keep a scrap of the existing deck, which stretches almost the entire width of the manor. It has to go now.

“Ro,” I say. My aunt, lost in thought, startles at the sound of her name. “When are the first guests arriving?”

“Ten of them today!” she says, tugging on her self-manicured nails.

“When’s check-in?”

“Four o’clock, but I’ve already had a few ask for an early check-in…” Spiraling, she throws up her hands. “I wanted guests, but I didn’t think we’d book all the rooms, or I would’ve noted they can’t all be filled yet.” Her brow darkens. “And your video said everyone who books a room can see the Wishing Rose, but I wasn’t planning on having it open until August for the festival! What’s gonna happen when they want to see it today?”

Ben’s eyes drift bitchily to me, as if to say, Well? Answer her.

I step down from the deck toward Ro, and all three of them flinch. My move looked impressive and confident, but I was actually just scared I’d break through the stairs. I shake it off and shrug casually. “If the guests see everything like this, they’ll go online and talk about how nasty it is.”

Ro and Paul stare, the color draining from their faces. Smiling, I raise my finger to the sky. “But they’re not going to see it like this.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “If I worked nonstop, no meals, no water, no sleep, I still couldn’t get the rose garden ready for at least a week. We don’t have the materials or the bulbs or…”

I raise my hand calmly. “I understand. This is actually going to be simple. I want to introduce all of you to the art of addition through subtraction.” The three of them lean closer. “We have seven hours before check-in. All we have to do today is provide guests with a room, a glass of wine, and the Wishing Rose. Vero Roseto and Valle Forest are beautiful enough to do the rest.”

“But what about the deck?” Uncle Paul argues, his eyes disappearing into a squint.

Nodding, I point to my aunt. “Ro, those reservations you got, did they put money down?”

“They all had to for the first night,” she says, still fiddling with her nails.

“Great! So, we’ve got cash to work with.” I spin toward my uncle. “Paul, could you get people up here right now to get rid of this deck? Not to rebuild it, just demo and clear.”

Uncle Paul, his furry arms perpetually crossed in agitation, finally drops them. “Yeah, I can get my guys,” he says, his voice suddenly brighter. He scans the deck, cautiously studying it, likely mentally going over the geometry of how he’d attack the problem. “We could chop it up by lunch and have it hauled out before check-in.”

A rush of adrenaline surges through my chest. I can’t fight my smile.

There it is. The old Grant, still in there, elbow-to-elbow next to the wounded child and the cursed beast. It’s getting crowded inside me, but at least I know the artist and leader still exists.

“Ro, it’s gonna be great,” I say, taking her into a hug, but she wobbles queasily, as if she needs more convincing.

“I’m so glad you’re energized,” she says, “but we’ve known for weeks about everything we have to do. It’s just been so busy. I don’t think there’s time—”

“People are coming. We have to try, right? You wouldn’t let me be this negative.”

Ro laughs, exhausted. “No, I wouldn’t.” She sighs. “The guests can stay in the East Wing. That means you’ve gotta stay in the basement again.”

I nod. “Done.”

She glances at Ben and Paul, who look wary but waiting to accept her approval. She’s running this operation, not me. “Paul, I think you and the guys should focus solely on the deck. Specifically the middle section with the hole, but remove it all if you can. Like it was never there. That means, Ben, you’re in the rose garden.”

“Aye, aye.” Ben salutes.

She winces at us both. “With Grant. It’s a two-person job. You boys okay with that?”

Ben and I meet eyes only briefly. If I lingered any longer on his face, the enormity of what a bad idea this is would break my confidence. A day of laboring side by side with a boy I can’t go five seconds without fighting with. What a treat for everybody!

After Ben nods grimly and I say “Sure!” fakely, I address all three of them again: “Don’t get distracted making everything pretty. We can repair everything later. We just need to subtract everything that’s broken or dying. The winery and the Wishing Rose itself are still pristine. We’ll throw some extra construction tarps over the sculpture garden, and then all we have to do is clean those fountains and take down the rotting vines…” Stepping back from my aunt, I stomp over to the back lawn and point at various places like I’m appraising the land. “Ben already cleared Grandpa’s vegetables, so we just need to seal up the pool and…”

As my pointing finger finally lands on the lawn, my shoulders slump. The vast majority of the grass is patchy, yellowing, and hideous. “The lawn sucks,” I moan.

“That’s all right!” Ben yelps, hurrying to meet me, his can-do spirit newly alive. His eyes sparkle as he scans the dying lawn. “Paul, if you’ve got a spare guy or two, we can pull up the lawn so it’s just sod. People don’t mind something unfinished if they see it’s being worked on. Progress, right?”

It’s such a wonderful fix, I almost forget to be mad at him.

“It’s all perception,” I agree. “And if anyone gets here early, Mama Bianchi will give them an extra-long tour of the winery.”

Ben chuckles. “After a few glasses of wine, they won’t care what the lawn looks like, eh?”

I laugh and smack his bare shoulder. He smacks me back.

For one plummeting moment, I forget everything I was ever mad about. In that moment, he’s not Ben, the boy who shredded me to pieces, he’s someone new. Someone…sweet.

He isn’t sweet, I remind myself. He cosplays as sweet until you drop your guard. So, don’t drop it.

Aunt Ro hasn’t spoken in a minute. At least she’s stopped picking at her nails.

“Well, Mama Bianchi,” I say, “any last thoughts before we begin?”

Everyone turns to her. On a cleansing breath, she unfastens the cream-colored sash under her chin and fans herself with her sun hat. She grins, a twinkle in her eye. “I think it’s a good thing you’re here, Grant. You and Ben.” She sends Ben another warm smile, which he returns—not the usual catlike smirk he has for me, but something genuine and touched. This whole past year, with Ben’s dad sick with something serious enough to bring his son back from Scotland…I’m glad he had Ro and Paul here for something familiar.

He really does love Vero Roseto.

“Hands in the middle,” my aunt says, thrusting out her ringed, crimson-nailed hand. Paul slaps his furry-knuckled mitt over hers, and Ben places his hand—large, freckled, and veiny—over his. “So cheesy,” I say, placing my hand over Ben’s. The shock of touching his hand is instantaneous.

Don’t think about how nice this is, don’t think about how nice this is.

Luckily, Ro ends my misery with a “Vero Roseto!” rallying cry, and we all break.

Paul returns inside to call his demolition guys, and Ro follows him to grab her checkbook, leaving Ben and me alone. We stand awkwardly opposite each other on the lawn, a hideous site of wreckage and neglect that with any luck will soon be presentable to outside eyes.

There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but I’m going to need coffee first.

A flurry of birds soars overhead, uttering proud calls that echo across Vero Roseto, its vineyard, and the barnlike winery. It really is a beautiful place. Tearing it up will be easy; making it the gorgeous oasis it once was will be harder, but tomorrow’s problems are for tomorrow.

“Come here a sec,” Ben grunts. He takes my hand too fast for me to stop him.

I freeze into a statue, easily placed in the sculpture garden, while Ben examines my palm. My hand is also large, but with shorter fingers than Ben’s. His rough touch slides along my palm’s ridges and hillsides—the divot in my finger where I cut myself sewing my pumpkin jacket—until he clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

“Soft hands,” he says.

I snort. “Yeah, I moisturize. Don’t get all blue-collar warrior on me, Ben.”

He sighs. “After you and I are done fixing this place up, they won’t be so soft anymore.” Thanks to the sun, golden flecks flash in his hazel eyes. “Just wanted to feel them one last time.”

Breath leaves me like I landed hard on my back.

Grinning, Ben trots away toward the rose garden, a devilish swagger in his step.

That’s Ben McKittrick.

Hot and cold, cold and hot. Never letting me know where I really stand.

Cosplaying as sweet until I drop my guard.

Well, my guard is still up, but I’m starting to think Ben has some not-so-innocent things in mind for us. Worst of all, I’m getting some not-so-innocent ideas, too.