Page 2 of You're So Vine
Ted gestures to the woman sitting next to him.
“Ava, may I introduce”—there’s an infinitesimal pause—“Imogen.”
Imogen (because surely she would have protested if that hadn’t been her name, no?) twiddles her fingers in a wave. She’s anywhere between twenty-three and a Botoxed thirty-five. Glossy blonde hair. Slender, polished, extremely beautiful: an exact clone of every other woman Ted’s dated. We call them the Ted-ford Wives. Not that Ted’s about to marry any of them. I’m amazed he didn’t skip this wedding for fear of catching marital cooties.
I see Chiara give me an eyeroll. She works for Ted at Bartons hotel and knows his ways. Chiara is one of Shelby’s two best girlfriends. She was born and brought up in Verity but isn’t destined to spend her life here. Chiara has ambitions, and the brains and looks to achieve them.
“Ava, this is Jackson,” she says, “Shelby’s oldest brother. Jackson, this is Ava—”
“Nate’s sister.” He reaches out a hand, smiling. “Yeah, I can spot the resemblance.”
It’s true. Nate and I have basically the same face, plus Dad’s dark hair and cool blue eyes. Jackson Armstrong is big and burly, with pale blond hair and a beard. Looks nothing like his petite, strawberry blonde sister.
“Whereas I’m the spitting image of my dad,” he says, then looks rueful. “He’d have loved today. He always thought this barn would make a great wedding venue. Isn’t that right, Doug?”
“Sure,” says Doug.
Doug’s a lean weather-beaten guy in his late fifties with a mustache that gives him a Sam Elliot vibe. All I know about him is that he does the mowing at the vineyard and occasionally helps out Flora Valley Wines’ cooper (that’s a barrel maker) and main handyman, otherwise known as the guy whose apparent invisibility is currently frying my brain.
To distract myself, I say, “Okay, seriously, why do they call you Toothless Doug? You look like you’ve got a pretty good set of choppers there.”
Doug grins, proving my point.
“When I was a kid, I started a tooth collection—”
“Not at all creepy,” remarks Chiara.
“Animal teeth,” he explains, “from animals we hunted or found dead in the woods. Other kids used to bring ’em to me, too. Cleaned ’em up, made a box to put ’em all in. Thought I might make a necklace—”
“Ugh.” Chiara shudders delicately.
“We got a new dog, a Labrador called Maisie. She found my box of teeth and ate the lot.”
“How can a dog eat teeth, Doug?” is Ted’s question. “They’re much harder than bones.”
“Maisie kind of swallowed them whole, like kibble. I guess I hadn’t cleaned them allthatwell.”
“Trip to the vet?” I ask.
“Nope, she just—”
“Don’t say it, Doug,” Chiara insists. “Ted’s very sensitive.”
“My dear,” Ted protests. “I have done my fair share of mucking out.”
“Is that what you call it in England?” says Chiara, with a lift of an eyebrow.
“You still a hunter, Doug?” says Jackson. “I remember you taking me on a…”
I tune out. Ted’s mention of mucking out reminded me too much of theotherreason I’m not in a party mood. You see, until a couple of months ago, I used to work for a racing stable in Kentucky. I’ve been a horse lover since I was a kid—nothing but running and riding when I was growing up. Given I’m small, I thought I might be a jockey, but I found that world too cut-throat, so I became an exercise rider. My job was taking the racehorses for their morning workouts and teaching them the skills they’d need to win. I quit because my dad, Mitchell, developed a life-threatening heart condition, and all five of us Durant siblings rushed home to be with him and Mom. At least, that’s the reason I gave. In reality, it was a useful cover story. I didn’t choose to quit; Ihadto. I’d been finding the job more and more exhausting—crawling into bed at the end of every day and dragging myself out again in the morning. I quit because I couldn’t do the job and my bosses knew it. They knew I was worn out, like an old nag.
Another reason why the last two months have sucked. I’m unemployed, I’m living back at my parents’, and I’m still exhausted. The tiredness just won’t go away. And I can’t tell anyone because that would be admitting weakness and defeat. A Durant would be voluntarily impaled inside an iron maiden before they let slip an iota of vulnerability. And I am a Durant through and through.
Shit. Of course. Now that I’m at my absolute lowest ebb is the moment I finally spot him. Who’s he talking to? Oh. Right. Shelby’s mom, Lee. The artist. The very beautiful red-headed artist who’s in her late fifties but doesn’t look it. The very beautiful red-headed artist whose head is bending super close to his … and now he’s said something that’s made her laugh, and…
“There’ll be dancing later. You can make your move then.”
It seems Chiara is more interested in spying on me than discussing hunting. But then, as Nate’s pointed out, Chiara’s name doesn’t include the letters CIA for no reason: she’s got skills that make their top agents look like the Goonies.
