Page 25 of Corkscrew You
I follow Cam’s gaze, and yep, that’s Nathan, but he’s not coming my way. He’s heading back to the office. At pace, like he’s forgotten something. Or he’s in a cranky mood.
Fig. I was feeling OK and now I’m not. I hate that.
“OK?”
I must have sighed. Cam’s brown eyes show concern. He worried about me a lot after Dad died. I know because he did a lot of repairs without charging me. It was his way of saying I could rely on him. I knew that already, but it was nice to have it reinforced.
But Cam doesn’t need to hear all my troubles. Or maybe I don’t want him to feel obliged to help me sort them out. I need to stand on my own two feet.
“Got a lot to do,” I say. “And a short window of opportunity to get it done.”
Cam knows what I’m implying. Flora Valley Wines is up against the clock.
He stands and drops a big, rough hand on my shoulder. It’s meant to reassure and it does. No need for words.
Cam heads away, and I sit on the porch seat until I can’t put off Nathan contact any longer. Besides, I’m desperate for pie. I hope Iris added her usual avalanche of whipped cream.
The office door is ajar. I poke my head round and he’s at the desk, going through the account books, frowning. I don’t see Iris’s usual take-out box anywhere, and it seems a little rude to make “Where’s my pie?” my opening line.
So I say, “Hi.”
Which isn’t much better.
“Will the computer live?”
May as well keep making an effort.
He shakes his head, pencils a note on the pad in front of him.
“Does it want to be buried or cremated?”
OK, dumb jokes. But come on, buddy, play along!
There’s no play in his steady look.
“I’ve already wasted a morning,” he says. “These books are a mess. Can I get on?”
At first, I’m taken aback by the coldness in his expression. It’s like when we first met, in JP’s office. He was so aloof and uncommunicative. But not the way Cam is. Cam keeps his distance, but at least hecares. He cares about the winery and he cares about me. And for a moment earlier this morning, I thought Nathan did too. But now he’s looking at me like I’m nothing, a waste of his time. It’s the look a bunch of the investors before JP gave me, that made me feel like a stupid little girl. Is that how Nathan sees me after this morning? A stupid weak little crybaby? Now, I’m taken aback by howangryI feel. If he has a problem with me, why doesn’t he come out and say it! Andwhydoes he suddenly have a problem? What did I do? For fig’s sake, this morning he was kind! He gave me a clean handkerchief that his mom ironed! He said ‘we’ like we were a team! So how the figdarehe suddenly pull this superior thing-swinging act!
“No, you can’t get on with the messy books,” I tell him.
I grab the folding chair and plant my rear in it.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on with you.”
There it is again, that slight twitch of his left eyebrow.
“Nothing’s—”
“Bull crap.” It’s the closest I get to real swears, and it only happens when I’m crabby. “You were fine this morning. Now you’re not. What happened?”
“N—”
“Say ‘Nothing’ again and I’ll stab you with that pencil.”
I probably should pick it up if I want to make good on that threat.
Too late. Nathan’s got it. He starts rolling it between his fingers.
