Page 30 of Corkscrew You
The biggest reason I don’t like being angry is that when it fades away, all I’m left with is sadness. I thought Nate and I were connecting but then he slammed a great big iron door between us called ‘delineation of responsibilities’. I may not have to do the accounts anymore – thank you, thank you – but now it looks like if I want to communicate with Nate about anything, I’ll have to slip a note under the office door, or tie it to one of the dog’s collars and send it instead. It’ll be like it was after Dad died, when despite knowing that everyone had my back, I’d never felt so alone.
I didn’t cope with that too well, to be honest. I threw myself into working and stalking investors, but one morning, three months after Dad died, I couldn’t get out of bed. Just … couldn’t move.
Cam was the one who found me. Called Mom, who was on an artists’ retreat – her way of coping with the loss. She dropped her brushes and came back right away, bless her. Got our family doctor around, who diagnosed depression caused by grief and exhaustion, and put me on meds. Jordan, Chiara, and Mom took turns being with me, even though I wasterriblecompany. And my siblings called every day.
When the meds kicked in, I felt a million times better. Good news for my minders, because I hadn’t had the energy to shower for days, and I wasrank. In a couple of weeks, I felt almost back to my old self, enough to get up and get going again. Stayed on the meds for twelve weeks, then eased my way off them. Our doctor said I shouldn’t hesitate to go back on them if I felt I was struggling. So far, I’ve been OK.
But Nate suddenly putting up walls again has really knocked me. I feel small and vulnerable and a little scared. Which is probably why I’m curled up on our couch with all the cats and dogs I could muster, and a big mug of hot chocolate to make up for not getting a piece of Iris’s pie. I squirted so much ReddiWip on top that I can’t actually get any liquid in my mouth without burying my entire nose in cream. I guess there aresomeadvantages to being alone.
The sweet drink does its work and soothes me to the point where I can address the question that’s still nagging away – why?Whydid Nathan do this sudden about-face? What changed between this morning and when he came back from Verity with, as Iris would say, a burr up his butt? And why didn’t he give me a straight answer when I asked him that exact question earlier?
PSA: a sugar high isn’t real motivation. Like being drunk isn’t real courage. Luckily for me, when I storm off to the office again and try to open the door, I can’t – it’s locked. I didn’t hear the pickup drive off. Probably happened when I was squirting whipped cream out of the can; that sucker sounds like a tornado. But the pick-up’s definitely not here. And neither is Nate.
I’m coming down off the sugar buzz, so my main frustration is that I can’t ransack the office to find my slice of pie. Mostly, I’m relieved. If I can’t get an answer from Nate, I can’t be hurt if it’s something I don’t want to hear.
Like he doesn’t want us to be friendly because then it’ll be that much harder to tell me that the winery isn’t going to make it.
Or like someone in Verity let slip about my breakdown. They would have meant well, probably did it to make sure Nate looked after me. But if he suspected I was a flake before, now he knows that for sure.
OK, now I’m sad again. And if I have another hot chocolate, I’ll throw up. It’s gone four-thirty, so I don’t expect Nate will be back again today. Guess I’ll just get on with my chores. Feed the pigs, dogs, cats, and Dylan. Make sure the outbuildings are secure, though Cam will probably have done that already. Schlep back to the house. Spend the evening alone. Again…
Snap out of it, Shel. If you need cheering up, call your siblings. Call Jordan or Chiara. Call your Mom! You haveplentyof people who love you. Count your blessings. And stop coming up with doom scenarios for why Nathan pushed you away. His reasons could be nothing to do with you at all.
I keep myself busy for another couple of hours. The cats and dogs inhale their kibble. The pigs go insane for leftover zucchini and ignore perfectly good lettuce. Dylan seizes the opportunity to snatch the lettuce from my hand and attack it for not being corn. As I guessed, Cam’s made sure the outbuildings are secure, but I’m happy to walk around, as it gives me an excuse to enjoy the familiar scents and sounds in the soft end of day light. This is my home, the only one I’ve ever known. It’s a cliché, but if I ever had to let Flora Valley Wines go, a huge chunk of my heart would go with it. And I’m not sure I’d ever fully recover.
All the more reason to keep my chin up, as Ted would say, and put everything I’ve got into making our winery a success.
My loop back to the house takes me past the office. There’s a light on inside! I hastily check. Nate’s pickup’s here. Not a burglar. Good news.
What’s he doing here at this hour? I know Harvard people work insane hours, but this isn’t Goldman Money-Sacks, it’s little old Flora Valley Wines. We work super hard in the busy times, but for the rest, we go with the seasonal flow. But it’s possible that flow is a foreign concept to Nate.
Doom scenario #1 takes hold again. Namely that he’s having to pull the hours because we’re seriously in the cack. Fig. I need reassurance. Wish me luck – I’m going in.
“Shit!”
I’ve startled him. “Sorry. Only me.”
Nate flops back in his chair, running his hand through his hair.
“I’m a little wound up,” he says, with a quick rueful smile. “Been a day.”
I edge closer and say, cautiously, “Anything I can help with?”
To my surprise, he doesn’t go all stony-faced. His expression is more embarrassed, and I’m not sure how to read it.
“I owe you an apology,” he says.
Now, I’m startled. “OK?”
“For the way I spoke to you. I was being aconnard. That’s French for asshole.”
Nate picks up the pencil like he did this morning, staring at it as he rolls it round. The folding chair is still opposite his desk, so I sit quietly down. I don’t want to do anything to break the mood. Whatever this mood is.
He looks at me, and the embarrassed expression is back, but I can see he’s also filled with resolve.
“Shelby, do you know why I left France?”
Yes, but I’m not supposed to. I shake my head.
