Page 54 of Corkscrew You
“Stop,” he says, in mock warning.
“But not in whipped cream because I’d just want to eat it.”
He points at the door. “Out.”
“Jello?”
“Out!”
I practically skip out, buoyant with relief that Nate and I are on good terms again. What I would have done if it had all turned sour, I’venoidea. Lucky break for me, then.
Kind of incredible to think that a week ago today was the first time Nate and I met. In a short seven days, I’ve gone from resenting his presence on the planet to … what? Guess we’re lovers on hold, if such a category exists. On hold until the situation with Nate’s father resolves itself one way or another.
The sudden realization of what that means brings me up short in the middle of the path. One way is that his father’s health improves. Another is that it … doesn’t.
How could I have been so dense not to pick up on that? I suppose I was so shocked by Nate’s suggestion that we take a break that it never registered. And I got bushwhacked by the relationship-on-hold convo, and never got around to asking why he’d had to make an emergency dash to the hospital.
Sheesh, I don’t even know exactly what’swrongwith Nate’s dad. Only that he’s suffering from a non-specific condition known as “ill”. But if all the family came home to be with him, it seems clear now that he’s on the “very ill” side of the register. You don’t come rushing to your dad’s bedside if he has a case of poison ivy. You don’t put a budding romance complete with scorching sex on pause if you haven’t got somethingreallybig to worry about…
I feel very bad about not asking. I feel worse because I suspect Nate didn’t give me details in the first place out of concern that he’d upset me, by triggering memories of my own dad dying. He was mindful of my feelings, and yet allIcould do yesterday morning was think of myself. That makes two of us thinking of me, I suppose, but only one of us is a selfish cow.
I could go back and ask him now, but do I really want to know? Do I want to retreat back to my old self, with my head in the clouds? Or is it time to step up, and be a mature lady?
“You OK?”
I’ve also been standing still on the path for too long. Cam’s come to check on me and use up valuable words in doing so.
“I’m fighting the urge to be in complete denial,” I tell him.
Cam scratches the back of his head, which means he’s relieved it’s nothing worse.
“Is there a hospital near Martinburg?” I ask.
He doesn’t blink. He’s used to my left-field requests. “Yup.”
“It’s not for me,” I assure him. “I’m fine. I’m doing some sleuthing.”
Dylan the goose comes waddling up. Cam automatically reaches down and strokes his neck. If Dylan were a cat, he’d purr. I hope Nate doesn’t catch this little interaction. He’s irrational enough about Cam as it is, bless him.
“Putting in an oak order,” Cam says.
Cam gets most of the wood for his barrels from a forest in the back blocks of the Appalachians, and the rest from one in the Limousin area of France. Both are privately owned and supply only to Cam, for reasons that are as mysterious as everything else about him.
Some pinot noir vintners will only use French oak, but Dad liked the creamier flavour that American oak imparts, adding a little bit of French oak for silkiness and spice. Vintners can also get extremely anal about the proportions of new versus old oak, and the levels of “toast,” which is when the barrel has literally been toasted over a flame to release other aromas from the wood, namely vanilla.
Dad would simply tell Cam his vision for the wine and leave it up to him to decide the makeup of the barrels. I’ve seen no reason to change that.
What Cam’s asking is if I need any new barrels. Obviously, it costs money to replace the old ones, but after too many years, they stop adding flavour to the wine. Dad also used to leave it to Cam to decide when a barrel needed to be retired. I’ve seen no reason to change that, either.
But now, I’m no longer in charge of the money.
“Go check the inventory,” I tell Cam, “and give me a report, and a cost estimate. I’ll take it to Nate.”
“Written?”
“Yeah.” I make an apologetic face. “Sorry.”
He winces, but it’s probably because Dylan has pecked his hand, annoyed that he’s paused the stroking.
