Page 7 of Corkscrew You
“My mom.”
The glow vanishes and her mouth goes all soft and vulnerable with sadness. Fortunately, the pounding pain in my temples suppresses any dumb urge I might have to kiss it better.
“You don’t get on with her?” I ask.
“No! I adore her!” Shelby says. “But I miss her. This place used to be full of Armstrongs, and then there was Dad, Mom and me, and then just me and Mom, and now…’
JP told me about Shelby’s mom buying the artist studio with her payout. He’d met Lee Armstrong and liked her a lot. Whereas I couldn’t help feeling a little resentful that she’d left Shelby to cope with this all on her own.
“Your mom’s happy on the coast, right?”
“As a clam. A happy, hippy clam.”
Hippy, huh. That could explain a lot. Like the wagon wheel with flowers in it, the wind chimes, and the whale poster in the office. Along with the lack of systems, processes, and the slightest amount of financial prudence.
“Do you want some coffee?” she asks.
“Ohyeah.” And if it can be administered intravenously all the better.
I follow her to the main house, which is built in a folksy style, all exposed timber and shaker tiles. It’s a big place, shabby but comfortable, with traces of the Armstrong family all over it, as if they’ll be back any moment. I know how weird it was coming back to my family home after four years away, that pang of seeing all the old familiar things, yet feeling like you no longer really belong, that you’ve grown up and moved on.
Whereas in Shelby’s case, it’s everyoneelsewho’s moved on, one way or another, leaving her all alone. I’m hit suddenly by the reality of how hard that must be for her, and how courageous she’s had to be, to keep going here. WouldIbe strong enough to push on like she has? Or would my Durant pragmatism win over, and make me sell up and get out rather than risk failure?
It occurs to me that I’m undergoing that exact same test in another arena: my family. All five of us Durant siblings think we’re being super practical, combining our efforts to make sure Dad gets the best care, Mom isn’t overworked, and the family finances are protected. That’s what we talk about – the practical stuff.
What wedon’ttalk about is how we’ll feel if Dad dies. When we won’t have his presence in our lives, keeping us grounded, focused. Or what will happen to Mom, how she’ll cope, and how we’ll look after her. How we’ll go back to our own lives, knowing she’s all alone. We’re not talking about any of that because that would mean admitting that we took for granted that our parents, especially our hard-assed dad, would hang in there for a good long while…
Guess Shelby did, too.
She’s making coffee with a percolator that looks like it served duty in the Civil War. She’s wearing denim shorts again, and an old surf-brand T-shirt that’s gotten a little transparent with age. No cowboy boots today. Blue sneakers. With a hole in one toe. She’s the same age as me, twenty-eight, and she looks about twelve.
I’m overcome with an unexpected and deeply inconvenient urge to protect her. My sisters would give me crap for being a chauvinist pig. Is Shelby a helpless damsel, they’d accuse? Clearly not, or she’d have given up long since. So why shouldyoufeel the need to be the white knight, riding in to save the day?
I don’t know, sisters dear. If us Durants had any inclination to undergo psychotherapy, I’d probably hazard a guess that I’m trying to make up for past wrongs. Last time, I was responsible for someone’s well-being, I did everythingbutlook after it. And though I’m not quite ready to say I deserved such a publicly brutal dumping, I can at least see what I did to drive her away. I chose to focus all my attention on work, thinking that by turning around her family’s business, I’d be making her life better. But it was the wrong choice, and she didn’t give me any time to put it right.
So, is this my second chance? Could my obsession with work now actually make a positive difference to someone’s life? If I rescuethiswinery, then Shelby Armstrong will be financially secure for the rest of her life.
Part of my brain knows this is a blatant justification. My motives might sound pure but it’s my way of raising the middle finger to my ex. See? If you’d had the patience to wait until the winery was profitable again, you could have had meanda lifestyletrès heureux. But no, you decided to run off with that hairy Scandi dickhead.
Let it go, Nate. Regroup and focus. Your first priority is to save Flora Valley Wines. If that helps Shelby, then wonderful, hooray. But sentimentality can’t override pragmatic business sense. Winning here will require some hard decisions. It’ll require change, radical change. And change can be cruel before it’s kind.
Then again, there’s no reason why my two inner guys can’t co-exist. If Mr Pragmatist does the job, Sir Sentimental can take the glory. Flora Valley Wines is saved, and Shelby’s secure. Everyone wins. And I look good. For once.
I feel strengthened with a new resolve. So what if the bookkeeping relies on a shoebox, and there’s a pissy goose? Bring it on.
Shelby places a mug in front of me. It appears to be filled with tar.
“Uh, it’s quite strong,” she says, unnecessarily. “There’s cream and sugar if you want?”
“No, thanks.”
This morning, I need my caffeine neat.
She perches on the edge of the chair opposite, elbows on the table, mug between both hands. Unlike me, all her emotions show on her face. I see anxiety vying with defiance. She loves this place and intends to defend it. But she knows it’s in a bad way, and she’s bracing herself, like you do before you rip off a Band-Aid. You know it’ll hurt but maybe it won’t hurtthatmuch.
“I have questions,” I tell her. I won’t mention how many.
“OK…?”
