Page 52 of Love on the Vine
“Okay, sweetie. I’ll send you photos of the places we look at.”
“Fine. Just please promise me you won’t make a decision without me.”
“I promise. Love ya.”
“Love you too.” I hung up and buried my head in my hands. “Arghh!”
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get up the nerve to talk to him?
As if I didn’t know the answer to that question. The truth was, he’d been dreaming of me taking over the firm one day, and it would break his heart if I told him that wasn’t what I wanted.
I didn’t want to disappoint him. I knew that when he looked at me he saw my mom. He was secretly terrified that I carried the same latent, self-destructive genes and would end up like her. I’d been working my whole life to prove him wrong by being the perfect daughter: agreeable, studious, obedient. I was tired of putting my own desires on hold to live up to my family’s expectations.
Just once I’d like to do something for me.
* * *
A heat wave set in.
It was too hot to cook, so I lived off gazpacho and salad. Jake and I rarely crossed paths and when we did, we exchanged comments about the weather like we were strangers. It was like those magical days in Burgundy had never happened. Yeah, it hurt being rejected sexually, but losing that connection was even more painful.
I finished my work on the inventory and had nothing to keep me occupied. Bored, I went to visit Monsieur Reynaud. His house, with its thick stone walls, offered some relief from the oppressive heat, and I spent several afternoons making him fresh vegetable purées with the zucchini and summersquash from his garden. His wonderful stories, peppered with Shakespearean aphorisms, distracted me from my morose thoughts until it was time to go back home.
In the evenings, Sly kept me company. He suddenly wanted to cuddle and would jump in my lap while I was reading, spreading his furry body over my French magazines.
“You’re doing this just to be contrary. You can’t fool me,” I told him as he stared back at me, slowly blinking his golden eyes.
By the end of the week, I decided I had to confront Jake. His clients were leaving the next day, and I needed to know if he wanted me to go as well. Now that my work was done, there was no reason for me to stay. Lucie wasn’t expecting me until the end of the following week, but I could always leave early and stay with Callie for a few days.
Between the mosquitoes and my constant late-night ruminating, it was near dawn when I finally fell asleep. I probably would have slept all day if it wasn’t for the shrill sound of someone ringing the bell at the front gate. I blinked at the alarm clock. It was already well after noon. Jake was taking his clients to the airport in Nice today, and he clearly hadn’t returned yet. I hastily threw on a ratty old T-shirt and shorts and ran out front, kicking up pebbles with my feet.
“Son of a bitch!” I cried as one wedged between my toes and I hopped to the gate, peeking outside to find an irritated dude next to a large white delivery truck.
“Livraison pour Monsieur Vos,” he said flatly and shoved an order slip at me. With a sinking feeling, I realized I’d mistakenly requested delivery of the Hermitage wines to the house instead of the shipping container in Marseille.
“S’il vous plait, monsieur!” I tried to explain the misunderstanding to him, but it was beyond my French language abilities. He cut me off and started unloading the dozens of boxes in the driveway. I tried to convince him to atleast take them downstairs, but he refused and drove off in a whirlwind of dust.
Since leaving the wine in the sun wasn’t an option, I picked up a box and, groaning under its weight, made my first trip down to the cellar.
I’d been lugging boxes into the cellar for about fifteen minutes when Jake pulled into the driveway. By this time I was a mess, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to my head, sweat trickling down my cleavage. I wiped my damp forehead on the back of my hand and plucked the sticky fabric of my old Rolling Stones T-shirt from my stomach, trying to create some air.
Jake jumped from the car and rushed over, intercepting me before I picked up another box. “Are you trying to give yourself heatstroke? What is this?”
“The shipment from Hermitage,” I panted.
“Why didn’t they deliver it to the container in Marseille?”
“I don’t know. I fucked up.” I wanted to lay down on the ground and cry, overcome by the heat and my own stupidity.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Jake grumbled, clearly annoyed at my being on the verge of tears. “Go get some water before you pass out.”
He pried the carton from my shaking arms and headed toward the cellar door while I went to the kitchen for a bottle of water. When I came back out, he’d already made much quicker progress than me—only a few boxes remained.
I sat down on the low stone wall next to the rosebushes and gulped down the water, annoyed that, once again, he looked incredible in his white pants and olive-green linen shirt, rolled up over his forearms and open at the neck. His muscles flexed through the thin material as he picked up a box in each arm like they weighed nothing. When he glanced over at me, I scowled and pretended like I hadn’t just been checking out his ass.
“Why didn’t you wait for me to get back? You shouldn’t be lifting these by yourself.” He was irritated, which only pissed me off more.
“I had no idea when you’d be back. It’s not like we’ve spoken in the past two days.” I sounded like a petulant child, but I couldn’t help it.
