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“Driving.” She points to herself with both thumbs. I respect that she’s so responsible. “Three sips was enough to know it’s delicious.”
“Glad you liked it. Old vines.” I hold up the bottle and look at the label, which has the older design of a hay-filled wagon against a sunrise. Our new logo—a simple buttercup that looks like it’s sketched on the craft paper label—is better for our brand, but I miss seeing the old one and still have cases of wine in my cellar from the older vintages.
“Nothing like that in the tasting room. Hope I didn’t rob you of something precious.”
Every time she says something like this, it reminds me that she thinks about everything this way, in terms of cost and value and scarcity. Meanwhile, I uncork a hundred-dollar bottle of something I like without thinking about it. Makes me feel like the silver spoon asshole I am. Just what my father raised me to be.
“Even if it was, you’re worth it, don’t you think?”
She moves to the couch, so I can’t see the expression on her face when she answers. “On my good days, maybe.”
“They should all be good days, Ginger.”
I get a muffled grunt of agreement. Or dissent. Can’t tell.
Noticing our half-filled wine glasses still on the table, I reach over and grab mine, along with Ruby’s full water glass and the bottle. Ruby is sprawled on half of the couch, so I put the glass down on the wood plank coffee table and sit in a leather chair opposite her.
“So what got you interested in wine, anyway?” I ask. Probably should have been the first question when I fake-interviewed her, but like I said, I’m not good at interviewing people.
She laughs. “Isn’t that obvious to someone in the wine business?”
“Not at all. I didn’t have a choice. It’s a family thing.”
Turning her head to look at me, she levels me with a truth stare. “You always have a choice, Jax.”
Her words strike me, as they often do, as a revelation. So obvious, and yet I’m generally so oblivious to this kind of truth. “Is that how you live your life? Making choices according to what you want instead of what you’re supposed to do?”
I expect an eye roll. Because of course she does. Someone like Ruby charts her own course. “Yeah, that would be a no,” she admits. “Family tends to blur those lines between wanting and doing. It’s disappointing at times, but it is what it is. You get it.”
I do. And yet again, I feel like a jerk for assuming she’s free to chart her course without the obligations. She just hides her disappointment better than me. “Feel like elaborating?”
“Sure.” She tells me more details about her parents dying in a car accident. “Drunk driver. No life insurance policy, not much money. So I got a job.” She shrugs like it’s normal to get custody of a sister at nineteen and find a job to support them both.
“Hang on. That’s a lot. You just…got a job? Doing what?”
“I worked as an office temp. It was great because my classes were mainly on two days, so I could take full shifts on the other days, and the pay was better than minimum wage.”
I know I’m not doing a good job of hiding my shock, but I can’t help staring at her with my head tilted forward and my eyes wide. “You stayed in college and worked too?”
“I had to. I mean, the school was amazing and gave me a scholarship so I could afford to stay. But I needed to support both of us. Needless to say, I don’t have, like, an IRA or whatever. Not exactly saving anything.”
I reach for her hand, which seems like a minuscule gesture, but she grips it tightly. Eyes moist, she looks more vulnerable than the woman I see every day. Her grimace tells me she doesn’t enjoy recounting the story, and I feel even more gratified that she trusted me with it.
“No one would expect you to have an IRA,” I say gently. The idea of retirement savings is almost absurd. She lets out a small laugh.
“Yeah, I guess. I’m lucky that Ella has paid housing, but I do realize that dorm living is not a long-term solution. Hence the two jobs.” She exhales. Then blinks and shakes her head. “Oh, and my sister’s pregnant, so there’s that.”
“What?” I feel like the whiniest asshole for complaining about my job or my life when she’s been carrying all of this on her shoulders. Holding her hand doesn’t seem like nearly enough, but I’m her boss, and I can’t do half the things my heart is urging me to do. So I put my other hand on top of hers, cupping it between mine.
“Yeah. I’m taking her to the doctor. We’ll deal with that when we know more.” She shrugs. She actually shrugs, like it’s all going to be okay. But how can it be? Maybe because she just faces things head-on and makes it okay. I’m stunned.
When she finishes talking, she looks a little less exhausted, as though unburdening has relieved her of something.
“You’re so fucking amazing.” I need better words, more eloquent words, but these are all I have. She blushes.
“Thanks.”
I want to lighten her load without making her feel like it’s charity, but I have no idea what to propose. “Can I do something to help you?”
