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And when he takes out a batch of misshapen cookies, which I know he and Fiona must have baked themselves, my heart might as well be a stick of butter in the Napa sun.
ChapterTwenty
Ruby
After just a week of living in the staff cottages, I have to admit I have more energy.
And the place is beautiful.
If this is a staff cottage, I can’t imagine what the guest cottages look like, and with my busy schedule, I don’t have a moment of spare time to investigate them. There’s no need. With my patio’s sweeping view of the vineyards crawling up the hills beneath the warm sun, I don’t need anything more.
My cottage has a tidy bedroom with a double bed under a fluffy white duvet, plantation shutters painted cornflower blue, a small kitchen, and a bathroom with a clawfoot tub. After living on a futon in the corner of Ella’s dorm, this feels like five-star resort living. I guess it is.
At the same time, there’s a rustic charm to everything at Buttercup Hill. The door hinges creak, frogs in the lily ponds croak, and the winds that blow across the vineyards sweep everything into a beautiful sort of chaos. Guests feel like they’re part of the Corbett family while they’re here.
Then there’s the wine community itself. If anything functions like a small town, it’s the small insider group of vintners who live up here, sharing gossip like it’s their job and counting each other’s grape arbors to make sure no one crosses property lines.
I’ve come to understand why Jackson keeps to himself. Any bit of information makes its way through the grapevine—literally—and he controls the most coveted information about Buttercup Hill. Any competitor would love to get a glimpse at the bottom line of the biggest winery in the country.
I wonder about that aspect of Jackson’s life as I get dressed for work, luxuriating in the extra hour of time I had this morning to jog along the pathways within the property before showering and making coffee.
More and more, he seems frustrated by work. I know about the debts, but he’s vague about everything else, saying things like, “if I can figure out what’s going on,” and “once I get a handle on a few things,” but then I’ve gotten sidetracked by Fiona before I could push him for more.
Oh, I’m definitely planning to ask. It may not be any of my business, but then again, maybe it is. I’m not going to self-censor. If he doesn’t want to tell me something, that’s on him to say.
In fact, I decide to make it a point to ask about what’s bugging him at work when I see him later. He has a work event tonight, but I’ll find some time before he scoots out the door. I’ll make a point of it.
As I’m walking along the path toward the restaurant, my phone pings with a text from my sister, right on schedule. I bought Ella a new alarm clock. It’s a small blue ball that rings and vibrates and can be set remotely.
I set it each night.
When the alarm goes off, if Ella doesn’t get up and go across the room to turn it off, it rolls off the dresser and starts moving around the room, getting louder and louder until she chases it down. It’s been working like a charm. Every morning, I get an annoyed series of texts once she’s turned the sneaky thing off, but at least she’s awake.
Ella: Damn you
Me: Love you too, El
Ella: Remind me not to schedule an 8 a.m. class next semester
Me: How are you feeling?
Ella: Weirdly good. Just knowing what’s up with my ovaries makes me feel better
Me: Technically it’s your tubes
Ella: Why are you like this?
Me: You love me
Ella: I do. Talk tomorrow
Me: You’ll see me tomorrow. Remember?
Ella: Yes. I’ll see you. Annoying
I’ll feel better once Ella gets an all-clear from her doctor about the ectopic and everything looks good. I don’t want to think about the possibility of surgery. And her insurance will cover most of the cost, minus her deductible, which means I still need to scrounge together fifteen hundred dollars.
I didn’t mention the deductible when I told Jackson about the ectopic because, knowing him, he’d find a way to double my salary somehow, and I don’t want that kind of charity.
