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The sooner I got to California, the better. I’d leave all these longings behind in Elmer. Escape the temptation of what could never be. Orgasms and tacos weren’t real life.
“I know it’s early, and I’d planned to keep this on ice until after the soft open, but I’m bringing out the big guns!” Gabriel ducked into one of the fridges under the bar to find a magnum of sparkling wine. Blue Star only made still wines, so bubbly was a treat.
“It’s part of the gift basket that came from Coyote Ridge, across the valley. The note thanked us for not scheduling our stomp the same weekend as theirs.” He popped the cork with a very French flourish and poured the wine into the champagne glasses we’d selected in Austin.
“Raise your glasses,” Wilson started.
“Wait!” Harley rushed to the bank of light switches on the far wall, her work boots clopping over the narrow plank wood floors. She turned off the bright overhead fixtures and brought up the mood lighting. She then flicked on the cattle brand chandelier.
The chandelier cast soft shadows of the brands over the floors, walls, and ceilings. It was a stunning effect. The dancehall was ready for her inaugural event.
My heart beat triple time in my chest. I’d pulled it off. The warm glow that filled the dancehall seeped into my bones, and I called it success. It drowned out my worries about love; I had my career, and that would be enough.
“A toast.” Wilson started a second time. “To Blue Star wine, Texas women, and song!”
“And song? That’s the best you have?” I looked askance at my brother.
“You have better?”
“To Blue Star wine, kick-ass women, and the men that support us.”
Harley, Annabelle, and I clinked glasses. The men looked at each other, shrugged, and added their glasses to ours in the middle. I found Atley’s gaze under everyone’s raised arms; he nodded at me, a twinkle of what had to be pride in his eyes.
That look was better than tacos and orgasms. I was so fucked.
Chapter 24
Atley
The Saturday of thesoft open was a typical August morning, hot and dry at six am. The sun rose slowly over the vines, and I took a moment to watch it from inside my truck at the edge of the new parking lot. I inhaled, enjoying the last moments of peace and quiet before the first wave of chaos rolled in. A coolish breeze blew in my window, bringing the smells of morning dew and fresh grass. Soon it would be all bus fumes and port-a-potty stench.
Last night, unable to sleep yet again, I googled the population density of Montana. It was six times less than Texas. The whole time I sat at my computer reading facts about Big Sky country, I wondered how many of the things I was learning Rae already knew.
I savored the last sip of my coffee and listened to the birds chirp. I was one contrary bastard, thinking about leaving Texas because of a person who was planning to leave as soon as she could. Shaking my head, I laughed at my special brand of stupidity.
A cellphone alert from the main gate informed me a delivery truck had been buzzed in for the tasting room. I looked to the horizon, waiting for the truck to appear, wondering which vendor would be the early bird.
When the truck crested the hill, I realized that the day’s first SNAFU was rolling my way.
I got out of my truck and put on my hat. I’d always loved that military phrase SNAFU… situation normal: all fucked up. It covered so many of life’s road bumps, including this one.
I walked down to the driveway, where the truck pulled to a stop. The driver rolled down his window.
“Morning, sir. Where do you want me to put it?” He hitched a thumb toward the back of his truck.
I rubbed my chin and quadruple-checked the guy’s load. One lonely port-a-potty.
“Is the next driver bringing nine more?” I asked, already knowing there wasn’t another driver.
“Excuse me, I don’t follow?” The driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“The order was for ten.” I pulled out my phone and navigated to the email I’d been cc-ed on with the confirmation from his company.
“No sir. One.”
I held out my cell, and he countered with proof of his own.
His pink work order was on three-layer carbonless paper, and I’d bet a week’s worth of port-a-potty cleaning duty that whoever filled out this form didn’t press down hard enough for the zero to make an impression.
