“Well, what about going back on the cruise ships?”
I made a face. “Nah. Two years was enough for me—I only did it for the experience. And the money.”
“Then stay here,” she said firmly. “Your roots are here. Your family is here. You’ve got a new job you like, and you can easily find a place to live.”
“I do like my job.” I looked over her head out the window again. “And I did miss it here,” I admitted. “But won’t everyone think I’m a big fat failure?”
“Fuck everyone!” Natalie said in a rare outburst. “What do you care what people think of you anyway?”
I shrugged, wishing I didn’t care. But I did. So much it hurt. My ten year high school reunion was three weeks away, and as it stood now, I’d walk in there with a pretty dull story—Failed Actress with No Plan B.
I wanted to be able to say I’d achieved something in the last ten years. But the problem was, I hadn’t. I had no career, no husband or children, no home of my own. Everybody else there would have pictures of their beautiful families to show and stories of their successes to tell. And what did I have?
Seven seconds on the mechanical bull.
And some really nice shoes.
The next day, I showed up for work at Chateau Rivard praying no one at the winery had seen the previous night’s show.
“Morning, John,” I called to the tasting room manager.
“Morning, Skylar.” He was inspecting wine glasses behind the long, curved wooden tasting counter. In his fifties, he was thin on top and thick through the middle and way, way too serious about wine, but I liked him well enough. He’d taught me a lot in the last month.
“Just give me a sec and I’ll help you.” I went to the employees’ room in the back and stowed my purse and keys in a locker before joining him again. “Hey, I wanted to ask you about doing some videos this month. I had an idea for a series of tasting clips, just short ones for our website and the YouTube channel, that would teach people about tasting different kinds of wines but not be snooty or overly preachy, you know? Just something fun and approachable, and we could highlight our riesling for summer.”
“YouTube?” John squinted at me. “Do we have a YouTube channel?”
“We will. I hope.” I smiled at him as I unrolled the sleeves of my white blouse. It was a warm day for May, so I’d cuffed them this morning, but the cavelike tasting room always stayed cool with its stone floors and walls. To me, it was a little dark and dungeony, and the fancy French furniture was definitely tired and uncomfortable, but the Rivard family was all about tradition, and resistant to change. Even though I was technically just the assistant tasting room manager, I thought I could help to modernize the place a little bit—not only the look of the tasting room but in other ways as well. After all, if I was going to work up the nerve to ask for a raise so I could afford an apartment, I’d better prove my worth. “I also have some ideas for additional summer events. I’m going to talk about it all with Mrs. Rivard as soon as possible.”
“Actually, she does want to see you.” John set one glass down and picked up another, holding it up in the dim light thrown by the ugly old brass chandelier overhead. “She said to send you to her office when you arrived.”
“Oh.” That was a little odd. I usually didn’t meet with her in the mornings because we did vineyard tours then. “Do I have time? Isn’t it like quarter to ten already? We’ve got two groups booked this morning.”
“I’ll cover for you here. Go ahead.”
An uneasy feeling weaseled its way under my skin. “Did she say what it was about?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just said to send you.”
I tried a joke. “Should I be worried?”
“No idea. But you should probably go now. She doesn’t like to wait around.”
No, she didn’t. Miranda Rivard was a stickler for many things—punctuality, manners, tradition. She was the family’s third generation winemaker, although the Rivards had farmed this area long before that, and she was entirely dedicated to preserving its history. That devotion was nice when it came to saving the lighthouse or securing historical landmark status for an old home, but difficult to work around when it came to convincing her to update her tasting room or embrace technology.
As I took the steps up to the winery’s large, ornate lobby—also outdated, I wondered why I was being summoned like this. Could it be something positive? Why couldn’t I shake the feeling it was something bad?
At the far end of the lobby, I opened the heavy wooden door labeled Offices. Mrs. Rivard’s—I didn’t dare call her Miranda—was at the end of the long hall, but that morning I wished it were longer. I walked as leisurely as I could, my gaze on the frayed teal carpet runner. When I reached her door, I stood with my hand poised to knock and gave myself a little pep talk.
Relax. There’s no way Miranda Rivard watches Save a Horse. It’s probably something about the social media accounts you suggested setting up.
Right. That had to be it. Smoothing my skirt and squaring my shoulders, I knocked twice and waited.
“Yes?”
I opened the door and poked my head in. “John said you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Skylar. I do. Come in.” She gestured to the chairs in front of her desk and my stomach lurched.