Cool air bursts into the kitchen as Meg swings open the door from the dining room. It’s five fifteen in the morning, it’s still dark outside, and the ovens have been running for an hour already.
“Wow, you are up bright and early this morning,” she says cheerily as she wanders over to see what I’m working on.
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get in and get a head start. First batch of biscuits are done, and I’m working on a new cornbread recipe for brunch.”
“Yum! What’s in it?” she asks, sticking her finger in the bowl and then licking it clean.
“I’m thinking a coastal skillet with shrimp and spicy sausage.” Lately, we seem to be getting more tourists during the brunch hour, so I’ve been trying to make it more Southern authentic and less breakfast traditional.
“Sounds like coins in the bank to me.” She turns to grab the iced coffee out of the refrigerator. “Want some?” She waves the pitcher at me and I take in her outfit. It’s Saturday, so it’s going to be a long day, and she’s wearing skinny jeans and four inch heels. The girl is amazing, has legs to die for, and it dawns on me that I haven’t worn heels very much at all since I’ve been back.
Looking down, my converse sneakers have seen better days, and suddenly I hate the way I look. When did this happen? No makeup, simple clothes, hair just pulled into a knot—this isn’t me. I’ve always prided myself more on my appearance.
Meg waves the pitcher again looking for my answer.
“Sure, as if I haven’t already had two cups this morning.” She refills my glass and then makes one for herself before putting the pitcher away and pulling up a stool next to where I’m working. Her perfume floats my way, she smells nice, clean, and I’m pretty sure I don’t.
“You ready to talk about what happened yet?”
“Talk about what?” I play dumb and turn away so I don’t crumble under her all-knowing stare. I was motivated this morning to make this new dish, but even I know that’s a lie. I’ve been showing up before her, which never used to happen, and I’ve been cooking like a woman with an army to feed. It’s all been a not-so-subtle attempt to distract myself.
“Shelby, don’t act like I don’t know you, I do. You haven’t been sleeping well since you got back, and we’ve had more new recipes than ever. It’s been a month since you left. I’ve steered clear, hoping you’d work it out of your system and find some sort of decision, but that isn’t happening.”
“I’m well aware that it’s been a month.” Walking to the trash can, I pull off the plastic gloves from peeling the shrimp and toss them in. “It’s just that he threw me off balance and I feel like I’m still trying to find my footing. I swear it’s a never-ending case of vertigo.”
Reaching for my drink, I take a sip hoping to swallow down the emotions rising in me.
“I think you’re overreacting, and you’ve overreacted to the entire situation.”
I narrow my eyes at her, feeling a bit incredulous that she isn’t firmly on my side in this. She just looks at me as if she’s said the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.
“What?” She’s my best friend, she’s always on my side. I don’t understand why all of a sudden, she’s changing her tune. A few weeks ago, she wanted to burn down his winery, and now she’s changed her mind? “How can you say that? You know what happened, you know what he did, and you know what he said.”
“I understand that. But given a little time and some separation, I’ve realized this is different.”
“How is it different?” My throat aches, my voice cracks, and my heart races. I take another sip of the coffee.
“For starters, it’s been weeks and if it were really nothing, you would have moved past this. Also, if you weren’t so stubborn, you might be able to think about this a little more from his point of view, too. And . . . he is not your father.”
“S-s-stubborn!” I stutter, moving to set the coffee down. “His point of view!” I shake my head like she’s crazy. “Not my father!” I don’t even know where to go with this one. “Seriously, Meg, don’t patronize me!” I point to myself.
“I’m not.” She lowers her voice and holds up her hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is you’ve been so stuck on what you think he did, you’re missing what he actually did. You both were given the assignment, and he was doing what he needed to do to maximize the opportunity and help grow his business. Was he using you, yes, but it had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t meant to be personal, and his plan would have been the same no matter who they brought in. And I think if you’d step back and look at this on a broader scale, you’d realize you were doing the same to him.”
“What!” I yell and take a step away from her. I would never use someone. My entire life I’ve been vehemently against even the idea of it. She is wrong. So wrong.
“Shelby . . .” She crosses her legs and leans forward. “I talked to you on your third day there. You told me how much of an ass he was being, but instead of leaving, you chose to suck it up because this article—this opportunity—was worth it, no matter what. You made your own plan to stick it out, period. A plan that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with your goals. The only difference between you and him is that he talked about this with his friends, and if he hadn’t shown up to take you on the tour of the property, we would have formulated one, too.”
My head becomes cloudy, and I pause to sort through what she’s said.
“But he crossed the line.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her. He made me believe there was something more, something real—he hurt me.
“Did he? What about you?” She picks her coffee up and stirs it with the straw, looking calm and composed. This infuriates me even more.
“That isn’t fair! I never hated him. He disliked me from the minute he saw me last fall, judged me for something that I wasn’t involved in, and then tricked me. He tricked me into liking him beyond a professional acquaintanceship.”
“I don’t know if he really ever tricked you. I think he was hopeful you’d write the post, but based on what you’ve told me, he wasn’t suggestive toward it, and if he had been, you could have said no.”
“That’s the thing, I probably wouldn’t have said no. Actually, I’m certain of it, and you know why? Because I thought we had become friends, more than friends, when all the while he was only pretending to be nice to me.”
The timer on the oven dings, and I grab the mitts off a hook on the wall so I can take the biscuits out and place the tray in the warmer. Meg is watching me, but everything inside me is screaming.
Returning the mitts, I turn to face her and her determined expression slips a little at the sight of me. Persistent in continuing this talk, she sits up straight.
“Okay, maybe at first, but anyone who spends any amount of time with you sees how amazing you are. Everyone adores you, Shelby. Is it so hard to believe that he might have had a change of heart? Seems to me, he was pretty taken with you by the end.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.” I shake my head, and the grief I’ve felt over the finished label I stamped on us returns.
“Why not?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
“Because. No matter how we ended, I’ll never forget how we began.”
Knowing she’s not getting through to me, she frowns and then lets out a deep sigh.
“So, now what?” she asks.
“Now there’s nothing.” I move to sit back on the stool next to hers and look down at my hands in my lap. “I promised myself years ago that I wouldn’t let anyone, man or woman use me as a stepping stone to get themselves something greater, and that’s what he did.” I raise my eyes to hers. “That when I found someone, any successes we had would be because we worked independently or together. You know how important character is to me. Kindness, loyalty, honesty . . . Zach lied.”
“He also apologized to you, repeatedly. I know this all stems because of your father and your mother, but Zach is not your father. Your father never said he was sorry for what he did, just that he got caught.”
“Why are you pushing this so much?”
She leans over and places a hand on my knee. “Because I think he’s worth it. Don’t you?”
“You don’t even know him.”
A small smile lifts one side of her mouth, and in a mocking tone, she says, “No, but Lexi does.”
“You talked to Lexi about this!” I don’t know whether to be shocked or pissed.
“Of course, I did. He called her, and she called me. Seems I’m your gatekeeper since you won’t turn on your phone.” She glances at it over on the prep station.
“I don’t want to turn it on.” I’ve been using it as a clock, it’s been in airplane mode for almost two weeks now.
“Why? Are you afraid you’ll answer one of his many calls?”
I don’t respond because she’s right, and I hate it. I want to talk to him, I do, but I don’t know what’s left to say.
“Shel, you like him. A lot. This is the first guy I have ever seen you like. Nobody can fake anything for two weeks. Whatever you saw in him—whatever you found so alluring and wonderful—that’s who he is. Hearts speak to hearts, regardless of what comes out of the mouth. What he gave of himself to you and vice versa, there’s no pretending, only genuine truth.”
Hearts speak to hearts.
Oh, for cryin’ out loud, she’s right again. His did speak to mine. I know it did, and that’s why this has been so confusing.
“Food for thought,” she says. “Maybe you should take one of his calls and hear what he has to say.” Her eyebrows rise in challenge and then with her coffee in hand she slips out of the kitchen, leaving me to sort through this mess.
I know I’m going to have to talk to him eventually. I can’t avoid him forever.
“And stop working so much, it isn’t good for you,” she yells from the front of the restaurant.
“Hello, pot meet kettle!” I yell back.
I have been working a lot. I finished the assignment and e-mailed off the pairings, complete with recipes, and my experience at Wolff Winery. I wrote and scheduled several blog posts for the release of the magazine. I created new menus for summer and fall for the restaurant. Also, I’ve steered clear of anyone and everyone who’s come my way.
Feeling suddenly exhausted in a way I didn’t know was possible, my eyes slide over to the boxes of honey that Lexi sent. As much as Zach and I talked about bees, and as much as he knows I love honey, I’m surprised he never mentioned the meaning behind his mother’s love of the honey bee symbol. It’s funny, too, because once he said it, I started remembering all the different places I saw them. Throughout the cottage, in the barn, on the wine labels, everywhere. Not once was there a wolf head, only bees.
Bees.
How disappointing that I’ll never be able to look at bees or honey again and not think of him. He’s tainted one of my favorite things, which I’m still trying to come to terms with, and he’s also made me fear their sting even more.