Maybe Baby (3 page)

She reached over and patted his hand. “Vivian is going to make a substantial donation to St. Jude’s for this.”

Nick closed his eyes.
Here it comes.

“All those sick little children,” Babs said, her voice plaintive. “This donation will get them teddy bears, and Nintendos, and crucial medication—”

“Enough,” Nick said, holding up his hand. He tapped his fingers roughly on the bar. Babs had been suckering him into doing these whacked-out favors for years, and he always caved when she brought up the sick kids. The woman had absolutely no shame. He let out a rough exhale.

“What kind of bird is it?”

Babs straightened up in her seat. “I’m sorry?”

“Is it big? Little? What color is it?”

“It’s a Kakapo,” she said, her words flowing fast in her excitement, “that’s all I know, and I don’t know exactly what that means. It’s from New Zealand, I think. But it’ll be the only bird in the room.”

“Fine.” He nodded toward the paper in her hand. “One more, but that’s it. Saturday I get on that plane, and it’s over. I mean it.”

He held his hand out. She happily tucked the piece of paper into his palm. He opened it and stared at the address, then turned back to face Babs.

“So, that’s it? I just get the bird and… what?”

Babs waved her hand vaguely. “Vivian will give you the check for St. Jude’s, you bring it to me in the morning, then you can do whatever you want with the bird. It might be nice for you to have a pet, don’t you think? I don’t think it’s good for you to live alone. It makes you cranky.”

“I don’t need a pet,” Nick said. “You take the bird.”

“I can’t bring a pet into that building without jumping through hoops that would make a tiger at the
Cirque de Soleil
shudder in abject horror.”

Nick shot her a look. “You need to move out of that place.”

Babs lowered her eyes. “Bryson’s partners at the firm worked so hard to save the penthouse. It would be an insult to them if I left.”

Nick sighed. Babs’s second husband, real estate mogul Bryson McGregor, had died practically penniless almost ten years ago. Babs had been taken by surprise by the news that she was suddenly broke, but his partners had managed to save the penthouse apartment that had been in Bryson’s family for generations while keeping the scandal out of the papers. As far as Nick knew, Bryson’s lack of solvency was still a secret; Nick himself hadn’t even known until a couple of years ago. A life insurance policy doled out a monthly stipend that covered everything Babs wanted for, which wasn’t much, but the entire subject was still a sore one for Babs.

She looked up at him. “Please, Nick. You’ll only have to keep it for a little while until I figure something out.”

“By Saturday?”

She blinked innocence at him. “Why? What’s Saturday?”

“I get on the plane,” Nick said, leaning forward and giving her the I-mean-it stare. “And I won’t be staying because of a bird.”

“Of course not,” Babs said, smiling triumphantly. “Don’t worry. I will have a solution by Saturday.”

“Fine.” Nick tucked the paper in his pocket, hoping the bird would be small, quiet, and sleep a lot. Chances were slim, but a guy could hope.

Three

Hand shaking, Dana plunged her key into the lock at Wiley Wines. She’d spent the entire forty-minute drive home from Syracuse reasoning with herself, trying to shake the nagging conviction that she’d ruined her life. Nothing made her feel better, and by the time she got out of her car, she was teetering on the ragged edge of despair.

Stupid moment of clarity.

She pushed the door open, walking into the combination gift shop/tasting bar. The old wood floor creaked beneath her feet as it had creaked under the feet of three generations of Wileys. It was a beautiful place, open and bright with floors of smooth golden wood and rough log walls with large windows to let in all the light they could squeeze out of the upstate New York skies, which tended to be stingy with the sunshine. The family home on the other side of the vineyard was built in the same style, and usually when Dana walked in either place she felt calm, at peace.

Now, she felt like she really needed a glass of wine. She tossed her garment bag on the end of the tasting bar as she ducked behind it, searching for something to match her mood.

“What goes with despair and blind panic?” she muttered to herself, pulling out a dusty bottle. “Perhaps a cabernet.”

“You’re here.”

Dana glanced up and saw Silla coming out of the office, her strawberry blond hair held precariously off her neck with two pencils and a letter opener. Of all the college-aged bookkeepers who’d answered Dana’s ad promising irregular hours at crappy pay, Silla had been the most intriguing to Dana. She’d brought an umbrella to the interview on the sunniest day in the summer. Just ‘cuz you never know. Dana had hired her on the spot.

“I’m here,” Dana said, popping open the bottle of wine. “Thought I’d celebrate. Whatcha working on?”

“Accounts payable,” Silla said. “I hate accounts payable. Have I told you that?”

“That’s what makes you such a great bookkeeper, your openness about despising what you do.” Dana held up the bottle. “Want some?”

Silla’s eyebrows knit, and she glanced at her watch. “It’s not even noon.”

Dana shrugged as she poured herself a glass. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” She stared toward the ceiling, doing the time zone math in her head. “Moscow, you think?”

Silla shook her head. “No, I mean, shouldn’t you be at work?”

Dana swirled the wine in the glass, then took a sip. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as the glorious liquid slid down her throat, warming her belly. “Got out early. Time off for good behavior.”

“Oh, no,” Silla said, her eyes watching Dana warily. “Did that Milo fire you?”

“No.
That Milo
enjoys threatening to fire me too much to actually fire me,” Dana said, leaning her elbows on the bar. “Sil, have you ever had a sudden moment of clarity?”

“A sudden moment of clarity?” Silla thought on it for a moment. “No. Can’t say that I have. Why?”

“No reason. I just was wondering, you know, if other people have these sudden moments of clarity, like when they suddenly just know something.”

“Just know something?”

“Yeah.” Dana shrugged. “Like when they
just know
they’re in love. Or when they
just know
that something awful has happened to a loved one.” She took a sip of her wine. “Or, you know, when they
just know
they’ve made a monumental mistake and screwed up their entire lives. Stuff like that.”

Silla stared at Dana for a moment. “Are you okay?”

Dana waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She let out an overexuberant laugh. “Fine. Better than fine. Great, as a matter of fact.” She took another sip of her wine to shut herself up. She had crappy poker face. Time to change the subject. “Tell me about those accounts payable.”

Silla slipped her glasses off her face and rubbed her eyes. “The bank people called.”

Dana’s stomach turned, and she fought to maintain her smile. “Yeah? When are they signing over that big fat check so we can open up again?”

Silla went quiet. Dana took another gulp of her wine. “Can’t blame a girl for being optimistic,” she said finally.

“I’m sorry, Dana,” Silla said. “They don’t think it’s a sound investment, given the state of things.”

Dana groaned. “Did you tell them what the grape doctor guy said?”

Silla raised one eyebrow. “You mean the botanist?”

“Did you tell them that the crops were fine, all disease-free, clean bill of health?”

Silla sighed. “They don’t care. All they want to look at is the numbers, and the numbers weren’t that great before the grapes got sick. I’m sorry.”

Dana raised her head and looked out the tiny window above the bar, remembering how her father used to push his open mouth up against the glass and inflate his cheeks as she walked back from the bus stop when she was a kid. Sure, as an adult, she thought it was kinda gross, but at the age of nine she’d never been more charmed.

“So,” she said, still staring through the window, “what are our options?”

“Well,” Silla said slowly, “there’s the thing we discussed about asking your mother to co-sign a loan…”

“Or,” Dana said, snapping her fingers, “I could turn the gift shop into a brothel and sell myself for money all winter until I’ve raised enough to open again in the spring.”

Silla smiled supportively. “That’s a thought.”

“And, you know, any excuse to use the word
brothel.”

“It’s a great word.”

“Honestly, though, I don’t think I’d be any good with the professional sex. I’m barely an amateur. Been so long I’d probably stick the condom on the guy’s ear. Can virginity grow back?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Silla said. “Back to the co-signing—”

“Or,” Dana said, “I could join a traveling circus for the winter. I hear they pay well if you’re willing to be shot out of a cannon. Even better if you’re willing to be shot out of a cannon naked while holding a porcupine.”

“Or,” Silla countered, “you could talk to your mother…”

“Is it bad that I’d rather take my chances with the naked porcupine?”

Silla shrugged. Dana sighed.

“Is there anything else? Any other way?”

“Well,”—Silla started, looking warily at Dana—“you could always reconsider the offer you got from Melanie Biggs.”

“Did you just say her name? You said her name.” Dana wagged her finger at Silla. “You know the rules. Five bucks in the kitty.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Silla let out a sharp exhale, looking pained as she spoke. “She said she’d keep you on staff. Nothing would have to change. And then you could hire everyone else back in the spring.”

“Yeah, so we could all work for the unholy demon spawn of Dolly Parton and Donald Trump? No. Thank. You. I will find another way.” Dana pointed at the ceramic Cheshire cat that sat on a shelf behind the bar, watching them with a vacuous smile. “You know the rules. You say her name, you pay up.”

Silla hesitated, then spoke. “She’s going to be in town this week, checking on her other properties here.”

“No,” Dana said firmly. “Now put the money in the kitty and let’s get back to watching my family business crash and burn, shall we?”

Silla pulled a five-dollar bill out of her pocket and handed it to Dana. Dana turned, stuffed it into the ceramic cat, then pulled a five out of her own pocket and handed it to Silla.

“Congratulations. You got a raise.”

Silla smiled and took the money. “Thanks.”

“Hey, I may be a brothel-owning, porcupine-loving, naked piece of cannon fodder, but I only take money from people I dislike.”

“Which brings us back to your mother,” Silla began.

“I like my mother,” Dana said. Silla nodded, sweetly pretending to believe it, but Dana could tell it was a charade. She stared down into her wineglass. She’d been right—Cabernet did go great with panic and despair. “It’s just that I don’t understand her. And every time I talk to her there are these weird awkward silences that stretch on forever. Seriously. You could bury Jimmy Hoffa in those silences. Matter of fact, I think that might be where he is.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas,” Silla said, “unless you think you might have a hundred thousand dollars or so in spare change stuck in your sofa cushions. I’d be happy to help you look.”

“Boy, you are just the most dedicated bookkeeper ever to escort a business into Chapter Eleven, you know that?” Dana pulled down another wineglass, filled it, and slid it across the bar to Silla. “You’ve earned it.”

Silla took a sip. Dana leaned her elbows on the bar and put her face in her hands. “My father was four when Grampa Wiley built this place. Did I ever tell you that?” Silla shook her head. Dana straightened up and pointed through the window. “My parents were married in the gazebo out back.”

She motioned toward the east side of the vineyard. “I lost my virginity in Nick’s pickup at the edge of the vineyard.” She pulled her head up and cringed at Silla. “Too much information?”

Silla laughed lightly. “Little bit.”

“I can’t lose this place,” she said, as much to herself as to Silla. Silla said nothing, just watched her quietly with that penetrating gaze that only severely sincere bookkeeper types can muster.

“So,” Dana said quietly, “what do you think is the proper outfit for running to your estranged mother and asking for money? Should I go hobo-chic, with my holey jeans and worn flannel top, or should I do straightforward abject penitence and just wear the hair shirt all the way down?”

Silla blinked. “You have a hair shirt?”

Dana lifted her glass.

“Hobo-chic it is.” She smiled at Silla. “Why don’t you get going? I’ll lock up when I’m done with my self-pity bender.”

Silla hesitated. “Are you sure? I could stay with you for a while.”

Dana shook her head. “You go on. Thanks.”

After Silla escaped, Dana pulled the garment bag toward her and unzipped it, revealing the white satin wedding dress inside.

Then she stared at it as she took another drink.

One good thing about the impending doom of losing the business that had been in her family for three generations—it put her moment of clarity in perspective. The whole freak-out had probably just been misplaced anxiety over the winery anyway, she told herself. It wasn’t a huge stretch to imagine—she’d known Silla was talking to the bank people today, and while she’d been hopeful, she knew they might not give her the loan. She was simply misplacing her emotions, as she often did. She knew she’d made the right decision with Nick, and anyway, a man she hadn’t seen in six years was the least of her problems.

Losing the family business, land, and home all in one fell swoop—that was a problem so tremendous and breathtaking in scope that it could easily eclipse a stupid little moment of clarity. No doubt about it.

She leaned back against the wall, her head resting on the cool window her father used to watch her through every morning. She stared up at the rough log ceiling, wondering if her father was watching her from above.