3. Amy
3
AMY
“ I t’s probably not what you’re used to in France, is it love?” Mom takes a sip of champagne, and I try not to stare at the way her hand trembles as she lifts the glass to her mouth.
“I don’t drink a lot of champagne. The vineyard produces pinot noir.”
There’s a smudge of red lipstick on the glass when she sets it down. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Your dad wouldn’t fork out for the real stuff.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes. I should be used to Mom’s casual digs at Dad, but they still grate.
“Not like Landon.” She looks around the room, tastefully decorated with pale pink flowers and twinkling fairy lights. “No expense spared for his little girl.”
The mention of Landon has me reeling. The entire time we were dancing, my skin felt like it was on fire. Whenever I’m close to him, my stomach ties itself in knots and sweat breaks out on my palms. Then I remember what he said about Mom.
She lets out a long sigh and takes another sip of champagne. Her eyes close, and she leans back in her chair.
It’s been a whirlwind of a day with the flight cancellations and only being able to rebook to get in this morning. Between travel and bridesmaid duties, this is the first time I’ve had the chance to sit down and talk to Mom properly.
There are dark smudges under her eyes, and her cheekbones are visible. She’s lost the roundness in her face, and the dress she’s wearing is baggy.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“Thank you.”
I frown. “I don’t mean it as a compliment. You don’t look great, Mom.”
She smiles wryly at me. “Still as direct as ever, Amy.”
She’s trying to brush it off, but I don’t need to be a nurse to know something’s up. It’s been eighteen months since I was last back, and the last time Mom was dancing around the kitchen, moving her substantial ass to Beyonce. Now she hasn’t been near the dance floor, and I’ve barely seen her talk to anyone apart from Rodney, the old fire chief.
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
She sits up and shakes her head quickly. “Nothing love.”
But she doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Mom, tell me what’s going on. You haven’t danced once, even though they’ve played three Abba songs. You’re usually up and talking to everyone, but instead you’re sitting here sipping champagne with shaky hands.”
She doesn’t answer, and my chest tightens with panic. “Are you dying?”
She chuckles, and her hand reaches out to clasp mine. “I didn’t want to tell you today. You’re having such a lovely time with Izzie.”
The skin’s loose on her hand, and there are more wrinkles than I remember. At least the burgundy nail polish is the same.
“Mom. Just tell me what’s going on. Are you dying?”
“No love.”
I take a deep breath as the panic subsides.
“Not yet.” She takes another sip of champagne. “I’ve got damaged kidneys.”
I frown. I don’t know anything about kidneys or how bad that is.
“I was feeling a bit off so I went to the doctor, and I’ve got CKD, Chronic Kidney Disease.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have to monitor my diet, not eat too much protein or salt, and cut back on alcohol.” She takes a sip of champagne, frowns at the glass, and sets it down on the table.
I nod my head as I process what she’s telling me. It doesn’t sound too bad. “Okay, that sounds manageable.”
“And I’ll be starting dialysis next week.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. “What?”
Mom squeezes my hand. “It’s all right, love. It’s just a trial run to see if it helps.”
I stare at my mother. She’s always been so full of life, so positive about every damn thing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs. “You were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Of course I’m worried.”
I run a hand through my hair. I can’t let Mom go through this on her own. “I’m not going back to France.”
Her face falls. “No love. All you ever wanted to do was get out of here. I won’t clip your wings.”
“You’re not clipping my wings, Mom.”
Everyone has this idea of how fantastic my life in France must be. But the truth is it kind of sucks. It was great at first, moving to the little village where Dad retreated after the divorce. I moved into his caravan on the vineyard where he works and started working with him.
But most of the work in the vineyard is seasonal, and they don’t always need me. I saved all my money to go backpacking around Europe, staying in dorms with other travelers. It was smelly and noisy, and I couldn’t afford to do a lot.
I sit up straight and give her my best no-nonsense face. “I’m staying on Wild Heart Mountain.”
She pats my hand. “You’re a good girl, Amy. If you must stay, then leave your ticket open. I’ll be right as rain in a few weeks, then you can go back to France.”
Rodney, the old fire chief, approaches the table, balancing three small plates in his thick hands. “I brought you girls some cake.”
He takes a seat next to Mom and slides one of the plates over to her and one to me. “It’s chocolate.”
He looks between us, taking in my serious face. “She told you?”
I’m not sure why Rodney knows about Mom before I did. But I’m glad Mom has a friend in Hope. “I’m staying.”
“I’m happy to drive your mother to her appointments.” He spears his cake with a fork and scoops some into his mouth.
I shake my head. “No need. I’m staying.”
He nods. “We can share the load, I reckon.”
Mom turns in her seat to face him, and they get to talking about the chocolate cake and how back in their day it was always fruit cake. Two divorcees lamenting the fall of modern weddings; the irony is not lost on me.
I sit back in my chair, trying to take in what Mom’s told me. Not knowing what’s going on with her health is the hardest thing about being away from her. But when I left at eighteen, it was the best thing for both of us. I was a horrible teenager. I can see that now, and Mom took the brunt of it.
Now I regret every harsh word I ever said to my mom.
Dad was always an exotic figure. A Frenchman who Mom had met while backpacking around Europe when they were both young.
Young and in love and stupid.
I’ll call the airline tomorrow and change my ticket to an open one. Then I’ll email the vineyard. They won’t miss me. There are always seasonal workers looking for jobs.
The hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I glance up to find Mr. Laker staring at me from across the room. A delicious shiver runs down my spine as I remember our bodies pressed together on the dance floor.
I need some air.
I get up from my seat and take the door that leads outside. Cool mountain air hits my inflamed cheeks, making me shiver.
I suck in the night air and walk a few paces away from the venue. I lean against the side of the building, feeling the steady thump of the bass from Gimme, Gimme, Gimme rumbling through the wall.
I close my eyes and think about what I’ll need to do to stay a bit longer on the mountain. I’ll need a job. I’m not sure if Mom can still work while she’s having dialysis, and I don’t have a lot of savings.
“You’re not a fan of Abba either?”
My eyes fly open at the deep voice, and I find Mr. Laker standing in front of me. “Mr. Laker. You startled me again.”
His deep blue eyes bore into mine. “Call me Landon.”
“Landon.” The name is unfamiliar in my mouth. Exciting and thrilling. A shiver races down my spine.
“You’re cold.” He shakes off his jacket, and before I can protest, holds it out to me. “Take this.”
He wraps the jacket around my shoulders, and I’m engulfed in a hazy aroma of whisky and spicy cologne. “Thank you.”
He pats the jacket down, and his hand lingers on my shoulder. The touch makes my head spin, and I wonder if I’ve had too much champagne. I’m not a big drinker; I did all that when I was younger. Now a single glass of good wine is all I allow myself.
So I know it’s not the wine that makes me lean toward him.
“Amy.” His voice is a caress, gravelly and strained. “You’re different than I remember.”
He takes a strand of my hair and wraps it around his finger. I wonder if he’s remembering my rebel haircut, short and spiky and black.
“I guess I grew up.”
His lips turn up at the corners. “You did.”
My heart is hammering in my chest, and there’s no denying the attraction between us.
“You’re different too.”
I think about the grief-stricken figure I remember, the man who aged overnight. I guess time is a healer, because there’s nothing hunched or broken about this man. He’s solid and confident, and he’s staring at me like he wants to devour me.
He’s still got my strand of hair in his hand, and he curls it around his finger. There’s a tug on my skull, and I lean forward. My lips part, and my eyes widen. I’m going to kiss Mr. Laker.
Then his lips are on mine, firm and insistent. I open my mouth, and he groans as my tongue flicks between his lips.
He tastes of whisky and chocolate cake, and I moan at the sensation. His hand snakes around my waist and he pulls me against him.
My breasts brush against his chest, and my nipples harden at the sensation. A whimper escapes my mouth because this is so damn delicious. My body lights up at his touch. I feel like I’m falling.
I can’t believe I’m kissing Mr. Laker.
I’m kissing Izzie’s dad. The thought slams up against every good sensation, and I pull away with a gasp.
Mr. Laker’s gaze is deep with desire, and it takes all my willpower to pull away.
“We can’t do this.”
He takes a step back. “I’ll stop if that’s what you want.”
His hand drops from my waist, and the loss of his heat makes me gasp. Is this what I want? I want desperately to keep kissing him. But Izzie is my best friend. What would she think?
Mr. Laker is studying me. “Have dinner with me tomorrow, Amy.”
I blink in surprise. Did Izzie’s dad just ask me out?
“I don’t just want to kiss you, Amy. I want to spend time with you. I want to understand how the angry teenager grew into a beautiful woman. I’m attracted to you, Amy. And I know you feel it too.”
“But you’re Izzie’s dad?”
He shrugs. “Does that bother you? She just married my best friend. I don’t think she can possibly have a problem with her father dating her friend.”
We’re talking about dating now. My heart beats faster, and my stomach flutters. I imagine being on the arm of Mr. Laker.
Then I remember Izzie’s words from earlier. “ I’m glad he never remarried. I couldn’t handle a stepmom.”
I can’t do this to my best friend. Not that I’d ever get married. Whatever this attraction is between me and Mr. Laker, it has to stop.
“Sorry.” I slide his jacket off my shoulders. “I won’t do that to my friend. I’m not interested.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking amused rather than hurt. I hold the jacket out to him, but he doesn’t take it.
“I’ll be here when you change your mind.”
The arrogance of the man is unbelievable. I let go of the jacket, and it falls to the floor as I brush past him and go inside.