Chapter Twelve
“G racious, it has been a week,” Brooke said. Some customers had posted viral content about a rustic little winery way out on an island called Goose, and when viewers saw folks hanging out with chickens, cats, and goats in the shade of drippy old oaks sipping wine, crowds flocked to the establishment. It was Friday, and the popular jazz band Notes of the Marsh was scheduled to play, so both tourists and locals jammed their cars into the gravel parking lot and all the way down the tree-lined street like it was the Fourth of July parade. Both Brooke and Jessa said in quick passing that they wished they hadn’t volunteered to work that night.
Old Mother Nature must’ve been in her giggles, because she saw them all coming and decided to turn up the thermostat, successfully ensuring that everyone was red-faced and sweaty as they danced and sipped libations. The air-conditioning in the tasting room could barely keep up with the door opening and closing so much, so Brooke sweated along with them. Nana, who seemed impervious to the heat in her red cotton top and hula skirt, stationed herself by the front door, handing out wet paper towels she’d placed inside a bag of ice. Tips were graciously accepted, of course. Cornelia would be horrified.
The good news was that the tasting room was about to close. Everything on concert night took place outside, and the temperature would soon drop a few degrees. Dottie locked her truck up tight after she ran out of pulled pork and coleslaw. She’d had lines no fewer than ten people long all day. Jessa managed to talk her mom into helping out instead of heading home, so Dottie was on the grounds making sure there was toilet paper in the bathrooms, empty trash cans, and no broken glass in the dirt. She was grumpier than the goats, Skip and June, who had apparently banded together to knock some poor soul off a bench from behind. But she soon discovered that if she put her bottled waters and Cokes in a half wine barrel filled with ice, she could charge five dollars a drink and people would willingly pay it. Dottie-the-entrepreneur was unstoppable.
Finally, the night was orangish-black and the moon won the fight for the sky. The band struck opening chords and the guests settled into their spots. The ones who planned ahead sat on blankets with baskets of charcuterie and drank from real wineglasses—the women with their legs tucked under their long skirts and the men in polo shirts and shorts leaning back into their beach chairs. The rest of them sat on hammocks, Adirondack chairs, tree roots, picnic benches, and patches of grass.
Brooke sat at a table near the main building, where she sold small plastic glasses of wine from a cooler. The white scuppernong wine would be especially quenching on this particular night, she told people, and it sold quickly.
Once the doors were locked, Nana took her pocketbook full of cash tips and attempted to disappear. Only this time, Brooke watched as her grandmother walked with purpose, grass skirt swaying, to Amelia’s Patch of Happiness. She opened the gate and vanished like a ghost into the garden. She was definitely headed through the vineyard to Duke’s place. She had to be.
As much as Brooke was trying to ignore her, Libby was there too. And she’d brought along her fiancé. He wasn’t as good-looking as Gates Lancaster, but he surely never had trouble getting dates. What did he see in Libby Trotter? And why had he given her a ring twice the size of Asia? Didn’t he know that she would find fault in it? She found something wrong with everything and everyone.
Brooke tried not to watch them but couldn’t help herself. Libby, of course, was one of the prepared guests. Not only was she not working the event, she wore a puffy-sleeved white dress and set up her picnic on a short portable wooden table complete with a vase of fresh flowers in the center. She and James sat on fluffy cream-colored pillows and picked at their spread of olives, soft cheese, honey, crackers, salami, and grapes, to be followed by a silver tray of miniature cupcakes. The pillows, napkins, and tablecloth were monogrammed, of course.
I’m happy for them , Brooke tried to convince herself. But it didn’t work. Not at all. She wasn’t happy for them, and saying it in her head wasn’t going to change that. So, she changed her tack. Their happiness does not affect my life in any way. They have no power over me. Those thoughts helped a little, but as soon as she watched Libby take a sip of rosé with her ostentatious, self-righteous, bratty little pinky held upright like royalty, Brooke wished fervently that Skip and June would prance over there and headbutt her into oblivion. People who steal happiness from others do not deserve to have it for themselves. Libby was a happiness stealer. So why did she have absolutely everything? Brooke poured herself a cup of scuppernong wine and chugged the whole thing. Shouldn’t karma be having its way with Libby Trotter? Hurry up, already.
Brooke had to tear her eyes away. It would be nice if Nate showed up in that very moment. They could confront Libby together, her fiancé would finally see her for what she was, and her wedding would be canceled. Libby Trotter would be left curled into a little ball on her fancy pillows, crying her eyes out because her life was ruined. And Brooke would not help her. As a matter of fact, Brooke would laugh. Yep. Just like Libby had done to her. And then she’d say something like, You get what you deserve , or Karma sucks, doesn’t it?
Brooke caught herself smiling widely. Shoot. She hadn’t meant to let cattiness take over like that. She had to stop those kinds of thoughts. They were mean, and she was not a mean person. She was supposed to be sweet. She would never stoop as low as Libby. But the feeling of retribution, of justice , even though only imagined, still warmed her from the inside.
Revenge really did feel good.
“I saw that.” Dottie sauntered over, her nonalcoholic drink station only a few yards away. “You living in your head these days?”
“Just processing.” The band played a menacing riff that highlighted her point nicely.
“What you put out into the universe comes back to you, you know.”
“I know. You caught me having a moment.”
Dottie’s eyes cut toward Libby and James. “Generations of hatefulness. That’s what she comes from.” Dottie made no bones about staring right at them. “Ooh, Lordy. She’s a piece of work. I tell you what, I can see plain as Bermuda hay that she comes from a long line of selfish assholes.”
“Day,” Brooke mumbled. “Plain as day.” There was no use correcting Dottie. Anyway, Brooke was done thinking about and talking about Libby. Libby was responsible for her actions, long line of assholes or not.
“Just remember that the folks who judge you got a whole lot to be judged for themselves.”
Brooke nodded. “I just wish I knew why she decided to hate me. There are millions of people in the world, and she chose me.” Dottie appeared to have her attention diverted toward her daughter, who was laughing it up with a group of folks seated around a picnic table covered with food, candles, and flowers. Brooke joined Dottie in the vision of Jessa acting as the human version of sunshine. “How did you teach her to be so sweet?”
Dottie was no longer listening. “Something’s coming for you.” It was like the words came from the inside of Dottie’s skull instead of her mouth. It was creepy.
“Is it good?” Oh, please let whatever was coming be good.
Dottie moved her eyes to Brooke and sucked in her upper lip, exposing the hole where her bottom tooth should be. Her eyes were shut tight, light brown eyelashes sticking straight out, shaded by the edge of her blue knit cap. “There’s more. I mean, I can’t see it all. There’s goodness in it. Yes, plenty of good. But also risk. Big risk.” Her eyes popped open. “Oh, honey child. There is a storm swirling all around the edges of your life, ain’t there?”
Brooke shuddered. There sure was.
*
The next morning, the vortex of Brooke’s storm was swirling inside Trig and Cornelia’s house. If she had to clock the winds, she’d say 72 mph—hurricane force. Cornelia was fired up, and all of her anger was aimed at Trigger, who looked shell-shocked in his plaid bathrobe and slippers at the breakfast table.
“All I asked for was the ketchup,” he said. “You know I like ketchup on my eggs.”
“Then get it yourself.” Cornelia took the hot pan from the stove and threw it with a loud crash onto the tile. Bits of scrambled eggs flew all over the lower kitchen cabinets and floor.
“Cornelia!” Trig shouted. “What is up with you?”
Brooke hadn’t said anything to anyone about what she’d seen in Charleston. And she had no intention of telling her dad, but she sensed that the other man and Cornelia’s current behavior were linked.
“I am tired of this! I am tired of doing for everyone else all the time. None of you people care. None of y’all even know that I’m here unless I’m serving something up for your bellies.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Trig attempted.
“Now you’re calling me ridiculous? If you want to see ridiculous, I will show you ridiculous!” Cornelia’s finger shook as she pointed it straight at her husband’s forehead. Her face was bright red.
Brooke sat frozen at the table. Her parents rarely fought in front of her. In the Warter home, voices were not allowed to be raised. If a person was angry, they were to go to their room until they calmed down.
“I’ll hire a cook,” Trig said, trying to fix things but missing entirely what his wife was actually saying.
Brooke’s heart pounded. She should stay out of it. But her dad needed to learn, and for the first time, she had clarity about her mother. The thought came out of her mouth before her brain could run interference. “You don’t get any appreciation around here, do you, Mother?” It had been years since she’d called her anything but Cornelia.
Cornelia’s frenetic movements slowed as her eyes shifted to her daughter.
Brooke continued. “You work hard at a job no one notices, for no paycheck and only the rare thank-you.”
“I share my bank account—” Trigger began.
Brooke shot him a look. “This is about Mother. And let’s not even talk about the fact that you just called the bank account that you own with your wife of thirty years yours .”
Her father paled and shut up.
“You’ve created a beautiful home for us, Mother. You make things nice. You raised me, you feed and clean up after us, you handle every little detail of this household, including Nana.”
Cornelia leaned against the kitchen island, her face no longer red.
“I noticed the new hand towels in the guest bath,” Trigger said sheepishly. “They’re real pretty.”
Cornelia shot fire at him with her eyes.
Brooke asked softly, “Do you feel like you’re the only one here concerned with other people’s well-being? Like you’re solely responsible for your family’s health and happiness?” The words came out in a torrent, and Brooke found herself saying things that she’d known but never actually took the time to think about. Despite the fact that Cornelia was a control freak, she did have the best intentions. “I see that you do all you can to keep things running smoothly around here, that you have a million responsibilities.”
Cornelia nodded.
“But, a person can only do it for so long, right? It isn’t just you, Trig. None of us pays attention to how much she does—to how much thought and effort goes into it.”
Cornelia came over and sat at the table next to Brooke. She looked exhausted.
“I’ll clean up the eggs,” Brooke said.
“No, I made the mess, I’ll—”
“No, Mother. I’m cleaning them.”
“Thank you.” She slumped into her seat.
“Cornelia?” Trig asked.
Cornelia acknowledged him, but her face turned dark.
“May I take you out for a nice dinner tonight?”
Cornelia thought for a moment. “No, thank you.”
Trig stiffened and frowned. “Well then, I’ll just take my coffee to the den.” He accidentally spilled coffee onto the table as he stood. He noticed the mess, ignored it, and walked out of the room.
Brooke had better talk to her mother privately about the other man. The sooner the better. Her parents’ marriage might depend on it. But not now. Sharing the fact that she saw her kiss another man while Cornelia was in an emotional stew might very well send her mother running.
As Brooke picked the gooey eggs off the painted wood cabinets, she considered why Cornelia insisted on treating her like a guest. Brooke was another family member to have to serve and worry about and try to control. When it came to Cornelia’s particular personality type, one more person was simply too much. It had nothing to do with how much she wanted her daughter there. The fact was, Cornelia Warter loved her daughter, and her daughter had been misjudging her since the day she was born.