Josie #2
He resents his older brother, Trace. Everyone knows it. They ran the vineyard side by side for years, but when it came time for final authority, the signature needed wasn’t his. Their father had left it all to Trace. He has never forgiven that. The tension has lingered, dressed up as partnership.
Yet now Evie is the one facing charges.
Max stands there speaking about integrity while my grandmother’s name moves through legal filings because the family feud flared up and my grandmother is an easy one to blame. She might not be blameless. But Max is not the bastion of virtue he presents himself to be.
I dip a carrot into the ranch, my attention fixed on the stage. Halfway to my mouth, a heavy drop slides off and lands squarely on the front of my blouse.
I look down as a white streak blooms against the ivory silk, bright and unmistakable. Of course.
I set my plate on the edge of the table and press a napkin carefully against the spot.
The dressing smears instead of lifting, spreading into a wider patch that catches the light.
I dab again, more firmly this time. The silk darkens where it absorbs moisture, leaving a damp halo around the original stain.
Perfect. This is why I prefer jeans and flannel.
Max continues speaking about community investment and long-standing commitment. Applause ripples briefly at a line that sounds prepared for it.
I pick up my glass and slip down the hallway toward the restrooms, keeping my shoulders straight. Inside, the fluorescent light is unforgiving. The white streak is still visible surrounded now by an expanding damp oval that looks far more dramatic than ranch dressing deserves.
I wet a paper towel and blot gently, trying to dilute the stain. The fabric darkens further and then becomes just about translucent. The damp patch grows, spreading into a shape that can’t be disguised as shadow.
I press once more and then stop.
There’s no fixing it. It’s going to be a giant grease stain.
For a moment I consider going home, escaping both Max’s voice and this hideous fluorescent lighting.
Instead, I fold the paper towel neatly and drop it into the trash. I smooth my hands down the front of the blouse, straighten my shoulders, and lift my chin.
Ranch dressing will not ruin my night.
When I step back into the hall, Max is still droning on, still thanking donors as if he personally wrote every check. I return to my place near the wall, damp silk cooling against my skin, and take another measured sip of wine.
Applause builds as Max moves into his final lines, his tone swelling as if he expects the room to rise with him. Across the room, Matt catches sight of me. His gaze drops to the front of my blouse. He raises his brows and points subtly, a silent question.
I give a small shake of my head and lift one shoulder. It is what it is.
The applause crests, polite and sustained. Max nods as if accepting something larger than gratitude.
“Ambitious choice.”
The voice comes from beside me, low and close enough that it cuts through the fading claps.
I turn and find a man angled toward me, tall, with blond hair graying at the temples that’s pushed back as if he ran a hand through it earlier. His eyes flick once to the front of my blouse and then return to my face.
“If you wanted to take some food home with you tonight,” he says, leaning in enough to be heard over the applause, “you could’ve grabbed a plate.”
For a second I don’t follow. I glance down at the wet splotch on the front of my blouse. “Oh.”
He straightens, a faint flush touching his expression. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary.”
“It’s fine,” I reply. “Things happen.”
Without asking, he reaches toward the table behind us and replaces my nearly empty glass with a fresh pour from the bottle. “Peace offering,” he says, handing it to me. “Though I should warn you, it’s not the best pinot noir in the valley. But it’s passable.”
I accept the glass and hold his gaze. “Passable,” I repeat.
“It won’t offend anyone,” he adds, clarifying his point. “Which is sometimes the goal at events like this.”
He says this casually, without edge. He has no idea who he’s standing next to.
I take a sip, letting the wine linger on my tongue. “That’s a generous assessment.”
He gives a small shrug. “I have opinions.”
“That must make you popular.”
“Occasionally.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “I’m Alex Spencer. I work at the hospital.”
Of course he does. “Josie Dempsey,” I say, watching his face carefully. There is no shift. No pause. No calculation. In this town, my last name usually lands harder.
“Nice to meet you,” he says.
“You too,” I reply.
He looks back at me with open curiosity, seemingly unaware of the fault line he just stepped across. “So do you work at the hospital too?”
I glance down at my hands before I answer. There’s a faint smear of sap near the base of my thumb that I missed when I washed up earlier. A thin line of dirt rests beneath one nail, stubborn and refusing to budge.
“No,” I say. “I work at a vineyard.”
His expression changes. The polite neutrality gives way to interest that isn’t forced. “That’s impressive,” he says, and there’s no condescension in it. “Has your vineyard been able to produce wine yet?”
He really doesn’t know who I am. “A few bottles,” I say, trying to figure out where he’s going.
“The best pinot noir is the Black Bear flagship—the gold reserve. There’s something about it. Lots going on, but it doesn’t try too hard.”
I feel the words land somewhere deep inside me.
He doesn’t lower his voice or glance around to see who might hear him. He’s not performing. He’s talking the way someone does when they genuinely enjoy something.
“It just won that international competition,” he adds. “Gold medal.”
“Yes,” I say.
“That didn’t surprise me.” He shifts his weight slightly, glass balanced in his hand. “You can taste the patience in it. Like it was allowed to develop instead of being pushed out the door.”
I watch him as he speaks. The way his eyes sharpen. A small smile curves at the edge of my mouth before I can stop it. “Most people just say they like it,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “I like knowing why.”