Chapter Twenty-Two
Mila
Just before seven that night, I hurry down the stairs from my room. “I’m heading out, Aunt Jackie.” I grab my purse from the hook by the front door. “You’re sure this is okay?”
My mother’s younger sister smiles at me from the couch. She resembles my mom, although she’s several inches shorter with a much rounder shape. “Of course! You deserve a night off—and how fun to reunite with an old friend.”
I grin with excitement. “I can’t wait.”
She beams as she looks at my baggy jeans and cropped floral blouse with flutter sleeves. “You look adorable, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m all set to sleep on the couch, so don’t worry about what time you get home. Pull an all-nighter if you want.”
I laugh. “There will be no all-nighter, but I’ll try not to wake you when I come in. Call me if she needs anything, okay?”
“I will.”
“She hates the walker, but encourage her to use it.”
“I’m on it.”
“The meds are all lined up on the kitchen counter with detailed notes.”
“I saw.”
“And the pajamas she likes are clean and folded on top of her dresser. She’ll need help getting into them.”
“Am I going to have to kick you out of the house? Go!” She waves me off, and I laugh, pulling the door shut behind me.
It was always strange to me how different my mother and her sister were, given how alike they looked.
I used to love sleeping over at my cousin Lauren’s house because my aunt would bake cookies with us or paint our nails or braid our hair.
And she was so free with hugs and I-love-yous. I was envious.
Downtown, I find a parking spot in the public lot.
As I walk toward the bar, I see the Founder’s Day poster I designed in a shop window.
I gasp in surprise and stop to admire it.
Leaning closer, I notice that a little note has been added at the bottom.
Artwork by award-winning local botanical illustrator Mila Ferguson.
My heart skips a beat. Everett remembered my award?
Not only did Connor skip the ceremony, he didn’t even ask me about it afterward.
I’m flattered that Everett not only recalled that small piece of our conversation but put it on the poster.
I keep walking, noticing the poster in nearly every window along Main Street. It puts an extra spring in my step.
I’m about to enter Novel Vine when a tall, broad-chested guy barrels out with a huge grin on his bearded face—it’s Ripley. He steps to the side and holds the door open for me. “Hey, Mila.”
“Hi, Ripley.” I slip past him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Have a good night.”
Inside, I look around, taking in the long, white marble bar on the right, the plush pink bar stools, the black-and-white honeycomb tiles on the floor.
On the left, above pink velvet banquettes, the entire wall is lined with black bookshelves.
Along the back wall are mirrored shelves, giving the illusion of more depth, and the front window houses a curved nook.
Not every seat is taken, but it’s busy, with women in pairs or trios chatting softly over glasses of wine, the occasional burst of laughter ringing out over an Olivia Dean song. The vibe is elegantly cozy, feminine, and lush.
Spotting Yasmine behind the bar, I break into a smile, my throat growing tight.
She looks almost exactly the same—short and bombshell-curvy, shoulder-length brown hair, heart-shaped face.
As if she knows I’m there, she looks over at me right away.
Her mouth falls open, and her shoulders twitch, as if she’s sucked in her breath.
Next thing I know, she’s taken off running.
Careening around the end of the bar, she launches herself at me, flinging her arms around my neck.
For a moment, we just stand there clinging to each other and crying softly.
Emotions crash over me like a series of waves.
Gratitude for her forgiveness. Longing for the past. Mourning the years and friends we’ve lost. Regret for my mistakes.
Yearning to go back and be the girls we were before anything went wrong, but also hoping we can repair the damage and build a new friendship as the women we are now.
When we finally let go, our faces are a mess and we’re both talking at once.
“Oh my God, it’s good to see you.”
“I am so sorry it’s been so long.”
“You haven’t changed a bit!”
“Neither have you!”
“I was so scared I’d never hear from you again. I felt like that part of my life just vanished.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t reach out sooner. Please forgive me.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Her hands grasp mine, her moss-green eyes shining. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
My eyes are drawn to the gold chain around her neck.
The ladybug charm dangling from it.
I gasp. “You still have it!”
“Of course I do.” She touches the charm. “I hardly ever take it off. You don’t wear yours anymore?”
A lump forms in my throat. “I lost it the night of the fire.”
She nods in understanding.
I take a breath and look around, determined to stay in the present moment. “This place is so beautiful, Yasmine.”
“Thank you.” Her lips curve into a thousand-watt smile. “I’m really proud of it.”
“How long have you been open?”
“Just over a year.”
“And business is good? Everyone I talk to has great things to say about it!”
“It’s pretty good.” Yasmine tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Summer is definitely the best time because of all the tourists, but this September is going fairly well. I’m a little worried about the winter—January nearly killed me this year—but I’ve got some ideas to keep people coming in.
Although…” She glares at the wall Novel Vine shares with The Axe & Barrel.
“A lot of people just want the same old pint of beer at The Axe on a Friday night.”
I look at the wall too. Knowing Everett might be just on the other side of it makes my heart do jumping jacks.
Yasmine tugs my hand. “Come sit at the bar. Let me pour you a glass of wine, and you can tell me how it’s going with your mom.”
I slide onto one of the plush pink stools. “I’m dying for a glass of wine,” I tell her, “but please don’t make me talk about my mom.”
She laughs. “Is it that bad?”
“She’s just…my mom. You know how she is.”
“I remember,” she says. “So let’s talk wine. We have several flights, and our daily specials are listed along with tasting notes on the chalkboard behind the— Oh my God.” As she glances over her shoulder, her smile morphs into a scowl. “I’m gonna kill him.”
I follow her line of sight and notice that the chalkboard notes have been edited to say things like, “Not as good as Bud Light” and “Pairs well with deez nuts.” (That note is accompanied by an abstract little doodle of what I imagine is supposed to be a guy’s junk, and I wonder if Dickelangelo hasn’t just incriminated himself.) In contrast to the elegant script above, the comments are printed in sloppy, spiky capital letters—totally a dude’s handwriting.
“Kill who?” I ask.
“Ripley Wilder, that’s who!” Yasmine hurries over to the chalkboard, grabs a rag, and wipes furiously at the unauthorized notes. After having a few terse words with the other bartender, who holds up her hands like she didn’t see anything, Yasmine returns to me.
“Everything okay?”
“Apparently, his mission in life is to ruin my vibe.” She places a short food menu in front of me and frowns at the shared wall again. “I should have known better than to put Novel Vine next to his pub. It was the perfect location, but his pranks are driving me insane!”
“Clearly, he hasn’t changed.”
“Not a bit,” Yasmine confirms. “If anything, he’s worse than he was in high school.”
“Think he could be the person drawing the dicks around town?”
“I heard about that.” Yasmine’s angry face relaxes a little. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but I doubt it. He’s pretty well known in the community, and most of his bullshit seems to be aimed at me. He still calls me ‘Veep’ because he knows how much it bugs me.”
“He stole that election,” I say loyally. “I’ll never believe otherwise.”
Yasmine laughs. “Me neither. But enough about him. What can I get you to drink?”
I sip wine and snack on a cheese and charcuterie board, stealing moments with Yasmine whenever she can chat with me.
I learn that she veered from her plan to attend Northwestern University after a gap year and instead worked in restaurants while taking business classes at a nearby community college.
She got interested in wine the summer she worked at a winery in northern Michigan called Cloverleigh Farms. The winemaker there encouraged her to get some education, so she saved up enough money to start training to become a Certified Sommelier.
“What did that involve?” I ask, spreading soft white cheese on a slice of toasted baguette.
“Classes in theory and tasting and service. Learning about the major wine regions of the world. Getting experience in vineyards, wineries, restaurants.”
“So you worked in vineyards?”
She nods, expertly pulling a cork from a bottle. “In Michigan, Italy, and France.”
“Wow!” I take a sip of my wine. “So how did you end up back here?”
She sighs as she pours two glasses of red. “There was a man.”
“Uh-oh.”
“We were supposed to open a wine bar together. It did not go well.”
“What happened?”
“I invested a lot in him—money, time, work, feelings.” She sets the bottle down and speaks quietly. “He took me for everything.”
“Oh God, Yaz. I’m really sorry. Men can be such assholes.”
“I was pretty lost afterward. Not to mention broke. I had to move in with my parents for a little while, start saving again. I was working as the sommelier at Wardwell House when this building became available. I decided I didn’t need a partner and opened Novel Vine myself.”
I lift my glass. “Here’s to your fresh start.”
She smiles, pours herself a small amount from the bottle of red, and touches her glass to mine. “To old friends and new beginnings.”