Chapter Nineteen ~ Nathan
Summer wine.
Murph started making it when Fiona, Liam, and I were in our early teens. Honeywell experienced a bumper crop of strawberries one year, and after we all joked we were a few berries away from embodying the saying ‘you are what you eat’, Murph got the idea to make homemade wine.
“Strawberries, cherries, and an angel’s kiss in spring,” he’d said, quoting what we’d later learn was a line from the song “Summer Wine” by Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra.
He’d hummed and sung the song endlessly that summer as he worked in his wine-making station in the basement.
He was so proud of himself when the first bottles were ready, and he remained proud through the years as he continued to make the stuff every summer.
Silence hangs in the treehouse. I remain where I am in the doorway, waiting for…
what? I’m not sure. An invitation? A rejection?
Since I’m apparently incapable of being the sensible one right now, part of me hopes Fiona will tell me to leave.
Point out that us being alone together is a bad idea.
And that us being alone together with alcohol is an even worse idea.
Finally, she scoots over and pats the space on the floor next to her. “Summer wine always tasted better when we shared it.”
I join her, kicking off my boots before stepping onto the blankets. I’m tempted to leave a few feet of space between us, but it didn’t occur to me to bring glasses, so we’ll have to pass the bottle back and forth.
“Remember when Bono and The Corrs released a live version of ‘Summer Wine’?” Fiona asks as I settle in beside her. “Dad was like, ‘Sorry Lee and Nancy, but my allegiance lies with my fellow countrymen’.”
I chuckle, opening the bottle and handing it to her so she can take the first sip. “That was the only version he listened to from then on.”
Fiona smiles as she brings the bottle to her lips. I can’t take my eyes off the long, smooth expanse of her neck, or the flutter of her pulse as she tilts her head back to drink. For a moment, the only sound is the sloshing of liquid, followed by her quiet sigh of satisfaction.
She hands over the bottle, and I take a sip.
That first familiar taste of the sweet, fruity wine transports me back a couple of decades to nights in this very treehouse with Fiona and Liam, listening to music on a portable CD player, and thinking we were so clever as we drank the wine we snuck from Murph’s stash.
“Knowing Murph the way I do now, there’s no way he didn’t know what we were doing back then,” I say. “He only made so many bottles each year, so it would have been easy to keep track of them. He would have noticed any that were missing.”
Fiona shifts to face me, crossing her legs and arranging her skirt over her knees. Her lips curve in a pleased smile when I mirror her position. “I suspect he always knew what we were up to, whether it was the occasional stolen bottle of wine or me sneaking out at night to meet you.”
I hum in agreement. “As an adult, I realize the weight of that. He trusted us.”
Over the years, I’ve heard stories from friends and acquaintances about their teenage antics and how their parents ruled with an iron fist, punishing them severely for stepping out of line.
I’ve dated women who have laid out their daddy issues and explained how their father’s control and lack of trust led to them making foolhardy decisions in an effort to prove something.
And while trusting your teenage daughter is one thing, trusting her boyfriend is another thing entirely.
I suppose it helped that Murph had known me my whole life, but that could have just as easily made things more difficult.
He and Mae were involved heavily in our lives, but I never felt any pressure from them.
Until now, I never fully appreciated that they trusted me with their daughter’s heart.
“I suppose he also figured the three of us couldn’t get into too much trouble with a bottle of wine between us,” Fiona says.
She’s still smiling softly, and the sight lifts the now-familiar heaviness that was beginning to settle on my chest. Her fingers brush mine as she reaches for the bottle and takes another swig.
“Have you had a good birthday?” she asks. “You look like you enjoyed the party.”
“It’s been a really good day,” I tell her, relieved at the change of topic. It’s so easy to get lost in thoughts and memories of Murph and the past in general. “I’m glad I let you guys talk me into the party.”
She ducks her head, laughing softly to herself. “That’s cute.”
“What?”
“The fact you think you let us talk you into it,” she says. “As if you ever really had a say to begin with.”
I huff out a laugh. “Touché.”
“Tell me about Natalie,” she says suddenly.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, accepting the bottle from her when she holds it out.
“You two dated?”
“I’m not sure that’s an accurate description,” I say.
“We went out a few times, but I was hung up on the fact I wouldn’t be able to handle her lifestyle.
Besides her rising fame, she also travels a lot, and when she’s not travelling, she lives in Toronto.
It seemed pointless to start something we knew couldn’t go anywhere. ”
“A lot of guys would jump at the chance to date a celebrity, even temporarily,” she says.
“Part of me wanted to,” I admit. “Not because of the celebrity thing, you know I couldn’t care less about that, but because she’s funny and smart and beautiful. We had some interesting conversations, and there was definitely a spark between us.”
She makes a soft humming sound. “Liam and Joss figured it out and made it work.”
“They did. Maybe if there’d been less going on in my personal life, I would have given the whole thing more consideration. As it was, I took the cowardly way out and used your dad as an excuse.”
“How so?”
“I told Nat I needed to be with Murph as much as possible, and that Mae needed my help. It was true, and I don’t regret it, but it still feels like I took the easy way out.
I didn’t want things to be awkward between us, especially since she’s Joss’s best friend, and she’s in town for a while filming. ”
“Makes sense,” she murmurs. “What about other women? You said you had a brief thing with Aneesha, right?”
“Where are you going with this, Fiona?”
She shrugs. “Just making conversation. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”
I narrow my eyes, but she simply tilts her head, her expression the picture of innocence. “Fine, yes, Aneesha and I had a ‘thing’. The dating pool in Honeywell is tiny, and I’ve known most people my whole life.”
“What about online dating?” Fiona asks. “You could extend the parameters outside Honeywell. Cast a wider net, so to speak.”
Something about the suggestion—about this whole damn conversation—makes me want to laugh.
It also makes me wonder if I was right earlier about Mila being here meaning Fiona plans to leave soon.
Maybe in some twisted, likely unconscious way, this is her way of softening the blow.
Of making sure I’ll be okay when she leaves again.
“I’m not interested in online dating,” I tell her. “In fact, I’m not interested in dating, period. Maybe I’m meant to be a bachelor for life.”
“I don’t believe that. You have way too much love to give to be single forever.” She avoids my eyes as she speaks, staring at the label on the wine bottle instead.
I shouldn’t ask the question that’s tickling the back of my throat. I tell myself not to ask it. And yet it slips past my lips anyway. “Are you jealous, Fi?”
Her eyebrows inch up. She opens her mouth to speak, but when no words come out, she takes another slug from the bottle before trying again. “I shouldn’t be. I have no right to be.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say, even though we both know her admission is exactly that.
When we were together, she’d often point out when girls were checking me out or flirting with me.
I was oblivious to it because all I saw was Fiona.
All I wanted was Fiona. I never doubted her when she told me she wasn’t jealous.
She always said ‘you’re mine and I’m yours, and that’s all that matters’.
“I’m not a jealous person,” she says, echoing my thoughts.
“I know you’ve dated over the years, and figured you might have even had relationships I didn’t know about.
I want that for you. You deserve that—some amazing woman who will love you and care for you.
Someone who will choose you again and again, day after day, forever. ”
In other words: not her.
I clear my throat, holding my hand out for the bottle. “And what about you? Have you dated? Had relationships? I don’t imagine it’s easy with your schedule.”
“It’s not,” she agrees. “Romantic relationships are a foreign concept to me at this point. As for dating…I haven’t done much of that either, not really. I’ve had the occasional fling and one-night stand.”
She watches me unflinchingly as she says this, as if she’s gauging my reaction. Maybe she’s hoping she’s not the only one who’s jealous. She’s not, and I hate myself for it.
She breaks eye contact and leans back, supporting her weight on her hands so she can look up at the skylight.
A small smile flirts around her mouth. She always loved stargazing and looking at the moon.
There were countless nights in our childhood and teen years when she’d drag me outside and lay a blanket down so we could watch the stars.
I grumbled about it sometimes, but I secretly loved that time with her.
I loved it even more after we became a couple and it involved snuggling, which usually led to making out.
The summer before she left, we spent many nights in the bed of my truck, lying on piles of blankets, listening to music, and stargazing.
Most nights, I spent more time looking at her than at the sky.
“So,” she says suddenly. “You’re another year older. Do you feel any wiser?”