Chapter 5
Emma
Thursday
It's been one day since I found out I'm pregnant. Twenty-four hours of carrying this secret. One day of opening my mouth to tell Miles and having the words die in my throat. One entire day of watching him make me bland meals and pretend he doesn't notice I'm falling apart.
I pull out my navy sheath dress—professional, appropriate for the Celtic Knot Wine Exhibition.
Then I notice the waistline. Too fitted.
What if people can tell? I'm only six weeks, right? I’m late two weeks plus the four between my last period and when I was due. Is that how this works? I don’t know.
I throw it on the bed and grab a black A-line. Too funeral. Next.
The floral sundress. Too casual. Next.
The burgundy wrap dress that always makes me feel confident. I hold it up, studying it. Flowy. Forgiving. Won't show anything. Perfect.
Except it's a wrap dress at a wine event and I'll be paranoid all day that it's coming undone.
"Em?" Miles appears in the doorway, coffee mug in hand. "You okay?"
"Fine." I'm holding three dresses and on the verge of tears over fabric. "Just deciding what to wear."
He looks at the pile of rejected clothes on the bed, then at me. "The blue one's nice."
"Too tight."
"The black one?"
"Too depressing."
"The burgundy?"
"It's a wrap dress."
"And that's... bad?"
"At a wine event? Yes." I sound insane. I'm aware I sound insane.
Miles sets his coffee on the dresser and walks over, taking the dresses from my hands. He sorts through my closet with surprising efficiency and pulls out a sage green maxi dress I forgot I owned.
"This one," he says. "Comfortable. Professional. Won't make you paranoid."
I stare at the dress. It's perfect. Flowy, empire waist, looks polished but feels like pajamas.
"How did you—"
"I pay attention." He hands it to me with a small smile. "Get dressed. I'll make you toast."
He leaves before I can respond, and I'm left standing there holding the perfect dress and wondering if my husband is secretly psychic or if I'm just that obvious.
Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed, hair in a low bun, makeup carefully applied to hide the fact that I've been crying at random intervals for two days.
The pickles I bought yesterday are in my purse.
Two jars. Because one jar at a professional wine exhibition is crazy, but two jars is.
.. still crazy, but at least I have backup.
Miles drives us to Celtic Knot in his car. Mine still has empty pickle jars rolling around in the backseat and I can't face the judgment.
"You ready for this?" he asks as we pull into the parking lot.
"It's a wine exhibition. I've been to dozens."
"True. But this one has your brothers and a corporate buyer and apparently your entire professional network."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"I'm just saying—you don't have to be perfect today. You can just be you."
I look at him. Really look at him. He's wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt, looking unfairly handsome and completely calm, like he isn't married to a woman who's currently spiraling.
"What if I don't know how to be just me anymore?" I hear myself ask.
His hand finds mine. "Then I'll remind you."
The Celtic Knot exhibition is already in full swing when we arrive. The tasting room has been transformed—tables covered with bottles, professional lighting, servers circulating with wine and hors d'oeuvres. At least sixty people milling around, and I recognize half of them.
Wonderful. An audience for my inevitable breakdown.
Brennen spots us immediately and makes a beeline across the room.
"Emma! Finally!" He's vibrating with nervous energy, holding a wine glass like a weapon. "You have to try this vintage—it's the one I'm entering in the next competition. Tell me what you think."
He shoves the glass at me before I can deflect. Red wine. Deep burgundy color. Smells like... wine. Expensive wine. Wine I absolutely cannot drink.
"Brennen, I—"
"Just taste it. Please. I need your honest opinion."
Miles appears beside me with a glass of water. "Want to hydrate first?"
Brennen frowns. "It's a wine tasting, not a marathon."
"Hydration is important," Miles says mildly, but his eyes are on me.
I take the water and sip it slowly, buying time. Brennen's watching me expectantly. Miles is watching me with that careful expression. Sophie's across the room also watching me, and—
Is everyone staring at me?
"Right. Wine." I lift Brennen's glass, swirl it professionally like I've done a thousand times, bring it to my nose. It smells good. Too good. My stomach does a warning flip.
I fake-sip, letting barely a drop touch my lips before swishing it around like I'm actually evaluating it. Then I pretend to contemplate while actually trying not to throw up.
"Well?" Brennen leans forward.
"It's... good."
"Good?"
"Very wine-y."
Brennen's face falls. "Wine-y?"
"Tastes like..." I search for something professional to say. "Grapes?"
Miles makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh. Sophie's walking over now, clearly suspicious.
"Emma, you didn't actually drink that, did you?" Sophie asks.
"Of course I did."
"Uh-huh." She crosses her arms. "And what notes did you detect?"
"Notes." I look at the wine, then at my brother's hopeful face, then at Sophie's knowing expression. "Definitely... berry notes. And oak. Very oaky. The oakiest."
"The oakiest isn't wine vocabulary," Brennen says.
"It is now." I deadpan.
Alex appears with a notepad. "Emma, can you be more specific? We're documenting tasting notes for the competition submission."
I'm holding a glass of wine I can't drink, surrounded by wine experts expecting professional feedback, and I need to get rid of this immediately.
"One second—I need to—" I turn toward the nearest table to set it down and "accidentally" knock it against the edge. Wine splashes everywhere. Including on my dress.
"Oh no!" I gasp, sounding more relieved than distressed. "I'm so clumsy!"
"Emma!" Brennen looks horrified. "That was from a two-hundred-dollar bottle!"
"I'll buy you another one, Brennen. I need to go clean up."
I flee to the bathroom, leaving a trail of wine drops and confused family members behind me.
In the bathroom, I dab at my dress with paper towels—not because I care about the stain, but because I need to look busy. My hands are shaking. This is going to be a very long day.
When I emerge ten minutes later, the wine stain is a badge of shame on my sage green dress. Perfect.
A man in an expensive suit intercepts me before I can find Miles.
"Ms. Dawson." He extends a hand. "Robert Hartley. WineGlobal Acquisitions. We spoke on the phone last month about Celtic Knot."
The corporate buyer. Of course. Because this day wasn't complicated enough.
"Mr. Hartley." I shake his hand reluctantly. "This isn't really an appropriate time—"
"I understand you're the deciding vote." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Our offer would set you all up for life. Thirty million dollars for the winery and all assets."
"I'm aware of the offer."
"Then you know this is an opportunity your family can't afford to pass up. Expand locally or go global. The choice seems obvious."
"Is it?"
"Ms. Dawson, your brother Brennen is a talented winemaker, but talent doesn't always translate to business acumen. WineGlobal has the infrastructure to take Celtic Knot to the next level. Without our resources, you're looking at years of struggle for uncertain return."
I study him. Expensive suit, practiced pitch, absolutely zero understanding of what Celtic Knot means to my family.
"Mr. Hartley, this is a family business. Not everything is about maximum profit."
"Everything is about maximum profit. That's basic economics."
"Then we disagree on basics."
"Think about your future, Ms. Dawson. Think about security. Especially now, when—" He pauses, eyes dropping to my wine-stained dress, then back to my face. "—when life changes might make financial security particularly important."
My blood runs cold. Does he know? Can people tell? Am I showing already?
"I need to go examine the terroir implications," I blurt out.
"The what?"
"Terroir. Soil. Drainage. Very important for wine. You should know that Mr. Hartley. Excuse me."
I flee before he can respond, heading outside to the vineyard. The fresh air hits me and I gulp it down, trying to calm my racing heart.
Terroir implications. I told a corporate acquisitions expert I needed to examine terroir implications at a wine exhibition. Inside a building. Where the wine is already made.
I'm losing my mind.
I pull out my phone to text Maggie something work-related and grounding, but instead I see five texts from Brennen.
Brennen: Did you like the wine?
Brennen: Was it bad?
Brennen: Why did you spill it?
Brennen: Emma?
Brennen: EMMA???
I shove the phone back in my purse and find myself reaching for the pickle jar instead. Don't judge me. Desperate times.
I'm standing in the vineyard eating pickles straight from the jar when Miles finds me.
"There you are." He hands me water. Again. "You disappeared."
"The corporate buyer cornered me."
"Ah. Hence the terroir excuse?"
"You heard that?"
"Everyone heard that. You said it pretty loud."
I take a pickle bite with more aggression than necessary. "I panicked."
"I noticed." He leans against the fence beside me, looking out at the vineyard rows. "You want to talk about it?"
"About the corporate buyer?"
"About any of it."
I want to tell him. The words are right there on the tip of my tongue. I'm pregnant. Two little words. But they won't come out. Instead, what comes out is: "I need to go back inside."
"Emma—"
"I'm fine. I just needed air."
I'm not fine. I'm eating pickles at a wine exhibition while lying to my husband and hiding from my family and making up fake wine words. But I'm vertical and dressed, so that counts for something. Right?