Chapter 5 #2
Back inside, I successfully avoid wine tasting by claiming my palate is "compromised" from the lunch I ate (a lie—I ate pickles in the vineyard). I hide behind a decorative ficus while Miles networks, and I'm congratulating myself on successful wine avoidance when Sophie appears beside me.
"Emma."
I startle so hard I nearly drop my water. "Sophie. Hi."
"Why are you hiding behind my ficus?"
"I'm not hiding. I'm... observing. The plant health. It's very healthy."
"Uh-huh." She crosses her arms, studying me. "You didn't drink Brennen's wine, did you?"
"Of course I did."
"Emma. I've been running this winery for a few years now. I know what wine tasting looks like. You fake-sipped and then spilled it."
"It was an accident—"
"And now you're hiding behind a plant eating pickles." She points at my purse where a pickle jar is clearly visible, lid off, and most of the pickles missing. "At a wine event."
I close my purse quickly. "I like pickles."
"You hate pickles. Last month you gave me yours from your salad."
Did I? I don't remember. Apparently pregnant Emma likes pickles and regular Emma didn't. Good to know.
"People change," I say weakly.
Sophie's expression shifts from suspicious to concerned. "Emma, are you okay? You look pale. And you've been acting strange."
"I'm fine."
"You dumped our best Pinot in this exact ficus."
"That was an accident."
"You thought I wouldn't notice?"
I look at the ficus. It does look suspiciously healthy. Thriving, even. "I was evaluating drainage."
"Drainage."
"For legal reasons."
"Legal reasons."
"Yes."
Sophie stares at me. I stare back. We're at an impasse. I’m not giving in no matter how quizzical she looks at me.
"Emma." Her voice gentles. "Whatever's going on—and something is clearly going on—you can tell me. I'm not just your sister-in-law. I'm your friend."
The kindness nearly breaks me. I open my mouth to tell her everything, and then—
"Emma!" A man's voice cuts through the room. "There you are!"
I turn to see Mr. Preston from Preston & Associates striding toward me, looking perfectly put together in a navy suit. Of course he's here. Because this day isn't complicated enough.
"Mr. Preston." I step out from behind the ficus with as much dignity as I can muster. "I didn't realize you'd be attending."
"Wouldn't miss it. Celtic Knot makes excellent wine, and I like to support local business." He smiles warmly. "Plus, I wanted to catch you. Have you had a chance to review our offer?"
Sophie excuses herself tactfully, leaving me alone with Mr. Preston and my mounting panic.
"I've reviewed it."
"And?"
"It's very generous."
"We really want you, Emma. Your reputation speaks for itself." He lowers his voice. "And I'll be honest—the benefits package is exceptional, especially for... life changes."
There it is again. That phrase. Life changes.
"What kind of life changes?" I ask carefully.
"Any kind." His expression is knowing. "We pride ourselves on supporting our attorneys through all life stages. Family planning. Health issues. Career transitions. Whatever you might need."
Does everyone in Pelican Point know I'm pregnant? Did I send out announcements without realizing? Is there a sign on my back?
"I appreciate that," I manage. "But I need more time to decide."
"Of course. Just remember—the Friday deadline isn't arbitrary. We have other attorneys interested, but you're our first choice."
"I understand."
"Good." He glances around the exhibition, then back to me. "By the way—you have a little something..." He gestures vaguely at my dress.
The wine stain. Right.
"Wine tasting accident," I explain.
"At least it's on-brand for the venue." He chuckles. "Take care, Emma. And think about our offer. Really think about it."
He disappears into the crowd, leaving me standing there with a wine-stained dress, pickle breath, and approximately seven thousand decisions to make by tomorrow.
Miles materializes beside me with another water.
"If you keep bringing me water, people are going to think I have a drinking problem," I say.
"Or a hydration problem." He studies my face. "You want to leave?"
"Yes. But I can't. Brennen needs me here."
"Brennen will survive without you."
"Will he? I spilled his competition wine and told him it was 'wine-y.'"
Miles' lips twitch. "That was memorable."
"That was mortifying."
"Come on." He takes my elbow gently. "Let's get out of here. You've done your sisterly duty for today."
"But—"
"Emma. You're exhausted. You've successfully avoided wine tasting, entertained corporate buyers, and evaluated plant drainage. That's enough for one day."
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. I let him guide me toward the door, stopping only to wave at Brennen across the room. He's deep in conversation with a distributor and barely notices.
We make it to Miles' car, and I collapse into the passenger seat like I've run a marathon. My purse falls open, revealing two empty pickle jars, and I don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Miles slides into the driver's seat but doesn't start the car. He just sits there, looking at me.
"What?" I ask.
"You have pickle juice on your chin."
I wipe it away. "I gave up on dignity somewhere around the terroir implications."
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound makes something loosen in my chest.
"I can't do this," I hear myself say.
"Can't do what?" His voice is gentle. "The wine disposal methods were actually quite creative."
I want to laugh but I'm too tired. "Everything. All of it. Making decisions. Hiding things. Being the level-headed one who has it together."
"Emma—"
"Everyone thinks I'm so capable. So organized. So on top of everything. But I'm drowning, Miles. I'm drowning and I don't know how to ask for help because asking for help means admitting I'm failing."
The words pour out before I can stop them, and now I'm crying in his car in the Celtic Knot parking lot, still holding empty pickle jars in my purse.
Miles takes my hand. "Emma, whatever it is—the Celtic Knot vote, the Preston offer, anything else—you can tell me. We're a team. You don't have to carry everything alone."
"You know about Preston?" I stare at him.
"The papers were sticking out of your briefcase. I'm sorry. I saw them."
Great. He knows about one secret.
Just not the biggest one.
I look at our joined hands, at the pickle jars now in my lap, at the wine stain on my dress. Everything's falling apart and I can't keep pretending it's not.
"Miles—"
"You don't have to tell me right now," he says quietly. "Whatever it is. Whenever you're ready. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
The kindness breaks me. I cry harder, and he just holds my hand and lets me fall apart in the parking lot.
Eventually the tears stop. I wipe my face with a tissue from my purse—next to the pickle jars, naturally—and take a shaky breath.
"I'm a mess."
"You're human."
"I'm supposed to be the together one."
"Says who?"
"Everyone. Myself. The universe."
"The universe has terrible expectations." He starts the car. "Come on. Let's go home. I'll make you dinner."
"Bland chicken and rice?"
He glances at me, and there's something in his expression I can't read. "If that's what you want."
We drive home in comfortable silence, and I eat pickles straight from my emergency pickle jar, I left one in his car, without apologizing.
Because apparently this is who I am now. The woman who eats pickles in cars and lies about terroir and can't tell her husband she's pregnant.
Tomorrow. I'll tell him tomorrow.
But first, I really need to stop at the store for more pickles.