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“Bye, Pickle. Try not to drive your dad too crazy, okay?”
Olive has her little arms wrapped around Maggie’s hips. “Bye Maggie-Mags. Will you come see me again?”
A sad look flits over Maggie’s face, but it’s gone a second later. “Maybe. That might be up to your dad.” She meets my eyes at that, a question in them that I don’t know how to answer. She gives Olive a one-armed squeeze, keeping her eyes on mine. “Thanks for everything.”
And then she’s out the door.
Probably for the best. The last thing I need is to start collecting people who need me to solve their problems. I walked away from nursing because I couldn’t stop going above and beyond for my patients, and the hospital was more than willing to take advantage of me during the pandemic. I should walk away from this feeling that Maggie needs me, before I get in any deeper.
Harvest should be keeping me so busy I don’t have time to think about anything else, but not knowing how Maggie is has been tormenting me all week. Did she go to the doctor? Did she fracture her metatarsal after all? The not-knowing is driving me crazy and making it hard to concentrate on what I should be doing.
Dammit, I should have insisted she give me her number so I could find out.
Instead, I’m here all week with the crew Greg hired, working my ass off as we harvest the riesling and wait for the pinot to finish ripening. Thank god June has Olive for the next couple of weeks because I’m even more distracted than usual, between working from before sunrise until late at night and the curvy brunette who disappeared from my life before I got a taste of her.
Jackie isn’t helping, either. Every time she stops by to bring water or snacks to the crew, she gives me a knowing look or asks me if I’ve heard from Maggie.
“You deserve a night off, Kel. Why don’t you take that nice girl out to dinner?” she asks yet again on Friday afternoon.
“Because I’m busy, Jackie.” I give her the same excuse I’ve been using all week.
“Pfft. That sounds like an excuse to me. You don’t have to be here every second of the day, Kel.” Jackie hands me half a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of water.
“I don’t have her number, even if I could take the time off.” The excuse is flimsy, even to me, so I stuff my mouth full of sandwich so I stop talking.
Jackie pulls her phone out and taps a few buttons. “There, now you have her number. And take the night off, that’s an order.” She steps back, arms crossed, and stares at me while I chew and swallow.
Technically, I suppose she is my boss, even though Greg has always been the one to manage the vineyard and Sutton is the one who signs my paycheck. “Are you waiting for something?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Jackie has been on my case to start dating again for years. She doesn’t understand why I insist on spending my time here on the vineyard with her and Greg instead of out in the city, doing “young people things” as she puts it.
“Yes. I’m waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass and ask Maggie out.”
I run the back of my arm across my forehead, sweat and grit rubbing against my skin. “Jackie. If I asked you to drop it, would you?”
“Probably not. Listen, I know I’m not your mom, but you are as much a son to me as my own Nathaniel, and you know I love Olive as if she was my own grandchild.” There’s a slight quaver to Jackie’s voice, and I’m reminded again of my supposed best friend. Who refuses to come home from France or tell any of us why.
“She’s the only one you’ve got, Jackie.” I don’t want to be an asshole, but my inner Oscar the Grouch is loud today.
“I just want to see you happy. And you deserve more in your life than just taking care of me and Greg and this place.”
“I’m happy enough, Jackie. Just leave it.”
Jackie huffs and stares me down for another long moment. “Suit yourself. But there was something there. I saw it. And maybe she deserves to be happy just as much as you. And maybe you could be that for each other.”
I let her leave and get the crew working on the next field before pulling my phone out of my pocket. Jackie’s text with Maggie’s contact info stares back at me. Taunting me. Tempting me. With a shake of my head, I stuff my phone back in my pocket and pull my work gloves back on.
I force myself to work the next row of vines before I give in and pull my phone out.
Me: It’s Kel Adams. Jackie gave me your number. Did you go to the doctor?
Not the smoothest of opening lines, but if I overthink it, I’ll never do it. I stare at my phone, waiting for her response, but nothing comes. What am I doing? It’s Friday afternoon, I’m sure she’s busy. Probably setting up for some event.
I shove my phone away and refocus on working this row. My crew has done a first pass through here already, I’m doing a second pass to gather up any fruit left on the vine.
An hour later, I’ve moved from talking myself into believing that Maggie is busy working to convincing myself she’s not answering because she doesn’t want to hear from me. It hurts more than I want to admit.
I’m so convinced that Maggie is never going to respond that when my phone buzzes in my pocket, I almost don’t look. But that only lasts a few seconds before I pull it out, praying it’s her.
Maggie Moore: Hello, Kel Adams, how nice to hear from you. I appreciate you checking on me, even if it wasn’t necessary. I did go to the doctor and you were correct. Fifth metatarsal fracture.
