The Hummingbird Sanctuary, page 19
“Yeah? Okay, fine.” I place my mug on the concrete countertop a little too harshly because it makes an awful noise. “You wanna catch me? You think you can handle anything I throw at you?”
“Fucking try me.” Her nostrils flare. Shit. She’s really mad.
I take a breath, “I was going to divorce Paul,” I say as I breathe out, sounding as if I’m rushing through a horrible secret, which I am, but this is not how I wanted to tell anyone this. Especially her. I am awful. “I had the papers drawn up and everything. I was leaving. I needed out.”
She blinks once.
“And then he got into the…accident.”
She blinks again.
“And he died. And I inherited everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. All of his parents’ money that they left him. All the insurance money. Literally, every single thing. And then, as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, the guilt of knowing I wanted out but ended up with more money than I knew what to do with, I…” Oh God, there’s no going back. “I found a note. And it turns out, it might not have been an accident.” Can I sound any more heartless? When actually, I am still wrecked. I still hear him, feel him, smell him. And even if I wasn’t in love with him any longer, I loved him with everything in me. And finding that note…
She blinks once more.
“Goddammit, say something.” I want to strangle her, but that would defeat the purpose.
“Uh.”
“Something more eloquent than that, please.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” she says, anger and distrust dripping from her words. She stands so quickly that the stool almost topples, and she paces. “I don’t even know where to begin. What the fuck, Olive? What the actual fuck?” Her hands are locked in her hair at the scalp. “Why would you keep this from me? From Harriet?”
“I don’t know! Okay. I don’t know.” I have no idea what else to say because I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t have a good reason.
“Olive, seriously? Something more eloquent than that, please.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I am being as eloquent as possible. What do you want me to say? I was devastated. And scared.”
Eleanor purses her lips. “When did you find the note?”
“Three weeks after his funeral.” The admission makes me want to vomit. “I finally broke down and started going through his clothes. And it fell out of the pocket of a pair of slacks. I don’t know when he wrote it. It could have been weeks before. Who knows? The only person who knew is gone, and I was stuck cleaning up the mess of a failed marriage and a life I didn’t love, all the while suffering the loss of a man I didn’t know if I could actually live without.” My legs are going to give out. “I’m just gonna sit here.” When my butt hits the floor, I slump against the cabinets. “They said it was an accident. I didn’t…I would have never thought…”
Eleanor is kneeling in front of me before I can get another word out. “Stop. Stop talking right now.”
“Ellie, I thought it was an accident. Everyone did.”
“Listen to me. You need to keep your mouth shut about this, do you hear me?” Her hands are on my face, on my cheeks and she’s tilting my face upward. “Olive, honey, do you hear me?”
I can only nod. My head feels fuzzy. My arms and legs are filled with static. Within an instant, everything fades to black.
Chapter Eighteen
Harriet
I’ve captured Judy for the afternoon and decide to sweep her away to wine tasting at Purity Wines. DeeDee normally brings the wine to me, her favorite line being “Have wine, will travel.” But I liked the idea of showing Judy a little bit of the Western Slope, especially since they didn’t drive in. She’s busy looking out the window, and I’m busy trying to occupy my mind. As the hours since I met her pass, I am more and more captivated. In the past, the idea of being captivated scared the holy living shit out of me. I will never understand why it scares me. My mother and father were a very amazing couple with a terrific relationship. He’d hug and kiss her, and she’d playfully dodge his compliments, and honestly, they were exactly what I thought I’d find when I grew up.
After losing my mom, my dad refused to remarry. “Vivian was the love of my life,” he said one day as we made bread together in the kitchen of their tiny South Side apartment. “I can’t even imagine trying to replicate what we had.”
Olive’s father was long gone before her mother passed. Sixteen years old and she was left trying to figure out how a man who was supposed to love her unconditionally could up and leave without a second thought. She doesn’t speak about it much. The couple times she brought it up, we were a few bottles of wine in. I think the memory is too much.
Eleanor’s dad found someone almost immediately. Hank referred to this new woman as his “lady friend.” Eleanor referred to her as the stand-in. She was devastated after he remarried. If I were to bring it up today, she’d still be upset by it. I used to tease her that she was more upset about the inheritance. That goes over very poorly. “I don’t give a flying fuck about his money, Hattie,” she finally said to me one day. “I care because the legacy of my mom is gone. Her memory is diminished. He doesn’t even have a picture of her up any longer.”
Needless to say, I stopped teasing after she said that to me.
The importance of the memory of a loved one never being tarnished or fading is something I didn’t understand until I lost my mom. I was young. Too young to go through it alone. I guess that’s part of the reason why God brought Olive and Eleanor into my life. I was never alone in my grief.
“Colorado is gorgeous.”
I glance out the window at the mountains. “It really is.”
“I’m sick of LA,” she says softly. “I love my job. Don’t get me wrong.” She sighs. “I’m so…bored.”
“I understand that.” We sit quietly, the scenery passing by, listening to Sam Cooke’s “Bring It on Home to Me,” and I want to tell her this is my most favorite song ever. I can hear her humming along, and it makes my heart happy. “You like this song?”
“I love this song,” she says, placing a hand on her chest. She leans her head back. “This has forever been one of my very favorites.”
I swallow the large lump that has taken up residence in my throat. “Mine, too,” I try to say around it, but I need to clear it. “Yeah, mine, too.”
She chuckles and puts a hand on my thigh. “You’re nervous. Why?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Yes, my love, you are.” She squeezes my thigh gently. “I am shocked at how quickly I have been able to get to know your little mannerisms.”
I keep my eyes on the road. I can’t look at her right now. I’ll crash. “Like what?”
“Hmm.” She takes a breath before she rubs my thigh. “You bite your lip when you’re contemplating saying something. I haven’t figured out if you don’t think you should say whatever you’re thinking or if you don’t want to say it.” She’s still rubbing my thigh. “And you have this cute little one-shoulder shrug when you say something you absolutely want to say.” Her hand is much higher now. The placement is holding all my focus. “And you lick your delicious lips right before you kiss me.” Yeah, I’m gonna crash. “And when you’re flustered, you blink a lot.” She laughs, and I realize I’m doing it right now. “See?”
I shake my head and release a strained sound. “Yeah, you do know me pretty well.”
“I pay attention to the things that intrigue me.” She’s right below the crease between my hip and my thigh and slides her fingers along the fold in my pants. “Almost thirty years of being a journalist has taught me to pay attention.”
“I intrigue you, hmm?” I finally glance at her, and our eyes meet. I’ve only seen love in a gaze like that once before, and I ran exactly twenty-seven seconds after.
“Every single thing about you.” Her voice is soft, her tone determined, and I bite my lip. Damn, she’s right. “What is it? What do you want to say?”
I breathe out, eyes on the road again, and shrug. “I am intrigued by you, too.” I can hear the way her lips separate, the sound of them turning upward. Goddamn. I’m so turned on. “Enamored with. Captivated by.” In love with.
“I can tell.”
“Good.”
* * *
“We get most of our wines from them. They’re an estate winery.”
Judy leans onto the wine tasting bar next to me. “They grow all their own grapes on land they own?”
“Yes, exactly. How did you—”
“Did you forget that I live in California? Wine is our passion.” She leans into me playfully. “And I’m a wine snob.”
“Great. I promise that this wine is great. I’m one test away from being a master sommelier.”
“Wow, I had no idea.” She pulls back. “You’re even hotter now.”
My entire face fills with heat, and I start to fidget, pushing up the rolled sleeves of my light blue floral button-down, popping my knuckles, anything to ground myself at this moment. I’m walking this fine line between being completely out of my element and being comfortable with all the flirting, the staring, the touches, the compliments. How am I supposed to handle this? “Well, thank you,” I decide to say after I bite my lip because what the fuck else should I say? Let’s go fuck in the bathroom? Because that’s what I want.
“You made it,” DeeDee shouts as she approaches.
“Hi!” My voice cracks. I am not smooth at all.
DeeDee stops, narrows her eyes. She knows. She knows almost instantly. I’m both impressed and stressed. “And you brought someone.”
“Yes, DeeDee, this is Judy. She’s—”
“A friend,” Judy says, cutting me off, and reaches to shake DeeDee’s hand. “A good friend.”
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Judy. I’m DeeDee. I own Purity Wines.”
“You have a beautiful winery. I’m in love with this building. The stonework is remarkable.”
“Thank you. My late husband and I designed everything here.”
“Oh, my condolences,” Judy says as she lays a hand on DeeDee’s shoulder.
“Thank you, dear. It’s okay. I’m surviving. And this place is thriving,” she says and waves in a sweeping motion around the packed tasting room. “Let’s head outside to the tasting area. I pulled a bunch of wines already, and it’s a gorgeous day for an afternoon buzz in the sun.”
Judy laughs, and I try to join in. I’m having second thoughts. I should have come by myself or had DeeDee to the resort or something. I’m sweating and breathing heavy, and sweet Jesus, am I going to have a panic attack? Everything has changed since meeting Judy. She’s clearly interested. Why am I so nervous? Is it because I’m afraid of falling for a woman who lives in LA and has a career and is more than likely not interested in a long-distance relationship?
Whoa, Hattie, chill the fuck out.
“Hey, calm down.” Judy’s voice is soft, caring, but also worried.
“How do you know that I’m not calm?” My question is with awe more than anger. I’m genuinely curious.
She runs her hand to the small of my back, then around to my hip. She slips her hand into the back pocket of my Levi’s. “I have to prove it again?”
“Yes. I need to know.”
“Your entire posture changed.” She stops before we get to the outdoor tasting area and adjusts my straw trilby. “Whatever you’re thinking and feeling? I can assure you, I’m feeling it, too.” She pulls her tortoiseshell sunglasses down her nose. “All of it.”
“Okay.” I hope I sound convinced.
“Enjoy this time with me.” She pushes her glasses back and grabs my hand. “Show me the beauty of Colorado wines.”
I let her pull me toward the tasting area and shrug off as much uncertainty as possible. I have got to get my head on straight. There’s no reason for me to be so in my feels when I have no way of knowing what the future will hold.
And besides, watching Judy taste wine will be the highlight of my life, I am sure. Might as well enjoy the fuck out of it.
Chapter Nineteen
Olive
Well, I certainly managed to put another nail in this coffin, didn’t I? I wake up on my bed after my apparent fainting session with Eleanor. My head is killing me, and the only thing running around my mind is how I can’t believe I finally told someone about Paul.
“Hey,” Eleanor says softly from the other side of my bed. “How you doing?”
“Ugh,” is all I can respond with.
“I’m being serious. Anything hurting? Do we need to call the doctor?”
“No. I’ll be fine.” I reach for her, for her hand, for anything, and as soon as I grab her, she pulls away. My heart clenches. “Ellie…”
“If you’re okay, I’m going to get out of here. I have a lot to think about. A lot. I’ll check on you later.”
I rise up on my elbows and again, sadness and regret plague me. She’s almost to the door when I ask, “Are you mad at me?”
She stops, hand on the knob. “I’m not happy with you. But I’ll get over it. I always do.”
And she leaves.
She leaves.
I’m left lying there, my heart racing, my head fuzzy, my nerves shot. What am I going to do? Mabel has requested a one-on-one to ask more questions about the resort. I relented only when she said she would come to me. I don’t want to talk to her. Of all the times that I don’t want to be around anyone else, this is at the top of the list. I can’t get out of it, either. What am I going to say?
“Oh, sorry, Mabel, but I just came clean about the fact that I may have committed insurance fraud. Can we reschedule?”
I pull myself together, shower, get dressed, and hope to anyone listening that I can get through this. When she arrives, she promptly slips her brown booties off at the door. She’s armed only with a leather journal and a pen. She always looks as if she breezed right in from LA. I wonder if she does that on purpose or if the years she’s spent there lend themself to her like an old friend, encouraging her to be classy and cool all at the same time.
“I cannot thank you enough for doing this. All of these tiny one-on-ones can seem a little daunting. They really help me get to know you and the other ladies.”
Her constant thanking is exhausting. “It’s not a problem at all. Come with me.” I motion for her to follow and take the long way around to the kitchen so she can get a feel for the residence.
Once we reach the entryway to the kitchen, I hear a gasp. “Wow,” she whispers. “This place is amazing.”
That reaction thrills me. “We made the decision to go all out since we were going to be living together full-time.” I glide over to the wine cooler and slip a bottle of chardonnay from the rack. I offer her a glass, and she accepts with vigor. I uncork and pour into my favorite glasses. “Should we take these to the patio?”
She sips and pauses, seemingly allowing the taste to wash across her palate, then answers with a firm, “Absolutely.”
She’s right behind me as I open the sliding glass door and head outside. The mountain plateau gets great afternoon light. There’s a large umbrella shielding us, and I’ve already moved a table next to her chair for the wine. When she sits, she pulls her legs up and sits with them folded as if she’s a pretzel. Her not being stuffy is very calming and makes me happy. Being asked questions is hard enough, but when the person asking is a giant pain in the ass, it makes it even worse.
I take a sip. God, it’s such a magnificent wine. I’m a huge fan of this chardonnay from Napa Valley over the one from Purity Wines, but I will never tell Harriet. She’d kill me. Her partnerships with the local wineries are very important.
“You have opened a wonderful resort, Olive. I hope you know that.” Mabel’s voice brings me back to the patio. She seems as if she’s in her element like this, a glass of wine, her journal, her feet pulled up.
I prop my feet on the square pillow ottoman in front of my chair. “Your opinion means a lot to me.”
“I keep thinking something will happen that will make me go, oh yeah, this is exactly like every other resort. But even small things like getting more towels has been enjoyable. Everyone goes above and beyond. Is there something in the water? Do you drug us?”
I snort. “My word, no. We do not drug anyone. Although, weed is legal here, so maybe I should consider having a dispensary.”
“That’s not a bad idea at all.” She leans back into the cushions and sighs. “There is nothing better than a glass of wine and a mountain view.”
“That’s very true.” Is this how the whole night is going to go? Just a bunch of small talk? It’s skirting the territory of uncomfortable. But at the same time, it’s nice not thinking about everything that happened earlier, and I hate to admit I am kind of enjoying myself. “You had questions for me?”
“Not necessarily. A few. I enjoy getting to know the people I’m writing an article about. Is that okay?”
“It’s a little unorthodox.”
“Yeah, I, um, I don’t do things like everyone else.” She has her hair in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a cream, cable-knit sweater with yoga pants. The weather is perfect, but a crisp breeze can rush through the valley every now and then. She must have done her research before she packed. Obviously. She’s a journalist. “I’m having such a remarkable time discovering the hidden gems here.”
“I often say Colorado has its own soul.”
“How so?”
I swirl the wine, stare at the way it creates a tornado in the liquid gold. “It’s almost as if it has its own heartbeat. There are moments”—I pause, take a deep breath—“when everything lines up perfectly. The weather, the conversation, the company.” I shake my head. “Damn, maybe I am high right now. I sound like it.”
