Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman

Author:Rachel Goodman [Goodman, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star
Published: 2016-05-22T23:00:00+00:00

* * *

Ryan drives twenty minutes outside of Wilhelmsburg to a secluded area with natural springs. A metal sign warning DECAPITATION POSSIBLE dangles crookedly from a wooden post, the remaining available surface plastered with bumper stickers that proclaim things like HANGIN’ WITH MY GNOMIES, KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD, and SWIMSUITS OPTIONAL.

“We’re lucky because this spot is still a secret to most tourists,” Ryan says, lifting the hatch on the Blazer. He grabs a blanket and a hard plastic, standard-issue cooler popular among tailgate fanatics and sorority girls who decorate them as a thank-you to their dates for being invited to a fraternity formal. I would know—I painted my fair share in college.

“This way,” Ryan says, jerking his head in the direction of a narrow path several yards ahead.

He leads me through a grove of bald cypress trees strung with Spanish moss that provides shade from the blistering sun. Our shoes crunch against dead branches, upturned earth, and pieces of broken rock.

The trail opens to a wide, grassy knoll surrounded by clumps of misshapen limestone splashed with neon-orange lichen. I walk to the edge, mesmerized by the waterfall cascading over a cliff into a swimming hole thirty feet below. Hill Country stretches out below me like a living, breathing watercolor landscape.

Ryan comes to stand beside me. The sun catches the highlights in his hair, and my fingers itch to run through the silky curls.

“Beautiful, right?” he asks.

“Breathtaking,” I say. Never in my life have I felt so small or seen something so magnificent. I’m usually so busy looking at what I have, especially as it compares to my neighbors, that I rarely appreciate what’s around me.

Ryan holds two plastic stemless glasses of rosé in his hands and offers one to me. I accept, shocked at his choice. In some circles, rosé is often dismissed as unrefined plonk, a notch in class above boxed wine. And while the motto “real men wear pink” is widely accepted, the same can’t be said for guys who enjoy wine that resembles shades of peach, salmon, or bright fuchsia.

My expression must betray my thoughts, because Ryan says, “I also eat soufflés and cry in movies, if that changes your perception.”

I flash a wry smile, granting him that point. “Is this one of yours?” I ask. I take a sip, noting how the taste is fruity and floral with refreshing acidity and a vibrant finish.

“No,” he says. “It’s from the vineyard in Provence where I completed my apprenticeship.”

“How long were you in France?”

“Almost two years, though I’d have stayed longer if I hadn’t been called home.” He strolls to where he’s spread the blanket on the ground and kneels down.

I join him, kicking off my ballet flats and tucking my legs under me. “Why’d you pursue an apprenticeship if you already had a degree in viticulture?”

“Because it’s the only way I could learn an artisan’s approach to winemaking. Think of it like a language-immersion program. No amount of books or lectures can replace practical experience,” he says, rifling around in the cooler.

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