One Perfect Year. Melinda Curtis
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two years, she’d coped with the loss of his friendship by creating the metaphor of Dead Gage. If she was dead to him and not worthy of a phone call, he’d be dead to her. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo. Right back at you.
Then why did you claim him for your crew?
Because... Because they’d been close once. Because there was a look in his eyes now that echoed hers on difficult days. And because his happy-go-lucky smile when he’d arrived was the one he used to hide his true emotions.
Before she could ask Gage how he was doing, Tanya started up again. “Do you remember that time Mrs. Horvath took us on a field trip to the coast?”
As the night wore on, fog blanketed the vineyard. Cold seeped through her work gloves, the same as it had seeped through her heart at the sight of Gage.
“Do you ever hear from Maria?” Tanya cut a thick cluster free.
“I heard she’s living in Vegas.” Emily straightened, pressing her thumbs into the small of her back. “I’m using muscles I haven’t used in years.”
Umberto dumped a tray of grapes into the big bin on wheels. “My grandmother said she went to prison.”
“My grandfather said she’s dead.” Carl’s chortle echoed through the vineyard.
The group fell silent and cast covert glances toward Shelby and Gage, whose gazes collided. The cowlick over his forehead stuck up the way it did when he got frustrated and wouldn’t leave it alone.
Dead Gage. When Gage hadn’t answered Shelby’s calls or texts after the funeral, she’d had a meltdown. Not a week earlier, her husband hadn’t answered her calls or texts, and he’d turned up dead.
“I heard Vegas,” Shelby said thickly.
“Me, too.” Gage bent to the vines.
“I bet Maria dances in one of those topless shows.” Carl filled the silence gleefully. “I need to track her down. I’d love to score some front row seats and maybe land a date with a dancer or two.”
“Two? That’s the attitude that led to Tracy Jackson dumping you.” Umberto chuckled. “Now her brother’s a millionaire and is one of the owners of this place. I heard one of them bought his sister a condo and a new car. You could’ve been on easy street.”
“Tracy Jackson. I haven’t thought of her in forever.” Carl showed not a hint of remorse for breaking Tracy’s heart in high school. “Does anyone have her number?”
Shelby smiled at his perseverence, although if she had Tracy’s number there was no way she’d pass it on to Carl.
* * *
“LET’S BREAK,” CHRISTINE called out shortly after midnight.
Agnes, Umberto’s grandmother—who owned the Mexican restaurant in town—and Mayor Larry had arrived with hot tamales, sandwiches, chocolate cake and fresh coffee. They set everything out on the wrought iron patio tables beneath portable heaters. Agnes fawned over Ryan, serving him a sandwich and bringing him a large piece of cake.
Bypassing the food, Shelby headed toward the river. She didn’t have to ask Gage to follow. She knew he would.
At the riverbank, she sat on a log, and turned to face him. The moon did a poor job of illuminating his features, which were hard planes and shadows. His dark hair blended into the night.
“How’ve you been?” Gage surprised her by breaking the silence between them. He’d always been a reticent conversationalist, more likely satisfied by simply being part of the group than participating.
“Fine.” It was what his parents had said when she’d asked about him. Fine? Shelby had wanted to put her arms around Gage to see for herself. She’d had to settle for fine. And so would he.
A frog sang a baritoned lament across the river.
“I miss him,” Gage said.
“Don’t.” Her shoulders deflated as if pressed down, threatening to bend her over. She kept herself upright by pushing her palms onto her knees. “You weren’t around when I needed to talk about Nick, when I needed to share the things that made him special with someone who knew him as well as I did. Where were you?” Her voice made her sound hurt and disappointed. She hated it. She was a professional. She couldn’t break down tonight. “I can’t talk to you as if I just saw you yesterday.”
But she wanted to. That once young, innocent part of her she’d assumed was long dead and buried—that stumbling, lonely misfit—wanted to.
She covered her lips with her fingers, but that didn’t stop the lonely misfit from talking. “Gage, marriage to Nick...your friendship...they meant everything to me and for one precious year, I had both. I felt I had what everyone else took for granted.” Dropping her hand, Shelby drew a shaky breath. “Let’s face it. I’m not the same person anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
Shelby let Gage’s words drift by with the river.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t tell you how often I started to get in touch. But what would I say?” He clasped her hand.
It was a very un-Gage-like moment. He wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of person.
She’d taken her gloves off. The warmth of his skin heated her palm. But his touch sent more than physical warmth. It offered more than belated comfort. The feel of his hand around hers—an intimacy she hadn’t experienced since Nick—sent a prickle of awareness along her spine.
Awareness? Of Dead Gage?
“There’s nothing more to say.” She snatched her hand back from his and hopped to her feet. Breaking their connection, reassembling the I-don’t-care expression on her face, she almost tripped over a tree root as she backed away. “Friendships are like seasons. There’s a cycle. A beginning, an end. Ours ran its course.” Friendships cooled. People moved on, except for those who stayed here in Harmony Valley. “Time to get back. We’ve got a long night ahead.”
She turned away, one hand cold. The other, the one Gage had held, still tingled.
Awareness of Gage? It was a fluke. A product of her loneliness.
When they got back to the others, she almost believed it.
GAGE HAD BEEN coldcocked twice in one week. First by Sugar Lips. Then by Shelby.
It’d been a long, physically demanding night, made longer by the residual reminders of Sugar Lips’s blow, and Shelby’s proclamation that their friendship had run its course. It was exactly what he needed to hear to be able to take the job in Kentucky and get on with his life.
There would be no “what-if” hypotheses about a future with Shelby, which were foolish, childish ideas to begin with. There would be no arguments about his being disloyal since Shelby was now free—disheartening, to say the least. There would be no 2:00 a.m. sleep-depriving worries about where Shelby was, if she was dating, if she felt as alone as he did.
Gage parked his truck in his old driveway on Adams Street and zipped up his jacket against the early morning autumn chill. When he’d informed his parents he was volunteering for the harvest, they’d told him not to go by their former house. But how could he not?
“Helping two kids through college,” his dad had said. His parents lived in Santa Rosa now, both working at a livestock auction instead of their ranch. “We could only afford the taxes on the place. And now it’s not as if anyone’s going to buy it.”
The once cheerful blue and white house seemed to have given up hope of the Jameros returning. The roof on the ranch home sagged beneath wisps of fog. Someone had been by to cut the weeds