He hoisted one of the crates onto the table. “What brings you to the inn?”
“Lemon asked if I could help her out with the collab event she and Kiwi are hosting this weekend.”
“That’s right, they’re rolling out that line of Reiki-Charged Running Shoes. Clever idea they got there.”
“Don’t forget about the Aromatherapy-Infused Yoga Mats—‘Get your own and you too can inhale serenity and exhale stress during your downward dog,’” I joked.
He grunted and rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Do you know how many test scents Lemon and Kiwi had us try before they found a winner? I will never get the smell of their Sweetened Sunflower and Sulfur Mat out of my nostrils. Don’t tell your sisters, but I took that thing out back, and it has done wonders for keeping the foxes and other critters away from the chicken coop.”
“Keep that little marketing nugget in your back pocket in case these don’t fly off the shelves as expected. And for the record, consider yourself the lucky one. I had to test out the sample that smelled like their armpits. I guess after a candle that smells like your feet goes viral, you think everything should be body scented.”
“Just goes to show that popularity doesn’t necessarily equate to good taste,” he smirked knowingly and continued to move the bottles of Merlot into the shipping crate.
Right behind him like a well-oiled machine, I stood where the bottles were lined in rows and started to pass them to Dad. “Seems to me you could slap an Everly label onto just about anything these days and it would sell.” I looked up at him. “Except for me. I guess I’m the dud.”
He stopped what he was doing, two bottles in his hands, and looked back around to meet my eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“C’mon, Dad. Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. It sure as hell crosses mine . . . like every day. Lemon has EVERLYbody. Kiwi has the EVERLYfitness Pilates and yoga studios. Peach has EVERLYdesigns. Pear has EVERLYeats. What do I have?”
“Plumkin, you have opportunities. And support. And people who love you. And most of all, you have potential. You can have or be or do whatever you want. Do you know how many people only dream about that kind of freedom? You have the chance to start over to become the woman you want to be.”
My eyes welled with tears, and it was hard to speak through my tightening throat. “But I’m . . . I’m scared. What if I never figure out who I am? Or worse, what if I do, and she doesn’t measure up?” I moved a few of the bottles from the edge of the table and rested against it, almost deflating as the harsh truth spilled out of me. I swiped at the tears rolling down my cheeks and rubbed my wet fingertips down the smooth denim of my jeans. “All these years I’ve blamed the show, the fame, Rhys, even you and Mom for my failings. But what if it’s not that at all? What if it’s me? What if I’m just a lost cause?”
“Everyone . . . and I mean everyone feels lost at some point or another, Plum. It’s human. But the thing is, you need to find what grounds you, what anchors you to the earth, to your authentic self, to your true purpose. For me, it’s always been you girls, your mom. And maybe a little bit this winery,” he smirked. “But once you find that thing, there’ll be no stopping you.”
I sniffed and pressed my knuckle to the corner of my lashes, catching another tear before it fell. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re an Everly, my dear. It’s in the family tree, and we’ve got good roots.” He winked and started to reshuffle the bottles in the case, turning with open hands and motioning for me to pass the next set. I shifted my weight off the table and turned around to reach for the Merlot. When I handed them to Dad, he paused as we held the bottles between us, his fingers laced with mine.
His bright-blue eyes looked more gray than usual, but the warmth behind them and the distinct crinkle in their corners were undeniably him. “But a tree can’t thrive while shadowed under the canopy of a larger one, it needs to find its own sun. Maybe it’s time for you to get away. Find that sun. There’s a whole world of experiences out there for you to taste, to see, to live. You always have a home to return to, but you know as well as I do that you need to fly for a while before you decide where you want to nest.”
His words felt like the permission I needed, or maybe the sign I’d been hoping for in regard to Kate’s offer. “You know, the other reason I came to the inn today was to take a meeting with a producer who wants me for a home restoration show in a small town in Provence. Obviously, I know nothing about home restoration, but they assure me that isn’t the focus, or well, it wouldn’t be my focus anyway. Seems they want to give me a platform to show the world the real me, and so maybe . . . I don’t know . . . maybe I’ll find my sun in France?”
Dad’s face lit up. “Talk about burying the lede! That’s incredible, Plum.” He set down the bottles we were holding and scooped me into his arms for a tight hug. The familiar smell of cedar and sawdust flooded my nose as my cheek hit the fibers of his flannel shirt. I closed my eyes and breathed it in for as long and as hard as I could.
He spoke softly next to my ear, still holding me tightly. “I think it’s just the thing to give you the space and time you need to find yourself.” He gave one last squeeze and then pulled away. “So tell me some details. Where exactly will you be filming?” Grabbing for the bottles he’d set down, he returned to stuffing them into the shipment crate.
I reached for two more and passed them over. “Maubec? Have you heard of it?”
He nodded. “Your mom and I visited there, gosh, it must have been around forty years ago. We ate the most delicious lavender ice cream from this tiny shop next to a gorgeous church I can’t remember the name of now. Anyway, it was like nothing I’d ever tasted before. There was a small park right across the street where I decided I wanted . . . no, had to marry your mother. I got down on one knee and proposed right then and there. I tried to convince her to go back across the street to that gorgeous church and become my wife, but, of course, she turned me down. It took another three years for me to change her mind.” Dad tapped his index finger against his lips. “Maybe I’ll grab some lavender from the garden and ask Pear to give it a whirl.”
I scrunched up my nose as I passed him the last of the wine. “Lavender ice cream?! Yeah, none for me, thanks.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” He slid the big barn’s stall door closed, snapping the metal clamp down to lock it, and brushed his hands off on his pants. “So when do you leave?”
“The show would film from June through August or so. If I agree, I’ll be leaving in a few weeks, I guess?”
“France in the summertime”—he sighed and cast his eyes to me—“plenty of glorious sunshine.” His face broke into a wide, supportive smile.
I threw my arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Then I better get going. It sounds like I have a contract to sign and a trip to pack for.”
Chapter Six
I tapped my foot along to the beat of Dua Lipa drifting from my AirPods and waited in the airline’s club lounge until the last possible second, sipping on a Bloody Mary and noshing on all the free bar snacks. They announced a final call over the loudspeaker for my flight, and I rose to gather my belongings. Slinging my purse and carry-on onto my shoulder and grabbing for my rolling suitcase with my other hand, I made my way to the counter, the sign over which blinked BOARDING. I flashed my phone screen at the gate agent to scan my ticket and walked down the Jetway into the next chapter of my life.
Three months away from LA, away from the peering paparazzi, away from the spotlight. I released a heavy sigh and thrust my bags in front of me, trying to wiggle them down the narrow path, bouncing off the sides of the aisle seats like a Ping-Pong ball. When I arrived at my cozy pod, I pushed my items onto my seat, trying to clear the way to let others pass.
I double-checked that I’d stashed my passport back in my purse’s zippered pocket and confirmed my phone, which was tucked right next to it, was already powered to airplane mode. Moments later, a dapper flight attendant named Antoine, according to his winged name tag, bounced into my field of vision.
“Oh! Mademoiselle Everly, enchanté. Please make yourself com-fort-ableh, and as soon as we’ve reached ze cruizing altee-tude on our route to Marseille, I’ll be over with ze in-flight champagne tout de suite,” he said in a sort of Frenglish. His energy was infectious. I could already imagine myself sipping lattes at tiny cafés, soaking in the sights and smells of Provence.
“I just love your accent,” I complimented.
Antoine leaned in closer to me. “They don’t flat-out ask us to put on the accent, but the flight attendants who do, get the first pick of schedules,” he said, completely abandoning his French inflections.
“Wait, so you’re not French then?”
“Born and raised in Hoboken, New Jersey. Fake it till you make it, am I right? Let me know if I can get you anything else before we bid LA adieu!” He winked and hurried off before I could ask him for a hand getting my bags into the overhead compartment.
The Air France first-class cabin was spacious, and I couldn’t help but smile with gratitude that Tributary was paying for the flight. When the coast was clear, I moved out of my seat and bent down to grab my carry-on to lift it into the bin, but as I went to hoist it above my head, the weight was too great, forcing my knees to buckle and sending me stumbling sideways into the neighboring seat, where a seated older woman shot me a nasty look.
“Oops, so sorry,” I mumbled, momentarily confused by the fact that the bag that had been too heavy a second ago was magically much lighter and more manageable. It then dawned on me I was actually holding very little, if any, of the bag’s weight at this point, and turned to face the mysterious force. The stranger, a bit too close to me, felt jarring until a smooth voice with a hint of a midwestern drawl wove its way up my neck.
“Easy there, let me help you,” he said. As he heaved my bag into the bin, I noticed that the very tall stranger was boyishly good-looking, unassuming, with a bit of scruff that speckled his structured jawline. His awkward grip on the suitcase from behind me was clear from the grunts he tried hard to disguise. “My God, what did you pack in this thing? Lead weights? Gotta tell you, its size makes it a little deceiving.”
“Says the guy who maybe could use a few more trips to the gym,” I joked as I helped support the one side, and then together, we finally pushed it squarely into place.
“Orrrrr maybe you could learn the art of packing light? Ever hear of Marie Kondo? Or minimalism? I mean, they do have stores in France, you know.”
