maybe?
“Nancy never felt she fit in Wilhelmsburg and was always searchin’ for a way to define herself outside of it,” she says. “Always wanted to make somethin’ more of herself. A trait she passed on to you, I reckon.”
Before I can decide if I’m insulted or intrigued by the idea I have anything in common with my mother, Grammy J adjusts in her seat, the joints of her rocking chair creaking the way Poppa Bart’s knee used to, and continues. “Problem was, your mother never understood that buildin’ herself up didn’t require tearin’ others down. She was in such a hurry to trade the small-town rumors for big-city livin’ that she never noticed she traded one fishbowl for another.”
I glance around at the worn-down B&B and try to envision myself growing up here, to see Wilhelmsburg through my mother’s eyes. It all seems so . . . uncomplicated.
“It’s difficult to picture what could be so awful about this place,” I say, especially given my upbringing in Highland Park and the never-ending quest for social standing and approval.
“That’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” Grammy J says. “It’s no easy thing, child, knowin’ yourself well enough to decide what future you want. And even harder to risk everythin’ for somethin’ that may not happen. I think your mother, in her own way, chose the more familiar road when she went to SMU and married your father. Though I doubt she’d agree.”
“No, I suppose she wouldn’t,” I say. It’s strange hearing Grammy J speculate that my mother took the easy way out, because nothing about my mother is ever easy. Straightforward, perhaps. But not easy. Then again, if you’re like my mother, who sought out an entirely new life, I guess you’d do everything necessary to not only keep it but ensure it appeared effortless.
“Speakin’ of, your mother know where you are?” she asks, placing a hand on my wrist. She traces a pattern with her finger. The sensation is so utterly foreign and nurturing I’m momentarily stunned.
“I don’t care if she does or not.” My voice sounds strong, full of confidence I don’t feel. Grammy J levels me with a hard stare identical to my mother’s, except it comes off less threatening. The assuredness crumbles. “Maybe. If my father told her.”
“Before you get too settled, call her. I imagine she won’t be too thrilled you’re here.”
“Because of what happened between you two?”
Most people shy away when asked a difficult question, but not Grammy J. Her gaze remains steady on mine. “Yes, because of what happened.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press for more. There’s an edge in her tone that tells me to leave it alone. Or maybe whatever secret they share is something I need to hear from my mother, if only I could gather the energy to talk to her.
“Now, after the day you’ve had, I think you need this more than I do,” she says, passing me the bottle of wine—a Tempranillo from Camden Cellars. “It’s from my private collection.”
I take a sip and immediately taste the essence of deep red plum, tobacco, and clove. The finish is slightly acidic with added notes of vanilla and almond, the flavors trailing smoothly on my palate. There’s a mixture of bold and refined elements to the wine I’d expect from my favorite Spanish Rioja, but never from grapes harvested in Texas Hill Country. A fact I would never admit to Ryan even if I were forced to endure a cross-country road trip sharing the backseat of a subcompact car with a gassy Saint Bernard.
Leaning back, I peer at the grass and wildflowers that stretch out around the Bluebonnet Inn, and beyond that, at the hills populated with rows of grapevines. Perhaps those acres, once raw land and fallow fields, now belong to Camden Cellars. The sun is descending like a blazing copper token, the sky streaked in pinks and oranges.
“I got carried away,” I say, waving at the porch, but damn if it didn’t feel good ripping
“Nancy never felt she fit in Wilhelmsburg and was always searchin’ for a way to define herself outside of it,” she says. “Always wanted to make somethin’ more of herself. A trait she passed on to you, I reckon.”
Before I can decide if I’m insulted or intrigued by the idea I have anything in common with my mother, Grammy J adjusts in her seat, the joints of her rocking chair creaking the way Poppa Bart’s knee used to, and continues. “Problem was, your mother never understood that buildin’ herself up didn’t require tearin’ others down. She was in such a hurry to trade the small-town rumors for big-city livin’ that she never noticed she traded one fishbowl for another.”
I glance around at the worn-down B&B and try to envision myself growing up here, to see Wilhelmsburg through my mother’s eyes. It all seems so . . . uncomplicated.
“It’s difficult to picture what could be so awful about this place,” I say, especially given my upbringing in Highland Park and the never-ending quest for social standing and approval.
“That’s a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” Grammy J says. “It’s no easy thing, child, knowin’ yourself well enough to decide what future you want. And even harder to risk everythin’ for somethin’ that may not happen. I think your mother, in her own way, chose the more familiar road when she went to SMU and married your father. Though I doubt she’d agree.”
“No, I suppose she wouldn’t,” I say. It’s strange hearing Grammy J speculate that my mother took the easy way out, because nothing about my mother is ever easy. Straightforward, perhaps. But not easy. Then again, if you’re like my mother, who sought out an entirely new life, I guess you’d do everything necessary to not only keep it but ensure it appeared effortless.
“Speakin’ of, your mother know where you are?” she asks, placing a hand on my wrist. She traces a pattern with her finger. The sensation is so utterly foreign and nurturing I’m momentarily stunned.
“I don’t care if she does or not.” My voice sounds strong, full of confidence I don’t feel. Grammy J levels me with a hard stare identical to my mother’s, except it comes off less threatening. The assuredness crumbles. “Maybe. If my father told her.”
“Before you get too settled, call her. I imagine she won’t be too thrilled you’re here.”
“Because of what happened between you two?”
Most people shy away when asked a difficult question, but not Grammy J. Her gaze remains steady on mine. “Yes, because of what happened.” She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t press for more. There’s an edge in her tone that tells me to leave it alone. Or maybe whatever secret they share is something I need to hear from my mother, if only I could gather the energy to talk to her.
“Now, after the day you’ve had, I think you need this more than I do,” she says, passing me the bottle of wine—a Tempranillo from Camden Cellars. “It’s from my private collection.”
I take a sip and immediately taste the essence of deep red plum, tobacco, and clove. The finish is slightly acidic with added notes of vanilla and almond, the flavors trailing smoothly on my palate. There’s a mixture of bold and refined elements to the wine I’d expect from my favorite Spanish Rioja, but never from grapes harvested in Texas Hill Country. A fact I would never admit to Ryan even if I were forced to endure a cross-country road trip sharing the backseat of a subcompact car with a gassy Saint Bernard.
Leaning back, I peer at the grass and wildflowers that stretch out around the Bluebonnet Inn, and beyond that, at the hills populated with rows of grapevines. Perhaps those acres, once raw land and fallow fields, now belong to Camden Cellars. The sun is descending like a blazing copper token, the sky streaked in pinks and oranges.
“I got carried away,” I say, waving at the porch, but damn if it didn’t feel good ripping
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