I didn’t know what prompted me to tell June the truth. She certainly hadn’t asked for an explanation of any kind. That was what friends did though, right? Share their secrets, insecurities.Celebrity crushes.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” I told her. I swallowed my pride, along with everything my mama had taught me about sharing personal business with strangers, and added, “It wasn’t the healthiest relationship. Rose City is sort of my fresh start.”
She smiled weakly and placed her hand on my shoulder.
“I know people say this all the time, but trust me when I say that I understandexactlywhat you’re going through.”
Those seven words told me everything I needed to know.
Somebody had hurt June, in one way or another. And despite the sad realization, I smiled back. Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so alone.
“Not to interrupt, but are you coming inside?”
I turned toward the low, honeyed voice.
Goodness gracious. Nessa Gibbs had the body of a Botticelli painting and the voice of a nine-hundred number. Her layered, reddish-brown locks cascaded halfway down her back. A vintage, checkered peacoat covered her, shoulders-to-knees, and yet somehow, at the same time, clung to every curve of her body. Whereas I carried most of my weight in my midsection, Nessa was all hips, in the best way possible. She had the quintessential hourglass figure most women dreamed of, with an emphasis on the bottom half.
Clearly, there was something in the water in Rose City, because their cup ranneth over with big, beautiful women.
“C’mon,” Nessa said, waving us forward from outside Thorn Tavern, the local watering hole. The only one in Rose City, as far as I knew. “It’s freaking freezing, and I am in desperate need of wine after the day I had.”
I’d rather drink muddy water.
“Sounds great,” I lied.
I despised the taste of wine. Red wine, white wine, even rosé. Everyone had told me I’d develop a taste for it eventually, and considering the number of dinner parties and functions I’d attended over the years, I probably should have. Maybe it was my one act of rebellion. Maybe wine just sucked.
In any case, I had years of experience choking the swill down, so I was sure I could manage another glass or two. Especially if it put me in Nessa’s and June’s good graces. What a perfect way to commemorate this new phase of my life, full of new opportunities. And who knew?
Maybe Rose City Clarke would like wine.
Rose City Clarke didnotlike wine.
“Clarke,” Nessa said, giggling from behind her glass. “You don’t have to drink it. I promise, you won’t hurt anybody’s feelings.”
“Speak for yourself.” Nero, the proprietor of Rose Tavern and Nessa’s older brother, topped off Nessa’s glass. “That’s my award-winning merlot.”
“Hush, Ne,” Nessa scolded.
“It’s not . . . that bad.” I smiled politely.
“You should put that on the label, Ne,” June teased. “Thorny for You: ‘Not that bad.’”
They both laughed, but not at my expense. No, as far as I could tell, Nessa and June were as genuine as it came. They’d also been friends for years and, as I’d learned over the past half-hour, were some of the only remaining locals born and raised in Rose City.
“Wait, you made the wine?” I asked Nero, June’s joke finally registering.
“I did,” Nero said proudly. “I—”
“We,” Nessa interjected.
“Weinherited the bar when our mom passed a few years ago.”
I swallowed, embarrassment and guilt washing over me. Suddenly, my problems didn’t feel so big after all. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. The grapes are more of a passion project. When Mom left us the bar, Nessa the mess-a here,” he said, pointing a thumb at his sister, “didn’t want anything to do with it. I bought her out and she opened the bookstore.”
