Page 77 of Shine For Me

June

Because Cassie is the best personal assistant in the world, there are two vans waiting for us on the tarmac when the jet lands in San Francisco. My relief at getting off that plane is tempered by the fact that I’m only minutes away from introducing Fox to my mother.

This was so stupid,I berate myself as I watch everyone split into two groups to board the vehicles.Why did you suggest this? What were you thinking?Not even the tight squeeze of Fox’s hand on mine can calm me down.

I’m about to follow him into the second van—not the one Alex is in—when Everly grabs my arm. “I’m so sorry,” she says, looking distraught. “She was way out of line.”

“It’s okay,” I say automatically, even though I don’t really feel at all okay.

But Everly won’t let me brush it off. “No, it’snotokay. Alex is protective of Fox. We both are. He had our backs big time when we were setting up our fashion line. He always has everyone’s back—”

“I know, Everly.” I don’t want to be rude, but I really don’t need anyone to tell me how great of a guy Fox is. “She thought she was protecting him. I get it.”

Everly shakes her head and I swear I see moisture coating her eyes. Oh my god, is she going to cry? Could I possibly ruin this weekend any more than I already have?

“I’m so grateful that you planned this whole thing,” she says, surprising me. “The flight, that amazing food, inviting us to stay with your family.” She squeezes my arm. “I really want us to have a good time this weekend.”

Something loosens in my gut, allowing me to feel just a little bit better. “We will,” I tell her. “I promise.”

She gives me a bright smile and another squeeze. “Good.”

“Are we leaving at some point?” River bellows from inside the van. “There’s an unacceptable amount of booze in here. Bring me to the wine place!”

Everly giggles. “I should probably apologize for him in advance, but this version of River always makes me laugh.”

“The drunk version?” I ask, managing an almost totally sincere smile.

The drive to my mom’s place takes more than an hour, but it brings us through some of the most beautiful land in the entire world. As we enter wine country, the landscape gives way to rolling hills, vines stretching off into the distance as far as the eye can see.

“Oh my God,” Everly squeals. “We’re totally getting married here! It’s gorgeous!”

“That’s what she said about the yacht,” I hear Will mutter.

But I think Everly isn’t exaggerating this time—these views are far better than some boring old boat. I feel a deep pang of homesickness as I look out at the familiar landscape, which is silly, considering that I’ve never actually lived here.

But Napa will always remind me of my mother—walking arm in arm through the vines, just the two of us, not really talking much, justbeing. Dinners on her patio, watching the sun sink down over the distant hills. Shopping in small towns and lunches in out-of-the-way bistros.

It’s been way too long since I’ve been here.

“You okay?” Fox whispers to me, just before the sign for Hilltop Harvest Vineyard comes into view.

I nod, but there’s a lump in my throat. And it only gets thicker as we pull into the tree-lined driveway. I should be playing tour guide right now. I should explain that we’re about to drive past the actual working part of the vineyard, where my brother Jude toils away a hundred hours a week. Or point out the tasting room and talk about the different tours Hilltop offers to visitors. At the very least I should direct their attention to the area where most of the weddings are held on the property. But I can’t seem to swallow down the stupid lump in my throat, and I’m afraid if I try to talk, I might do something really embarrassing—like cry.

A few moments later the vans turn off the main driveway and make their way up a narrow gravel lane. We pass through the trees right at the top of the hill, my mom’s place coming into view. Her little cottage isn’t the most luxurious or spacious dwelling on the property, but it has the best views, hands down, and Everly lets out a little gasp as the countryside appears out our windows.

“Wow, June,” Eva says from the front row of seats. “This is incredible.”

“It so is,” Everly agrees, bouncing on her seat. “Look at this little cottage! Is this where your mom lives?”

“It is,” I manage to say, my voice even sounding pretty normal.

My mom’s place is nestled in a grove of ancient oak trees. It was an absolute mess when she bought the property. It hadn’t been lived in for years, the plumbing wasn’t working, and a portion of the ceiling had caved in.

“I need to do this,” she would tell me whenever I questioned her insistence on fixing up the place. I didn’t understand why she didn’t just tear it down and build something new. “It’s cathartic, Juniper-girl.”

I was way too young to understand what that word meant, but I can see it now. She put this place back together in the same way she put herself back together after the divorce.

And she did a damn good job, on both counts. Her Mediterranean cottage is a true home, with cozy rooms, original plasterwork, hand painted tiles, and walls covered in art. She told me once that she had picked out every single object in that house, from the cutlery to the linens to each individual tile. She didn’t have to say it out loud for me to know she was comparing it to our house in Beverly Hills, where she had little to no input. A decorator had designed the interior. A team of maids and landscapers kept the place clean. A chef came in a few times a week to cook.