Over the next two weeks, Margaret did her level best not to remember, think about, or analyze the kiss at the vineyard, and, whenever possible, to avoid Cameron Winslow, which wasn’t easy, considering they lived in the same apartment building, they shared a contractor, and Cameron was renovating the winery and tasting room at the vineyard she owned. It didn’t escape her notice that Cameron appeared to be avoiding her as well. Twice she’d found stunning, flawless architectural plans, needing her signature, waiting with Franklin, their doorman. And Cameron had gotten into the habit of e-mailing short, impersonal messages instead of stopping by her apartment or coming out to the vineyard on the weekends. Shawn reported that Cameron had been out to Newtown several times during the week, in the evenings after work, but not once over the past two weekends, when Margaret had stayed at the cottage, hoping, fruitlessly, for a glimpse of him.
Her days at Story Imports had become almost unbearable, with her father’s stony, disapproving silence and Shane’s sheepish, apologetic glances. Finally she’d had enough and followed Shane into the elevator one evening after work.
He looked up at her, then took a step toward the door, like he was going to leave and wait for the next elevator, but Margaret wasn’t having that. She reached for the “Door Close” button and pressed it decisively.
“Shane,” she started, “we can’t keep avoiding each other.”
“I know. I just . . . God, Margaret. I feel like such an ass. I should never have put you in that position.”
“No argument there,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What were you thinking? You couldn’t have possibly thought I’d say yes.”
Shane shrugged, shaking his head. “Your father had all but ensured your complicity.”
She exhaled a deep breath and clenched her eyes shut for a moment before looking up at Shane and nodding. In her heart, she’d known it was her father’s idea, but part of her had hoped that Shane could somehow take some of the blame. “He had no right to do that.”
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” said Shane. “Truly I am. I must look like an ambitious asshole.”
“There’s nothing wrong with ambition,” she replied. “But I want more than a marriage built for the convenience of Story Imports.”
“Of course you do. You’re a terrific girl.”
But boring, she thought, remembering the way he’d looked at Priscilla. He’d never looked at her that way, and even though she wasn’t interested in Shane, it chafed. There was more to her than a tight bun and glasses and the dutiful-daughter routine.
She lifted her chin. “I own a vineyard, you know.”
He looked surprised. “No, I didn’t know. Where?”
“About an hour from here. I go there every weekend.”
“Aha! So that explains the Hispanic man working in your apartment on weekends.”
She grinned, nodding her head as she preceded him out of the elevator into the light-filled atrium lobby. “Yes.”
“Is that what you want to do? Run a vineyard?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling the relief she always felt when articulating her dreams. “Eventually.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Because my father expects one of us to work here. Alice tried, but left, as you’ll recall . . . Betsy works at my uncle’s branch of Story Imports in Boston. I have hopes for Jane, but she’s still in grad school, and Pris, well, is Pris.”
She watched, when she said Pris’s name, how Shane’s lips softly parted, how he flinched and subtly clenched one hand into a fist by his side.
“She isn’t exactly suited to an office, wouldn’t you agree?”
Shane dropped her eyes. “I really wouldn’t know.”
“Wouldn’t you?” pressed Margaret. “She worked here last year.”
“Right,” said Shane curtly. He took a deep breath and offered her a forced but polite smile before glancing at his watch. “Margaret, I’m so sorry, but I need to go. I have an appointment tonight that I can’t—”
“Of course,” she said, putting out her hand. “No hard feelings?”
“None at all,” he said, clasping her hand and pumping it gently. “Friends?”
“I hope so,” she said. “Just don’t ask me to marry you again.”
“Scout’s honor.” Shane chuckled with genuine warmth and dropped her hand to raise three fingers. “Oh, by the way, we still have those tickets for the Institute of Contemporary Art fund-raiser next weekend. You still up for going together?”
“I’d love it,” she said, feeling certain that Cameron would be there, since his sister, Jessica, was chairing the bachelor auction part of the evening. Even if he continued to avoid her, at least she could admire him in his tux from across the room.