“Crystal Light,” Maddy muttered. Fred looked at the pitcher more closely.

“Right! Crystal Light, anyone?”

“Sure.” Her dad gamely held out his glass. Maddy could barely keep from dropping her eyes as her mother’s spoon dipped into the serving bowl. The heat from the vegetables had continued cooking the pasta even more, which was unfortunate—it looked even more like mush than it had in the kitchen. Plus, now that some of it was ladled out, she could see that she had grossly overestimated how much five people could eat. The huge mound of the stuff in the bowl was easily 210

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enough for twenty. Her father looked at his plate as if something on it was about to jump up and bite him, but he quickly recovered. Maddy watched in anguish as David’s plate was filled.

Everyone at the table gradually fell silent as the food was handed around. David was the last to get his portion. Maddy could hardly look at him, but he accepted his plate of the frightening substance readily and then, to her surprise, looked directly at her. He shot her a disarming smile. Maddy’s pulse shot into the stratosphere and she felt her face turn flaming red. Ohmygod. What did that mean? He didn’t hate her? No, he was probably feeling sorry for her and her hideous attempt at cooking. It’s a look of pity, Maddy told herself glumly.

“I think that David, as the Ironstone Vineyard resident chef, should try the dish first so he can give us his professional opinion,” her father said brightly. Lovely, Dad. Thank you very much, Maddy thought. David obligingly raised his heaping fork and took a large bite. He chewed for a minute, frowning slightly. Maddy found herself holding her breath. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his face.

David erupted in a convulsion of coughing. Everyone started in alarm.

“David!” Maddy’s mother exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

Instead of answering, David leaped up from his chair, 211

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knocking it over, and raced toward the house, where he disappeared inside the kitchen. The group, sitting in stunned silence, could hear the faucet running in the kitchen and loud slurping sounds. After a long moment—approximately seven or eight years, in Maddy’s estimation—David appeared on the porch again and walked slowly toward the table. He stopped when he reached them, his face a slightly more normal shade of pink.

“Okay?” Fred asked cautiously.

“It’s good,” David said in a strangled voice. He picked up his overturned chair, and sat down. Maddy couldn’t resist. She reached for her own fork and ever so carefully placed a tiny bit of eggplant in her mouth. The effect was instantaneous—heat exploded down her throat, her lips and tongue turning numb almost immediately. It took all of her willpower not to repeat David’s performance. She coughed violently and chugged twelve ounces of Crystal Light. She set her glass down with a shudder and looked around the table. Now everyone was staring at her.

Maddy’s mother finally broke the silence. “You know,” she said, poking at a piece of green pepper with her fork, “just out of curiosity, did I happen to mention that we’re growing jalapeño peppers as well as sweet peppers in the garden?”

Maddy flopped back in her chair, her cheeks burning 212

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now instead of her mouth. She recalled the beautiful little dark green peppers she had admired. She had chopped up nearly a dozen.

“I’m impressed, though, Mad, that you took a stab at the pasta. It’s so delicate,” her mom hurried on. At the other end of the table, David spoke for the first time. Maddy jumped at the sound of his voice.

“How long did you boil it for?”

“Eight minutes.” She stared determinedly at the planks of the table.

Her father cleared his throat. “Well, that might be why it’s a tad . . . soft. You’re only meant to boil fresh pasta for a minute or two at the absolute most.”

Fresh pasta? That explained why it was in the fridge. Staring at her wrecked attempt at cooking, Maddy could feel the tears prickling behind her eyes. No. No. She would not start crying like a little kid in front of David because her lunch was not the perfect representation of New Maddy. No. But it was useless. She could feel red patches start to form on her face, like usual, and her throat swelled and ached. She blinked furiously and stared up at the sky.

“Mads.” Her mom reached over to pat her arm. “It’s okay.” Maddy moved away.

“I’m fine,” she said, hearing the thickness in her voice. The first tear dropped onto a piece of onion on her plate. Stop it, you idiot, she ordered herself furiously. 213

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Another tear splattered onto her wadded-up paper towel.

“Excuse me,” she said, standing up abruptly. She had to get out of here or she was going to bawl in front of everyone. Her parents were looking at her with concern. Fred was politely gazing at a beetle wending its way across the planks of the table. And David stared right at her, his brows knit. Maddy turned and fled across the lawn to the house, her humiliation complete.

! ! !

Maddy stood in the spray of the outdoor shower at the side of the house. From her bedroom window, she had watched everyone trickle away after lunch—her parents and Fred to the vine fields and David (her heart sank) toward the cottage. It was just as well, she thought. She needed to be alone. The cool spray felt incredible after the hot, dusty morning she’d spent in the garden and the sweaty episode in the kitchen. Around her the redwood walls of the little enclosed cubicle were glistening wet. Maddy’s feet stood on another platform of redwood. The sun poured through the open top, splashing shadows onto her body. She leaned back to let the water soak her hair and worked in a dollop of Kiehl’s shampoo. She scrubbed herself all over with lemon-scented soap and let the water sluice it off.

Maddy sighed and shut off the shower. All she 214

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wanted to do was go straight upstairs to her room and fall asleep for about three hours—no, make that three years. She patted at her hair and wrapped herself in a thick white towel. She opened the door. David was standing immediately outside.

Maddy jumped, banging her head on the doorjamb, and let out an idiotic little squeak, like a mouse that had been stepped on. “Ow!” she said, holding the side of her head.

He was holding a backpack in his hand. He looked as surprised as she did. “Hey,” he said softly. Maddy could hardly look at him. God, what did he think of her now? The awful lunch, and then running away crying? “Hi,” she managed, staring at his tan toes.

“Um, I was looking for a bucket. I don’t know what I did with the one that was in the tasting room, so—”

Maddy clutched her towel a little tighter. “I’m, um, sorry about, you know, earlier.” He didn’t say anything, just waited. “I mean, running off like that . . .” He looked at her. “I’m just . . . under a lot of pressure right now.”

Her voice cracked on the last few words, and she could feel the tears building up again. He reached out for her, like he might try to give her a hug. Maddy stepped away slightly and stood there, feeling miserable and stupid, tasting the tears that were now running down her cheeks to her lips. His voice was urgent and quiet. “I don’t know what you’re thinking 215

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about, but I hope when you get it figured out . . . you’ll tell me.”

For a long minute, they both just stood there, staring at each other. Maddy wanted to just say it—everything that was on her mind, everything that had gone wrong and right all summer long. His eyes were so big and dark, she just wanted to lose herself in them. Finally, she whispered, “Yeah,” and rushed past him, almost knocking him over. Yet another graceful exit for Ms. Madeline Sinclaire. She ran down the path, feeling like she was going to implode.