I sighed. “Am I here to be reproached?”

“When you interviewed, I was pleased with your appearance, your family’s history in the area, your role as former Cherry Queen, and your enthusiasm for our wines.”

“And now?”

“Now, I regret to say that I’m afraid those initial impressions have been eclipsed by your recent behavior on television and the subsequent media attention to it. Specifically, this morning’s article in the Peninsula Press.”

“What article?” I asked, gripping the arms of the chair. My Froot Loops churned in my stomach.

“You’ve not seen it?” She raised one thin brow and glanced meaningfully at the newspaper on her desk.

“No.” Panicking, I jumped up and grabbed the paper. My eyes scanned the headlines—and there it was.

FORMER CHERRY QUEEN MORE TART THAN SWEET.

Oh God.

I read the article quickly, my heart sinking with every snarky comment and embarrassing rehash of my misdeeds on the show. The writer mentioned how proud everyone had been to see a “hometown honey” on television but how that pride had withered as the weeks went on. Who’d have thought we’d ever see our sweet Cherry Queen drunk on vodka and suggestively riding a mechanical bull? he asked.

“What? That’s not even right! It was tequila, not vodka!” I blurted.

“I hardly think that detail makes a difference.” Mrs. Rivard’s tone was arch.

Maybe not, but I was hoping for more erroneous statements in the article, things I could point to and say, That wasn’t me! I never did that! I never said that! But unfortunately, everything he’d written about was something shown on screen. He ended the article by condemning me for the terrible things I’d said about where I came from, where my family still lived and worked, and scorned me for insulting good people with my catty, callow words, the same people who’d crowned me Cherry Queen and happily allowed me to represent them all over the country.

The country! The farthest I ever went as Cherry Queen was an Elks Lodge in Flint!

But it wouldn’t serve me now to be defensive. If I wanted to keep this job, I needed to apologize and agree that my behavior was not appropriate.

“Mrs. Rivard, I’m very sorry about the show. I agree, the way they are portraying me is not very…appealing.”

“The way they are portraying you? You don’t think your own actions were…unappealing?” She mocked my use of the word.

“Well, yes and no. I mean, I did do and say some things I shouldn’t have, but the editing makes it look much worse. People have to realize that.”

She tilted her head. “Perception is reality, Skylar. I’m surprised you haven’t learned that yet.”

Fail.

I didn’t know what to say. She was right. My entire body felt as if it were shrinking.

“And I’m afraid that the way you’re perceived now isn’t the image I want in a front-of-house employee.”

I said nothing as the heavy shame of being fired settled over me like thick gray fog.

“I’ll mail you a check for your last week. Good luck.” She stood, and I took it to mean I was dismissed.

“Thank you,” I said morosely.

“I’m sure you’ll find another job,” she added when I was at the door. “You were a good salesperson, and many comment cards specifically mentioned your name as a positive aspect of our tasting room experience. But I might suggest moving. People have long memories in small towns.”

I nodded and slipped out without meeting her eyes, desperate to stem the tidal wave of tears I felt gathering momentum inside me. She didn’t deserve to see me cry.

Skirting the crowd in the tasting room, I quickly ducked into the employees’ room and grabbed my purse and keys, then rushed out again without even saying goodbye to John. I was sure he knew I’d been fired. How humiliating to think about our earlier conversation—he’d known I was going upstairs to get canned, but let me chirp away about YouTube videos!

Choking back sobs, I got into my mother’s battered old SUV and drove away, allowing anyone who watched to perceive the reality of my middle finger out the driver’s side window.

At first I was just going to go back to the guest house and crawl back under the covers, but I found myself passing the road that led to my parents’ farm, unwilling to explain the situation to my mother yet. Without consciously thinking about it, I kept going north, straight to Lighthouse Park at the tip of the peninsula. I’d been back for weeks but hadn’t yet visited this spot, a favorite of mine as a child. My dad used to take my sisters and me for walks on the paths there, pointing out the “Indian Trees” with their trunks bent at extreme angles by Native Americans hundreds of years ago to mark the trails. We’d hunt on the beach for fossils and tour the lighthouse, and he’d tell us about the ghost of Mable Day—a lovelorn sixteen-year-old girl from New York whose wealthy parents refused to let her marry a sailor she met while summering here. When he sailed again without marrying her and his ship was lost at sea, she drowned herself in the bay. I could still hear my dad’s hushed, eerie tone as he delivered the final line: And if you listen carefully at night, you can hear her crying in the wind.

Those were the kinds of stories I’d shared with guests in the tasting room, thinking that local color always helped to make a sale—it gave them an emotional investment in the product, something to talk about when they uncorked the bottle back home.

I parked in the near-empty lot and walked past the lighthouse and down the dozen wooden steps to the beach, where I slipped off my heels. The breeze off the water was cool, as was the sand beneath my bare soles.

Glad to have the beach to myself, I moved a little closer to the water and plunked down in the sand, tucking my flared striped skirt around my legs. Leaning back on my hands, I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to the sun.

Come on, think. Refocus. So no acting jobs materialized from Save a Horse, but did you ever really think they would? No. And instead of considering the consequences of acting like an evil twunt on national television, you jumped in and did it just to please those producers and stay in the limelight. The problem with you is that you never think ahead—you just grab on to opportunities here and there without ever thinking about what will happen if things don’t turn out perfectly.

I frowned. This was not peppy.

But I had to face it—many things in my life could be summed up with the phrase, It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Rollerskating down that slide in fifth grade. (Lost my balance.)

Waterskiing in a bikini at the sophomore class picnic. (Lost my top.)

Shooting whiskey with Tommy Parker before climbing in the bed of his pickup at the senior class bonfire. (Lost my virginity.)

Actually, it wasn’t a terrible first time, from what I can recall, although that’s not saying much—the memory is a bit fuzzy to this day. But Tommy was sweet to me afterward and we hung out all summer before he left for college in the fall. Three years later, when I was in contention for Cherry Queen, I was a little nervous he’d show up telling everybody about the time I’d “displayed poor conduct” in the back of his truck, which would make me ineligible. But he didn’t—he was a good guy, just like most of the people I knew around here. I felt awful that I’d said such nasty things about them.

And the shitstorm was only getting bigger. When I thought about the article about me in the paper, I wanted to make like Mable Day and disappear under the water. My reputation was shot. Tearing up, I lay back on the sand, covering my face with my hands. God, I’d made such a mess of things. Once upon a time, I’d been admired and respected around here. Played the starring role in every production. Waved from floats and pedestals. People had asked for my autograph. Taken pictures with me.