Dandelion Dreams by Samantha Garman Read Free Book Online

smile.
    “Go ahead, everyone,” Celia said.
    I hesitated and then took a bite. The creamy, bacon and egg dish glided over my tongue, and I felt true hunger for the first time since Mom died.
    As I listened to the laughter and conversation around me, I realized that life would continue whether I wanted it to or not.
    I pushed back from the table. “Excuse me—I’m not feeling well.” I ran from the room and rushed out the back door into the cold, rainy night, unraveling like a loose spool of yarn.
    Ducking into the cottage, I stood in front of the fire as I dug into my purse for pills to help me sleep.

    •••

    It was still dark when I opened my eyes. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, and despite the medication, shadowy thoughts had moved throughout my subconscious and infiltrated my dreams. I was tired and shaky; it was a usual post-burial morning.
    Trembling, I got up from the couch where I’d fallen asleep and wrapped the blanket around my thin, scarecrow-like frame. Since my mother’s diagnosis I’d lost a good fifteen pounds, and I hadn’t had it to lose in the first place. Every time I looked in the mirror, I bit my lip to keep from gasping—what I saw scared the hell out of me.
    There was a soft knock on the door. I knew it was Celia; she seemed to be making it her mission to care for me, but I busy being at war with myself.
    Celia came into the cottage and handed me a loaf tin covered in aluminum foil. “Homemade bread.”
    I sniffed, and my stomach rumbled. I was in momentary shock that my mouth filled with saliva, my taste buds enticed by aroma alone. It made me yearn for all the comfort that food gave. I could use the calories. Maybe I’d find a way back to life through my stomach, since it didn’t yield to heartache—not anymore—it was an angry baby bird wanting to be fed.
    “I’m sorry…about last night,” I apologized, taking a seat on the couch and tearing off a corner of the warm, yeasty loaf. I stuck it in my mouth and chewed.
    If only my misery wasn’t worn on my face. I wished I could bury it deep inside.
    “Don’t apologize,” Celia said. “You’ll come out of your shell when you’re ready. In the meantime, I plan on feeding you and checking in on you, whether you want it or not. I’m here as a friend.”
    Celia didn’t ask anything of me, and I exhaled a sigh of relief I hadn’t known I held. “Thank you.”
    “Get dressed. Armand wants to show you the vineyard.”

    •••

    Thirty minutes later, I walked with Armand through acres of rolling hillside, covered in well-groomed rows of vines. The day was overcast, but it didn’t look like it would rain. Everything was quiet, sleeping, awaiting the season of the sun. I wondered what the vineyard would be like in spring, ripe and in bloom.
    What was it like to create something so beautiful? Armand was a maker of wine. My mother had been a maker of books. The need to create was inherently human, and strong within me. How I managed to settle for such an empty career was beyond me.
    “How long has your family owned the vineyard?”
    “Generations,” Armand explained. “When my mother and father married, she moved here. After my father died, she returned to Italy.”
    “Italian to the core?”
    “Without a doubt.”
    “What was my mother like? Back then?” I asked before I could take it back.
    Armand looked at me. “Headstrong. Always knew what she wanted and where she was going. She’s the reason I met Celia, did you know?”
    I shook my head.
    “It was their junior year of college. Summer. They were traveling all around Europe, and Celia wanted to go to Belgium, but Penny insisted on France. They got here, and the rest, they say, is history.”
    “Love at first sight?” I smiled.
    “God no!” Armand laughed. “Celia detested me, but I knew what I wanted, and I pursued her—relentlessly.”
    “She finally gave in?”
    Armand’s blue eyes twinkled. “Celia saw me flirting with Penny one night,