Christmas in Wine Country (31 page)

As the evening wore on, the Red Sox wore out, reaching a final score of 8-1. By the ninth inning they pretty much looked like they’d never played ball before in their lives. Her Gram could do better out there. Folded like a house of cards, she said to herself, only it came out more like ‘folded like-a house-a caads.’

Her favorite relief pitcher, usually so fierce and tough and certifiably insane, hung his head in defeat. Yup, thought Lila. That about summed it up.

CHAPTER 11: 99 Luftballons

Awoken from a deep sleep, Lila had a moment of wondering if she was in the midst of a medieval siege. Stumbling and finally reaching the door, she discovered that this particular version of battering ram wore boiled wool, carried a large black leather satchel and answered to the name of Marion. And she’d had just about enough of Lila’s stuff and nonsense.

Marion, apparently, had only allowed Lila the weekend to mope. Monday arrived and Marion decided that enough was enough. Bustling around the apartment with a garbage bag which Lila was amazed to see her pull out of her voluminous purse in a tidy black plastic square—did she fold her trash bags?—Marion busily began the work of dispensing with all this fuss about a cold.

“Nothing a little fresh air won’t cure,” she declared, whisking away discarded tissues and cough drop wrappers and whacking the pillows on the futon back into shape with vehemence. “Now change into something more sensible. We’re going for a walk.”

Open-mouthed in confusion, still half-asleep, Lila managed, “Sensible?” Looking down, she realized she was wearing an oversized t-shirt dating back to college featuring a large yellow duck dancing with a pink pig. Something to do with a fraternity party she hadn’t gone to. She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d ended up with the shirt, she just knew when she was depressed it was hideous enough to seem appropriate.

Within 15 minutes, Marion had her out for a walk cum march along the waterfront and within the next 30, Lila was pumped full of good, strong sentiment regarding life and her place in it.

“What are you, 26?” Marion asked.

“28,” Lila corrected forlornly.

“Exactly my point.” Marion didn’t seem to note the huge gap between mid-twenties and cleaving close to 30. What followed was a stern mix of needing to know your priorities and the importance of keeping perspective, patched together with some old-fashioned life must go on. Main take away: Pull Yourself Together. When a broad-shouldered, no-nonsense Brit in boiled wool came to your apartment at 7am, knocked so loudly on your front door that you were convinced it was the Visigoths, marched in and demanded it, you were pretty much compelled.

Later that morning, Lila found herself tidying up the store’s local fiction section, broadly interpreted to mean anyone who ever was born in or visited California or any author who chose a small coastal town as a setting for all or part of a story. She decided that at the very least she could make sure it was tidy. In order. That much she could do.

             
“Do you have all your teeth?” Godfrey, silent and all in black, slunk by her side, as usual, without a sound.

             
“My teeth?” Lila asked, beginning as so many interactions with Godfrey did, with wondering whether she’d understood him correctly.

             
“You look like the sort who still has all her teeth.” Godfrey shot a penetrating look toward her mouth and Lila wasn’t sure if he wanted her to open up. “It’s not just a myth about George Washington, you know. Full set of wooden chompers.” He bared his
teeth, using his index finger to gesture from side to side. “Also
Attila
the Hun and Simon Cowell, formerly of American Idol. And think how much they all accomplished.”

             
Wondering if this was the first moment in history when all three greats had been listed together, Lila wasn’t sure how to respond. Deciding it would be an interesting point of trivia if it were true, she asked, “Are Simon Cowell’s wooden?”

             
“Lila.” Godfrey shook his head, at once disappointed and infinitely patient with his pupil.

             
“Yes, Godfrey?” Lila asked, not wanting to offend his earnest attempt to communicate.

             
Hand up to her shoulder, he said with meaning, “You have all of your teeth.”

             
Watching his slender form retreat toward the register, Lila realized she’d just been the recipient of what could only be described as a pep talk, Godfrey-style. And he was right, wasn’t he? She had all her teeth. And a tidy local fiction section of books, she mentally added as she surveyed her work, thereby doubling the short list of positives in her life.

             
What she didn’t have was any word from Annie. She could, she recognized, pick up the phone and make the call herself. And she would if this went on too much longer. At the moment, though, she was still too caught between indignation and self-recrimination to know what to say. A steady stream of How could you? How could I? How could he?
W
ouldn’t
make for much of a conversation.

             
It did provide a nice internal monologue on loop, however, and she hopped on board as she began tidying the cookbooks. Station one: anger at Annie. She’d been so quick to point a finger at Lila, hadn’t see? Almost as if she’d never been a true friend, but waiting for this moment all ten years of their friendship to turn traitor. Where was the comforting shoulder when Lila needed one? Nothin’ but cold shoulder from Annie, the false friend.

Which took her abruptly to station 2: self loathing. Why should Annie comfort her when she’d been the reason everything had fallen apart? That store had sat vacant for months until she’d opened her big mouth. She was a sucker, clearly, always had been, starting back in high school as she’d joined the legions with long-suffering crushes on Hyannis High’s star lacrosse player Mike McCaffrey. Then on to the Frisbee golf champion at Colgate—she’d really stepped down a notch, she realized; at least Mike had been recruited to a D-1 college. Who’d even heard of Frisbee golf? And let’s not forget Phillip—her interior monologue was good at re-focusing
her
on hating herself—king of smooth jazz and sidelining Lila.

At least her initial instincts about Jake had been right; she’d known he was an untrustworthy prig. Until she remembered that wasn’t even true. Her first glance of him with that long, slow stride across the vineyard grounds had cued the songbirds in the Disney movie of her heart. That thick burgundy Fisherman’s knit sweater with a poetic patch on the elbow and an endearing fray at the hem. The way he’d been lost in thought, a slight furrow to his brow as if pondering the significance of the last stanza of a Keatsian ode. And that hair. Dark, not exactly black but you couldn’t really call it
brown without that sounding far too light. Thick with those curls and surprisingly soft she’d discovered as they’d embraced late into the wee morning hours.

Station three! What kind of a man held you, gazed deep into your eyes, whispered that you were so beautiful, and then crushed your dreams and ate them for breakfast the very next day? How could he have heard the excitement in her voice, the anticipation in her plans, and then left her a message explaining yes, he had killed all that, but it was only business? Don’t take it personally? What was more personal than the culmination of months and months of planning and work that was finally all set and ready to take off? What else did he do in his spare time, drown kittens? 

Every once in a while she’d try to stop the madness with a little common sense. Reason it out. But try as she might, she just couldn’t seem to solve this puzzler. Had she really been responsible for losing the store? Had Jake’s father, the great Big Bob himself, successful multi-millionaire international businessman, gotten the hot scoop on a commercial real estate deal via Lila? Did he usually wander about aimlessly, waiting until bookstore clerks struck him with inspiration? And if Jake were such a villain, why had he shown Lila and Gram around the vineyard? But if Lila’s prattling on about the soon-to-be bookstore cafe hadn’t started the Lila-Jake-Big Bob dominos, what else explained how the store had gone from vacant and without interest to suddenly scooped up just before the deal closed?

             
With a sigh, Lila brought two errant travel memoirs back to their proper section. What did it matter, really? Understanding the how and why wouldn’t change the what: they’d lost the store. They’d come close, and close they’d remain. That’ll be fun, she
thought ruefully, imagining walking past the shop next door as it started bustling with a remodel and then patrons. They’d be stuffing their piggy little faces with Endicott wine instead of sipping perfectly excellent cappuccinos from homemade mugs, their children next door but within eyesight attending storytime with Mr. Meows.

At the thought of Mr. Meows, Lila silently thanked Marion, looking over again at the big sign on the front door: Mr. Meows is on vacation, back Thursday. While Marion had known that she could get Lila up and running, she apparently hadn’t been so sure about Mr. Meows. And Lila had to admit, her flag was still at half mast. While she was technically up and out of the apartment at her job, she still felt like she was wearing a ratty old t-shirt with a duck fighting a pig and watching the Red Sox take a beating.

             
The bell on the door rang
.
Zoe walked into
the bookstore. She wore an orange scarf so large and loud it appeared to be wearing her rather than the other way around.
After e
xchanging a look
with Godfrey, Zoe
sank into one of the store’s armchairs.

             
“I am absolutely exhausted!” she declared, exhaling in a puff that blew some of her hair up and back from her face. “Do you know what all of this has done to my
chi?” She held
out her left wrist as if one only had to look there to see.

             
“Good to see you, Zoe.” Lila gave her a shy smile, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against a wooden bookstack.

             
“This kind of negative energy…” Zoe waved her hands up in the air. “It is toxic. You are both going to have to do a
ginseng
cleanse after it’s all over. Which I hope
is now
.”

             
“Well, we’ve lost the shop—” Lila began.

             
“The friendship!” Zoe interrupted with frustration. “I’m talking about you and Annie!” After a few more choice words a
bout the links between mental,
emotional and physical health, she insisted that Lila come over after work. “So you don’t relapse into your funk,” she
warned
.

That night
at Zoe’s apartment they made vegan spring rolls. Lila felt checked out but grateful for the company. The evening was passing rather uneventfully until Lila headed for the bathroom and opened the wrong door. It turned out, the door next to Zoe’s bedroom led to a room even bigger than her bedroom and filled, top to bottom, left to right, with a gargantuan array of perfectly arranged and displayed clothes. Lila had never seen so many dresses. Vintage, black tie, cocktail, A-line, sheath, mini. Lila’s head spun as she backed out, closing the door behind her.

             
“So,” she ventured, back in the kitchen, “What’s up with your closet?”

             
Flushing red, Zoe looked down into the sink where she was washing dishes. In a whisper she said, “I can’t get rid of them.”

“The clothes? Why would you want to?
”

“It’s so materialistic.”

“
If I had all those gorgeous dresses I’d wear a different one every day.”

It turned out
that the clothes were
remnants of Zoe’s pre-Redwood Cove life as Tiffany Perpetua Whitwhite of Palm Beach,
a
fourth-generation debutante and party girl.
A
fter multiple assurances from Lila that it would be a crime to get rid of clothes that fantastic, Zoe
brightened and
asked, “Wanna see?”

About an hour later, dresses strewn about in Zoe’s bedroom, Lila sat
on the floor
in the midst of pale pink taffeta (sweet sixteen). Zoe lo
unged
on a chaise looking
like a mermaid, head-
to-toe in aqua sequins (
pageant
).

“I haven’t played dress up since I was about eight years old,” Lila said, toying with the tiara atop her head.

“
Oh, I do it all the time.”
Zoe
plucked a feather boa out of
what appeared to be an entire bag full of boas. Pausing after she flung it around her shoulders, she asked,
“Hey, did you like the message I left you? The one where I sang that Pat Benetar song you like?”

             
“Did you leave me a message
?” Lila asked sheepishly.
She’d turned her phone off
on Friday and hadn’t touched it since.

             
“Two
. And
I left them on your cell phone
even though they’ve been proven to cause brain cancer.”