Eight Hundred Grapes (14 page)

She looked up when we got close, smiling up at her father. Ben bent down beside her, cupping his hands over the flower next to hers. “Hi,” she said. “What are these, Dad?”

Dad.

Ben smiled at her, pointed toward the sign behind them. “It says they’re dandelion leaves,” he said.

“For what?” she said.

“I think they help to feed the land. What’s the fancy word for that, Georgia? For the land?”

Maddie met my eyes and looked like she didn’t want any information from me, even about this. Ben ignored this. He motioned for me to bend down between them, explain it to her.

“What’s it called, Georgia?” Ben said.

I wanted to throttle him. “The
terroir
.”

Maddie nodded. Serious. “The t
erroir
,” she repeated.

I started to explain that
terroir
wasn’t just about the land. It was also about the winemaker, how he interacted with that land, bringing out different things in the geography and climate than someone else might. But Maddie looked up at me and smiled—her smile just like Ben’s. It stopped me from saying anything. It stopped me from doing anything except smiling at her too.

Then she stared at the plants, considering, the same way Ben would do. This stopped me even more.

I bent down so I was by Maddie’s side, Ben moving out of the way.

“The teas are put into the soil to help take care of it. They all do different things for the soil in the vineyard and for the compost.”

“What’s compost?”

I smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

Maddie smiled back, moving closer so I could be tucked in among the flowers, beside her.

She pointed toward the yarrow. “What does this one do?” she said.

“The yarrow tea helps the soil make the grapes. It fills the soil with potassium and sulfur.”

I picked off a piece of yarrow and held it closer to her nose so she could smell it.

“Should I smell?” she asked Ben.

Ben smiled, nodded.

She moved in close, making a face. “Yuck,” she said.

I laughed, not blaming her. I should have reached for some lavender instead.

Maddie picked up a chamomile flower, gingerly putting that to her nose.

“What’s this one do?”

“You just picked out one of the most important teas,” I said.

Her eyes got wide, pleased with herself. “I did?”

“Yes. That’s the final tea that goes on the vineyard, and once all the grapes are picked, my father spreads this out over the whole vineyard to help the vines know it’s time to sleep for the winter.”

“Like milk and cookies.”

I laughed, Ben joining in, touching Maddie’s back. “Exactly like that,” he said.

Ben looked at me and smiled, as if to say, see? We can figure this out. The California sun shining down.

I smiled back, agreeing in spite of myself. And there was something deeper happening as I explained to Maddie how the vineyard worked. I remembered my father explaining the same thing to me when I was a little girl: how when he’d opened up the vineyard to me, garden by garden, it had felt like he was opening up an entire world, the most important
piece of the world, the most magical. Everything he taught me about the vineyard became etched in my mind, like a prize.

Maddie held up the tea. “What’s it called?” Maddie said.

“Chamomile,” I said.

“Chamomile,” she repeated. “I think my mum likes chamomile tea, right, Dad?”

I was still lost in the moment, feeling connected to Maddie. And to Ben again. Then I saw his face.

He looked nervous. “I’m not sure, Maddie,” he said.

Maddie ran up ahead, toward the hillside, toward the barrel room and the cave. Leaving Ben and me alone. Ben forced himself to smile.

“I’m sorry she said that,” he said.

“Why?” I said.

He paused, starting to say something, then stopping. “I don’t know.”

“What aren’t you saying, Ben?” I said.

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, but he looked down, shielding his eyes—the way he did when he was keeping something from me. It was usually something insignificant that he was withholding: like when he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or drop off our rent check. Though, apparently, it could also be something less insignificant: like what he felt he needed to keep to himself now.

The Last Family Dinner (Part 1)

B
en put Maddie down for a nap and I went to the kitchen to find my mother. She was standing by the farmer’s sink, washing the vegetables she had picked from her garden for dinner: tomatoes and cucumbers and onions and garlic and broccoli filling her small woven basket. She was still wearing her gardening hat. And she had the music on high.

She was dancing to it. She was dancing this awkward little two-step in front of the sink. It wasn’t surprising that she was dancing or that she was doing it oddly. She and my father both danced terribly and they both loved dancing, especially together. Growing up, I’d often walk into a scene just like this one: the two of them awkwardly two-stepping, arms happily flailing, in front of the tomatoes.

My mother was dancing, alone now, looking at her vegetables, not turning toward me. “How does pot roast sound for the family dinner?” she said.

I came up behind her, resting my head on her shoulder. I wanted to bury into her shoulder. I wanted her to make it all okay. As opposed to the reality. That she was part of the problem.

“I’m only asking to be polite,” she said. “About the pot roast. Not because I’m planning to do anything differently. Finn and Bobby already requested it separately. And I’m glad there’s something on which they agree.”

“Sounds great, then.”

She smiled, pleased with that answer. Then she moved to the right of the sink, motioning for me to help her clean the tomatoes.

“I wish everyone would stop calling this the last family dinner, though,” she said. “It seems dramatic.”

“Isn’t it also the truth?”

She looked down, ignoring the question, handing over several tomatoes.

“The tomatoes are on their last legs,” she said. “Do what you can. It’s that time of year. The end of the harvest, which means rest. Which means your father can focus on other things. But also the end of the tomatoes.”

“A mixed bag,” I said.

“Indeed.” She started chopping a cucumber. “I saw that we have two more joining tonight?”

I looked at her. “You met Maddie?”

She nodded. “Where do you think the cake came from?” she said.

I started washing a tomato, ignoring her gaze.

“What happened?” she said.

“He thinks we need to be together in the same place to get through this.”

“No. I understand what he’s doing here, but what happened, that you’re letting him stay? At least for the family dinner? And don’t tell me that he loves it. Though he does love it. Maybe more than your father.”

I shrugged. “I’m so mad at him and then I think I shouldn’t be. Which makes me mad in a new way, if that makes sense?”

“Not really . . .”

“It feels like he’s still withholding part of the story. That I’m going to have to pull it out of him. It feels really hard to talk to him.”

She looked at me, waiting. “Did you consider that if you keep trying to talk to him, it will get easier again?”

“I don’t think I should have to work that hard.”

She laughed, tossing her cucumber into a bowl. “That is love, baby girl. Working hard when we don’t feel like it.”

I put the vegetables down. “Is that what you’re doing, Mom?”

She looked up at me. It seemed like she was going to argue but then
she wiped her hand across her head, water smearing on her cheek. “I guess that’s fair. I guess I’m not working so hard right now, but it didn’t happen because of one misunderstanding.”

“That’s what you think this is?”

“Ben was put in a bad situation. He got a call finding out that he has a kid. He had to try to handle that however he could.” She shrugged. “No one is saying he’s handled it well, though.”

I felt like she was finally listening, understanding the two ways I felt. On the one hand, I felt terrible for Ben that he’d been dealing with this, but I also was angry he hadn’t trusted I would deal with it with him.

“Of course, it doesn’t matter how well he handled it,” she said. “What is going to save you two is how well you do.”

Her phone buzzed and she looked down. It was Henry, Henry smiling. It made her blush, looking like a schoolgirl, which made me roll my eyes.

I peeked over at the phone, at the text message.

La Gare. 10 PM?

La Gare. That was the French restaurant in town. The only restaurant in Sonoma County that served that late. The only restaurant in Sonoma County my mother could get to after family dinner. The last family dinner, celebrating the last harvest.

My mother met my eyes, knowing what I’d seen on the phone. But as she started to say something, she closed her mouth. “I’ll call him back later, but not because you’re being mature about it,” she said.

“What would you like me to say, Mom? Have fun on your date?”

“Would that be so hard?” She paused, shutting off the water. “Or maybe just don’t look at me with such anger. I’m not looking at you with anger.”

“Why would you look at me with anger?”

My mother looked at me. “I’m just going to ask you this once but I want you to think about it. Have you considered that your desire for us to keep the vineyard has less to do with us and more to do with you?”

She motioned toward the vineyard. I followed her eyes, and looked out the window at the vineyard below: foggy and swirling in the late afternoon wind.

The grapes were getting heat, but getting something else too in that wind, getting a certain amount of peace.

“Well?” she said.

“No,” I said.

My mother looked at me, anger in her eyes. “No, you haven’t considered it? Or no, it isn’t true?”

“Have you considered why you’re willing to give this place away?”

“I have considered it. And I have my answer, darling. It’s just not one you like.”

I heard a beep, Henry texting again. “He should really play harder to get,” I said.

My mother pursed her lips. “Go away,” she said.

“Does he know you hate French food?”

“Go away, please.”

I wanted to explain it to her so she’d hear it. As much as my mother said I was making this about me, it seemed like she was doing the opposite. She wasn’t making this enough about her.

“It just feels tragic to me that everything you and Dad worked for, you’re just handing off to someone who is going to blow it. Who’s not going to honor your legacy.”

“Even if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, that’s our tragedy.”

“That can’t be your opinion.”

She took off her kitchen gloves. “You want my opinion? I’ll give you my opinion. Worry less.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re a smart, accomplished woman who has worked very hard to build a great life for herself. And you still think your main job is to make things okay for everyone else. For your father and me, for Bobby and Finn. It’s why I felt relief the day you moved away from here!”

“You cried. And sent me a map of Sebastopol, so I’d remember where I came from.”

She rolled her eyes. “The point is, I thought, now she is going to take care of herself too. But you’re just falling back into your old ways. Focusing on our problems instead of your own.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Are you sure about that?” she said, her eyes angry. “If you ask me, Sweetie, then you’re going to have to get over that Ben did something wrong and listen to your heart.”

“It’s related, Mom. It matters.”

“My goodness. You sound like you’re arguing a case. What matters is what you want to do.”

Then she pointed at the tent, the sailcloth tent, on the edge of the patio.

“We never would have paid for a sailcloth tent just for the harvest party. We could have run around on the lawn for all I care. Someone needs to get married under that sailcloth tent, it is too beautiful to waste.”

“You think that’s a good reason?”

She turned the water back on, looking away. “Well. It’s not a bad one,” she said.

Spontaneous Fermentation (and Other Ways to Lose the Love of Your Life)

W
hen we were kids, Bobby and Finn used to ride their bikes down to the candy store in the center of Sebastopol. I loved the ride—and my mother wouldn’t let me take it alone. But, man, was it fun when Finn and Bobby let me join them: the easy climb down the hills into the center of town, the hard ride back, candy melting in our pockets speeding us along. One time, on the ride back toward home, a car pushed us off the road. It was going so fast around the final turn, giving us no choice but to ride ourselves into a ditch to avoid getting hit head-on.

The car pulled over. It was a group of tourists, who had just been up at The Last Straw Vineyard. My father, at that time, was doing food and wine tours for elite tourists willing to pay fifty dollars a pop for a private tour with him.

They were apologetic, drunk, and apologetic, Finn telling them that it was okay. They felt like they needed to do something to make it right, though. One of the women checked out our skinned knees, covering us with ointment. Her husband offered to drive us back to our parents, Bobby refusing the offer after we stole a peek in their trunk. The trunk was filled with cases of wine from every vineyard on the road and many from Napa Valley—including Murray Grant Wines. They weren’t discriminating. They weren’t taking a special trip to visit my father. They weren’t even drunk on good wine. They were drunk on anything they could get their hands on.

They took off, heading back to their fancy Healdsburg hotel—the three of us walking our bikes in the direction of home, agreeing to keep the incident from our parents, otherwise that would be the end of the bike-riding to the candy store. They got confused on the dirt road. And no one was hurt. So there was no reason to make a big deal. Except that I remember all three of us being angry with them in a way we couldn’t explain, in a way I could only explain when I thought of my mother’s question about the vineyard: Was I sure that I wanted to hold on to the vineyard for my father as opposed to for myself? Was I sure that I was thinking of my mother and my father only?