Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard

by Jamie Raintree

  “I know what she saw,” Tyler says, a twinkle in his eye. I glance away, uncomfortable with his flattery.

  “Well, I learned my diligence from the best.”

  I learned from Kelly.

  At the thought of my best friend—I refuse to think of our friendship in the past tense—my smile falters.

  We climb the final incline, focusing on avoiding the sharp, dry tree limbs overhead. I used to be able to maneuver around every branch that jutted out, thirsty for blood. Now there are too many, the path less trodden.

  We reach the top and Tyler brings Rocket to a trot next to me. We lead the horses to the break in the trees, stopping at the edge where we can see the entire property. Straight ahead is the house, on top of the bare hill, the other buildings snuggled around it. The grapevines spray out in every direction like the sun’s rays. I used to sit here and memorize the horizon for hours.

  “Why did you have to come home?”

  Tyler asks the question I’ve asked myself a thousand times over the last few weeks.

  “Why now? Really?”

  I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Why now, indeed? I’m building a life in New York. I have an amazing job at a top marketing firm. I have an apartment that isn’t much, but it’s mine. I’ve been there for a decade, which seems impossible. And yet, it never quite feels like home. There’s something here I can’t let go of.

  Not something. Someone.

  Kelly.

  I hoped that if I could talk to my best friend, explain why I made the choices I did our last summer together, she might forgive me and I could stop carrying around the guilt for the mistakes I made. I could stop holding on to the past and fully step into my future.

  The problem is, she hasn’t spoken a word to me since I left.

  “When I take this promotion,” I finally say, “I want to feel settled. I want to be all in.”

  Tyler’s expression is curious as he tries to apply this new information to the Mallory he used to know. The old Mallory didn’t think through decisions like this. She made one and let the cards fall where they may. But the stakes are so much higher now. I don’t trust myself anymore.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. It’s just...you usually run headlong into any opportunity that presents itself. That’s kind of your thing.”

  I find a loose leaf of leather on Midnight’s saddle and pick at it. “Well, I’m not a teenager anymore. Everyone is a little reckless when they’re teenagers.”

  “Some things don’t change.”

  “Some things do.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He winks, taking some of the pressure off the conversation.

  “You know,” I say, “you talk a lot for a cowboy.”

  “I’m not a cowboy.”

  Tyler moves Rocket sideways until he’s close enough to hook his arm around my neck, pulling me into a rough hug.

  “It’s good to have you back,” he says.

  I slip my arm around his waist. The way his T-shirt sticks to his back hints at the sheen of sweat beneath and reminds me of many summer days spent washing horses and polishing saddles with him.

  “It’s good to be here,” I say.

  “You see Kelly yet?” he asks, reading my mind.

  I let my arm fall away from him.

  “No. I haven’t.”

  TWO

  THEN

  My last summer at home with Kelly started off with long, hot days and an innocent ease—horseback rides and binge-watching our favorite TV shows in my bedroom, an attempt to escape the dry summer heat that seeped into our bones, leaving us languid and drunk on freedom. That first week, Kelly almost never left my house and that was how it was supposed to be for the next three months. We were set to leave for Columbia together in the fall, but we planned to have one last adventure at home, knowing that adulthood would change us, that once we left Paso, nothing would ever be the same.

  But things began to change sooner than either one of us expected, the day I started my summer job with my dad.

  Just that morning, Kelly had made me promise for the third time that my summer job wouldn’t get in the way of our plans. She would be working at the coffee shop but her ability to clock out ensured we could have our grand adventures around her schedule. After eleven years of running and living on a vineyard, my dad no longer had any use for clocks—a trait I may have inherited from him, not that I would ever admit to it. Dad lived by the sun, and in the summer the sun hardly sets before it’s up again.

  But when Kelly and I were on our ride that day, I laughed at her need for reassurance. With Midnight’s sure feet beneath me, I settled into the saddle and my hips rocked along with her natural rhythm. I reached my hand toward the sky and felt the warm, early sun press against my eyelids. Who needed reassurances when the summer itself seemed to be promising us everything?

  “Cross my heart,” I told her anyway. “Don’t worry. I would never stand in the way of you and a to-do list.”

  “It’s not a to-do list,” Kelly called out, riding Tiramisu—Mom’s horse, a beautiful bay quarter horse that looked golden in the sunlight. Kelly’s red braid had a golden quality to it, too, and it trailed behind her, horselike in itself. “It’s a bucket list. A summer bucket list. And will you ever slow down enough that I can keep up?”

  The hooves of the horses pounded out a steady beat beneath us, barely more than a walk, through the vines, up the hill.

  The Summer Bucket List had been Kelly’s idea. Determined to make the most of our last few months at home, she decided we’d make a list of all the things we wanted to experience together during our final days between childhood and adulthood. We’d been adding to the list for the last month.

  “It’s a to-do list,” I teased, but while Kelly was known for her penchant for planning, this one seemed especially important to her. So instead of asking her if she’d ever stop letting Tiramisu boss her around, I said, “Road trip.”

  She huffed. “In my beater or yours?”

  I shrugged. “Mine. Yours. My dad’s.”

  “Uh-uh, Mal. Committing a felony is not on the list.”

  “Please. My dad wouldn’t call the cops.”

  “Your dad would call the cops. On principle.”

  I relented. “Fine. Mine.”

  We made it to the top of the hill and looked out over the land, the vines still in their infancy for the year. For the briefest moment, I felt ungrateful that I wanted to leave this place, with the endless blue sky and the feeling that to step off the porch could take you away from the world. Or closer to it, depending on how you looked at it. But then I closed my eyes and wondered what it would feel like to roam free, with no one expecting anything from me. Where no one knew me and I could be whoever I wanted to be.

  Kelly already knew what she wanted to be when she grew up, had pretty much always known. Most of the time, I envied that in her, but sometimes she needed to be shaken out of her careful planning.

  “Do something spontaneous,” I said.

  “You want me to plan not to plan?”

  “Isn’t that the only way you’ll do it?”

  I grinned and after a skeptical moment, she laughed.

  “Fine,” she said. “Added.”

  Before the sun fully rose in the sky, our list was finalized and Kelly’s worries seemed to be assuaged. We rode the horses back and Kelly left me to my dad.

  I dreaded the idea of working, my first act of adulthood. I would need money, my dad assured me, for living expenses in New York. He wasn’t as convinced as I was that I would be perfectly content with two feet below me, a blue sky above me, and the occasional protein bar or two. So I waited in his office for the first sign of him and the business consultant he’d hired to help him rebrand and market the vineyard.

  Up until now, Dad had been focused on ma
intaining the vines he’d inherited from the previous owners and, in his free time, refining the flavors that would become his own unique signature. Finally, he felt it was time to break away from the vineyard’s established reputation and create his own.

  The night before, when my mom had asked what exactly the consultant would do, Dad had said, “He’s going to assess the company’s blah, blah, and create a strategic blah, blah, blah, and then charge me out the ass for it.” My job was to do all the menial labor to allow the consultant to do his job most efficiently. Personally, it was an attempt to put some of Dad’s money in my own pocket. For protein bars.

  Waiting for the consultant’s arrival, I sat with my feet propped up on Dad’s desk in his barn office, twisting and untwisting a paper clip. I heard their voices first, as they entered the breezeway, my dad speaking.

  “The previous owners used to do trail rides and I’ve been meaning to get back to it.”

  This was the first I was hearing of this plan. Usually Dad just complained about the feed costs.

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  The stranger’s voice was different than I expected. There was a melody to it, a finesse.

  I set the paper clip down and inched my way toward the door. I peeked my head out so I could get a look at him before he saw me—to assess the man whose right hand I’d be for the next few months, ready to talk Dad into letting me run trail rides instead. I’d expected one of the older schmoozing types he’d previously worked with—their receding hairlines, their guts hanging over their belts, their little ladys. That was not who was standing next to my dad.

  He was young—in his midtwenties, I thought, though I’d been bad at calculating age before I’d seen enough of life to know how it affected the lines of a person’s face. He was dressed in slacks and a button-up shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his smooth forearms. His dark curls were a little long for business, but styled to perfection. Everything about him was perfect, in fact, like he’d been sculpted by an artist exactly the way he appeared now, not born and grown into the man who turned to me and smiled.

  Brown eyes.

  Soft lips.

  “There she is,” Dad said and motioned for the consultant to shake my hand. I swallowed hard and wiped my hand on the front of my jeans as they walked closer.

  “Mal, this is Sam. Sam, this is my daughter, Mallory.”

  They stopped in front of me and Sam lifted his hand with the grace and experience of a man who’d shaken the hands of diplomats and queens.

  “Nice to meet you, Mallory,” he said in a deep, strong voice.

  I searched my mind for something clever to say, but all that came out was, “Nice to meet you, too.”

  I slipped my hand into his smooth fingers, and in that moment, I knew all the things I’d planned to focus on that summer had converged and narrowed down to one thing.

  Him.

  THREE

  NOW

  When I get back to the house after my ride with Tyler, Mom is humming in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and frying bacon. She’s in sweatpants and a tank, her dark hair messy down her back, no bra. This is her small rebellion against the nine-to-five life. Dad’s rebellion was to give up a job in construction, move us halfway across the country, and deplete my parents’ entire savings to follow his hasty ambition to run a vineyard. My mom forgoes bras on the weekend.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say. She squeals when she sees me and her bare feet dance across the Mexican tile as she rushes over to wrap me in a hug. She kisses me all over my face like I’m still four years old and I laugh, allowing her this indulgence. In the time I’ve been gone, we’ve only seen each other on a handful of occasions and it’s been as painful for me as it has, no doubt, been for her.

  “I made everything,” she says and motions toward the breakfast bar on the kitchen island. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and pull up a stool.

  “Dad out loving on the vines?” I ask with finger quotes. I didn’t see him out there but Mom’s smirk says it all. She sets a plate in front of me, stacked high with pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, half a grapefruit, and some strawberries.

  “What time did you get in last night?” she asks.

  “Midnight,” I say between bites of egg, realizing I haven’t eaten anything since the pretzels I had on the plane.

  She grins, shaking her head. “Your dad was out there waiting for you at six. I couldn’t even get him to eat dinner.”

  Her words are laced with affection, but it doesn’t ease the guilt I feel about being away from home for so long, for making excuses to stay away even though I’ve wanted to be here as much as they’ve wanted me to be.

  But the more time that passed without seeing, speaking to, or more important, apologizing to Kelly, the more insurmountable the task felt. It was one thing to allow a few days for us to cool off, but as the weeks passed, I realized I was angry at her, too. What I did that summer was selfish and inexcusable, but she wasn’t faultless either.

  Eventually, I convinced myself that Kelly had forgotten about me, moved on. I never stopped thinking about her, though. Not for one day.

  “How’s work been?” Mom asks. She still eats standing up at the island, I see. She sits for so many long hours at the office that if she isn’t in front of the computer, she’s moving. Mom has worked at the same small legal firm since we moved here, the only paralegal to two family lawyers. She’s almost always in front of the computer. I have more sympathy for her plight than I did as a teenager.

  “Good.” I sip my coffee. “Fine.”

  “Looks like more than fine,” she says. “The portfolio on the company website has been growing quickly these last couple of years.”

  “You’re stalking the company’s website?” I ask with an exasperated laugh.

  “Just occasionally. On my lunch breaks.”

  I roll my eyes, but her support warms my cheeks with pride.

  “It seems like they really value you there.”

  She could only be basing this assumption on the fact that I never leave. I haven’t told my parents about my promotion yet. Mostly because it won’t be official until I get back. A lifetime of changing my focus with every shift in the breeze has taught me to keep my mouth shut until I’m sure.

  Besides, this trip isn’t about me.

  “They seem to,” I say vaguely.

  My tone and the way I pick at my eggs with my fork must be less than convincing.

  Mom comes around the kitchen island and wraps her arm around my shoulders. I lean my head against her collarbone.

  “I hope...” she says, the sound of it vibrating through her rib cage. “Well, I hope you feel good about the direction your life has taken. I hope you don’t regret going to New York.”

  New York had been the plan for years but I think Mom always knew it was because I’d taken Kelly’s lead. She commented once, a long time ago, how much it surprised her since I’d never had the tendency to follow anyone. But that was how my friendship with Kelly was right off the bat and I think my parents were just grateful I’d chosen a worthy role model.

  A lot changed in those final weeks and though I never spoke with Mom about my fallout with Kelly—I was too ashamed and afraid of disappointing her—her probing questions and sideways glances proved she wasn’t entirely ignorant.

  In light of everything that happened, I could have chosen to stay.

  I could have gone anywhere.

  I look up at my mom. “Things are good,” I say. “I’m good.”

  Her expression softens and she plants a kiss on the top of my head.

  The back door slides opens and Mom turns to greet our visitor. I expect to see Dad standing there, but Kelly appears in the doorway, and the sight of her sets the hair on the back of my neck on end.

  I was planning to see her in the next couple days but I thought I would be
more settled by then. I thought I would have time to mentally prepare myself. I didn’t expect her to show up in my kitchen unannounced. Is she still as comfortable dropping by as she was when I lived here? If she has a reason for being here, my parents never mentioned it on the phone. Then again, they probably got the message loud and clear that Kelly was a sore topic after my many changes of subject. Now that I think about it, they haven’t brought her name up in conversation in years.

  Kelly halts, too, her mouth falling agape. She had to have known I would come home for the party, but maybe like me, nothing could prepare her for being face-to-face again. I cling to that explanation rather than the possibility that she believed I would miss this important milestone with my family. Not that I could blame her if she did. I’ve already missed so much.

  She looks strikingly the same as when I saw her last. Her red hair is even twisted together in the braid I was accustomed to seeing her wear. Her fair skin is as bright and flawless as it was when she was seventeen, or even seven, splotched with orange freckles. Her petite frame is adorned in the simple jeans and T-shirt she’s always worn, out of preference or necessity it’s hard to say.

  For a long moment, we stare at each other. My last memory of her is her yelling at me, accusing me of lying to her and of breaking all the promises we’d made each other that summer. Never mind that she was breaking promises of her own. Standing in front of me now, she’s the collected, put-together person I’ve always known her to be, my presence the only crack in her armor.

  I wait for her to speak first, to see if the silent treatment between us still holds.

  “Hi,” she finally says but her eyes don’t warm a single degree.

  “Hi,” I say.

  After another long pause, Mom says, “Oh, come on. It’s been ten years. The past is the past, right?”

  Her bold confrontation of our cold-shouldering does the trick. A nervous laugh escapes Kelly’s lips and she looks away.

  But could forgiveness be that easy? I certainly don’t deserve to be off the hook without a fair amount of groveling but that doesn’t stop me from hoping. Maybe it’s cowardly of me to be willing to release Kelly of her sins so easily but to know she didn’t hate me would be a load off my heart. Maybe it would stop me from questioning every choice I make in every area of my life. Maybe it would allow me to open up to relationships again.