To my surprise, Kelly breezes through the dining room and with only a slight hesitation, wraps her arms around me. She smells like sun and dirt and home.
At first, I’m taken aback, but then I wrap my arms around her. I don’t know if there’s meaning behind the gesture or if she’s only doing it to appease my mom, but I revel in it anyway. There have been so many times in these years without her that I would have given anything to feel her support and love again. Growing up together, Kelly had become a part of me. I didn’t realize how much until that part was removed.
Too quickly, she pulls away.
“It’s good to see you, Mallory.”
She uses my full name, which she hasn’t done since the day we met, clarifying where we stand. My stomach sinks.
“It’s good to see you, too,” I say softly.
“Well,” Mom says, patting us on the shoulders, “that’s more like it. Want some breakfast, Kel?”
“Oh,” she says quickly, “I already ate. Thank you. I’m just going to get to work.”
I don’t know what I expected when I spoke to Kelly for the first time, but this dry, polite greeting and empty dismissal wasn’t it. I would have taken anger, sadness, even hatred over this. But as they say, the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference.
“Okay,” Mom says. “Help yourself if you get hungry later.”
Kelly nods and lets herself out the way she came, not glancing at me as she goes, and leaving without whatever she came in for. Maybe for Kelly the past is in the past, any love she once had for me gone along with it.
* * *
Kelly and I met on our first day of second grade. My parents and I had moved from Chicago earlier that summer and until school started, I hadn’t met anyone my age. Kids didn’t come to the vineyard and I never left, following Dad around as he learned everything there was to know about winemaking. I loved being outside, free to wander in a way I never had been in the city. But it was a relief when the first day of the school year arrived.
I spotted Kelly before she noticed me. She sat two rows over and was distracted by the boy sitting behind her who kept pulling on her ponytail. The way she bit her bottom lip and tried to pretend she didn’t notice his existence made my stomach clench in a way I hadn’t felt before.
By the time we made it to lunch, I’d gotten the distinct impression that this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her. I’d seen her be teased in the lunch line and denied a seat at one of the cafeteria tables. These were long-standing prejudices. She’d clearly grown up with these kids and even at my young age, I pondered over the unfairness of it all. I couldn’t see how Kelly was any different than the rest of us. In fact, she was quite pretty, but the way she kept her head down and avoided making eye contact with anyone proved she didn’t know it.
It must have been because I wanted to know what was in store for me once I caught my new classmates’ attention that I followed Kelly at recess. I watched her pass the swing set and the slide and take shelter under a tree with a trunk three times as wide as she was. She picked up a stick, crouched close to the ground, and began to draw figures in the mud. From my angle, hidden behind a nearby tree, I couldn’t see what the pictures were, but I watched her. She dug the stick into the ground with increasing fervor and it struck me that she was taking out her anger at those kids who teased her and bullied her.
And then, the worst thing that could happen to a seven-year-old made time slow as I watched Kelly lose her balance and land butt-first into the mud.
A gasp escaped my lips. I waited to see what she would do. For a long moment, she was in shock, her delicate pink mouth gaping open. And then she began to cry. Not a sob, but a silent, contained mourning. Because she knew what I knew—once the kids saw the stain on the seat of her pants, that would be the undoing of her. She would spend the rest of her life in this small town, growing up with the same kids, and they would never let her forget this day.
I looked down at my own clothes. I wore a pair of leggings underneath my skirt. I quickly slipped the skirt down over my hips and stepped out of it, then I bundled it up and hid it behind my back. With no one looking, I hustled over to her and crouched beside her.
She was still crying but when I held out my offering, her sniffles abruptly stopped. She looked up at me with watery eyes, a puffed-out bottom lip, and a question. I nodded to her once and with that, she pushed herself up to standing, hid behind the tree, and quickly yanked the skirt up over her own pants.
I left her in privacy and we didn’t so much as glance at each other for the rest of the day. I didn’t want anything from her in return. I only wanted to ease the uncomfortable churning I felt in the pit of my stomach whenever someone teased her.
The next day she came to me outside the classroom before the bell rang and handed the skirt to me. It was freshly cleaned and folded. I wondered if she’d recounted the story to her parents, or if she’d sneaked it into the washer and dryer herself. (I found out months later that it was likely the latter, since her dad had abandoned her before she was born and her mom was...well, not doing Kelly’s laundry anymore.) I stared at it and then at her, and when she smiled, I smiled back at her.
As the years passed, not much changed between us. Maybe it was that I didn’t have any siblings of my own, but I took on the role of Kelly’s protector, especially the more I found out about her home situation. I didn’t become a target for bullying like Kelly was. The boys found me pretty enough to be nice to me and the girls found me not pretty enough to be a threat. I didn’t much care what anyone thought of me, but my status kept Kelly safe from hair pulling and the names of spices being murmured under kids’ breaths.
In return, she protected me in her own way. I would never have been accepted to Columbia without her making sure I finished my homework and turned it in on time. The concept of deadlines had always escaped me, and my parents were too busy trying to keep our lives afloat to hover. I’d never given them any reason to believe I needed them to. Every report card I brought home proved I was doing fine without their supervision, but it wasn’t my own studiousness that ensured my success, it was Kelly’s.
She was also the one who pushed me to apply to Columbia, who combed through my application over and over again, and sent it out for me. My parents were as shocked as I was when I received my acceptance.
Kelly and I have always brought out the best in each other and while she seems to have forgotten that, I’m not ready to let it go.
After I shower the morning’s dust and sweat off me and respond to emails from the office, I find myself alone, with nothing but Kelly’s words to keep me company—both her coldness this morning and her accusations years ago.
I’ve come to accept responsibility for my deceit but what even I don’t understand is what came over me in the first place. I’d never purposely hurt Kelly before. I’d never purposely hurt anyone. Being three thousand miles away from this place made it easy to forget, but being back, there are reminders around every corner.
I amble outside and stand at the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden rail in my hands. The dry heat simultaneously suffocates and grounds me. I glance at the guest house, nestled behind a few shady trees next to the barn. It calls to me, luring me to it with the promise of explanations and of memories—bad ones, yes, but good ones, too. As a girl, it used to be one of my favorite places to hide away from my parents—my own little home away from home. The few times I’ve come back to visit, I haven’t been brave enough to go inside, but I’ve avoided it—all of this—for too long.
The guest house is a small, one-room cottage with a queen-size bed, a bathroom, and a kitchenette with a mini-fridge and coffeepot. My last summer here it was a minefield of questions, uncertainty, and the overwhelming emotions of first love. It sits there unobtrusively, among the dust and sunlight like a faded photograph, but it holds my secrets.
I approach the door and re
ach for the key, dependably on top of the doorjamb. I wiggle it into one of the French doors, the billowing white curtains inside guarding the windows from prying eyes, and push it open.
The sunlight flows in behind me, lighting up the room and the dust motes floating in the air like glitter. My breath hitches as my gaze lands on the bed with its fluffy white comforter. In the corner sits the white wicker chair I used to curl up in when I talked to Sam in the early-morning hours. There’s a nightstand with a table lamp, a wobbly standing fan, neatly folded towels on the foot of the bed. Two chairs and a small table for eating to my left, the kitchenette on the right. There’s no room for much else, but it was everything we needed that summer.
I take a tentative step in and drop the key on the counter. It all looks exactly the same, like he never left. My mind flashes back to those hot summer mornings and I wait for him to emerge from the bathroom rubbing his eyes and smiling shyly. But it’s just me and the stillness. Was it always so still or did I not realize then how his electricity charged the air?
I walk to the bed and perch at the end, waiting to jump up if anyone catches me here. When I don’t hear Dad’s truck tires on the dirt road, I sink back into it, my arms stretched out in either direction and my hair splayed out around my head. The comforter wraps itself around me the way I always wished Sam would...the way he did. I swear I catch the scent of his cologne, and then I remember. I remember why I almost gave up everything.
* * *
That night, I help Mom throw together some spaghetti before she retreats to her home office to spend the evening typing up contracts for work. I dish up two plates and turn off the lights in the house, leaving only the dim glow from beneath the microwave and the sunset sneaking in through the blinds.
As I carry the plates to the patio, I catch sight of Dad performing his evening ritual—sitting at the patio table as he watches the darkness of night swallow his vines whole. The remnants of daylight dance over the tops of their leaves and glint off his glass of white wine. His feet are crossed and perched on the seat of the chair in front of him.
The scene is so familiar, déjà vu overwhelms me. I almost expect to see Sam sitting out there, too, next to Dad, the way he did so many nights. I expect to see his velvety curls, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, the way he cupped a wineglass delicately with the tips of his fingers. I close my eyes and the echo of his laugh haunts me.
But when I open my eyes, he’s not there.
The sliding door chews on the dust in its track as I nimbly pull it open and close it again.
“There’s my girl,” Dad says without looking up.
I set his plate on the table in front of him, exchanging it for his glass of wine. I sit in the chair next to him and bring it to my nose, breathe in the citrus, and in a way that makes my dad cringe, take a large swallow.
“I take it back,” he says. “You’re not my Mallory. Someone has replaced you with a Mallory who drinks wine.”
I laugh. “I like wine now, Dad. No one gets through four years of college and a job in marketing without developing a penchant for alcohol. And beer...?”
I shudder at the single memory of its bitterness on my tongue. I tried it at a frat party, then turned around and left as quickly as I arrived.
“Well, at least you haven’t forgotten everything I’ve taught you.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything you’ve taught me.”
I take another swallow of wine and hand the glass back to him. Dad, sucking noodles into his mouth, takes it in his weatherworn fingers. I reach beneath the flop of hair that hangs over his forehead and rub my thumb against the strands above his ear that have gone gray. He smiles in a way that reminds me of Midnight when I rub my palm between her eyes.
“How’s the season going?” I ask, because if I don’t talk about grapes, Dad has little else to discuss. I want to talk about grapes and weather and bugs. They say you can’t go back to your childhood, but listening to my dad talk about the vineyard is close.
“Really good, honey. Really good. I think it’s going to be a good year.”
“They usually are.”
Some years have been harder than others, but Dad has an understanding of the land that seems to transcend the ups and downs. Still, Mother Nature cannot be predicted and the lines on my dad’s face prove that he never forgets it. He gives a coy smile, then raises his glass to the heavens—a prayer.
“So... Mom said you picked a red?”
Dad clears his throat and gives me a sheepish grin.
“Cabernet.”
“Wild man,” I tease.
The Wandering Vineyard is known for our white wines—chardonnay, zinfandel, and Riesling specifically. Though Dad would be the first to stress that there is no such thing as perfecting a wine with the yearly variations in weather, precipitation, and temperature, those who travel far and wide each year to taste them straight from the source might beg to differ.
Dad takes a sip of his wine. “Well, the whites are the ones that got us here, it’s true. But...”
“But doing something new is what keeps it interesting.”
Dad chuckles. “Exactly. And keeping things exciting is what life is all about, right?”
I nod but can’t help thinking about my life in New York. Once I left for college, I committed to that path. Checking off one accomplishment after the other was easy because the plan had already been laid out for me. I focused on my classes, my schoolwork, and then on my internship. I got hired at the same firm and set my sights on climbing the corporate ladder—I had no reason not to, no other prospects. I couldn’t imagine simply changing trajectory for the sake of keeping things interesting. Not after doing so much work. But maybe when I’m my dad’s age, I’ll see things differently.
“Congratulations, by the way,” I say. “On your new wine, and how well the vineyard’s doing. I’m really happy for you. I know how hard you’ve worked to get here.”
“Thank you, honey. That means a lot to me. And you’ve made a lot of sacrifices over the years to support me in this. I appreciate it.”
Dad doesn’t quite meet my eyes when he says this, always grateful but apologetic about the concessions Mom and I have made so he could follow his dreams.
I never explicitly told my parents I planned to pay for my college tuition, but when I entered my second semester and they hadn’t seen a bill, they figured it out. That was the last time they nagged me about not coming home to visit and I suppose I held tighter to that responsibility than I meant to. Initially I stayed away to pay my bills, but eventually my workload around the office became too demanding to unload onto anyone else. It was easy to ignore my other reasons for avoiding coming home.
“I’m proud as hell of you,” Dad adds, seeming to follow my thoughts. He laughs but tears swim in his eyes. He reaches across the table and places his hand on top of mine, enveloping it completely. Its warmth is a balm to my heart after all the exhausting days and lonely nights spent on the other side of the country.
It’s worth it. It’s what I’ve chosen. But sometimes I wonder how I’ve gotten so far from the girl I used to be.
“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to manage more. I would never tell them this, but most of the decisions I’ve made in my adult life have been to make my parents happy—so they don’t feel like they have to worry about me, and to make them proud of me. I have a habit of ruining every other relationship that’s important to me. I won’t ruin this one.
The sliding door opens, breaking the moment, and Mom pokes her head out.
“Rich, did you get the guest house ready for tomorrow?” she asks.
Dad curses under his breath, and I laugh. Why would Mom ever expect Dad to remember something unrelated to grapes? Then again, with me gone, I suppose there’s no one else to do it.
“I’ll take care of it,” I offer.
Thank you, Dad m
ouths to me so Mom can’t see. He refills his wineglass and slides it over to me in repayment.
“Who’s visiting?” I ask Mom, sipping on Dad’s drink. It feels so natural, this familial intimacy that I’ve missed so much. It isn’t the same with my coworkers, could never be. We may have an open floor plan but our separate cubicles ensure that there’s always a wall between us, the lines drawn.
“Sam,” Mom says with a grin. “Isn’t that nice?”
I choke on the wine halfway down my throat.
“Sam?” I gasp. “Like... Sam?”
Mom laughs. “Um, yes?”
“Why is Sam coming to visit?”
I didn’t realize my parents were still in contact with him since he’d disappeared all those years ago without a word. Did they still talk? Had he come to visit before? How much was I missing in my temperature-controlled corner of New York?
“We invited him to the planting party,” Dad says. “He played a big role in the success of the vineyard. He should be here to celebrate with us, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I mutter. “Of course.”
Outside of shock, I can’t decide how I feel. My anger at Sam has mostly subsided over the years, more because I had no productive use for it than because I’ve forgiven him. During those first few months, I used to fantasize about all the things I would say to him if I ever got the chance, but I never thought that day would actually arrive. I tried to put it behind me. But Sam and I face-to-face again? My heart didn’t survive it the last time.
“Does he know I’m here?” I ask.
“It never came up,” Dad says, returning to his food.
Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard Page 3
