Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard

by Jamie Raintree

  I shake my head. I used to think I knew everyone in this town, but Kelly and Tyler have proven that the only way to truly know everyone is to make them drinks.

  “He comes into the bar from time to time and we became friends. He lets me hang out here pretty much whenever I want. Which is often,” he says with a laugh.

  “The anticipation is killing me.”

  We get out of the truck and the dogs attack us with their noses. They trail along behind us as we approach what I can now see are the stables. There are a couple of horses saddled up and tied out front. One woman, adorned in riding gear, sits atop one of them while someone stands next to her, grips the reins and talks to her about something that looks very serious. Another couple leans against the barn chatting, and when they spot us, the man smiles and uses his whole arm to wave at Tyler.

  “C’mon,” Tyler says, taking my hand and pulling me toward them.

  The man has young features but the lines of his face prove him to be in his early to midforties. His blond hair is cleanly cut and his face is smooth. His body is unusually athletic for someone who runs a horse ranch.

  The woman, a silky brunette, is of similar age and put together, her clothes impeccably clean.

  “Mallory, this is Mick,” Tyler says, introducing us. Mick’s rough hand grabs mine tightly. He introduces his wife, Diane.

  “What’s going on, man?” Mick asks Tyler as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back on his heels. “Want me to have Wesley saddle up a horse for you?”

  “No, thanks. Just wanted to show Mal around, if that’s okay with you.”

  “No problem.”

  Tyler thanks him and leads me inside.

  “So what are we doing here?” I ask Tyler, awed as I take in my surroundings.

  These aren’t just stables—they are horse mansions, with the cleanest, most ornate stalls I’ve ever seen. The barn is almost twice as tall as ours and nothing but the finest woods have been used, which have been sanded and polished to the point of artwork. They stretch on for more than three times the length of our barn.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “It’s a boarding facility and riding school,” Tyler says.

  He approaches one of the stalls and a large, healthy bay pokes her head out and stretches her nose to Tyler. Her hair is shiny in the way that only horses fed the highest quality food and supplements can be. She must be a show horse.

  “This is Athena,” Tyler says. “I don’t want you to get jealous or anything, but she has a crush on me.”

  I narrow my eyes at him and reach out to the mare. She lips my hand, searching for treats, and despite coming up empty, must decide I’m okay, because she allows me to run my hand along her nose.

  “Hi, Athena,” I coo. “Are you leading our poor Tyler on?”

  “Hey,” Tyler says, making me laugh. “Do you want to see the rest?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Tyler takes me to the food room and we collect a bucket of carrots. He introduces me to the rest of the horses, telling me a little about each of them as if they are his closest friends and instead of this being eccentric, I find it endearing. Midnight loves me with the kind of unconditionality that makes her my best friend so I understand his connection to them.

  Afterward, he takes me into the tack room, which looks more like a showroom, everything clean and gleaming, like it’s never been used. He lets me peek into the office, which is just as pristine. It could be the set of a movie.

  Finally, we end up at the riding ring, where the woman we saw on the horse when we came is cantering the beautiful gray mare. The man stands in the center of the ring, calling out directions to her. Tyler and I cross our arms over the top bar and watch them for a while. The way the horse’s mane blows in the wind and the graceful way her hooves stab into the dirt over and over again—I could watch them all day.

  “So what’s the deal?” I finally ask him.

  “I just wanted to share this with you,” he says. He turns toward me, resting his foot on the bottom bar, his elbow on the top. “I know it’s a far-fetched dream and I know I have a lot of work to do, but this is what I envision for my uncle’s farm. I hope one day it will be mine.”

  “Wow,” I say, a little taken aback. Tyler has always seemed like a simple man to me. The kind of guy who finds beauty in an everyday kind of existence, which is part of his charm. “You’ve never told me you had all these big plans.”

  “Well—” he shrugs “—ten years ago I didn’t know what I wanted. Hell, last year I didn’t know what I wanted. But I think I’m finally hitting that age where I’ve figured out enough of what I don’t want that I can narrow down what I do want. And I’ve decided I want this.”

  The excitement in his blue eyes brightens his whole face. It’s infectious.

  “I think it’s perfect for you,” I say. “I can’t imagine a better fit, actually.”

  He seems to really take in my approval, his chest expanding ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

  “So is that what it takes?” I ask. “Age? Life experience? Failing a few times before you finally figure out what you want?”

  “Pretty much. I also think that sometimes someone on the outside, who knows you really well but isn’t swayed by emotions or other people’s opinions, might be able to offer some guidance.”

  “Someone like you?” I ask.

  “Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself.” There’s a gleam in his eye.

  “Oh, really? Go on, then. What do I want?”

  Tyler nods toward the people in the ring, not specifying which role he imagines for me.

  “This?” I ask.

  I look around, but I have a hard time allowing myself to think of what it could be like to spend all day every day with horses. Speaking with people who are as enthusiastic about them as I am and as excited to learn. The slower pace, the outdoors. I don’t dare to see it as a real possibility because if it’s not a real possibility, I don’t want to get my hopes up.

  “I know you have your job in New York, but before you go, I wanted to show you another option. And I wanted to tell you that once I get established, you’ll always have a place wherever I am.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. It’s the kindest thing anyone has ever offered me, and, I think maybe Tyler is right—maybe he does know me better than I know myself. But what I want and what makes sense aren’t always the same thing. No matter what my mom says, I still have commitments in New York. I can’t just walk away from it all. That’s not the kind of person I am. It’s not the kind of person I want to be. I know that much.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” he says. He puts an arm around my shoulders and I fold into him, finding comfort in his warmth and familiarity. We stand there for a long time, watching the woman and her horse, and dreaming.

  TWENTY-ONE

  On Monday morning, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wakes me, strong and immediate. I sit up in bed, looking for its source. On the nightstand, a mug goads me, coaxing me into the day and to the one who made it. I take a sip—still hot—and trace its path back down the stairs, where Sam is waiting for me in jeans, a smile on his face.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he says, the magic words.

  “Okay.”

  We both ride Midnight this time—me commanding the reins, Sam’s arms wrapped around me. I don’t hold back, riling Midnight up like an excited puppy as we gallop down the path to the pond. The sun pours gold over the land and over us, filling me with contentment. This time, I’m in control. This time, Sam has to trust me. And he seems to.

  When we reach the pond, I hop off Midnight to help Sam down. The moment his feet touch the ground, he wraps his hand around the small of my back and pulls me into a kiss.

  I melt into him.

 
I melt into the moment.

  When he pulls away, I ask, “What was that for?”

  “You’re still in there,” he says, searching my eyes for the woman we’re, apparently, both looking for.

  “Why are things different this time?” I ask him. A cool breeze floats off the pond, sweeping between us and around us, like it could sweep us away.

  “I’m done caring what people think,” he says. “My dad. Your dad. My standing in the business world.”

  “I’m not your fix, Sam,” I say, no matter how badly I may want to be. I can’t fill the holes in his life any more than he can fill the holes in mine. “I have to go back to New York.”

  “What if,” he says, “for today, we don’t have any goals?”

  “I think,” I say, running my hands over his back and marveling at how free I feel to do so, “nothing has ever sounded better.”

  And so for the rest of the day, we forget about everything else. We forget about everyone else. He takes me to the hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant I introduced him to the last time he was here, where I showed him that food didn’t need to be Michelin rated to be delicious.

  I take him around town. My version of town. We start with my high school—the only high school in town, Home of the Bearcats stamped in big maroon letters across the front. The fence keeps us out front, only because I don’t want to risk Sam tearing his expensive jeans. Not that it’s ever kept me, or any of the rest of the student body—past or present—out on the weekends. I settle for telling him stories about the trouble I used to get Kelly into by cheating off her tests, convincing her to ditch last period, and taunting our classmates at track practice after school.

  We visit a family friend’s olive farm, which from a distance could be mistaken for a vineyard. Sam and I stroll through the trees, our fingers intertwined, admiring the flowers and their woody and dusty scent.

  Then we sneak onto another winery’s property and race their remote-controlled sailboats across the koi pond between tours. We laugh as we run out after being spotted. The owners are friends of my dad’s but I don’t tell Sam that.

  By the time we return to the vineyard in the late afternoon, I’m so intoxicated with a sense of abandon, with this town I love, and with Sam that it seems nothing could bring me back to reality. But as we pull into the parking lot, a red BMW is parked next to Dad’s truck, ostentatiously screaming for our attention.

  “Who could that be?” I ask, more to myself than Sam.

  Sam laughs.

  “So he did decide to come.”

  “You know the owner of this car?” I ask.

  “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

  We find Sam’s friend in the kitchen being grilled by Dad. I recognize him as Sam’s friend immediately because he has the same polished look, same GQ style, same brand of watch glinting from his wrist. He’s taller, though, and lankier, his hair lighter, his eyes blue. And while most women might consider him attractive, he’s missing that indescribable magnetic quality that Sam emits.

  The men light up when they spot each other and shake hands, pulling each other into a one-armed hug. They exchange how are yous and the usual niceties. I don’t miss the newcomer’s comment on Sam’s attire, but Sam laughs it off.

  “You’ve already met Rich,” Sam says. “Let me introduce you to his daughter. This is Mallory. Mallory, this is Todd. We went to business school together and he’s driving through for a meeting in Los Angeles.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows at me, smiling, clearly having already accepted this stranger from Washington. I take Todd’s hand, wary of him and the world he represents—the side of Sam that everyone else sees on a day-to-day basis, away from the vineyard life. The real Sam? Or the side of himself Sam is trying to escape from?

  “Very nice to meet you,” he says in a clear, throaty voice.

  “You, too,” I say.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have longer to spend in this beautiful place. I can see why Sam doesn’t want to come back.”

  We all laugh, though mine is strained and merely to be polite.

  “At least with the short time you’ll be here, you get to see the best part,” Sam says, smiling at me.

  “Dinner?” Todd suggests.

  “That would be great,” Sam says. He looks to Dad and me. “Would you guys like to join us?”

  Dad begs out, having promised to eat with Mom.

  “You probably want to spend time with your parents while you can,” Sam says, but Dad waves us off.

  “Go,” he says. “Have fun.”

  Not wanting the perfect day with Sam to end, I agree. Todd suggests the swanky Italian restaurant that is listed on every “must see” guide written about Paso Robles, which is where he must have heard about it. Despite living here, I’ve only been once because one plate costs as much as it takes to feed our entire family and vineyard hands at home.

  I run upstairs to change. Despite owning plenty of appropriate clothing, nothing feels quite right. I finally end up in a pair of black slacks, a white sleeveless silk top, and a pair of black pumps. I feel more like my New York self than I have in almost two weeks but the pants don’t fit quite like I remember and the top seems too low cut all of a sudden. I tug it up as much as I can, swipe some eye shadow over my lids, and meet the guys out in the parking lot, where I attempt to look graceful while every rock threatens to knock me off-kilter.

  Todd is kind enough to take the back seat in Sam’s car but Sam spends the entire time chatting over his shoulder, asking Todd questions about his business, which turns out to be marketing, as well. Todd owns a firm similar to the one where I work, but more grassroots and seemingly with a more West Coast culture. As he tells Sam about his firm’s success, he talks about the employee fitness plan and locally grown catered lunches he’s added to his business model recently. When Sam shares that I’m in marketing as well, and the name of my firm, Todd looks me over with an impressed nod. If I’m not mistaken, his view of me shifts from small-town vintner’s daughter to someone who holds her own with him and Sam. I must admit that the recognition isn’t unpleasant.

  When we arrive at the restaurant, though, Sam and Todd are drawn to one another like magnets and I end up trailing behind them, a third wheel. The tenuous progress Sam and I made today seems to reverse with every passing minute.

  We’re seated quickly where I’m left to lose myself in the menu and the astronomical numbers listed next to each item. I order a small salad, making the excuse that I’m not very hungry, though Sam doesn’t buy it. He quietly offers to pay, which only makes the moment more awkward. He gives me an apologetic frown, knowing I’m not comfortable in this kind of environment.

  But that’s as much comfort as he provides for the rest of dinner while he and Todd chat about the latest social media conference, books by self-proclaimed wealth gurus, and client-building strategies they’ve been experimenting with. And even though this is also my line of work, their perspective is so different—I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. Like before, I feel like a kid sitting at the adult table.

  If this is the kind of people Sam spends his time with, it’s no wonder his sole focus has been on how quickly he can get ahead and what the features of his future yacht will be.

  Once we’ve finished our main courses and are waiting for dessert, which I opt out of, along with a sixteen-dollar glass of wine, Sam excuses himself to the bathroom and I’m left alone with Todd.

  He smiles at me with his zest for life and self-importance.

  “So how do you know Sam?” he asks. I find this an odd question, considering he came to the vineyard. Did Sam not mention why he was here? Or that he’d come before? These two are apparently close—went to business school together, share clients, regularly meet for drinks. Has he not mentioned me at all?

  I align my fork next to my empty salad plate.

  “He d
id some consulting work for my dad at the vineyard ten years ago.”

  “Ten years ago. Wow.” Todd sits back in his chair. “That must have been right out of business school.”

  “Pretty close, from what I understand.”

  He nods, clearly unsure what to say next, and I don’t do much to help, content to kill the time until I can return home and try to forget this night, try to forget how Sam has just shy of ignored me the entire evening.

  “Did Sam tell you about the new project we’re working on?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Todd leans forward again, excited to have a topic that will ease the tension until Sam returns.

  “Sam and I have been working on a business model where we can combine our skills and our companies. As you know, Sam has more of an in-house approach to creating success for his clients, whereas I focus more externally, creating campaigns to bring customers to my clients.”

  He motions to me here, recognizing that our work is similar.

  “Up until now, individually, we’ve been working with smaller businesses, doing pretty well, I’d say, and sharing clients from time to time. But with the plan we’re creating, we hope to work together, offering a well-rounded approach to pitch to large corporations, which would take both our businesses to a whole new level.”

  I’m surprised Sam hasn’t mentioned this prospect to me, but based on his goals, not at all surprised he started this initiative. At least, what his goals used to be. I’d like to hope our conversations and his time at the vineyard, where he feels so at ease, may have shifted his perspective a little.

  “That sounds great,” I say, mostly because his eyebrows seem to be demanding a response. “Really smart.”

  Todd laughs. “Of course it’s smart. Sam came up with the idea. The man’s a genius, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  I nod, grateful for once to share my high opinion of Sam with someone else who really gets it.

  “That he is,” I say.

  “His call was perfect timing. I was headed down here for a meeting anyway. I’d told him all about the fitness machine company I’d be pitching and how worried I was about landing it. It’s the biggest pitch I’ve ever done, straight to the board of directors, and while I feel confident in my work, I didn’t think they’d trust such a small operation to help them reach the level of exposure they’re hoping for.