The Vineyard

by Barbara Delinsky

  What in the hell more was he supposed to say?

  He wasn’t good at this. He would have been a lousy father.

  Putting his hands in his back pockets, he faced Tess again. “Well, that’s it. I just wanted to apologize.” Feeling awkward and more inadequate than he had ever felt in his life, he cut his losses and left.

  He didn’t look back, not even when he knew that Olivia’s eyes were on him. He didn’t want to see those eyes. They made him feel.

  He kept walking toward the Pinot Noir fields, kept walking until he was immersed in the scent of the vines, until he heard the soft creaking of the only creatures that he did know how to raise. He was good at this. He would stick with it for a while.

  Thirteen

  “JILLIAN?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Olivia Jones. How are you?” Jillian Rhodes was the law student subletting Olivia’s Cambridge apartment

  “Fine, thanks. Your place is great. I just love it.”

  “I tried earlier. There was no answer. They must be working you too hard.”

  “They don’t think so,” the young woman said, “but I shouldn’t complain. They’re paying me well. How are you and your daughter doing?”

  “We’re fine, thanks. I was wondering what’s come in the mail.”

  “I have it in a pile. Hold on.” There was a clatter. Olivia’s mind’s eye saw the handset drop the length of its coiled cord and bounce against the kitchen wall. It was as good a diversion as any from the suspense of wondering what was in that pile.

  “Here we go,” Jillian said. “I sent you the bills.”

  “I did get them.”

  “What’s left is mostly junk. There’s a slew of catalogues. There’s a bunch of credit card applications. Are you waiting for something special?”

  “Something from a school called Cambridge Heath?”

  “Uh, no. Nothing here like that.”

  “Then from a museum?” Olivia asked. “Or an art gallery?”

  There was a pause. Then, “Here’s a postcard from an art gallery in Carmel. It’s an advertisment for a show.”

  “No, this would be a business letter.”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  Two down. Olivia swallowed her disappointment. “What about a personal letter, something handwritten, maybe from the Midwest or the West, or even from the South?” Who was she kidding? She had no idea where her mother was. The woman could be right across the bay in Newport, for all Olivia knew!

  “No,” Jillian said. “There’s nothing here like that. There’s one that looks like it’s handwritten, only I just wet it and the ink doesn’t smudge. Amazing what solicitors do now. There’ve been some phone calls, though. From the same man. Serious voice, urgent sound. He wants to know how to reach you, but he won’t leave his name.”

  Olivia sighed. “That’ll be Ted. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t have my direct number. When he calls the central office, they refuse to put him through.”

  “What should I say next time he calls here?”

  Tell him to get lost, Olivia wanted to say. I told him we were done. Have I had second thoughts? No. Do I miss him? NO!

  But dumping that on Jillian would be a cowardly thing to do. Olivia figured that at some point, she was going to have to call Ted herself.

  “Just keep putting him off,” she said. “Whatever you do, don’t give him the number I gave you. That’s only for emergencies. Call me if someone named Carol Jones calls. Call me if Cambridge Heath calls. Call me if someone calls me about work. That’d be the museum or gallery.”

  “Gotcha,” Jillian said.

  “HI. THIS IS OLIVIA JONES. May I speak with Arnold Civetti, please?” Arnold Civetti was the curator of a small museum in New York that had a large collection of photographs. Otis said that the man had been toying with the idea of hiring an in-house restorer for years, and that maybe with the right person presented to him on a platter he would do it. Olivia had sent him a résumé early on in her job search and had received an immediate “Thanks, we’ll let you know, don’t call us, we’ll call you” kind of letter. Three months had passed since then.

  She was tired of waiting. Didn’t the squeaky wheel get the grease?

  “I’m sorry,” said a male voice with a slight British edge, “Mr. Civetti is out of the country.”

  “Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone until after the Fourth. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

  Ideally, he would have said, I know your name quite well, Ms. Jones. Mr. Civetti mentioned it to me over the phone just last week. He has been in Europe for three months, or he would have been in touch sooner, but he is very interested in talking with you. We do indeed have a position for someone with your qualifications. I have Mr. Civetti’s appointment book right here in front of me. Shall we set up a meeting?

  “I do photo restoration work,” Olivia said. “I’ve trained under Otis Thurman.” She paused, but there was no reaction to the name. “Since Mr. Thurman is retiring, I’m looking for a new position. I sent Mr. Civetti a letter last spring. I was wondering if he’s given it any more thought.”

  “We farm out our work.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve actually done some of it that you farmed out to Otis. He was under the impression that Mr. Civetti was considering hiring someone full-time.”

  There was a brittle laugh. “Oh, I doubt that. Our funding is tighter than ever.”

  “Then perhaps he would consider me for freelance work.” It wasn’t ideal. She needed health insurance for both Tess and her, and buying it outside a group would cost a fortune. If she put together enough freelance jobs, though, she could swing it, she supposed.

  “Do you have a studio?” the man asked.

  “Yes.” Otis would let her use his in a pinch. She knew he would.

  “And the name of the studio?”

  “Jones and Burke,” she said off the top of her head. She certainly couldn’t use Jones alone. It was common and boring, totally unmemorable. Jones and Burke sounded fine. Actually sounded a little British. Even a little familiar. Why was she picturing leather pocketbooks with two-toned flaps?

  “You know,” the semi-Brit said, “I’m looking through the file as we talk, and I can’t seem to find your résumé. Perhaps you could send us another. Include a list of some of the jobs you’ve done. I’ll pass it on to Mr. Civetti, and he’ll give it a look.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “My pleasure. No need to call again. We’ll give you a jingle if we need your services.”

  “HI. THIS IS OLIVIA JONES. Is Laura Goodearl there?” Laura Goodearl handled acquisitions for a museum in Montpelier. She didn’t do hiring, but she was connected to Otis. He said that she would know if there was photo restoration to be done.

  “This is Laura.”

  “Oh. Hi. I wrote you last month about the possibility of doing some work. I’m Otis Thurman’s assistant?”

  “Otis.” Spoken with a smile. “What a nice man he is. My dad was an artist. He and Otis were friends. How is he?”

  “Getting ready for retirement.”

  “Which is why you’re looking for work. We do have a few things coming in, but they won’t be here until October. Do you want to send me a résumé?”

  Olivia already had. She had also sent a change-of-address notice. “Sure,” she said, trying not to feel blown off. “I’ll put it right in the mail.”

  “And give me another call, maybe at the end of September, just to remind me that you’re there, okay?”

  Olivia promised she would, but she hung up the phone feeling discouraged. “A few pieces” weren’t terribly promising. If there was work here, it would be freelance and small. She was done at Asquonset by Labor Day. With Natalie’s handsome stipend earmarked for Tess’s education, she was going to need living expenses.

  “OLIVIA JONES, PLEASE.”

  “This is Olivia.”

  “Hi, it’s Jil
lian Rhodes. I just thought you should know that the same man called again last night. He said it was very, very, very important that he talk with you.”

  Oh, Olivia could hear it. It was quintessential Ted. “I’m sorry about that,” she told Jillian. “He shouldn’t be bothering you like this. I guess he figures he has a better chance of wheedling the number from you than from the secretary here. I’ll give him a call.” She paused. “Anything in the mail today?”

  “Not anything you want.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks, Jillian.”

  “TED.”

  “Olivia. How are you—did you know I was just thinking about you—it couldn’t be coincidence that you’re calling now—this is perfect timing—I just got in from working out—dinner will be done in the microwave in forty-two seconds—forty-one—forty—so it’ll be like we’re having dinner together.”

  Olivia kept her voice calm. “Ted,” she instructed with care, “I want you to stop calling.”

  “I only called once.”

  “Please. Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not,” he insisted and let out a breath. “All I wanted to do was say hello. Why wouldn’t you take my call?”

  Olivia wasn’t in the mood to argue about how many calls there had been. “Because there’s no point. We’re not dating anymore.”

  “That was one of the reasons I wanted to talk with you—this weekend’s the Fourth of July—I’m thinking of driving down.”

  “Ted. Listen to me. We’re not dating anymore.”

  “But we’re friends—that hasn’t changed just because you’re there for the summer—we’re best friends—we talk about everything.”

  “You talk. I don’t. I don’t want you calling, Ted.”

  There was a small pause, then a startled, “You sound serious!”

  Olivia was wondering how she could make it any clearer when he said an annoyed, “God damn it, you’ve met someone else—it happens to me every time I meet a woman I like—you need to tell me what he has that I don’t.”

  Olivia sighed. “There’s no one else. I’m not dating. I’m simply here with my daughter to do a job. I don’t have time for anything else right now.”

  “Then I’ll wait until fall—once you’re back here you’ll be refreshed.”

  “No, Ted. It’s over. I don’t want to date you now. I don’t want to date you in the fall.” She didn’t know how much more blunt she could be.

  “You’ll feel different then, so I won’t argue with you now—but wow, it’s good to hear your voice—I’ve missed you, Livie.”

  “Olivia. It’s Olivia. I hate Livie. You know that, Ted.” “Olivia” had elegance; “Livie” was the woman who slaved away as mother to the Waltons.

  “I also know that you like me even when you say that you don’t.”

  Olivia wanted to pull out her hair. “No, Ted. I do not like you. So help me, if you keep calling, I’ll contact the phone company. They have special departments now for harassing calls.”

  “I called once—and there was nothing harassing about it—that’s a bogus charge. Do you know the trouble you could cause me if you use the word ‘harassing’?”

  “I know the trouble I could cause. The question is whether you do. If so, please think about it next time you pick up the phone and dial my number.” She hung up.

  OLIVIA CONTINUED TO ENJOY each dawn from her private window seat. Having set up a small coffeepot in her room, she brewed enough to fill a mug. She couldn’t imagine a better way to start the day than with the mingling scents of mocha java and vineyard dew.

  And watching Simon. She couldn’t forget that. He was part of the scene, a segment of the still life that was fixed in her mind. Each day he appeared at the very same place at the very same time, a very much alive Marlboro Man minus the hat, the horse, the chaps, the hills, and the cigarette. That left just the rugged good looks, which Simon had in spades.

  Not that Olivia was falling for them. She went out of her way to avoid the man during the day, and thankfully he hadn’t yet joined them for dinner—something she would have found very awkward. But he was definitely part of her morning idyll.

  He was the human part. She might not have used that word before the fiasco with Tess. Since then, though, it kept coming to her.

  It came again now, when he looked up at her. He had looked up before with a brief glance over his shoulder, just enough to tell her that he knew she was there watching. This time, though, he turned around, faced the house, and met her gaze.

  “Well, hel-lo,” she whispered, hugging her knees, which suddenly felt odd and tingly. “What’s with you, knees?”

  She held her breath, wondering if he would wave, but he didn’t. He just stood as he often did, with his weight on one hip, and he looked up at her.

  Well, what could she do but look right back? She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of looking away. She had just as much a right to be here as he had to be there. And he was a fine one to call Tess out for not smiling. Olivia hadn’t seen a smile on him yet. If he didn’t have the courage to offer at least that—or to lift even one finger in greeting—that was his problem.

  But it was her problem, too, because the weakness hadn’t stopped at her knees. It had gone straight to the pit of her stomach, where it hummed a sexy little song.

  Well, what did she expect, seeing him out there day after day, and her up here in her nightshirt, fresh from bed?

  But she wasn’t moving. On principle, she wasn’t. She sipped her coffee, but otherwise kept her arms around her legs, holding in all those little wild threads of desire; and she looked right back at him, wondering if he felt any of it at all.

  Desire wasn’t something we talked about when I was growing up. I would no more have mentioned sex to my mother than I would have robbed the local bank—and it wasn’t that I didn’t think my parents did it. Of course, they did. But they didn’t talk about it.

  Quite different from today, huh? Today it’s explicit. But I think you people are missing something. Sex is not as special when it’s so blatant. There’s something to be said for having to think about it and wait. There’s something to be said for not talking it to death.

  Carl and I didn’t talk about it either, but we felt it aplenty. I was twelve when I first got my period, and I swear he saw the difference the very next day. I’ll never forget it. It was the middle of winter, and though we didn’t have much snow—we never do, being this close to the shore—it was cold, windy, and raw. We were all bundled up walking to school, me wearing a wool hat and scarf with little more than my face showing and him looking at me every few minutes with the tiniest furrow on his brow.

  “What’s wrong?” I finally asked.

  “Nothing. You just look different.”

  “I don’t know why,” I answered, but my cheeks went from pink to red, and not from the cold. This red was pure heat.

  It was a dead giveaway, of course. Carl and I talked about so much else that my not talking about this, plus the blush and what he later said was a purely feminine look, clued him in.

  He was more solicitous of me that day and in the ones immediately following. He never asked how I was feeling, or whether I had cramps, but I swear he always knew when my body was doing its woman thing. His voice was a little softer, his eyes a little more gentle.

  And me? I was totally in love. Half of it was still idol worship, with him being four years older, wiser, and more sexually mature than me, but there was enough of the other half to have me dreaming about the future. I had it all planned. We would marry as soon as I graduated from high school, and have one child a year until we felt we had enough. We would build a house on a hill overlooking the ocean, grow all the things Carl knew how to grow, and spend the rest of our lives doing things like dancing in little vine-covered huts.

  I no longer thought about returning to New York. That life had faded to a distant memory, and a dark memory at that. Here at the farm, even in the midst of the Depression, there was light—at least, there was
for me. By the time I was a teenager, I felt the rhythm of the growing season. I came to know the fertile scent of spring, the rich aroma of summer, the nutty smell of fall. When the fields grew bare and bleak, I understood that the earth was lying dormant, but I knew also that spring would return. Carl would still be there. I would be a year older. And we would be a year closer to being together.

  “Was Carl in on the plans?” Olivia asked.

  “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

  “Did you talk about the house and the kids with him?”

  Natalie thought about that. “No. It was taken for granted.”

  “How do you know he felt the same?”

  “The way he looked at me. The way he touched me.”

  “Touched you.”

  “It was innocent, but caring.”

  “Are we talking touching your hand, or touching something else?” Olivia asked, then caught herself. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “You shouldn’t ask,” Natalie said, folding her hands in her lap. She looked away. Seeming to argue with herself, she raised a shoulder in a tiny shrug. She pursed her lips, then released them. Decision made, she looked back at Olivia and spoke quickly, as though she feared she would lose the nerve. “We touched. He taught me things.”

  “Were you kissing at the movies by then?”

  There was a pause, then a soft, “Yes. I was sixteen, he was twenty. I was seventeen, he was twenty-one.” She put a hand to her chest and raised tear-filled eyes to a point above Olivia’s head. “Looking at him just took my breath away.”

  Apparently the memory still did. Olivia suddenly felt like an intruder. Like a voyeur. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Natalie drew in a breath and blew it slowly out. Her eyes fell to her lap. She was quiet for a moment. Then she raised her head. “Yes. You should. This is what I hired you for.”

  “But these are private things. I’m … I’m embarrassed hearing you talk about them. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Because I’m seventy-six? Because you don’t like to think of your own mother as being sexual, much less your grandmother?”