The Vineyard

by Barbara Delinsky

Sometimes? Olivia wondered about it more than that. Having an absentee mother was conducive to it. But Natalie had been there when her children were growing up, and she was still there.

  “Maybe you should try calling again,” Olivia suggested.

  “No. They’re still upset.”

  “They need to read what I’ve written.”

  “But you haven’t written the best part. You haven’t heard the best part.”

  The desk was covered with pictures that had been taken during and immediately after the war. She had repaired some—generally the more formal ones, showing the elegant life that had sparked her imaginings. Others—ones she was seeing for the first time—were work photos. It struck her that Natalie hadn’t wanted these prettied up.

  The older woman lifted one of the latter. It showed her holding the two children, one on each hip. Alexander had an arm around her shoulder and was grinning broadly. He was the only one in the picture who was.

  What with Alexander staying overseas after the war ended, we were separated for nearly five years. Granted, he had leave time, but those days were too few and frantic for getting to know someone. Add to that the fact that I hadn’t known him well when we married, and when he finally came home, I found I was living with a stranger. The children didn’t know him and were leery, which made things all the harder. But at least he was home. Things were going to improve. Alexander was going to save Asquonset. That was why I had married him.

  Alexander was going to save Asquonset. That was why I had married him.

  How often I said that during the years when he was gone, years when I missed Carl far more than Alexander. It was a terrible time for me, and I did suffer. Once the novelty of being married wore off and the situation here worsened, I wanted Carl.

  But Alexander was going to save Asquonset. That was why I had married him.

  It became my mantra. It was the only thing that kept me going during the bleakest of those days.

  Bleak?

  Maybe that’s the wrong word. They were hard. They were filled with work and worry. We were always hoping for letters. The mailmen gave priority to ones from the front and would deliver them whenever they arrived, which meant that we were always on the lookout. Of course, an unexpected visit could also be from the minister. We feared that kind. We’d been through it once. Each night we sat in front of the radio in the living room and listened to news from the front. We shuddered each time we learned that another local boy had died.

  These were lonely days for me. My children were too young to offer companionship. I had no one to talk with, no one to complain to, no one to seek help from. I was on my own.

  But Alexander was going to save Asquonset. That was why I had married him.

  So, where was the money?

  That was a very good question. Not that I did the asking. It wasn’t my place. I was the woman. I was the daughter. It was my father’s place. After all, he was the one who had negotiated the deal.

  “Coming after the war,” he said with an unhappy grunt the one time I dared ask. So I staked my hopes on that. Alexander would save Asquonset once the war was done. And in so doing, he would save my father’s life. We just had to hold on long enough.

  Well, we did hold on, Jeremiah and I. We kept things going until Carl returned and took over some of the responsibility. For me, it was both better and worse—better because there was someone to help, worse because that someone was Carl. I had to see him every day. I had to remember what might have been and, finally, explain to him why it wouldn’t ever be.

  Alexander was going to save Asquonset. Once he returned from the war, he was going to invest in the vines that would give my father a new lease on life. Asquonset would grow as a vineyard in ways it hadn’t quite grown as a farm.

  In theory, Alexander’s promise wasn’t empty. His family had two very successful shoe factories that, despite suffering during the Depression, remained very much alive and vital. Then war broke out, and instead of making shoes for a struggling population, the Seebring factories were suddenly making boots not only for American soldiers but for our allies as well. They couldn’t make them fast enough, the demand was so great.

  Well, the war did end the Depression. As awful as that sounds, it was true. The Seebring factories were only one of the beneficiaries. Not only did our fighting men have to be clothed, they had to be fed. They had to be armed. They had to be provided with vehicles for land, sea, and air combat. Many a business that had struggled was suddenly thriving. Alexander’s certainly wasn’t unique.

  Then the war ended, and the same people who had squirreled away their pennies in the shadow of the Depression now had optimism and a nest egg. The same factories that had been turning out uniforms now turned out suits for men to wear in civilian life, or dresses for women to wear celebrating peace. The same factories that had been turning out combat boots began turning out shoes for pleasure.

  That was what was supposed to have happened at the Seebring plants. Had things gone as planned, they would have converted to peacetime production and thrived.

  What happened? Alexander’s father had died midway through the war and was out of the managerial picture. Alexander named a trustee to oversee things until he returned. He was caught up playing spy and stayed in Europe longer than I would have liked.

  No. No. It’s unfair of me to say that. Don’t write it, Olivia. Alexander wasn’t playing spy. He was doing something that needed to be done. Collecting evidence for the war crimes trials was important. The atrocities of the Third Reich had to be answered.

  But Alexander’s being there created a void here. If he had come back at the end of the war, along with the rest of the servicemen, the factories might have been saved. By the time he did return, though, the damage was done. His trustee had absconded with the profits, and the conversion that would have cashed in on the postwar prosperity never took place. By the time Alexander returned, the factories were dark.

  So. I told you about the first day I ever laid eyes on Carl. And about the day he left for the war and the day I married someone else. Now let me tell you about the day I learned that it had all been a waste and that I had given him up for nothing.

  It was a Sunday. Alexander had been home for a month, but was gone most every day to see to his factories. We all thought they were fully operational and that he was simply fine-tuning what had been done in his absence. He didn’t tell us about the trustee or about shutting down. He left with a smile in the morning and returned with a smile at night.

  In fact, just then we were the least of his worries. He had lost his family business. It was gone. It took him a month of scrambling around trying to salvage something, anything, before he accepted that himself. Then he had to break the news to us. What better day to do it than on a Sunday? Sunday was the Sabbath. It was a day for going to church, a day of understanding and forgiveness.

  So we went to church and came home for dinner. My father was too weak for church—by then he rarely left the house—but he did join us at the table that day. Alexander waited until we were done eating. The children had gone in for naps. I cleaned the kitchen.

  Al was listening to the radio with my father. As soon as I joined them, he turned the radio off. He returned to his chair, leaned forward, hung his head just a little.

  “I have some bad news,” he said and proceeded to tell us what the trustee had done. He spent a long while talking about his attempts to reverse the damage. He repeated in detail conversations that he had had with local workers. He told about working with the police to no avail, and he acknowledged the anger and frustration he felt.

  I listened closely, but it was awhile before I took in the words. After all, Alexander was going to save Asquonset. He was going to give my father what he most needed. That was why I had married him, rather than waiting for Carl.

  Only, Alexander had no money. He couldn’t save Asquonset.

  My father was white as a sheet. After three tries, and then only with my help, he rose from his cha
ir. He was pitifully thin and stooped, shaking so badly that I began talking off the top of my head just to reassure him.

  “We’ll find money,” I said. “We’ll get your vines. Don’t you fret. We’ll find a way. You just lie down now and get your strength, so that when the plants come, you’ll be able to tell Jeremiah where you want them.”

  He didn’t speak. His head was turned away, his eyes vacant. I could tell it was over; he had given up.

  I ached for him. He was my father, I loved him, and he was dying right there before my eyes. I helped him to bed and sat with him until the children woke up. By then Alexander was his old ebullient self.

  Not me. I needed to think. I needed to be alone.

  I asked him to watch the children. But he was off to meet a wartime buddy in Newport.

  So I bundled up the children. Brad was nearly five. He walked, usually ran on ahead. I carried Susanne. She was only two.

  I headed for the water. We walked on and on. It was a brisk September day, sunny but cool. When we reached the ocean, we climbed up on the rocks to a spot where we could sit and watch the surf without being hit by the spume.

  I remember being awed by the force of the waves hitting the rocks, by the thunder of the crash, awed by the beauty of it all. Of course, beauty was the last thing I felt inside. I felt empty and dark. I felt powerless. Sitting there on those rocks, I was overcome with despair.

  I thought about jumping.

  For the space of a minute, I did—I thought about jumping.

  Then Brad wrapped his arms around my neck. The ocean frightened him. He needed reassurance.

  It was enough to bring me to my senses.

  Before I could think about it again, I scooped up the two of them and headed back. I don’t know where I found the strength to carry them both, but I did it. By the time I was in the farmhouse again, I had found a new resolve.

  It was an epiphanous experience.

  IT WAS AN EPIPHANOUS EXPERIENCE, Olivia typed, and sat back in her chair. Natalie had always struck her as being an optimist. Optimists didn’t contemplate suicide.

  She rose and leaned toward the window. She could see Natalie in the distance, an elegant figure moving in and out of rows of vines. She was with the graphic designer who was creating new labels for the Estate wines. They had been out there for nearly an hour. Natalie was determined that the woman get the feel of the place before she made sketches.

  An epiphanous experience. Olivia had looked up the word “epiphanous” for the correct spelling. At the same time, she checked out the meaning. An epiphanous experience was one that was deeply insightful. A simple event that carried great meaning could be considered epiphanous. Certainly, a life-changing experience was all that.

  She wanted to hear more. Natalie had promised to be back, but there she was, still with the artist.

  Tess would be wanting lunch before going to the yacht club. One cook had come and gone in a day, a sweet thing from a diner who was instantly overwhemed. Natalie was in the process of finding another. In the interim, after too many days of take-out from the sandwich shop at the crossroads, Olivia figured she could at least make tuna sandwiches. Natalie and Carl liked those.

  She found cans of tuna on the pantry shelf and mayonnaise in the refrigerator, quickly mixed them together, and slathered the outcome on bread. She added lettuce and cut each sandwich in half. Nothing fancy. Nothing gourmet. Lunch wasn’t her thing.

  She was reading the newspaper, waiting for Tess, when Simon walked in. He paused for a minute when he saw her, then crossed to the refrigerator, uncapped a bottle of water, and drank the whole thing.

  He was sweaty. His T-shirt was stained with moisture, his skin beaded. Damp, his hair looked darker than auburn now. His cheeks were flushed over a deep July tan.

  Olivia’s blood ran suddenly hot. She wondered why it was that chemistry worked with some men and not with others. She was certainly attracted to this one.

  “It’s warm out there,” he said when he righted his head. He eyed the sandwiches. “Who made these?”

  “Me,” she said, setting down the paper. “Eat at your own risk. I’m not a very good cook.” Although she wished that she was. She wished that she could put together incredible meals. Men loved home cooking. But then, they also loved long blonde hair, and she didn’t have that either.

  He peered under one slice of bread. “You can’t go wrong with tuna.”

  “No, but there’s a whole lot more you can do with it than I did. Madalena used to do something wonderful. She wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “She added cilantro.”

  “Cilantro.”

  “Crushed into the mayo.”

  “Ah.” Olivia self-consciously crossed her arms, then uncrossed them and folded her hands in her lap. Simon was watching her. All sweaty, he was gorgeous. Feeling decidedly ungorgeous herself, just then she would have settled for collar-length hair. “How are the kittens?” she asked, anxious to escape the awkward moment.

  “Tiny.” He hitched his chin toward the sandwiches. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.” Cilantro. She didn’t know what cilantro looked like, but that was easily remedied. She could crush cilantro into mayo. Still, with or without, Simon seemed to be enjoying her sandwich.

  Desperate to fill the silence lest he think she wanted a compliment, she said, “Natalie loved Buck being a girl.”

  “Oh yes. She’s told me that three times now. I may never live it down,” he said, but he didn’t look terribly upset. He actually seemed amused. And although he wasn’t exactly smiling, he looked like he might.

  She waited, hoping to see it.

  Then his gaze touched her mouth, and she forgot about waiting for a smile.

  “Where is Natalie?” she asked, needing a diversion. “Still outside?”

  “Yeah.” He took another sandwich half.

  Olivia glanced at the clock. “Where’s Tess?” It was a rhetorical question, so she was startled when he had the answer.

  “At my place. She wanted to see the kittens. I showed her the path in the woods.”

  “Uh-oh. That might not have been a wise move. She’s apt to be there more than you want. She’s intrigued by those kittens. They were all she talked about at breakfast.”

  “Why don’t you take one when they’re ready to go? Better still, take two. Or five.”

  “Uh, I don’t think we can. It’s not like we own our own place. I’m not even sure where we’ll be in the fall. Some landlords hate cats.”

  “Well,” Simon said, “you have six weeks to decide.” He held up the sandwich half as he made for the door. “This is good. Truth is, I never was a big cilantro fan myself. Thanks for lunch.”

  • • •

  “IT WAS AN EPIPHANOUS EXPERIENCE,” Olivia read aloud to remind Natalie where they had been. Turning away from the computer screen, she settled into one of the wing-back chairs with her paper and pen. She had fed Tess and dropped her off at the club. She had pushed Simon out of her mind. It was time to work. “Did you seriously consider suicide?”

  Natalie smoothed her linen shorts at the same time that a crease appeared on her brow. “For a minute. Just a minute. I was feeling horrible pain, and emptiness, and loss. I was tired. I was frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “The future. The whole time Alexander had been away, I had built up a picture of what our lives would be like. Maybe it wasn’t an overly pretty picture, but it was one of the ways I rationalized losing Carl. What I got would be worth the loss. Suddenly, it wasn’t. The whole picture just … just …” She gestured frantically. “Just broke apart.”

  Her hands fell. Her face reflected the memory of that long-ago pain.

  Olivia’s life hadn’t been without pain. She had felt emptiness and loss, tiredness and fear. Natalie must have felt them that much more, if she actually reached the point of having to consider suicide.

  The difference, she realized, was in highs and lows. Natalie had felt the extremes
. It made sense that someone who had known the kind of happiness she had with Carl would have found the low of total disillusionment unbearable.

  “Anyway,” the older woman said now, “it was just for that minute, and then it was done. During the walk home carrying the children that day, I revamped my view of life. Up until then, I had pinned my hopes on other people. I had relied on my father, then on Carl, then on Alexander. I had listened to my mother and made a decision I shouldn’t have made. But it was my decision. I want that to be clear in what you write. My mother didn’t force me to marry Alexander. It was my decision to do it.” She paused.

  “Yes?” Olivia coaxed.

  “But the real decision came that day. Sitting up on those rocks, with the wind blowing hard and the waves exploding in the air, I was at a fork in the road. I chose life. But not just any life. I wanted a good life. I vowed to make it so.”

  Olivia saw the next part of the story opening up, but she held off going there. A major question lingered. “Did you consider divorce?”

  “No. I had married Alexander of my own free will.”

  “But you did it based on false promises that he made.”

  “His promises weren’t false at the time he made them. He fully intended to build the vineyard with shoe money. He hadn’t lied to us.”

  “But he let you down,” Olivia said. “Weren’t you angry?”

  “Angry? Maybe at the situation, but not at Alexander. How can you be angry with someone who acted in good faith? Someone who had suffered a great loss himself? I was disappointed. I had assumed that he was a smart businessman, and he wasn’t, but his heart was in the right place.”

  “You said that he stayed longer than he should have in Europe.”

  “No,” Natalie corrected patiently, “what I said was that things might have been different if he hadn’t stayed so long. But he wasn’t idle there. What he was doing was important.”

  “What about your father? Your mother said that without more money and new vines, your father would die. Didn’t you blame Alexander for his death?”

  Natalie smiled sadly. “Alexander had nothing to do with the money my father lost when the stock market crashed. That was the start of my father’s decline, but it was his own doing. He was the president of the bank. He approved all major decisions. Alexander had nothing to do with my father’s mistakes as a farmer, and as for buying rootstock in Europe, he only bought what my father told him to buy. It wasn’t his fault that those vines were ill-suited to the microclimate here. He wasn’t the one telling my father to pour more and more money into it. Besides”—she took a gentle breath—“my father didn’t die. He lingered for quite a few more years—probably because of Alexander.”