The Vineyard

by Barbara Delinsky

Those first years after the war weren’t easy. We had money from the sale of the factories and from the bank, and we decided which vines we thought would grow here. Alexander made buying trips to Europe and returned with our order, but there was no profit in it yet. We were experimenting. We were living on dreams of future prosperity, selling corn and potatoes to pay for clothes and oil and machinery. In some respects, our existence was as meager as it had been during the Depression.

  The difference was in attitude. During the Depression, the public mind-set was dark. During the war, the fragility of life had people holding their breath. Afterward, with victory fresh and money from the sale of military goods pouring into peacetime endeavors, there was optimism.

  I lived and breathed it. I had to. I was the one pushing for a vineyard now. The responsibility of making it work was mine.

  Did Alexander say that? No. He saw himself as the leader. He was more than ready to accept responsibility when we planted a vine and it failed. But Carl and I were the ones who felt each failure most deeply.

  Alexander wanted to make a name for Asquonset. Carl and I simply wanted to make those grapes grow.

  “Did Alexander ever wonder about your feelings for Carl?” Olivia asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you hid it well.”

  “Hid it?” Natalie asked. “The reason for our being close was so legitimate that Alexander accepted it perfectly. Besides, there was nothing not to accept. By the mid-fifties, Carl was managing the farm. He was doing all those things that Alexander didn’t want to do. Carl’s being here allowed Alexander to run around Europe, go wine-tasting in New York, or spend time in Newport with friends. Alexander liked Carl. He trusted him. He wasn’t suspicious. I didn’t give him reason to be.”

  There it was. The big question.

  “Ah-ha,” Natalie crowed. “I can see there’s something you don’t want to ask.”

  Olivia raised a hand and shook her head. “I’m not goin’ there.”

  “But you’re wondering.”

  “I’m thinking that your children will be wondering.” She didn’t just think it. She knew it. Hadn’t Susanne suggested hanky-panky right off the bat?

  “The answer is no,” Natalie said, raising her chin. “I never betrayed my husband. Not once in all those years. I may have spent more time with Carl than I did with Alexander, but it was work. Carl and I were on the same project, so to speak. My children may fault me for that, but I never betrayed the vows I took.”

  “Didn’t you want to?” Olivia asked. She was thinking of Simon now, thinking of raw chemistry between them and guessing that it had been the same between Natalie and Carl.

  Natalie pondered that. At one point she frowned and shook her head, but the frown faded and still she said nothing. Finally she sighed. “I didn’t let myself want it. I acclimated myself to having Carl as a work partner.”

  “A chaste daytime marriage.”

  “No,” Natalie said quickly, then paused, considering what Olivia had said. “Well, I suppose. I never really thought of it that way. But it was at least something—better than nothing. It grew to be satisfying.” Her eyes found Olivia’s. “But I never betrayed my vows,” she repeated. “I was committed to making my marriage work.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t easy. Alexander had been in his element during the war. He talked about it whenever he could, and it was the espionage angle that I heard most. I just assumed that was what he had loved—the secrecy and excitement. Living with him, I realized there was more. He liked the neatness of it, the regimentation, the spit and polish. He liked being a senior officer.” She sent Olivia a dry, woman-to-woman look.

  “Oh, dear. He wanted the family run that way too. How did you handle it?”

  “I humored him. I kept the house as clean as I could, and ordered our lives as neatly as possible. I served him breakfast in the dining room with the newspaper laid out just so. I gave him the first cut of meat at dinner, and made sure that the children didn’t make noise when he was taking a nap. They’ll remember that. They used to complain, like it was my doing, when I was only the messenger. I let Alexander issue directives, knowing full well that he would soon be off doing something else and forget. Yes, it was a game. But it worked. He was content, and I was able to work with Carl to shape the vineyard in the most promising way.” She sat back with a smile. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

  Olivia waited out the silence for a minute, then laughed in surprise. “You’re not stopping there, are you?”

  Natalie’s features were peaceful. “Well, you have the basics. I loved Carl, but Alexander never knew it. I always respected his needs. He died believing that he was the center of my life. If my children know that, they’ll perhaps find it in the goodness of their hearts to accept my marriage to Carl now.”

  “But you haven’t talked about the fifties,” Olivia argued.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know how the vineyard grew. I want to know your part in it and Carl’s part in it. I want to know about the sixties. I want to know how the Great House grew, and when you decided to build the winery. I want to know whether the kids were ever involved and if not, why. I want to know what they thought about your working at a time when women didn’t work. I want to know what happened between you and Brad.”

  She stopped. Natalie was pressing a finger to her lips, looking beseeching.

  Softly, Olivia said, “I want to know why he wasn’t invited to the wedding.”

  Natalie’s eyes grew moist, and Olivia almost dropped the subject. But it was starting to feel like something important. “What happened?” she whispered.

  Natalie didn’t move for a minute. Nor did the moisture in her eyes become actual tears. Then she inhaled, straightened, and dropped her hand. Studying a knuckle, she said, “It was a long time ago.”

  The phone rang.

  Olivia ignored it. “He isn’t in any of the newer pictures. I used to think he was just away from home.”

  Natalie rose to look at the ones Olivia had been working on. When the phone rang again, she said, “Would you get that for me?”

  Turning away, Olivia answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Olivia, it’s Anne Marie. Your fellow just called here again. He insisted that he had something very important to tell you, and got really upset when I wouldn’t put him through.”

  Olivia rubbed her forehead. She couldn’t believe Ted was still at it, even after she had been so blunt. But who else could it be? “Are you sure it’s the same man?”

  “Yes. I know that voice.”

  “Did he threaten to come here?”

  “No, but it’s probably only a matter of time. If he has the phone number, he can get the address. Should I call the police?”

  Olivia had threatened doing that once, and been hit with the ultimate guilt trip. But she wasn’t ready to jeopardize Ted’s career now, any more than she had been then. Not yet.

  “Ted’s a pest,” she told Anne Marie. “But he isn’t dangerous. If he calls again, hang up on him.”

  “Your secret admirer?” Natalie asked when she replaced the receiver.

  “My annoying admirer. Poor Ted. Here he’s taking the time to call from work, no doubt watching his clock—” Her eyes flew to the one on Natalie’s desk. “Omigod. It’s late! I have to get Tess to the yacht club.” Appalled to have so lost track of the time, she turned in apology to Natalie.

  Natalie waved her off. “I didn’t want to talk more now anyway.”

  “We’ll get back to this,” Olivia warned on her way to the door.

  Natalie didn’t reply. She simply stood there looking beseeching again, making Olivia all the more curious. If she hadn’t been so late, she would have pursued it. But Tess was her first priority. Responsible mothers didn’t make their children late for lessons.

  Guilt ridden, she ran down the stairs and out to the drive, wondering why Tess hadn’t come to get her, thinking that the chi
ld would surely be at the car—unless the child had deliberately let the time pass. Tess liked sailing, but she remained wary of the class.

  No Tess on the stone steps in front. No Tess at the car. No Tess in the rhododendrons.

  Olivia searched the road. No Tess there. No Tess in the vineyard—not that she would be visible, with the vines so much higher and darker. No Simon, either, which was good.

  “Susanne took her,” Jill called, coming out the screen door to the porch and down the steps.

  Olivia met her at the bottom. “Susanne? Good Lord, she shouldn’t have had to do that.”

  “She was actually thrilled,” Jill said, sitting down. “She had to go out for groceries anyway, and it gave her direction. ‘Just like the old days,’ she said. She’s ready for grandkids.”

  “Tess must think I forgot her.”

  Jill smiled. “We blamed it on Natalie. We told Tess it was our job to do the shuttling, since Natalie was keeping you up there with her.”

  “Like you have nothing else to do,” Olivia remarked, sitting beside her. “You’re in the office all hours.”

  “My choice. It keeps me busy.”

  Olivia felt an affinity for Jill in that they were both non-Seebrings, both in their thirties, both grappling with man problems. “Have you talked with Greg?”

  “Oh, we talk, but we don’t, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s a very Seebring thing. I was with Susanne when Natalie first saw her. It was a perfectly friendly greeting. There was no mention of any disagreement or any hard feelings.” More softly, she said, “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, actually. I have my moments, but it’s restful here.”

  “Even working at the office?”

  “Even then.” Her eyes went toward the vines flanking the road. “I’ve always loved this place.”

  “Doesn’t Greg? Even the littlest bit?”

  Jill was pensive. “He does, but in a love-hate kind of way. He felt pressure growing up.”

  “What kind of pressure?”

  “To shine. To excel. You know how parents do that kind of thing.”

  “Actually not,” Olivia said. “My mother knew I wouldn’t shine. She didn’t have any hope of taking great pride in her daughter. So she left.”

  “The message in that being that if you had excelled, she would have stayed. I’d call that pressure.”

  Olivia hadn’t looked at it that way. “But it was different. My mother and I were nothing. This family has a big name. Big name, big pressure.”

  “I disagree. All of us want parental approval. Big name, little name, no name—it makes no difference. We want to please our parents. Greg wasn’t unique in that. He says the expectations were out of line, especially from Natalie, but hell, he isn’t the first son to have to live in the footsteps of an older brother.”

  “Brad?”

  “Brad.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Me? Greg didn’t know him. There was eighteen years between them. Brad was gone before Greg was even born. So, did that make it better or worse? I’d say worse. I’d say Natalie was holding Greg up to a fantasy model.”

  “Natalie? What about Alexander?”

  Jill frowned. “No,” she said slowly. “It was Natalie.” She looked up at the sound of a car. “There’s Susanne.”

  Olivia couldn’t help but notice that Susanne was driving the vineyard SUV, well marked with the logo, rather than her BMW. That said something, she thought.

  Leaving the steps, she was at the door when Susanne opened it. “I’m sorry, Susanne. I totally lost track of the time. Thanks for taking Tess.”

  Susanne gave an easy wave. “No problem. I was headed that way, anyway.” She went to the back and opened the hatch. It was filled with groceries.

  “Was she upset that I wasn’t there?” Olivia asked, lifting a bag.

  Susanne took one herself. “No. She was upset that I wouldn’t let her go marketing with me. I take it sailing isn’t her favorite thing.”

  “Oh, she loves sailing. She just hasn’t settled in with the other kids.”

  Jill joined them and reached into the car, only to have Susanne swat at her arm. “Don’t lift,” she said under her breath and shot Olivia an unsure look.

  “She knows,” Jill said, testing bags until she found a light one. “She’s sworn to secrecy. We were just talking about Brad.”

  “Ah,” Susanne breathed. “Saint Brad.” One-handed, she passed Olivia a second bag and took another herself. “He didn’t walk on water, but he came close.”

  Olivia looked from sister to sister-in-law. “He isn’t here, but he’s here.”

  “Always has been,” Susanne replied and led the group toward the house. “Not that it was as bad for me as it was for Greg. I was the girl. I wasn’t expected to be like Brad—or him like me. He never had to wash dishes or make beds or iron shirts. Oh, boy, did we argue about that. Mother always kept him that little bit separate—that little bit superior. I hated it.”

  “But you named your son after him,” Olivia reminded her as they climbed the steps.

  Susanne didn’t look at all sorry. “It was the right thing to do—you know, the firstborn in each of three generations—but you can be sure that my Brad knows how to wash dishes. He knows how to cook, too. If there was one thing I could teach him, it was that.” Crossing the porch, she looked at Olivia. “Jill swears she can’t taste food, so the choice is yours. What’ll it be for dinner—marinated flank steak, garlic mashed potatoes, and salad, or grilled salmon, wild rice, and veggies?”

  Olivia grinned. “Grilled salmon,” she said, feeling like an almost-sister and loving it.

  • • •

  THE SALMON WAS WONDERFUL, cooked moist and flavorfully, beautifully presented on a bed of nutty wild rice surrounded by julienned zucchini and yellow squash. With it, Susanne served a fruity Chardonnay from the Asquonset Riverside White series. Dessert was a smooth chocolate mousse.

  Olivia insisted that she and Tess do all the cleanup by way of thanks for Susanne’s help driving, but more was called for. When the counters had been wiped down and the kitchen lights turned low, she ran up to the loft, took a folder with the pages she had written to date, and ran back down. Susanne was using that low light in the kitchen to plot out the next day’s meals.

  Olivia set the folder on the counter beside her. “This is what I’ve written of your mother’s story so far. It probably needs more editing, but it’s readable. If you want to take a look.”

  She left before Susanne could say whether she would, but when she returned to the kitchen later for a glass of milk for Tess, Susanne and the folder were gone.

  Twenty-three

  THE WEATHER IMPROVED. With the coming of August, the sun shone more often, moderating the sea air and warming the days. The vines grew tall and a richer green, and Olivia’s hair was long enough to look windblown rather than mussed.

  “Sun and heat,” she said, a bit self-conscious when Simon remarked on the latter one morning. “Good for the head, good for grapes.”

  “Don’t you know it,” he responded.

  If she did, it was thanks to him. Natalie was knowledgeable, but she was busier than ever making do with a skeletal crew as the wedding approached, and when Olivia might have talked grapes with Carl, he was lobbing tennis balls to Tess. He seemed to love it as much as she did, particularly since she was catching on. She hit more balls than she missed now, occasionally making Carl run to return one. She even listened to his talk about form and was feeling good enough about herself to pay heed. The lessons went on beyond the hour and often resumed after sailing, even after dinner. The days were still long enough for that.

  This one promised to be a scorcher, even at dawn.

  And why, Olivia wondered, was she out here with Simon at a time of day when she was vulnerable? Because they were friends now, she decided, feeling safe with that thought. They had things to talk about, whether it was her job search, Tess’s reading, or
Buck’s kittens. Their favorite topic, though, was always the grapes.

  Not that temptation entirely vanished. With the return of sun, Simon’s skin burned as it had in June. His nose peeled, his shoulders peeled—all of which was endearing in a macho way. He had his sunglasses on the top of his head, at the ready for work, but his eyes were nearly as deep a blue now as the sky in the west.

  Oh, yes, the attraction was still there, sometimes so strongly that she had to close her eyes and consciously redirect her thoughts, but Simon cooperated. He didn’t look at her mouth or at her breasts. He looked either at her eyes or at the ground.

  “August and September are big growing times,” he said now as they walked through the rows of vines. “If we get sun and warmth, we can make up for the rain and cold we had in June and July.”

  “Then that rain won’t affect the wine?” Olivia asked, encouraging him to say more. She loved watching him when he talked about his work, because he so clearly loved it. His face was gentle, his dark blue eyes remarkably warm.

  “Everything affects the wine. That’s why each year’s vintage is different. But the rain won’t be a negative thing, as long as we do get the sun. If the grapes only half ripen, that’s something else.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “Make rosé. Or grape juice.”

  “What if you don’t get another drop of rain between now and harvest?”

  “Not another drop in two months? That’d be trouble. If the ground gets too dry, the leaves close their pores to conserve what water they have. But carbon dioxide has to enter through those pores if photosynthesis is going to take place. If the pores close, there’s no photosynthesis, and without photosynthesis, the leaves won’t produce sugar to pass on to the fruit.” He stopped walking to gently move aside a patch of leaves. “See that pole?”

  Olivia did, but only because he pointed it out. It was barely three feet tall, narrow, and so close to the post holding the trellis wires as to be nearly invisible.

  “That’s drip irrigation,” he explained. “It draws freshwater from the river. If things get too dry, we can water the soil in a way that won’t soak the grapes. We haven’t had to do it often, but given the market we’ve built, it pays to be safe.”