The Vineyard

by Barbara Delinsky

  His thoughts strayed. With a hand on the porch beam, he glanced at his father. “Do you still miss Mom?”

  Carl kept his eyes on the fields. “She wasn’t only my wife. She was my friend.”

  “Do you feel guilty remarrying?”

  “Guilty?” He gave a small headshake. “No. I tried to be a good husband to Ana. I think she was happy. But she’s been dead four years.”

  Simon knew those four years well. He had ticked them off day by day, month by month. “Maybe the thing to do is not care so much. Then you don’t lose so much if things go wrong.”

  Carl lowered a hip to the wide wood rail. Quietly, he said, “You can stop caring? I never could. As for loss, it’s part of life. I learned that early on.”

  “When Natalie married Al?”

  Carl looked out through the gathering dark. “I shut down emotionally during the war years. I got medals for bravery that wasn’t bravery at all. It was recklessness. I just didn’t care what happened to me, because she wasn’t waiting here anymore.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  He inhaled slowly. “All that death. All those bodies. I wasn’t there when they liberated the camps, but I saw pictures. I heard stories. Look in the eyes of any one of those who witnessed it firsthand, and you know the horror.”

  It struck Simon that his father had rarely talked about the war and that when he did, it was of lighter things, like the bars in Marseilles. His voice was calm then. He was stating fact. Interpreting it now, he sounded tortured.

  “I always wondered what was worse—having an entire family wiped out, or having every member wiped out except one.” He was lost in the tragedy of it for a minute, before looking at Simon. “Suddenly my losing Natalie wasn’t the end of the world. Same with losing your mother. It hurts. You never get used to the pain. But at some point, you put it in perspective with the rest of your life.”

  “At what point?”

  Carl shrugged. “It’s different with different people. Like a cold. Some people shake it in two days. Some sniffle for a week. All you know is at some point you start to feel better. You breathe freer. You sleep the night. You start wanting to do things.”

  “Yeah, but you sure as hell steer clear of the neighbor who’s just been diagnosed with strep throat. You’re not looking for trouble.”

  Carl smiled. “If that neighbor passes out on his front steps, are you just going to let him lie there?”

  “That’s carrying the example to the extreme,” Simon argued.

  “No. It’s just carrying it to the point where taking the risk is preferable to playing it safe. If I’d protected my heart and never married, I wouldn’t have had those good years with Ana, and I wouldn’t have had you. So I lost Ana, and there was pain, and the temptation is to swear off anything that can cause it again.” His voice was gruff with feeling. “Only I am so, so lucky to have another chance. Do you see that? Do you?”

  JUST INSIDE THE SCREEN DOOR, Susanne leaned against the wall in the dark. Forget fatigue. Dinner had been stifling. Her face ached from forcing a smile, her heart from pretending nothing was wrong.

  She had thought to get a breath of fresh air, when she had come upon Simon and Carl, and her first instinct was to turn right around and go back to the kitchen. Then she heard Carl’s voice and something about his tone kept her there.

  She didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to hear what he said, but she found that she couldn’t move. She listened to every last word, and when she did return to the kitchen, she was subdued, preoccupied as she cleaned up, unable to shake what he’d said.

  No. Not what he’d said. How he’d said it. He hadn’t been loud or defensive. He hadn’t mentioned Alexander or the vineyard, only Simon, Ana, and Natalie. They were clearly what mattered to him. And the something she had heard in his voice wasn’t new, she realized when she finished up and turned out the lights. It was there in her memory, a given of Asquonset life.

  Carl Burke had never been overly talkative, but when he did speak, his words held a ring of truth.

  Climbing the stairs, she let herself into the bedroom that had been hers since the upper floor was added to the Great House. A hand squeezed her heart at the sight of Mark’s things there. Disagreements between them always upset her. He was a remarkable person—far more so than she. He was a kinder person, a more compassionate person, a bigger person, and she wasn’t talking about physical size.

  Disappointed in herself, she went to the dresser. Natalie’s book was there, a thick wad of manuscript pages tucked into an envelope. Sandwiching it between two glossy issues of Food and Wine, she brought it downstairs. Mark was reading in the parlor. He glanced up when she passed on her way to the den, but neither of them spoke.

  Settling into a corner of the long leather sofa that had fit her father so well, remembering Nancy Drew nights with him there and feeling cushioned by her very own view of the past, she set aside the magazines, pulled the manuscript from its envelope, and began to read.

  MUCH LATER Greg slipped out of bed. If Jill was awake and aware, she didn’t let on, and he couldn’t tell. She was on the far side of the bed with her back to him.

  Her breathing was steady. He had been lying awake, listening to it for hours, realizing that the only thing worse than not having Jill with him at night was having her with him but out of reach—and she was definitely that. From the nightgown that went from her throat to her toes, to the sheet pulled up to her neck, to the fact that she hadn’t once turned or spoken the slightest word of encouragement—everything about her said Do Not Touch.

  He was a glutton for punishment, staying in Asquonset. He didn’t know why he didn’t just turn around and go back home.

  Yes, he did. If he went back home, he wanted Jill with him. Life without her in Washington was lonely and dry—and life on the road, without knowing she would be there at the end of the trip, was just as bad. It would be even worse now that he knew about the baby. He couldn’t just leave her here.

  But he couldn’t sleep, either, and trying was only making it worse. Slipping on a robe, he pushed through his bag looking for something to read. All he came up with was reports, but he didn’t want to read reports. He wouldn’t be able to do them justice, given his frame of mind.

  His eye moved through the darkness to the dresser, where the moon lit a large manila envelope. He knew what it was and didn’t care to read that any more than the reports. But he picked it up anyway and found himself carrying it down to the kitchen.

  Setting it aside, thinking that his own refrigerator was as barren as he was without Jill in the house, he fixed himself a snack from the leftovers of dinner. He had a bowl of ice cream and a handful of cookies. He warmed a glass of milk and drank it slowly, thinking that it might make him drowsy and spare him this chore.

  But he remained wide awake.

  Figuring that there was no one to see, and that he had absolutely nothing better to do, he pulled the pages from the envelope there on the kitchen table and started to read.

  OLIVIA WAS UP AT FIRST LIGHT. She knelt by the window only until she saw Simon, then ran softly down the stairs and outside. He was already making his way through the vines by the time she reached him.

  Catching her hand, he pulled her into a half run. They were well under the cover of the trees before he stopped and, grinning, scooped her up in his arms. He carried her deeper into the woods before laying her down on a pad of moss.

  What with his presence in her dreams, and the sight, smell, sound of him now in the flesh, Olivia was fully aroused. She helped him out of his shorts and cried out when he entered her, not in pain but in awe. Same with the moment when he pushed aside her nightshirt and took her breast in his mouth. No matter how often they made love, he startled her with the wholeness she felt, and the amazing thing was that it kept getting better. She should have been used to him by now. She should have been used to the scent of dewy grape leaves one day and cool forest the next. She should have been starting to get bored, bu
t there was always something new when they came together, always something different, deeper, more enlightening.

  Today, it was words. They had a tacit understanding not to talk about the future—and he did stick to it, but only until they had both climaxed and were lying side by side, slowly cooling, reclaiming their breath.

  Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Stay longer.”

  She turned her head on the moss. He was looking up at the sky, his profile strong, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Here?” she asked. “At Asquonset?”

  “You have money in the bank. You don’t need to rush off.”

  “I do,” she said quickly, because staying would only make things worse. “Tess has to go to school. I have to get her set up somewhere.”

  “Why not in Providence? She could commute with Sandy.”

  “But I don’t have a job in Providence. I have one in Pittsburgh.”

  His head came around, eyes meeting hers. “You didn’t tell me.”

  She felt guilty, torn, and determined, in that order. “I haven’t decided whether to take it.”

  “Is it a good job?”

  “Yes. I’d be working in-house at a museum. There’s a good school for Tess nearby. They can’t take her now—the class is filled—but they say there may be a spot at midyear. They’d want to interview her and test her once we move. She could go to a public school in the meanwhile.”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  Olivia had said the name dozens of times, and it still sounded foreign. “Like I say, I haven’t decided.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “A better offer,” she said and sat up. She buttoned her nightshirt. “Something closer would make moving easier. I want Tess to be able to start right in at the best school for her. I’ll give it another week. If nothing comes up, Pittsburgh is it. I’ve actually never been to Pittsburgh, but I’ve heard good things.”

  “LIKE WHAT?” Tess asked.

  “Like nice places to live and pretty places to shop. Like restaurants on the water. Did you know that three rivers meet in the middle of Pittsburgh? So there’s Three Rivers Stadium, and the Pittsburgh Pirates. There’s the Steelers and the Penguins. There’s an aircraft museum and the national aviary. There’s all sorts of Carnegie stuff, and Frank Lloyd Wright, and the Tower of Learning. There’s a zoo.”

  They were on Olivia’s bed, where Olivia had found Tess on her return. Tess had been sketching in her book, but set it aside quickly and wanted to know where her mother had been. Out walking, Olivia said. Thinking, she added, and told Tess about the job offer.

  “Is there a Gap in Pittsburgh?”

  “More than one.”

  “McDonald’s?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Pindman’s?”

  “No. Pindman’s is one of a kind.”

  “They know us there already. It feels good.”

  “That’s the difference between small town and big city. It takes longer to get to know people in the city. But remember the Seven-Eleven in Cambridge? We got to know the manager. And the yogurt shop?”

  “Why can’t we stay here?” Tess said, and Olivia’s heart ached.

  “Because I don’t have a job here.”

  “You can get one.”

  “Not the kind I want. No one here needs a photo restorer.”

  “You’re a writer.”

  Barely. Winging it. Sweating it out. “Only for this summer.” And possibly never again. Olivia had no idea whether Natalie was pleased or not. She hadn’t said a thing about the pages Olivia had written. Olivia wasn’t sure she had even read them.

  “I want to go to Braemont with Mrs. Adelson,” Tess said. “She’s the best tutor I’ve ever had.”

  “You’ll always have the skills she’s taught you. You’ll take them wherever we go.”

  Tess looked like she didn’t believe it. When her brows knit and her chin went out, Olivia steeled herself for an argument.

  In the next breath, the child softened. The eyes she raised to Olivia were soulful. “I do like it here, Mom. I wish we could stay.”

  “So do I, sweetie,” Olivia began, but when she reached for her, Tess slipped off the bed. In seconds she was through the connecting bathroom and into her own room. “So do I,” Olivia repeated, whispering to herself as she put Tess’s sketchbook aside and shook out the bedsheets with more force than was necessary. “But I can’t pretend.” She yanked up the sheets. “This is not my family.” She hauled the comforter up in a single fierce billow. “My job is nearly done.” The pillows went on top, knocked this way and that. “I have to leave.”

  She took up the sketchbook and was about to return it when she found herself drawn to the window seat. She spent several minutes feeling sorry for herself for not being a Seebring, for not having a permanent job here, for not being so important to Simon Burke that he would rather die than let her move away.

  Then she thought of her mother. She was getting used to the idea that Carol was dead—not liking it, but accepting of what couldn’t be changed. She was even getting used to the idea that maybe, just maybe Simon was right. Maybe Carol had loved her in her way. The money would certainly come in handy for Tess for private school, then college, perhaps even an advanced degree in art. The child was that talented.

  Smiling, feeling pleasure and pride, Olivia opened the sketchbook. It contained drawings of the vineyard and the Great House, and drawings of the cats, and of Buck with her kittens. It contained Sketches of Olivia, alternately depicting her as an angel and a witch. It contained a sketch of Carl with his tennis racket and a regal sketch of Natalie. It contained a drawing of Simon on his haunches plucking leaves from a vine, Simon sitting high on the hedger, Simon wearing heavy work gloves as he repaired the trellis, Simon holding a kitten, Simon reading a book with his glasses halfway down his nose.

  The sketches of Simon were greater in number near the back of the book, clearly more recent, and there were far too many of them for Olivia’s peace of mind. She didn’t need a college degree to realize that Tess was growing attached to him. And right there was the very best reason for them to move to Pittsburgh. Attachments could be nipped in the bud. Out of sight, out of mind.

  They were better on their own, she and Tess. They were safer on their own. She could guarantee Tess love. No one else could do that.

  SIMON WALKED THROUGH the rows of vines, looking for trouble, looking for hints of trouble, trying to distract himself with busywork in one block or another so that he wouldn’t spend the entire day in his office waiting for updates on the storm. But the vines were all well. The canopies were trim, the soil aerated and comfortably moist, the cover crops adding nutrients, the grapes growing round and full. Sweetness would come. That was what the next few weeks would be about—assuming a hurricane didn’t mess them up.

  He had a bad feeling about Chloe, and it wasn’t a mystical thing. She was real, she was growing, and she was headed their way. According to the bulletins he received by fax, she had been upgraded to a category-three hurricane, packing winds upward of 115 miles an hour. She was traveling north at a rate that would have her making landfall in less than forty-eight hours, and she was showing no signs of turning away or petering out.

  While Carl and Natalie followed the storm’s path on the television in the Great House, Simon pulled up satellite pictures on his computer. He studied radar maps forwarded from the National Hurricane Center. He got e-mail from friends wishing him luck. His contact at the NOAA had nothing to suggest but that they board up the house.

  He would have boarded up the vines if it had been possible, but the vines—the very same that had survived a too-wet spring and were now thriving—would have to be on their own.

  Twenty-seven

  DETERMINED TO START separating from Simon, Olivia did not go out to the patio to meet him the next morning. She didn’t even look to see if he was there, but stayed in her room making a chart of the places she had applied for jobs. Follow-up calls were in o
rder, a paring down of the list by deleting definite nos and concentrating on the rest.

  She went downstairs with Tess only when she knew that others would be awake, and indeed, they all were, strewn about the kitchen, each watching the small television set on the counter from a chosen spot. Olivia didn’t have to ask whether Chloe had changed course. Clearly, she hadn’t.

  Just as clearly, they were praying she would. With little talk and a perfunctory downing of poached eggs over hash made from dinner leftovers, the group dispersed.

  Olivia wanted to rave about the hash. She had never had hash as good. Of course, she had never before had hash made from tenderloin. But Susanne was as distracted as the others, so she let it go.

  Same with talk about the storm. Apparently, the thing to do was to maintain a semblance of normalcy for as long as possible.

  Jill went to the office to work. Susanne went to the market to Shop. Tess went to the den with Sandy to read. Olivia went to the loft to organize photographs.

  Natalie joined her there a short time later. She had no news of the storm and, like the others, seemed content to ignore it a bit longer. She did an effective job of it. This morning, in a single hour with Olivia, she identified every face in the photographs that Olivia didn’t know, including that of Olivia’s mystery woman.

  Her name was June Ellenbaum. She had been a friend of Natalie’s brother, more so than of Natalie herself, and had died of pneumonia in the early forties.

  Olivia smiled sadly on hearing that. She stroked Achmed’s elegant neck, soothed enough by the gentle purr under her hand to confess, “I used to look at her when I was working for Otis and imagine that she was my long-lost grandmother or great-aunt or whatever.”

  Natalie was silent for a long moment. “And now?”

  Olivia moved her hand over Achmed’s silky head. “Can’t do it anymore. Maybe I’m finally growing up. Pretending can be counter-productive. It keeps you from accepting things you can’t change.”