As I ran, I thought about my classes in graduate school, Strategic Leadership and Problem Solving, and about the winery, what could make it tick. Sure, they needed some fun social media, and a party to engage the locals and some tourists would be good. But what could really make them increase their sales? Restaurants and wine stores buying by the case was good, but it was better to have a chain store that needed a bigger order. Maybe having sales reps out there selling wine would help, a kind of distribution deal. I wondered if they even had the wine-making capacity to handle bigger orders. I would need to ask. William had said they sold three thousand cases a year but wanted to sell more. I didn’t know what capacity was needed to make and sell five thousand or seven thousand cases, how much space for fermentation, but Everett seemed like the kind of person who would know such things. I would ask him when I got to Sonoma. The sun peeked out from behind the hills as I ran and tried to do math in my head. Math wasn’t my strongest suit; it was the part I struggled with the most on the GMAT and in my finance class. But sometimes when I was running, a little bit of arithmetic was just the thing to make the run go by faster. Concentrating on a math problem, and on the way the sky was filling up with pink and orange light, made the miles go by less painfully. I still hadn’t figured out what was going to save Bellosguardo, but I was going to try.
* * *
—
I wished there was somewhere to take a shower, but doubling back to the Berkeley gym felt completely out of the way, nor did I know if I could even get in there anymore. Besides, that would be like going back into my past when I needed to take steps toward my future. So I stood behind my car after my run and looked into the little compact mirror in my makeup kit. I brushed my hair into a ponytail and tapped some concealer under my blue eyes and some mascara on my lashes. My cheeks had some color from the run, but I figured that would be gone by the time I got to Sonoma, so I put some cheek stain on my cheekbones. I pulled the cowl-neck tunic back on over my running top and ran a little rollerball of perfume over my wrists. I nodded at the mirror. It wasn’t great, but it would do. I got back in the car, put on my Lady Power mix, which included songs like “Miss Independent,” “Brass in Pocket,” and “Hollaback Girl,” and I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge toward my summer adventure. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only person to have made such a mix, but at that moment, I felt like the strongest woman in the whole world.
The Lady Power mix, and a little NPR thrown in for good measure, propelled me through the ninety-minute drive. It was a little early to go to Bellosguardo still, though, so I parked in front of the wide window of Sunflower Caffé.
As I sat in the car, I sent a FaceTime request to my niece. Talking to her always made me feel better; her view of the world was always positive and unfiltered. She said exactly what she thought, and all of it was on instinct; it was refreshing. “Aunt Hannah!” she yelled as she picked up. She was in the backyard wearing a bathing suit. “It’s hot out today and we got out the sprinkler!”
“That’s fun,” I said.
“What are you doing today?” she asked.
“I’m moving to a new place and starting a new job,” I said.
“That sounds fun,” she said. “Maybe we’ll get to come visit you.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” I said.
“And Patches too?”
“If he can walk that far,” I said.
“We wouldn’t walk to California, silly. We would drive and he loves the car. He misses you, Aunt Hannah,” Gillian said.
“I miss him, and you, and Duncan too,” I said. Duncan was not as chatty as Gillian, so I spoke to him less, but I adored them equally.
Gillian pointed the phone at the dog, who was soaking wet. I felt sorry for Drew and Elise, who would have to clean it all up.
“I love you,” she said.
“Love you too,” I said.
I headed inside, gave an “it’s too early for this” smile to the barista, and ordered a latte, bravely resisting the pastries. I picked up a relatively current copy of Sonoma Magazine from the table next to where the sugar and milk were kept, and I settled myself, my latte, and my magazine on a high stool near the window so I could watch as people walked by. It was a relatively older crowd, people not afraid to wear shorts and white socks. I assumed those people were tourists. There was also a fashionable element, women in slim-fitting dresses and stiletto sandals carrying colorful Marc Jacobs handbags. I assumed those were locals.
I was reading about how the proceeds of a wine auction were benefiting the children of local migrant workers when a tall, slim woman with a blond pixie cut wearing a white leather jacket and a pair of cuffed jeans approached me. “You’re the new girl helping out at Bellosguardo.”
I turned and raised my eyebrows. I had been in town for less than an hour and I hadn’t met very many people—William, Linda, Everett, Reed, Betty at the hotel, and the bartender at La Salette whose name I had forgotten, and that was more than a week ago. But maybe in a small town, that was enough.
“I’m Celeste,” she said. “I make it my business to know everything that’s happening around here. And besides, I’m friends with William. He told me. And then I found your photo on Facebook. I know, I know, I’m a stalker.”
I had so many questions: How did she know William? How close were they? She was pretty and thin, so that made me feel jealous too. But I was new in town, and you have a boyfriend, I reminded myself as she sat herself down right next to me. “I’m Hannah,” I said.
“Welcome,” she said. “How are you finding Sonoma so far?”
“I just got here,” I said. “But it’s pretty.”
“Pretty,” she said. “Not beautiful.”
“I think it’s beautiful here,” I said.
“I was talking about you,” she said. “You’re pretty, but not beautiful.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I said as a way of ending the conversation. I turned back to my magazine. Who was this person? And had she heard of girl code? Even if I wasn’t beautiful, no woman wanted to be told that to her face.
“Don’t be offended. You don’t want to be beautiful,” she said, as if she knew what it was like to bear that burden.
“I think all women want to be beautiful,” I said. If I was honest with myself, I had never thought of myself as beautiful. I had thought of myself as strong. As athletic. Pretty. I was tall enough to pull off a jumpsuit and a maxidress, and thin enough to wear a pencil skirt. Not a model, but I was in shape. There were days in New York when I worked at Tiffany’s and I wore heels and the black Chanel suit edged in white that my boss had given to me as a Christmas gift and the vintage coat that I had bought for one hundred dollars on MacDougal Street with fur lollipop arms and a fur collar and a wool body, my brown hair highlighted and cut in a reverse bob and big sunglasses over my face, and I felt fabulous. Walking into Tiffany’s in that outfit and taking the elevator up to the ninth floor, using my staff ID, I felt like I belonged. Like I was somebody. And maybe that wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it was something. I needed to figure out a way to feel that way about working at Bellosguardo. Like I belonged there, and belonged to myself.
“You want to feel beautiful, but you don’t want to be beautiful. Being beautiful means nobody ever leaves you alone.”
I mumbled something under my breath about how I was learning what that was like.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Sometimes I don’t have a filter. I’m a Sagittarius. I mean well. I just . . .” She put her hands up to her face.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Listen,” she said. “I grew up here. William and I were raised on the same blanket together. My parents make wine on the other side of the hill from the Rockfords. I know everyone here. And I sell real estate, so I know everything. Where the sinkholes are.”
I nodded and
tried to smile. I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. “It must be a nice place to grow up,” I said.
“I love it here. I could never live anywhere else. It takes a certain . . . kind of person to live here, and I’m that kind. I don’t have any other skills other than being a person who lives in Sonoma,” she said. “Of course, William always had bigger dreams. But he’ll be back. He’ll realize.”
She opened her purple Mulberry handbag and pulled out a bedazzled business card case. She snapped it open and took out a letter-pressed card. She put it on the counter next to my coffee and hopped off the stool. “Celeste Davis. Call me.”
I took the card and put it in my pocket. I was not going to. As if she could read my mind, she came back. “You know what?” she said. “You better give me your number, too. Just in case I need to reach you first.” She handed me her phone so I could put my number into it. And for some reason, I did. Everyone needs a friend. Even a kind of stalkerish crazy one.
CHAPTER 8
When it was a reasonable hour for me to head to the winery, I threw away my coffee cup, got back in my red Hyundai Accent, and drove up to Bellosguardo. The parking lot was full, which I took as a good omen. I parked my car and left the suitcases in it. I headed into the tasting room, where Everett was in the far corner behind a card table leading a wine tasting for five middle-aged women wearing matching purple fedoras, Eileen Fisher–style tunics, leggings, and clogs. Linda was behind the bar, so I headed to her instead. She was pouring a tasting for a young couple, both of whom had a baby strapped to their backs. Twins. I sidled up beside the woman. They were on the reds, and I looked down at her notes. She had checked off the Pinot Noir and had written a star next to the Cabernet Franc. “Good choices,” I said. The woman was a little startled but looked at me and smiled. Linda noticed me next.
“Hannah!” she exclaimed. “You’re here!”
“I start tomorrow, don’t I?”
“You do!” she said. “And I invited you for dinner tonight, didn’t I? It’s William’s last night before he goes to New York.”
“You did,” I said. “Do you want me to get anything ready?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Just go get yourself settled in the cottage. Do you know how to get there? Just pull your car around behind the tasting room and go up the stone steps.”
I nodded and turned back toward the door. The women in the back were giggling. Everett must have had some wine-tasting shtick that he did. So far I hadn’t found him to be warm, or even conversational. Plus, I knew that he didn’t want me here in the first place. But the group seemed to be enjoying themselves, so who was I to judge?
I went back out to the lot and did as Linda said, pulled the car around back, got my suitcases and my backpack out of the trunk, and pulled them up the stone steps. I hadn’t showered after my run and I was feeling pretty salty.
The front door of the cottage was unlocked and there were flowers, a bottle of Pinot Noir, a block of Comté, and a jar of quince paste out on the kitchen island. A note from Linda in flowy penmanship read, Welcome, Hannah.
I smiled, unwrapped half of the cheese, and broke off the front of the wedge. I ate it, rind and all. The only thing that could have made it taste better was a slice of focaccia. But I’ll eat cheese with or without carbs, and this was a cheese that could stand alone. As I chewed, I went straight into the bathroom to shower.
The bathroom was all marble and the shower was the kind that sprayed water not just from the top but into my back as well. There was also a steam setting that I was excited to learn more about. It was just the right temperature and pressure. I felt myself relax. After all that had happened, I was finally in the place where I was meant to be.
Wrapped in a soft towel, I went back to the bedroom, which was also gorgeous—a king-size bed with a gray fabric headboard. There were books neatly stacked on each nightstand. One stack contained books about wine. The other, contemporary novels—Elin Hilderbrand, Meg Wolitzer, Ann Patchett. I loved them all. There was also an overstuffed chair with a perfect reading light over it and a walk-in closet.
I launched myself onto the huge bed and looked at the clock before giving in to a nap. I had, after all, been up at four A.M. I slept a dreamless, drooling sleep and woke at six. I felt groggy, but I forced myself to wake up. I riffled through my suitcase and put on my nicest dress, a gray sleeveless shift from Theory that I had planned to wear my first day at Goldman Sachs. I grabbed a light blue cashmere wrap that I had planned to use in the office to fend off aggressive air-conditioning. Evenings did tend to get chilly here, so it could fend off the natural chill instead. I applied a light lip stain from Fresh on my lips. It woke up my face but didn’t make it seem like I had tried too hard. When I was ready, I put the rest of my clothes and toiletries away, trying to make the room feel like my own, even though it clearly wasn’t.
I walked out into my living room, intending to have a little bit of water, maybe make a coffee to further perk myself up. There was an incredible built-in espresso machine in the kitchen that Linda had left instructions for. I took my espresso and settled myself on the couch that felt like a hug when you sat on it. Linda had left a stack of books on the coffee table as well, including The Secret Garden (which looked new) and the copy of Little Women that I had taken off the shelf on my last visit. I tried to read, but my brain just couldn’t concentrate on the words, even though they were so familiar to me, I should have had them memorized. I remembered how much I idolized Jo March, the second sister, the writer, the one, I had learned as a child, whom Louisa May Alcott modeled on herself. She had wild brown hair that she couldn’t control and was always obsessively writing plays and making her siblings perform them. She had a desk in the “garret” of the house (which I had assumed was a fancy word for attic; I later confirmed that it was), where she would write wearing a hat with a feather in it. She was a true artiste, in my opinion. Even though the youngest sister, Amy, wanted to be a painter and had gotten lessons from the man next door and had gone to Italy, it was Jo, who eventually chose to be a teacher, whom I admired. Maybe it was the brown hair or the childhood love of reading, both of which I shared. But Jo had settled; she had given up her desire to be a writer to be a wife to Professor Bhaer and to run the school with him. I never felt disappointed in Jo when I was younger, but I also wasn’t an analyzer of literature. As I thought about her now, I thought maybe she had compromised too much. But, of course, Jo was based on Louisa May Alcott, and she herself did not compromise, or if she did, I didn’t know about it. She did become a writer after all. She followed her dream. She wrote the books in 1860s Massachusetts that I as a little girl in late 1990s Iowa devoured. If that wasn’t success, what was?
I leafed through that book and also through some of the design magazines that Linda had scattered on the coffee table. I found an old copy of Sonoma Magazine with a profile of Everett, Linda, and William in it. William looked about fourteen and the interviewer had asked them about the competition from what she called “mega-wineries” in the area. Linda had been demure and stated, “Of course, it’s a thing that worries us, mass producers taking shelf space away. But we’ve always been independent and we’ll stay that way. We grow our own grapes and we stand behind the quality of our wine. It’s a family business and it won’t ever be anything but.” I thought about them all together—Everett, Linda, and William—and I wished my family was that close. Although, being the one who lived far away and didn’t return my own mother’s phone calls, I was probably the reason my family wasn’t that way.
* * *
—
At around seven thirty, I headed up more stone steps to the castle. I was approaching from the back, but it was still majestic, made entirely of gray stone, with carvings of grapes above the center of each window. And there were dozens of windows. The stone path that continued from the steps wound around to the side of the house, where I found Everett and William sitting at a
wooden picnic table adjacent to a side door. They were drinking wine and had an extensive spread of cheese in front of them.
“Welcome,” William said, winking at me. “My mom’s in the kitchen; go grab a glass.” He pointed toward the door.
I nodded and headed into the house. In comparison with the kitchen in the cottage, this kitchen was shabbier—linoleum tile, old appliances, a movable butcher-block center island that reminded me of the one I had in Berkeley. The breakfast nook looked like a booth from a pizza place—two orange benches with a faux wood-grain table between them. Linda was next to the sink slicing vegetables into a huge bowl—she was surrounded by zucchini and asparagus and cherry tomatoes. “These were all growing in the garden until a few minutes ago,” she said.
“That’s amazing,” I said.
“You must have had garden dinners when you were growing up in Iowa.”
“We weren’t farmers,” I said, trying not to sound too snarky. I’d always been slightly irritated by the stereotype that everyone from Iowa was a farmer. I grabbed a wineglass from the drying rack next to the sink.
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