I bought a mocha from the coffee-dispensing machine hoping it would taste less like flavored water than the drip coffee I had ordered earlier, but it didn’t. They had improved on this technology elsewhere. I wondered why it hadn’t hit hospitals yet, a place where people ostensibly needed caffeine.
Finally, Linda came back out, crumpled, a nurse holding her up.
“How is he?” I asked, rushing to her.
“He had a heart attack,” she said. “They aren’t sure if it was what caused the fall or if the fall caused it. But regardless. They have to do a double bypass. They think he’ll be okay, but . . .”
“Oh, Linda,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I hugged her and she allowed herself to be hugged, although all energy seemed drained from her body.
“I’ll stay here tonight with him,” she said. “Can you call Celeste and ask her to bring me some things and some things for Everett too? She has a key. And of course she knows where everything is. And can you go back and run things while I’m here? Just basic things—answer the phone and deal with any of the restaurants or shops that buy from us if they call. Try to keep the tasting room open the rest of the week and this weekend?”
“Of course,” I said. “Whatever you need.”
“I should call William,” she said. “But I think I’ll wait until tomorrow. Please don’t tell him until I do.”
“I won’t,” I said, although it made my head ache. I really, really hoped Everett would be okay.
* * *
—
The days after Everett’s heart attack were a blur. It was a good thing that Linda had given me that impromptu lesson in how the business worked, because while she was at the hospital with Everett, I dealt with shipping and invoices and even had to drive two cases of wine to Corte Madera for a Pinot Noir emergency at a pizza restaurant. I checked on my old apartment when I was down in Berkeley. When I drove by at eleven P.M., no cars were in the driveway and no lights were on, so I assumed the Harvard MBAs were working hard and barely in the apartment.
Most of the time that they were in the hospital, though, honestly, I poured wine in the tasting room, took photographs of wine, and wrote Facebook posts about First Friday. I posted a picture of Tannin with one of the centerpieces I was developing that featured bottles of wine that told the history of the winery on their labels. I posed him with the 1965 Cabernet, the first wine from Bellosguardo ever to get a medal. He licked the bottle (because I put peanut butter on it).
@TannintheWineDog: “Just One Week Away! All the wine you can taste, food by @AnnieSanders, and music by Jackson Hill. Plus, a petting booth of me!”
It got over 150 likes.
I kept the office neat, the tasting room swept, and the QuickBooks up to date with phone orders that came in. In my downtime, I went through the old order spreadsheets and made phone calls to older, slightly dormant accounts that looked like they might need a reorder. I sold a few cases to each. Even so, I was a little bit lonely. This wasn’t exactly the summer I had in mind when I decided to work at a winery. I had envisioned fun afternoons behind the bar, serving wine. I hadn’t pictured spreadsheets. But I felt like I really had a job. I got up early. I went to bed early. Some nights I didn’t even have a glass of wine before bed I was so tired. Celeste came by regularly with updates. Everett was awake. Everett was sitting up. Everett was talking. Sort of.
Keeping things going reminded me a little of how things were after my dad died. My brother and I didn’t really have time to mourn because our mother was so debilitated. We heated up casseroles that people brought to us and put portions in front of our mother. When the casseroles ran out, we went to the store and made ourselves food. We got ourselves to school and home and made sure the electric bill was paid. Now, even though I still wasn’t quite sure what I was doing, I knew that I was bringing in money for the winery and that I was keeping things on track. I liked being important. I know I felt resentful about keeping things on track when I was a kid, but now it just felt good.
* * *
—
On Memorial Day, the Monday before the party, the beginning of my third week at Bellosguardo and my fifth day of running things without Linda and Everett, I was pouring sparkling wines for a couple from France in the tasting room when William walked through the door. But instead of being happy to see me, he barked, “Do you have cash? The cab driver will only take cash and I owe him a hundred and fifty dollars.”
I hadn’t been expecting him, and seeing him made my stomach immediately do ten somersaults. “I’ll check in the petty cash,” I said. I ducked into the office and pulled out Linda’s cashbox, which held 300 dollars. I marked down that 150 dollars was for William and brought it out to him.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said. He went back out to pay the driver and then didn’t come back inside. I guessed he went up to the house or off to the hospital. I tried not to be offended by the fact that he didn’t even seem to register who I was.
I went about the rest of my day, trying not to think about him being there, or not being there. I stayed late in the office updating the inventory and then brought an open bottle of rosé back to the cottage. I was pretty sure there was a veggie burger in the freezer that I could heat up. I would need to restock the fridge at some point. I was trying to remember if there was any cheese to go with the burger as I unlocked the front door. I flipped on the light but noticed that the light on the back patio seemed to be on. I grabbed a candlestick from the front table and walked toward the back. I was entirely alone on the huge property right now, aside from Felipe, who was in another cottage completely on the other side of the vineyard. He lived in a converted bunkhouse that was originally built for grape pickers, but which Linda had converted into a loft-style house that would be able to accommodate Felipe’s wife and children when they arrived after the harvest. But even though I knew Felipe was fifty acres and a quick text message away, it was a little bit spooky. To think about acres and acres of land and a giant castle all devoid of life. Just little me in a cottage, with a candlestick. Ridiculous. I couldn’t see anyone on the patio through the kitchen windows, so I threw open the door.
I was both relieved and a little angry to find William, asleep on one of the padded reclining chairs. “Hey,” I said, putting the candlestick down on the iron café table and settling myself on the end of his chair.
“Did you think you were going to defend yourself with that?” He laughed, waking up.
“It’s heavy,” I said.
He shook his head. “Do I need to get you a baseball bat?”
“The only intruders I have here are people I already know,” I said.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve always liked to nap here. And it’s been a long day.”
“It’s your house,” I said.
“You live here too,” he said. “More than I do now.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“It’s scary,” he said. “To hear that your dad is in the hospital. And that they don’t know if he’s going to get better.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been there. But I am glad your mom called you. When my dad was in critical condition, they didn’t even tell me.”
“What?” he said.
“I mean, I was little. Eleven. They thought they were protecting me.”
“That seems counterproductive. But I also feel guilty because I so wanted to be away from here. And now I’m back.”
“You don’t have to stay forever,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “But . . .”
“I know,” I said.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. I decided not to tell him what had happened with his mom right before his dad’s accident. Maybe it didn’t even matter anymore. Maybe everything she had said would just evaporate in the face of Everett’s accident and she would stay at Bellosguardo forever.
“I’m glad you’re her
e,” he said. “It makes me feel a little bit better about them. I feel like they need someone to watch over them. To care.”
“You barely know me,” I said.
“That’s not true. Besides, I see what you’re doing,” he said. “You’re helping them.”
“I selfishly don’t want you to go back,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
“But I know that you selfishly don’t want to be here,” I said, trying to walk back my oversharing.
He shrugged and tucked my hair back behind my ears. “You must be starving.”
“You’re avoiding so many things,” I said.
“There’s piles of food up at the house and it’s all about to rot. We must go and eat it.”
My stomach growled audibly and he laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You’re still not off the hook,” I said.
“Neither are you,” he said.
* * *
—
William was digging through the refrigerator pulling out pâté and double-cream Brie. “Look at all of these snacks!”
I smiled and exclaimed, “Snacks for dinner!”
“Snacks for snacks; we’ll eat them as we cook. There’s also steaks. We have to eat them today or else they’ll go bad. And we’ll make mashed potatoes. And salad. We can pick it in the garden.” He was joyously pulling marked Ziplocs out of the refrigerator.
“Did you not eat in New York?”
“I did. But I didn’t cook. I miss cooking. I tried to buy a chicken breast there and I swear it cost twenty dollars. For one. This is food! People are even bringing over food, not that my mother would ever eat it. She’s a better cook than any of them.”
“She is a good cook,” I said, laying out all of his finds on the butcher block. “It’s funny that people always bring casseroles when someone is sick. I wonder what it is about casseroles. Anyway, how’s New York?”
“It’s a crazy place,” he said. “But it’s amazing. Everyone I’ve met is creative, is working on a project. They know people. But not like how people in LA know people. They know interesting people.”
I nodded. He handed me a bag of potatoes and a peeler.
“You peel. I’ll go get the grill started.”
He went outside and I peeled a few potatoes, but I really wanted to see the house, and so far nobody had offered that, so I left the fruits of my labor on the counter and went into the rest of the house, ostensibly to look for a bathroom, if anyone asked. The remainder of the house was quite grand, decorated in a Victorian style. There were rich drapes, dark-wood sideboards, and handwoven rugs with floral designs. A giant portrait of a man and a horse hung over the grand central staircase, dominated by a multitiered crystal chandelier. I snuck into the living room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows were covered with shiny yellow brocade curtains. But the sofas and grand piano were all covered in white sheets. Yellowed formerly white sheets that had clearly been there for ages. I walked through dark-wood pocket doors to a grand dining room. A giant table had sixteen chairs around it, but the furniture in that room was also covered and the blinds were drawn. I wondered why they would live in this grand home with classic furnishings but not use any room except the shabby kitchen.
I was heading through the pocket doors back toward the kitchen when I heard my name being called. “Hannah! Hannah!” It was faint and far away.
“I’m in here!” I yelled.
William found me in the dark living room. “What are you doing?” he asked. He didn’t seem angry, but I wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
“I was looking for the bathroom and I got distracted. Why don’t you use these beautiful rooms?”
“Expensive to heat. Fancy family heirlooms that we didn’t want to ruin. My mom always claimed that it was uncomfortable, although that was just to keep us out of the rooms, I think.”
“I just can’t believe you sit at a pizza booth when you can sit in there.” I gestured toward the dining room.
“When I was little, we would use it sometimes on Easter or Christmas, but even that became a pain because everything needed to be uncovered and then cleaned and re-covered.”
“It’s just so pretty,” I said. “And it’s the story of your family. My family just has a few kind of faded photos in frames from Walmart on the mantelpiece.”
“One day, we’ll open it all up,” he said.
I smiled. I wasn’t sure if I was included in the “we” or not, but I wanted to be.
“More important, you’ve abandoned your potato post,” he said. “And we need to get the mashed potatoes going, so now we both need to peel.”
We headed back to the kitchen and he told me all the stories he had made up about the people in the portraits when he was a kid. There was one of a man with a beard holding a shovel that he called “The Gravedigger,” although it was actually a portrait of a relative who had come to California to find gold. Another painting depicted a man in a very fluffy fur collar. William had always thought he had a pet fox around his neck and called the man General Fox, “but I recently realized he was just wearing a really ugly fur coat.”
“There’s no accounting for historically bad taste,” I said. “But it must have been a fun place to be a kid.”
“It was,” he said as he peeled potatoes. But I could sense a hesitation in his voice.
“And it wasn’t?”
“And it wasn’t.”
I continued peeling as well, deciding to be quiet for once in my life.
“Lonely,” he eventually said. “There weren’t other kids around. The dog was always my best friend. Sevvie, the one I told you about, short for Reserve. I told him everything. But you need other kids to play with. Celeste would come by, but she wasn’t any fun; she just wanted to talk about the kids at school and dress Sevvie up in costumes. And my parents were both busy. Even busier than they are now, because they were setting the business up. And they fought a lot. I always was worried they were going to get divorced. There was one summer when my mother just disappeared. She said she was going to visit her mother, but she’d never done that before. I never found out where she went. My dad and I ate a lot of frozen burgers that summer.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, realizing that all families have times that aren’t perfect. Even this one.
“It actually wasn’t that bad, that summer,” he said. “Since my dad was kind of lonely and needed a friend, we did things. But I could tell he was happier when she came back. I hope she remembers that now.”
I didn’t know what to tell him. I felt like Linda and I had a private bond that I wasn’t quite ready to break with her yet. And there were things that a son shouldn’t know about his mother. I wouldn’t want to know what my mother’s true feelings about my father were. “They seem like a good team,” was all I could bring myself to say.
“They are, in business,” he said. “But I think as life partners they aren’t great. But there’s lots to do and this house is big, so they often just kept to themselves. My dad would watch baseball games in the evenings upstairs. And my mom would sit down here and knit or read or do puzzles in puzzle books. It always just felt sad. Like they both wished they were doing something else, but they were stuck here with one another. But alone. They loved me and paid attention to me, but I could feel that they didn’t want to be with each other. If that makes any sense.”
I sighed and reached over to put my hand on his. “That sounds hard.”
“So I’m determined not to have that happen to me. I don’t want to be miserable across the table from someone I don’t like. Or, I’ve compromised so much to be with, I start to resent. I’d rather be alone,” he said. “And that goes for the business too. I’ve helped them for a long time, but I don’t want to do it forever.”
I nodded. I wondered if I’d be miserable for my entire life with Ethan. With his inces
sant planning. His life checklist constantly being checked off. “I get it,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. But isn’t it also possible that you could find happiness? I feel like I will one day. I’m not giving up on that.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure with my parents that they knew it was wrong from the beginning but they did it anyway. To merge businesses. Property. Because they had complementary skills. Reasonable things like that. I don’t think you should get married for reasonable reasons. It should be because you’re madly in love or nothing.”
“You’re a romantic!” I said, pinching his cheek. He blushed a little and smiled. But then he steeled his face.
“It’s not a joke,” he said. “I mean it.”
“I believe you,” I said.
We were done peeling the potatoes and I swept the peelings into a bowl to put in the compost outside and he sliced the potatoes up into cubes to dump into the water he had boiling on the stove.
I poured us both glasses of wine now that the major prep work was done, and we headed together to the garden with baskets to gather our salads.
“I feel like a pioneer,” I said.
“A yuppie pioneer,” he said. “But you must have had a garden in Iowa.”
“It’s funny, everyone thinks of Iowa as this idyllic farm landscape, but I grew up in a subdivision in a small house with a finished basement and an attached garage. We barely had grass in our little yard. My mom worked nights a lot, especially after my dad died, so that she could sleep all day. Drew and I had to feed ourselves, so it was a lot of microwave stuff.”
“Oh, America,” he said. “It has so many facets.”
“America.” I sighed. “I mean, there are nice things. My brother, who still lives there, he’s in a CSA run by a farmer who is on his street. The guy just drops off any extra vegetables that he has on a daily basis. His wife is constantly trying to figure out what to do with two pounds of kohlrabi. Drew, Elise, and their kids eat amazingly fresh food. But he just has a regular subdivision yard and my mom still eats Hungry-Man dinners. I try to talk to her about it . . . but . . . I mean, she’s a nurse; she knows better.”
The Shortest Way Home Page 17
