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“Annabelle was so wrong for Jax. She’d been following a Grateful Dead cover band around the country for two years and selling macrame bracelets to support herself. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but Jax is in his head a lot, and she did nothing to wind him down. If anything, she made him more uptight because she was unreliable.”
She continues, “Most of us thought he’d break up with her after a month. But she got pregnant, and he proposed. Our father insisted, not that it was any of his business. I told Jax that about a hundred times, but he’s always cared way too much about what our dad thinks.”
I stay focused on the photos in my lap, but I’m listening intently. “So they’d dated a month?”
“Maybe a couple of months. I don’t remember exactly, but once she told him about the pregnancy, he started making plans for the two of them. It was like it almost didn’t matter whether or not he was happy. He just wanted to do the right thing.”
“Sounds like Jax.”
She nods. “Yup. And when Fiona was born, it was done.”
I look up, confused. “What was done?”
“He was all in. Loved that girl to pieces. Same as now. And Annabelle was just kind of there, part of the package. I don’t think he ever considered divorce, even though they were completely incompatible. They didn’t even share a bedroom.”
My eyebrows go up. There have been moments over the past few weeks when I’ve felt almost jealous of his ex-wife, not knowing anything about her except that she was with him and Fiona.
“And then she left. Said she didn’t plan to have kids, didn’t want to be a parent, didn’t love Fiona. That’s what sealed the deal.”
“I can’t imagine anyone saying that after meeting Fiona.”
“Exactly. My brother didn’t exactly take that well. She left the next day.” She pauses and looks searchingly at me like she’s beginning to realize something.
I stop shuffling through the photos. “Wow.”
Beatrix nods. “Yeah. Even though he knew who she was, I think he still hoped it could work out.” She’s still looking at me the same way, eyes wide, almost hopeful. “Some people are just good…and some aren’t.”
My chest aches at the thought of Jackson having that kind of hope despite all the signs. It confirms why he guards his life with Fiona so fiercely, not wanting anyone or anything to pierce the protective space he’s created with her. It’s a reminder to me that the little moments where a small electric charge flashes between us shouldn’t happen.
Beatrix looks at the photo on top of the pile and holds it up. It’s a black and white image of the vineyard behind Jax’s house. “You like this one?” Her lips twist into a knowing smile.
Without realizing it, I’ve been staring at it for most of our conversation. “I do. Probably because I’m out there every day with Fi. It just feels free to me. The ones of the house are a little stodgy.”
She considers the photo again and nods. “Yeah. I can see that. And this event is about the wine, not our farmhouse. Everyone knows they’re at Buttercup when they’re here. But it’s our vines that set us apart. This could work.”
Victor sweeps back into the room holding a piece of paper. “Okay, Beatrix, here is the new list. I appreciate you making the changes,” he says, rubbing a hand over his beard and handing a scribbled sheet to Beatrix with a shy grin.
“Not a problem, Victor.” She sweeps the page into her folder and stands from the couch with such nonchalance that no one would imagine we were just talking about Jackson’s marriage. “So nice chatting, Ruby. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Victor extends a hand to pull me up from the couch. “Shall we?”
“Yes. Ready.”
I follow him through the dining room and downstairs to the wine cave, where we worked all day yesterday. We pass tables being set for lunch with white linen cloths, sterling, and glass plates in varying shades of blue. Olive trees grow in pots beneath the large skylights, which cast the restaurant in different shades depending on the time of day.
The wine cave itself is divided into a workspace and a storage area. It’s a much smaller version of the cave included in the vineyard tour, which stretches nearly a mile beneath the property and contains much of the wine that gets shipped to shops all over California.
“Have you dined in the restaurant?” Victor asks as we sit at a small table sitting by a wine barrel. Leaves from an ivy plant trail down the sides.
“Here? No.”
“You must. It’s world-class.”
Of course it is, as I’m well aware. I just can’t afford it. “It’s on my list,” I tell him, which is the truth.
He nods, running a hand over his graying beard. Victor looks to be in his late forties, and his beard has more gray in it than the full head of hair, which only shows a bit of salt amid the pepper. Even though we’re not around winery guests, he’s dressed in a gray suit with a white shirt open at the collar and an apron like mine tied around his waist.
“You’re working for Jackson.” It’s not a question, but I feel compelled to answer.
