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There he is again. Back in LA for less than forty-eight hours, and Dillon’s splashed all over social media looking so strung out it hurts. I slam my phone down on the table so hard, I nearly topple my coffee onto the papers I need to review and sign for the new acreage we’re buying from my neighbor.
Getting up from the table, I stalk over to the back door and step onto my porch. I’ve got to stop doing this to myself. Dillon made it clear this was the life he wanted when he stopped answering my emails and texts.
Looking at the neatly arrayed rows of vines, I know this is the life I want. I like growing things. I like feeling my own roots sink into this soil along with my vines. I like knowing I’m a part of something that goes back to the dawn of civilization, that has a tradition of nurturing and hospitality. Sometimes I drive my employees nuts, talking about the wine making tradition and Dionysus, the rituals of ancient Greece that commanded a host to offer wine and food to a guest and bound them in a relationship that extended to their children and their children’s children. They tease me about being an old man before I’m thirty, but it doesn’t stop me talking about it. I like being a part of all that history and tradition.
Fortunately, my vineyard manager, Winston, shares this passion with me, and one of the reasons we’ve been keen to get our hands on the property next door is because we have a hunch something special might be hiding in the overgrown and neglected areas. We’ve been waiting for the guy who owns it to figure out he’s not meant to be a gentleman wine maker. There’s a saying in our industry, “If you want to make a large fortune in wine, start with a bigger fortune from something else.” Lucky for me, I have that fortune thanks to my residuals and royalties. Also lucky for me, my neighbor doesn’t. He’s getting a fair deal, and I’m possibly getting something that might be more valuable than gold.
I go back inside, gather up my phone and the papers I need to sign, then head into my office where I answer emails and spend an hour talking to my website designer about a revamp to our ordering system. When I first bought this place, a lot of my employees rolled their eyes. They thought I was a typical LA boy, a former TV star and musician, thinking I knew anything about running a winery. I didn’t, and I knew that, but I learned, and I kept the good people where they should be and let them do their jobs. They take care of the wine, I take care of the business, and I keep learning as much as I can.
After lunch, I give in and check Twitter. Dillon’s still blowing up all over the place. #partyoftheyear #dillondoesitall #dbagdillon. There was some party at his new 18,000 square foot home, and the pics are everywhere with Dillon looking like he’s the walking dead. I don’t know how everyone around him isn’t thinking he’s one step away from OD’ing, and it’s killing me. I should stop looking. I know I should. But it’s hard. As much as I don’t want to, I still care.
Frustrated with myself, I head out to the barn and saddle up. If I’m going to be useless at my desk, I might as well get something done. Checking my property, making sure the vines are doing what they should be, that the irrigation lines are all working properly, is better than sitting at my desk waiting for the next pic to start the tsunami of tweets all over again. And doing it from horseback is another of the things that makes this life pretty good.
Spaghetti gives me a soft huff as I take her from her stall. Don’t blame me, I didn’t name her. Her full name’s Manic Spaghetti, and she’s a beautiful dark red dun quarter horse from a line of champions that are all named for types of pasta. Still, I like the name, and, in an odd way, it suits her. Most of the time, she’s a sensible horse, but there are a few things that tie her up in knots like snakes and anything that looks remotely like a snake.
I take my time brushing her because I love to make her coat shine like a copper penny, and because it soothes me to feel her silky coat beneath my fingers. She’s in her short end-of-summer coat, but it won’t be long before she’s fluffing up like a wooly bear caterpillar. In the two years since I bought her, I’ve learned that how early and how heavy her winter coat comes in is a good gauge for when we should be thinking about harvesting the grapes. Not that I tell that to Winston. I watch Spaghetti and nod along when Winston tells me we’re getting close.
While I groom her, Spaghetti’s nearly sleeping. She loves the attention, the pampering. But when I bring the tack out, she’s all business and raring to go, fairly dancing her way out of the stable yard. She’s too polite and too well trained to try to take control, but I can feel how eager she is in every muscle. It’s been awhile since we’ve gotten out for more than an hour, but today, I guess, we both need the time.
The thing I like most about being on a horse is the way it both lets me drift and makes me aware of my surroundings at the same time. There’s a moment, usually about half an hour in, that I call my moment of grace when whatever I was thinking about or worrying about fades into the background and it’s just me, the horse, and the landscape. We come together as if we’re all of a piece, and I can breathe. Today it takes nearly an hour to find that moment of grace, but when it comes, I lift my face to the sky and say thank you.
I turn toward home a heck of a lot more at ease than when I left, my phone all but forgotten in my saddle bag. I’m comfortably warm from a couple of hours in the late summer sun, my legs a bit sore from not spending enough time in the saddle in recent weeks and getting a bit hungry. I assume Spaghetti is more than ready for her dinner too, and she pricks up her ears as the winery tasting room comes into view.
Even though it’s almost closing time, there’s a couple of cars still in the parking lot, which makes me smile. I like building something here, seeing it become successful, watching others enjoy what I’m putting my name behind. Each weekend, I spend at least a couple of hours in the tasting room because of that even though there’s always a chance someone’s going to see me and yell out, “Joey!”
Spaghetti and I amble through the parking lot, and I frown at the flash car in the end space. It’s an expensive sports car, low slung and an almost electric green that stands out in the midst of the trees and vines. Definitely not something I’ve ever seen on the roads around here, which is saying something because we get everything from Lamborghinis and Maseratis to Maybachs and Rolls-Royces, not to mention Teslas, Mercedes, Audis, and BMWs by the thousands. And it’s definitely not like anything I’ve seen pulling up to our tasting room before.
As soon as Spaghetti and I come around the car, the front door opens, and a man’s leg slides to the ground. It’s clad in jeans, but there’s no shoe on the foot. Spaghetti snorts and tries to sidestep, but I close my legs around her and hold her steady.
“Hello?” I call out. “You need some help?” Sometimes these weekend wine tasters get carried away and try to take in too many wineries in one day.
“Shit.”
The man’s voice is gravelly and more growl than human, but the hair on the back of my neck goes up because I know who’s in the car. As improbable as it seems, Dillon has finally come to find me.
Then Dillon slides onto the parking lot’s blacktop, landing in a crumpled, unconscious heap, one leg still inside the car.
Dillon
I wake up wearing someone else’s clothes in a strange bed in a strange room with a massive fucking headache. It’s not the first time for any of that. It’s not even the first time this week. Unlike any of those previous times, though, this room doesn’t look like a hotel room, and it doesn’t reek of sex or booze. No one’s passed out next to me or on the floor.
The shades are drawn tight across the windows, but light still seeps out the sides letting me know it’s daytime. I sit up and groan as the room spins. Fuck. My head is killing me, and my mouth is dry enough to hurt when I try to swallow. Which makes my first priority finding something to drink and something that’ll take care of this headache. If I can find some booze, I can check both those things off my list. Then I’ll figure out where I am.
Getting out of bed proves to be a bit trickier than I thought it would be because the floor keeps spinning out from under me. Eventually, I manage it, keeping one hand braced against the wall as I make my way to the door. Whoever owns this place has kept things pretty simple. Dark wood bed frame and headboard, matching dark wood dresser, Mission style or Craftsman, I can never keep straight which is which. The dark wood floor is covered by a soft, beige carpet that feels good under my feet, which hurt for some strange reason. I’m too unsteady to pick them up to figure out why.
The hallway is blissfully dim and cool and opens into a great room that’s as pared down as the bedroom I was in. Same dark wood furniture and flooring, but the walls are stark white. There’s little in the way of decoration except for black and white photos of what look like grape vines. Which makes sense when I look out the window. I’m in the middle of a fricking vineyard.
Where the hell am I?
I pat my pockets looking for my phone, then remember these aren’t my clothes, but I find my phone on the center island in the kitchen. As soon as I turn it on, I’m bombarded by texts and alerts, and I want to crawl back to bed.
#dillonmia #dillondisappears #dillondead #dillonawol #dillontheend #dillondickhead
I turn the phone back off and start looking for something to drink. There’s a note on the fridge.
Hey, Dill. There’s coffee in the carafe. Come find me when you’re human. Ben
Ben?
