“You’ll find out soon enough, I promise. For now, just drive.”
He shrugs as he checks traffic and pulls back onto the road. I direct him to head northeast and then turn onto Sir Francis Drake. We get about a mile before he shoots me another questioning look. “What’s the next turn?”
I never realized how much this man hate surprises. “Don’t worry, I know the way,” I tell him with a smile. “I could practically get us there with my eyes closed.”
As we continue on our drive, I probe him gently for more about his childhood. Not surprisingly, it was a lonely one—with a father who pitted brother against brother, and the Bellanti family as a whole against the world. I can tell Dante hasn’t spoken about it much in the past, because he doesn’t sound rehearsed or bored the way people do when they’ve had to tell the same stories over and over again. It’s almost like he’s processing things out loud as the words tumble out of his mouth in fits and starts.
In turn, I share more about my upbringing as well. Dante already knows that my mother left early on, but I tell him anecdotes about my dad using me and my sisters as props to either fool people into thinking he was a dedicated family man, or to get himself—a quote-unquote hardworking single father, doing his best to care for us all on his own—out of a scrape.
I talk about how determined I was to learn more about vinification in Tuscany, how I had all these plans to come back and help turn the Abbott Winery around. I really believed I was going to save the family business. I stop short of saying that I wasn’t surprised to find out my dad had sold me off to be married instead. It would ruin an otherwise promising day.
Shifting gears, I tell another humorous story, this one about the time Dad left me and my sisters in London while he went off to Monte Carlo to gamble in some big tournament.
“I was twelve at the time, Charlie was sixteen. He left her in charge of Livvie and me but didn’t leave us any money. The credit card he had on file got declined, so I had to sweet talk the hotel manager into letting us stay until he came back. Even though I had no idea if he would.”
“So what did you do all day, wait around in the room? Or did you three just run amok around London?” Dante asks, a concerned edge in his voice. “I mean, you had to eat, right?”
I shrug. “Nothing too crazy. We mostly stayed in the room. Charlie convinced the pub down the road to let her work bussing tables, so she’d bag up all the leftover fish and chips and stale soda bread after her shift and bring it back to us with her tips. I just wish Dad had left us in France—at least the bar food would have been good, right?”
My voice is light,as if the whole thing was a great lark, but just thinking of it now brings back the fear and uncertainty we felt, not knowing if he’d abandoned us for good, or if he’d gotten into some kind of trouble and wouldn’t even be able to come back. It suddenly clicks why Rico abandoning me in Roccette hit me so hard. Why I shut down so completely afterward.
Dante takes my hand and squeezes, letting me know that he understands.
I watch the scattered fall colors whisk by, the trees interspersed with more and more evergreens, fragrant conifers, and cedars. As the elevation increases, I roll the window down and breathe in the cool, fresh air. Soon, I’m directing Dante onto a winding, hilly road, one that will take us far away from anyone but ourselves and pure nature.
“Okay. Turn left. Almost there,” I say, pointing at a narrow gravel road that leads into the dense trees. A little further along, I see the two circular red reflectors nailed into the trunk of a familiar western red cedar and say, “This is it. You can park.”
“Here?” he asks, pulling onto the side of the road. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“You trust me, right?” I ask with a wink.
Without waiting for an answer, I get out and grab our new boots from the back seat. Once we’re properly shod, Dante grabs the food bag and my overstuffed tote bag and lets me lead him down a dirt path into the woods.
A few yards in, the dirt gives way to sand and opens up onto a small, secluded beach surrounded by scrubby trees. The lake is crystal blue, a mirror of the sky. Green hills, spotted with sprawling oaks and pines, roll into the horizon across the water. The air is brisk and the breeze is cool, but with the bright sun overhead, it’s a perfect Nor Cal fall day.
“Welcome to Tomales Bay,” I say grandly.
I lift my face to the sun and breathe in deep, but when I look back over at Dante, he’s staring at me, not the scenery. His eyes are alight and awed, as if I’m somehow more beautiful than the view. It turns my heart right over.
I grab a blanket out of the tote and spread it out on the sand. Then I gesture for Dante to hand me the to-go bag and begin pulling out the boxes of food. Pasteles wrapped in banana leaves, tostones, bistec sandwiches on light, crispy bread, and coconut soda.
After a slight pause, Dante sinks down next to me, not exactly looking comfortable. He starts digging around in the bag like he’s looking for something.
“They forgot utensils.” He flips the bag over just in case they’re hiding somewhere, clearly annoyed.
Smiling, I break the news to him: “Good, because you donoteat tostones with a fork. You have much to learn, young padawan.”
Popping open the container, I grab a fried plantain and lift it to his mouth. He hesitates for a second and then takes a small bite.
“It’s…good,” he says, sounding surprised.
I shake my head and laugh, handing him one of the sandwiches. As he starts unwrapping the paper from it, I pull a bottle of white wine out and open it.
“This is the absolute best wine pairing I’ve ever tasted,” I tell him. “It’s a fourteen-dollar bottle and it is going to blow your mind.”
“Let me guess,” he says dryly. “No glasses.”
“Not a one,” I agree, taking a sip from the bottle and letting the cool, crisp, rich flavor burst over my tongue.
