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Maddie nodded, uninterested.
Margaret looked like she’d swallowed paste. Then quickly recovered.
She bent down so she and Maddie were eye to eye. “It’s nice to meet you, sweetie.”
She forced a smile, looked at Ben and me.
Then she motioned to Jacob.
“Do we know each other?” she said. “You look familiar.”
“I’m Jacob McCarthy. I think we met once at a pickup party for Angus.”
“Right,” she said. “Great.”
She looked back and forth between Ben and Jacob, noting the tension.
Then she forced a smile, motioning to Jacob. “You’re coming with me,” she said.
Sebastopol, California. 1989
Murray had been the one who told him that you have to give farming—winemaking included—ten years. Ten years to figure out how the land beneath you was going to work. How you were going to work it.
This would mark year ten—the beginning of it, the end. Today was the harvest party, a small party. Dan had taken the extra money this year and built a winemaker’s cottage, where he could do his work. It had been Jen’s idea. She’d thought that they needed a separation between church and state.
He’d thought it was a bad idea, but he hadn’t argued with her, and he was glad he hadn’t. He was glad to be sitting on the porch of his cottage now, watching the festivities happen—tons of good pizza and free beer for the workers.
It wasn’t much of a party, but it was something. He was glad to do something for them. They had earned it. And they were happy sitting in chairs that Jen had set up, umbrellas shielding them from the sun, Bob Dylan playing in the background.
It had been a good harvest despite the cold temperatures. The grapes had held on, and he had no complaints. Or, he had one complaint. His five-year-old daughter had taken this opportunity to announce that she knew what she wanted to do for a living. She wanted to be a winemaker like him. It broke his heart. It broke his heart and made him happy all at once. He didn’t like to think about her out here, without having him to protect her. Now the vineyard was a joy for h
er, a pure and unadulterated joy. What if it became something else? But you don’t get to choose for your kids, not once they were grown-ups: not once they were five, going on fifty.
She was sitting on the porch with him, reading a book, when Murray walked up.
“Dan,” he said. He was smiling, holding a bottle of his wine in one hand, holding his grandson in his other, his grandson, Jacob, who was visiting from New York City.
Dan’s daughter dropped her book and ran away. She ran toward her brothers, who were playing catch. Finn picked up another glove as soon as she got there, wanting to play, Bobby biting his nails. This was a two-person catch and he didn’t want to include his sister. But Finn put his arm around Georgia protectively until Bobby relented and threw her the ball. This was the interesting part. Jen had pointed it out, and now Dan would notice it too. Bobby always threw the ball so Georgia could catch it. Bobby threw the ball softer than Finn would throw it to his sister. He threw softer and he waited longer. He moved to her level as opposed to asking her to climb to his. This was why they didn’t intervene too much, letting the kids work it out. Because Finn seemed like he was the one taking care of his sister, but, in the ways it counted, Bobby was too.
“How are you doing, Murray?” Dan said.
“Good. Good. No complaints.”
Dan motioned toward the pizza, smiling. “Help yourself,” he said.
Murray nodded, picking up a piece of the greasy pizza, handing it to his grandson, Jacob taking a big bite.
“You want to go play?” Murray said to him.
Jacob nodded and ran out into the yard, toward Dan’s children—the kids dancing, Jen dancing. Then he ran past them to a tree in the shade, guarding his pizza, and pulled out a comic book.
“He’s a city kid. Not much for the outdoors.” Murray shrugged. “I’m working on it.”
Murray took a seat beside Dan on the steps, Dan pouring him a glass of wine.
“I was just thinking of you when you walked up.”
“Were you?”
