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The Wine Cave
We got back to the house and Finn went inside to take a shower. I went down toward the vineyard and found my parents in the wine cave, walking along the aged barrels. They were working through the wines that they were going to serve that night, choosing from among the wines that had just finished fermenting. They were standing there together, working side by side, like they had been standing there eighteen months ago when those wines had begun the work they were getting ready to finish. My mother never gave herself credit for everything she did for the wine. It was the reason that she didn’t seem to see it now—how much she loved it.
I watched them for a minute before moving closer. My mother leaned into my father. They looked happy together.
My mother looked up. “Hey,” she said. “Where have you been all morning?”
I didn’t know if the better answer was stealing their vineyard back for them or bailing their son out of jail.
I looked back and forth between them, bracing myself for their wrath. “I was actually down at the courthouse.”
“The courthouse?” My mother perked up. “Getting your marriage license?”
“I filed an injunction,” I said.
My mother tilted her head and gave me a look. “For what?”
“The vineyard. To stop the sale of the vineyard.”
My father laughed. “That’s not going to work.”
I plowed onward. “Ben and I can’t match what Murray Grant is paying you for the vineyard, but we can come close if you take a share of the money in percentage of future earnings. And either way, we will figure out a way to make you whole.”
They shared a look with each other, my father crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?” he said. “You’re just going to give up your job?”
“No. My firm has a San Francisco office.”
My mother laughed. “Oh, so you’re going to be a lawyer and run the vineyard?”
My father shook his head. “You and Ben don’t want this place. You think I want this place.”
“I love it here, Dad.”
“Enough to give up everything you’ve worked for? Your marriage and the firm . . .”
“The vineyard isn’t getting in the way of any of that.”
He looked at me seriously. “Then you have no idea what the vineyard is,” he said.
My father turned back to his barrels, done talking. My mother looked away.
I left the wine cave and headed up the hill, toward the house, quickly. I knew they were angry, but I was angry too. It left me thinking of my mother’s words. Be careful what you give up. You get it back however you can. I was floored and scared by everything my father seemed to be giving up here. And maybe it wasn’t my job to convince him that he was making a mistake—maybe I shouldn’t have even been trying—though I wasn’t just scared for him. I was scared how untethered I felt, thinking about losing the vineyard. As if for the first time, in a very long time, I was able to see how very much it mattered to me.
I looked down the hill, toward the wine cave. My mother was walking through the doorway, my father hoisting a case of wine over his shoulder, following her. I wanted to call out to them, but they were too far away to hear anything, let alone what I didn’t know how to say.
Sebastopol, California. 2004
It was the night before their child’s wedding. It should have been a happy time, but Dan was worried about the wedding. He was worried about Bobby choosing Margaret. Dan loved Margaret and thought she’d be great for Bobby. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he wasn’t certain that Bobby thought Margaret would be great for Bobby. After Margaret lost the pregnancy, Bobby had expressed doubts to Dan as much as Bobby ever expressed things. He was young. And now that they weren’t going to have the kid, what was the rush? Dan had asked him the simple question. Why not wait, then?
Bobby told him the truth. Because I won’t do it then and I think I should.
Wasn’t that the worst reason to do anything?
Dan drove into town to the brewery to see his kids, his daughter home from law school. She was like Bobby in this way. She thought she was supposed to take a certain path. She thought she should be in law school and, he knew, part of her wanted to be there, learning about torts. Tax law. She seemed happy, or she had convinced herself she was happy. That was often the same thing. Who was he to interfere?
When he got home, Jen was sitting on the front steps, making place cards for the reception: so everyone would know where they were sitting at the long farm table, lit by candles and lanterns, shining grape leaves.
She motioned toward Finn’s room. “The bride is sleeping upstairs,” Jen said.
