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When I’d calmed down, I tried to explain myself. It was difficult. While I’d pretended to myself and to everybody else that this thing with Michael wasn’t a big deal, I’d gone and fallen in love with him. Neither Pops nor Grams was surprised by my admission, claiming they could tell from the first moment that there was a certain special spark between us.
Eventually, with my stomach in a giant knot, I’d asked about Walter and this whole winery business, explaining that I didn’t want either of them to be upset, but I just needed to know the truth. They told me everything. About how Walter had come over declaring he’d been sent by Mr. Allan Blaire himself and was ready to make any offer necessary to purchase the winery. Pops had shut him down, telling him in no uncertain terms that our land was not for sale and that the only Blaire he’d deal with was Michael. Grams had gotten involved too, asserting herself as the matriarch of Moretti Vineyards, cussing him out in Italian, and finally sending him on his way, telling him to “never step foot on our property again.”
I was proud of them: for standing up to him, for standing up for us. When I’d asked about him causing Pops’s attack, they both denied that he had been the reason for it but agreed that it was eerily coincidental. Pops told me, “That man is no more cause for my heart attack than a bunch of butterflies. He didn’t intimidate me one bit. I was just pissed that Blaire sent some underling out to us. I understand your concern, but honest to goodness, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Grams then told me about contacting Michael about the original offer, that she and Pops had talked it over and decided that maybe it was time for them to consider their options. With the doctor’s orders to take things easy and avoid stress, maybe they should sell and get a head start on an early retirement. With me going back to San Francisco and no one else to take over, what choice did they really have?
Talking with them had me considering my options and my future. Yes, San Francisco was where I wanted to be. I’d always imagined myself up there, opening my own restaurant, making a life and name for myself. And, of course, they were right. I had to follow my heart and do what I always dreamed of doing.
But laying here now, under the covers, huddled in the warmth of my childhood bed, I felt hollow inside. I needed to see Michael. Maybe then I’d feel better. Even if things didn’t work out with us, I needed to apologize for the things I’d said.
Putting on a brave face, I walked to his trailer. I used the extra time to go over what I wanted to say and how I would fix my mistakes.
I was shocked that his car wasn’t there. I don’t know why I tried knocking on his door. It was obvious he wasn’t inside. Instead of feeling relief, being able to prolong my begging and pleading for his forgiveness, I felt deserted. Like he had listened to everything I said and had taken me at my word. And why shouldn’t he? I hadn’t been fair. I hadn’t been willing to hear him out. My words,I’ll never forgive you,reverberated in my mind. Tears pooled in my eyes and slipped down my cheeks.You’ve supremely screwed things up this time.They were my words in my head, but it was Michael’s voice I heard saying them.
I got to the end of the line, the property line that divided Moretti from Blaire. I took a last look at his trailer, sitting empty and alone, just like I was. I pulled out my phone, said a silent prayer, and pushed Michael’s icon.
It went straight to voicemail.
“H-Hey. It’s me. Um—I’m over here at your place. I was hoping we could talk. I know I said some really awful things.” My voice trembled. “I’m s-sorry. I don’t want to do this over the phone, on voicemail. But I just needed to talk to you. Please, Michael. Call me when you get this.”
I hung up, feeling defeated still. There was no sense of relief. Leaving him a message hadn’t helped. I knew it wouldn’t. Talking to an empty line, not hearing him on the other end, made me feel like we were worlds apart, that I might never see him again. Hearing his voice on his voicemail only made me feel worse. Where was he? Where could he be?What the hell had I done that he’d just up and leave me?
My phone rang and I was instantly relieved.Thank god!I went to answer it and saw Jenny’s face. Jenny, not Michael, was calling. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, letting it go to voicemail. I wasn’t in any mood to talk even to my best friend.
* * *
Four hours later,still no call from Michael. I kept myself busy, cleaning, stocking, checking the wine barrels. Everything was tedious, and I was losing my mind. I kept checking my phone, hoping that maybe I had missed his call. But every time I looked, there was nothing there to ease my fears.
Back at the house, I sat at the kitchen table, keeping Pops company while Grams cooked. I wasn’t in the mood to help today, and she didn’t push. Pops and I worked on putting together a puzzle of Florence. We had a large piece of cardboard laid out over the table, puzzle pieces organized on the outer edges, the design we’d been working on for a while pieced together in the middle.
My phone rang, Michael’s name popping up. My heart stopped, then began beating erratically in my chest. “Hello?” I answered.
“Hi,” he said, “I just got back. I was on the plane.” He sounded so far away. Not physically, but emotionally.
“Plane?”
“Yeah. I just dropped Matthew off at his hotel. I couldn’t understand your message. It was all garbled.”
“Oh.” He didn’t even know that I was sorry, that I had called wanting to apologize. My head dropped, my eyes threatening more tears.
“We need to talk. I’ll be back in about half an hour. Will you be around?”
I swallowed. “Yes,” I said, my voice low.
“See you then,” he said and hung up. His words, formal and detached, twisted the knife even deeper into my heart.
The wind was knocked out of me. I was completely crushed. I made excuses to Pops and Grams, and then I escaped to my room. The tears came on fast and hard as I slid to the floor in utter despair.
I must have been crying louder than I thought. A gentle knock on the door, then Grams peeped her head in. She stepped forward, offering her hand. I hiccupped, placed my hand in hers, and lifted myself up and into her open arms. “Oh,Cara,” she crooned as I wailed. She patted my back, rubbed gentle circles, and rocked back and forth with me. I remembered how she would do the same thing when I was little. Hold me in the crook of her arms, swaying back and forth in her rocking chair, trying to bring me comfort.
My crying subsided. “He sounded so cold, Grams,” I said into her shoulder.
“You have to have faith, Siena.” She pulled back, took my hands in hers. “Tutto accade per una ragione. Si?”
“Yes, Grams. I know. But what if he doesn’t forgive me?”
“But”—she cocked her head to the side—“what if he does? You won’t know unless you try,Cara.”
