There was space for half a dozen guest rooms. The large detached barn, currently full of agricultural machinery, was the right size for a recording studio.
Dave wanted to buy it immediately. He told himself not to get enthusiastic too soon. He said: ‘What’s the asking price?’
‘Sixty thousand dollars.’
‘That’s a lot.’
‘Two thousand dollars an acre is about the market price for a producing vineyard,’ Morty said. ‘They’ll throw in the house for free.’
‘Plus it wants a lot of work.’
‘You said it. Central heating, electrical rewiring, insulation, new bathrooms . . . You could spend almost as much again fixing it up.’
‘Say a hundred thousand dollars, not including recording equipment.’
‘It’s a lot of money.’
Dave grinned. ‘Fortunately, I can afford it.’
‘You certainly can.’
When they went outside, a pickup truck was parking. The man who got out had broad shoulders and a weathered face. He looked Mexican but he spoke without an accent. ‘I’m Danny Medina, the farmer here,’ he said. He wiped his hands on his dungarees before shaking.
‘I’m thinking of buying the place,’ Dave said.
‘Good. It will be nice to have a neighbour.’
‘Where do you live, Mr Medina?’
‘I have a cottage at the other end of the vineyard, just out of sight over the lip of the ridge. Are you European?’
‘Yes, British.’
‘Europeans usually like wine.’
‘Do you make wine here?’
‘A little. We sell most of the grapes. Americans don’t like wine, except for Italian-Americans, and they import it. Most people prefer cocktails or beer. But our wine is good.’
‘White or red?’
‘Red. Would you like a couple of bottles to try?’
‘Sure.’
Danny reached into the cab of the pickup, pulled out two bottles, and handed them to Dave.
Dave looked at the label. ‘Daisy Farm Red?’ he said.
Morty said: ‘That’s the name of the place, didn’t I tell you? Daisy Farm.’
‘Daisy is my mother’s name.’
Danny said: ‘Maybe it’s an omen.’ He climbed back into the vehicle. ‘Good luck!’
As Danny drove away, Dave said: ‘I like this place. Let’s buy it.’
Morty protested: ‘I have five more to show you!’
‘I’m in a hurry to see my fiancée.’
‘You might like one of the other places even more than this.’
Dave gestured over the vine fields. ‘Do any of them have this view?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s go back to San Francisco.’
‘You’re the boss.’
On the way back, Dave began to feel daunted by the project he had embarked on. ‘I guess I need to find a builder,’ he said.
‘Or an architect,’ said Morty.
‘Really? Just to fix a place up?’
‘An architect would talk to you about what you want, draw up plans, then put the job out to tender with a number of builders. He would also supervise the work, in theory – though in my experience they tend to lose interest.’
‘Okay,’ said Dave. ‘Do you know anyone?’
‘Do you want an old-established firm, or someone young and hip?’
Dave considered. ‘How about someone young and hip who works for an old-established firm?’
Morty laughed. ‘I’ll ask around.’
They drove back to San Francisco and, shortly after midday, Morty dropped Dave off at the Dewar family house on Nob Hill.
Beep’s mother let Dave in. ‘Welcome!’ she said. ‘You’re early – which is great, except that Beep’s not here.’
Dave was disappointed, but not surprised. He had anticipated spending the whole day looking at properties with Morty, and had told Beep to expect him at the end of the afternoon. ‘I guess she’s gone to school,’ Dave said. She was a sophomore at Berkeley. Dave knew – though her parents did not – that she studied very little, and was in danger of failing her exams and getting expelled.
He went to the bedroom they shared and put down his suitcase. Beep’s contraceptive pills were on the bedside table. She was careless, and sometimes forgot to take the tablet, but Dave did not mind. If she got pregnant, they would just get married in a hurry.
He returned downstairs and sat in the kitchen with Bella, telling her all about Daisy Farm. She was infected by his enthusiasm and eager to view the place.
‘Would you like some lunch?’ she offered. ‘I was about to make soup and a sandwich.’
‘No, thanks, I had a huge breakfast on the plane.’ Dave was hyped up. ‘I’ll go and tell Walli about Daisy Farm.’
‘Your car’s in the garage.’
Dave got in his red Dodge Charger and zigzagged across San Francisco from its wealthiest neighbourhood to its poorest.
Walli was going to love the idea of a farmhouse where they could all live and make music, Dave thought. They would have all the time they wanted to perfect their recordings. Walli was itching to work with one of the new eight-track tape recorders – and people were already talking about even bigger sixteen-track machines – but today’s more complex music took longer to make. Studio time was costly, and musicians sometimes felt rushed. Dave believed he had found the solution.
As Dave drove, a fragment of a tune came into his head, and he sang: ‘We’re all going to Daisy Farm.’ He smiled. Perhaps it would be a song. ‘Daisy Farm Red’ would be a good title. It could be a girl or a colour or a type of marijuana. He sang: ‘We’re all going to see Daisy Farm Red, where the fruit hangs on the vine.’
He parked outside Walli’s house in Haight-Ashbury. The front door was unlocked, as always. The living room on the ground floor was empty, but littered with the debris of the previous night: pizza boxes, dirty coffee cups, full ashtrays and empty beer bottles.
Dave was disappointed not to find Walli up. He was itching to discuss Daisy Farm. He decided to wake Walli.
He went upstairs. The house was quiet. It was possible Walli had got up earlier and gone out without cleaning up.
The bedroom door was closed. Dave knocked and opened it. Walking in, he sang: ‘We’re all going to Daisy Farm,’ then he stopped dead.
Walli was in bed, half-sitting up, clearly startled.
Next to him on the mattress was Beep.
For a moment Dave was too shocked to speak.
Walli said: ‘Hey, man . . .’
Dave’s stomach lurched, as if he were in an elevator that dropped too fast. He suffered a feeling of panicky weightlessness. Beep was in bed with Walli, and there was no ground beneath Dave’s feet. Stupidly, he said: ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘It’s nothing, man . . .’
Shock turned to anger. ‘What are you talking about? You’re in bed with my fiancée! How can it be nothing?’
Beep sat upright. Her hair was tousled. The sheet fell away from her breasts. ‘Dave, let us explain.’ she said.
‘Okay, explain,’ said Dave, folding his arms.
She got up. She was naked, and the perfect beauty of her body brought home to Dave, with the force and shock of a punch in the face, that he had lost her. He wanted to weep.
Beep said: ‘Let’s all have coffee and—’
‘No coffee,’ Dave said, speaking harshly to save himself from the humiliation of tears. ‘Just explain.’
‘I don’t have any clothes on!’
‘That’s because you’ve been fucking your fiancé’s best friend.’ Dave found that angry words masked his pain. ‘You said you were going to explain that to me. I’m still waiting.’
Beep pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Look, jealousy is out of date, okay?’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I love you and I want to marry you, but I like Walli too, and I like going to bed with him, and love is free, isn’t it? So why lie about it?’
‘That’s it?’ said Dave incredulously. ‘That’s your explanation?’
Walli said: ‘Take it easy, man, I think I’m still tripping a little.’
‘You two took acid last night – is that how this happened?’ Dave felt a glimmer of hope. If they had only done it once . . .
‘She loves you, man. She just passes the time with me, while you’re away, you know?’
Dave’s hope was dashed. This was not the only time. It was a regular thing.
Walli stood up and pulled on a pair of jeans. ‘My feet grew bigger in the night,’ he said. ‘Weird.’
Dave ignored the druggy talk. ‘You haven’t even said you’re sorry – either of you!’
‘We’re not sorry,’ said Walli. ‘We felt like screwing, so we did. It doesn’t change anything. No one is faithful any more. All you need is love – didn’t you understand that song?’ He stared at Dave intently. ‘Did you know you have an aura? Kind of like a halo. I never noticed that before. It’s blue, I think.’