Ben took a bite of Maddie’s cake, winked at her. He didn’t turn back to Jacob when he spoke next.
“I didn’t know Murray had much to do with Dan,” Ben said.
“He didn’t, but I do.”
“Why’s that?”
“We’re purchasing The Last Straw Vineyard,” Jacob said.
Ben turned toward me, shocked, compassion filling his eyes.
“We’re planning to keep the vineyard in the tradition of Dan’s work, to offer a biodynamic option to our customers. The vineyard will be run exactly the same.”
Ben smiled, tightly. “If Dan’s not here, it can’t be run exactly the same.”
“Dan isn’t worried about it,” he said.
Ben leaned in. “How much money did you have to pay him so he wouldn’t be?”
The tension between them was thick. I should have enjoyed it, neither of them in my good graces. But I didn’t want to watch it either, which maybe Jacob sensed.
“I should probably get going . . .” Jacob said. It was less a statement, more a question. Did I want him to go or did I want protection from the talk Ben would demand we have as soon as we were alone?
I didn’t meet his eyes. I didn’t want protection from Ben, at least not from Jacob.
“You need us to call you a cab?” Ben said.
His eyes were still on me. “No,” Jacob said. “I’m going to walk.”
“Who’s walking where?”
Margaret walked into the kitchen, more like breezed into it, smiling, animated. She wore workout clothes, a sun visor, her long hair swept beneath it. She looked around the table and noticed Ben.
“Ben!” she said. “When did you get here? Did you come up for the family dinner tonight?”
Ben stood up to hug Margaret, wrapped his arms around her. “Of course.”
He smiled, happy to see Margaret, happy to be going to the family dinner. He hadn’t missed it since we’d started dating. The intimate family celebration before the big harvest party celebration. Ben loved it so much that he flew from a meeting in New York one year to be there for it. Another year, he cancelled a trip to London. He loved it as much as any of the Fords did.
Margaret smiled. “We were hoping you’d show up,” she said. “And who is this cutie pie?”
Ben looked at his daughter, smiling. “This is Maddie,” he said.
“Maddie?” Margaret said.
“Ben’s daughter,” Jacob said.
“What was that?” Margaret said.
Ben drilled Jacob with a dirty look, but I stifled a laugh, enjoying the confused look on Margaret’s face.
“Maddie, this is Margaret,” Ben said. “Margaret is going to be your aunt.”
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 her, 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?”
Dan nodded. “I was thinking how you were the first to tell me that it takes ten years for a vineyard to become itself. That I should be patient and I would get there.”
Murray took the wine, tilting it in Dan’s direction. “I was right, wasn’t I? This has become something lovely. Don’t you think?”
Dan smiled. He knew Murray meant that. But he also knew Murray profited ten million dollars last year, which meant more to him.