“Nothing. It’s when you treat other people like you’re better than them that it’s a problem.”
“He doesn’t treat anyone like he’s better than them.”
Tyler raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Really? So you don’t feel like you’re a supporting actress on the Sam show?” he asked.
I didn’t respond, nor did I meet his gaze.
“Exactly,” he said, hearing the words I didn’t want to say.
My feelings of inferiority when comparing myself to Sam were a combination of so many things. Our age difference, his life experience, the impeccable looks he was born with. None of those traits were things he manufactured with the intent to make anyone feel lesser. They were what they were. Maybe he lived with a certainty that came from a privileged upbringing but I admired him for it. I hoped I could learn from him how to live with a similar outlook, a belief in myself that had so far eluded me.
Tyler wasn’t the only one with reservations. As Kelly’s initial curiosity wore off, she questioned me with more and more skepticism.
“So you’re, like, his assistant?” she asked on a morning ride. We walked the horses through the grapevines. “I thought you hired him.”
“My dad hired him.”
“You, your dad, the vineyard. It’s all the same. It just doesn’t make sense to me that you’re paying the guy and yet you’re doing the grunt work.”
I took a deep breath to temper my impatience. Neither Tyler nor Kelly had had a single conversation with Sam and yet they had so much to say about him. Even if I agreed with them, it wasn’t like I could avoid Sam—we were tethered together by Dad for the rest of the summer, for better or worse.
“Dad asked me to. It’s fine. It will save the vineyard money if we don’t have to pay him for things like sorting through Dad’s teetering stacks of paperwork and making trivial phone calls. But really, it’s for my dad, not Sam.”
It didn’t help my case that I blushed every time I said his name.
Kelly watched me with narrowed eyes.
“Wow,” she finally said. “I don’t think you’ve ever actually liked a guy before.”
I thought about denying it but I didn’t want to lie to her. Little did I know just how much lying I would be doing that summer. For now, I said nothing.
“Just don’t forget what this summer is about, Mal. Don’t waste it on a crush. It’s not like anything serious can come from it. We’re leaving.”
I was quick to reassure her I knew and agreed, but when we left the horses in the stables and I met Sam in the kitchen to start work for the day, our conversation slipped from my mind as soon as he smiled at me.
“What are you working on?” I asked him when he returned to scribbling in his notebook, his pen scratching against the paper.
“An advertisement for a local paper. Well, localish. There aren’t a lot of people in town to advertise to,” he says. “Not people who don’t already know about it.”
I lifted one side of the newspaper scattered in front of him so I could see the title. He seemed to be studying other ads to model ours after.
“Dad told me what you’re going to do with the old barn. A tasting room?”
Sam nodded.
The barn had been sitting empty since before we moved in, and as a girl, I’d always been afraid of it, making up stories during sleepovers with Kelly about how it was haunted. Whenever we’d walked past it on the way to the bus stop or to her house, we superstitiously walked in a wide circle around it.
But Dad had shown me Sam’s mock-ups and they were breathtaking—the cute little wooden tables and the racks with glistening bottles of wine in every slot. A bar where Dad could open the bottles and pour the glasses, allow certain wines to breathe before serving them. In the back half of the barn, there would be an area for more cellar space, and a private party room that could hold twelve people. Glass doors would separate the private room from the lobby, keeping the open feel. My old stories seemed childish in comparison to Sam’s vision. It was just a barn, and soon it would be something beautiful created by someone beautiful.
Sam dropped his pen and sat back, giving me his full attention. He overwhelmed me every time he did.
“It will be a chance for your dad to introduce people to his wines and to let them get to know him. Rich is a smart, passionate man and it’s that passion that sells the wine, not the grapes.”
It was disconcerting to hear my dad described with so much adoration or to try to see him from an outside perspective, but Sam was right—Dad’s enthusiasm for good wine fingerprinted the skin of every grape that grew on this vineyard. That was something that couldn’t be bottled.
He motioned me over to see his work. I hesitated but when he nodded his head again, I sat and scooted my chair closer to his, allowing a few inches between us. I sensed his proximity acutely.
“The culture here is so different from Washington.”
I focused my attention on his clumsy sketch. In the foreground, he’d drawn a wine bottle with what looked like a logo on the label, but it was different from our current labels. In the background, there were squiggly lines that almost resembled grapevines from a high vantage point, like from the mountaintop where I rode Midnight most mornings. The big block text next to the wine bottle read “Taste the good life.” The message was all there, but his drawing was the equivalent of stick figures.
I was so relieved to see he wasn’t perfect at everything that I laughed.
“Hey, give me a break,” he said, unembarrassed. “A graphic designer will whip this up. I just need to give him the general idea.”
“No, it’s good,” I said through giggles.
He stretched his long fingers across his chest, wounded. “You’re going to hurt my fragile ego.”
I thought, I highly doubt that.
“I like it,” I said, though apparently not convincing enough, because he scoffed and pulled the sheet of paper away from me. “No, really,” I said with a laugh, which I quickly stifled.
I reached for the drawing and he allowed me to pull it back over so I could study it closer.
“The wine bottle is great and the overhead shot of the vineyard would be beautiful. But what if, for the text, it was more like...the perfect getaway?”
“Hmm...” he said slowly, nodding, pondering.
“It just seems like most people who come to visit act like this place is like...heaven on earth or something. I mean, if you can’t go to Paris.”
Sam grinned. “Now there’s a tagline. When you can’t go to Italy.”
I laughed. “LA people would love that.”
He nodded, his pen already back in his hand, scratching out his previous wording.
“You’re pretty good at this, you know?” he said as he wrote down both of our ideas. “Have you done anything like this before?”
I moved away from him, embarrassed by his compliment. I shook my head. Truthfully, I’d taken a communications class my junior year and it was one of the only classes I’d excelled in without Kelly’s help, but I didn’t mention it for fear of reminding him that I was barely out of high school.
“You should consider it. Most people don’t realize that the key to marketing is being able to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Namely, your ideal customer. You seem to get that naturally.”
I shrugged, unsure how to answer. “It must help that you’ve met so many different kinds of people. On your travels,” I clarified. He had mentioned frequent trips to Europe during our walks in the vineyard.
“Maybe. But I think you learn more about other people the more you learn about yourself. Growing up, I had a lot of time to think about my place in the world.”
Sam’s gaze grew distant—an expression I’d grown familiar with in observing him. Despite his charming smile, there was a sadness in him, just below the surface, and I’d never wanted
to uncover anything so badly in my life.
“You were alone a lot?” I asked.
His attention snapped back to me, but he didn’t answer. He stared right through me and his intensity unnerved me. I usually shied away from vulnerability but with him, I wanted to peel back my layers, hoping that in turn, he would peel back his.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “As an only child to two people who are always working, I spent a lot of time alone, too. Kelly comes over, but...her mom needs her.”
Sam woke from his reverie and the muscles in his cheeks tightened to an almost smile. A pretend smile. Anger flared inside me as I thought about the prejudiced assumptions Tyler and Kelly cloaked him in.
“That must be it,” Sam said. He picked up his pen again and started to scribble nonsensical designs in the corner of his page.
I didn’t push it further.
NINE
NOW
“And now we make our sacrifice,” Joe bellows before climbing down from the bar and disappearing into the crowd.
“Oh, Jesus. I need more alcohol,” I tell Kelly. She shakes her head and points to the bathroom. I nod.
I lean over the bar to find Tyler. He’s talking to someone at the other end so I have to wait for him. The crowd undulates, rearranging for things I can’t see over their heads.
As Tyler gets closer, he must spot Sam, too, because his smile melts away and he raises an eyebrow at me.
“Another?” Tyler asks, eyeing my empty glass.
“Yes, please.”
I pray Tyler won’t say anything about Sam crashing the event. I don’t want to talk about Sam, let alone find myself defending him. Thankfully Tyler just fills my glass.
I swallow half down immediately, honoring all the tears I cried for my own bad season, shuddering as the alcohol lights a fire down my esophagus.
“You’re not letting him get to you, are you?” he asks, holding up my glass in question.
“No,” I say unconvincingly. “It’s not that. It’s been a rough afternoon.”
He sets the glass back down and tops it off. “What is it, then?” He rests his elbows on the bar, getting closer so we can hear each other over the noise.
“I spoke to Kelly’s mom tonight,” I say, lowering my voice even though he can barely hear me. “She seemed to be doing well, considering, but...she said something to me about Kelly.”
Tyler furrows his brow.
I shouldn’t care anymore. Kelly wants me to let it go and she’s made it clear I have no sway on her decision, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s more she isn’t telling me. And I’m not the only one who might be able to convince her to get out of her own way.
I lean in farther.
“She told me that she’s been trying to get Kelly to go to LA for years.”
“Really,” he states, more than asks. “I always thought—”
“Me, too. And I know she’s worried about Shannon’s safety, but Shannon would be safer in a nursing home than by herself all day while Kelly’s at work, right? She would have nurses and people to monitor her medications. It just doesn’t add up.”
Kelly doesn’t owe me answers—not anymore—but it still hurts that she would keep the truth from me. I always thought I understood Kelly, but our relationship had clearly changed long before we fell apart.
Tyler shifts uncomfortably, preoccupying himself with a spot on the bar. “I couldn’t say,” he says. “It’s not like we’re close.”
I’m surprised he would say that, considering Kelly works at the vineyard and makes his coffee at Monet’s Mug most mornings. I always considered them friends, if not directly, then by proxy.
I study him, debating how much to push. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” I say.
“I really don’t know,” he says more resolutely. “I mean, why are you still in New York?” he asks. “It was never your idea in the first place. And you said it yourself...you’re not a city girl.”
I look around at all the people who made up my world as I knew it before I left. Colombia wasn’t my idea but I’ve always had a heart for adventure. I thought if I got out of this small town I would find something bigger, something better. But as they say, wherever you go, there you are. All the same things that kept me feeling stuck here, have me feeling stuck in New York, if I’m being honest with myself. I’ve forgotten altogether what I once hoped to find.
“Because of my parents,” I finally admit. Someone knocks over a drink at the table behind me and everyone nearby scatters in uproar.
“Your parents?” Tyler asks, drawing my attention back to him.
“I know,” I say. “It sounds backward. You’d think they’d want me to come home, and I’m sure part of them does want that. But they flew out for my graduation, and they were so proud. Not just proud, but shocked. Like they never really believed I could stick with something long enough to get a degree.”
Tyler frowns. My voice grows louder over the crowd.
“Don’t act surprised. I know what everyone thinks about me. I’m the careless one, the one with my head in the clouds. I’m always late and I can’t make a plan to save my life, and you know what? You’re all right. So I guess I just decided to stop leading the kind of life that lets down all the people I love.”
“Mal—” Tyler starts.
“I saw it in their eyes, Tyler. For the first time, they really believed in me. I didn’t want to give that up. So I did the responsible thing. I got a paid internship, which believe me, in marketing and in New York no less, is very hard to do. And I’ve just...stayed.”
“I get it,” he says. “I do. I mean, I want to do right by my uncle, too. What if I get to Montana and can’t find any clients? What if I run out of money? Will I have to leave? Will I swallow my pride and ask him to support me? Will I get a job and then not have enough time to focus on building the horse ranch? It can seem like there are no right answers. Or at least like there are no answers that don’t require a lot of sacrifice. But you know your parents love you no matter what, right?”
My shoulders slump. “Of course I know that. I’ve never doubted it for a second of my life.” I twist the shot glass between my fingertips. “But love isn’t the same as respect.”
Tyler nods again, a deep understanding evident in the lines of his forehead.
“Did you see your dad?” Kelly asks, rejoining us. I guess we’re back to being distantly polite.
Tyler busies himself behind the bar at her arrival and I take a sip of the moonshine, resolving to slow my alcohol intake.
“Do I want to?” I ask, wondering what further antics the night has brought on.
I look in the direction Kelly’s pointing, where I see Dad standing next to four tables that have been pushed together in the center of the bar. He’s surrounded by other vintners, who circle the tables, their shoes off and pant legs rolled up to their shins.
Joe silences the crowd again with his moonshine bottle and spoon. He raises his voice to explain the next part of the ceremony.
“In Greek, Celtic, Wiccan, and many other religious traditions, it was customary to offer something to the gods to ask for their favor. A gift, or an offering, if you will. Some called it...a sacrifice.”
The crowd oohs, though most of them know what’s coming. I raise my eyebrows at Kelly but she shakes her head, not giving anything away.
“Farmers offered up their best livestock in hopes that it would please the gods. And when that wasn’t enough, they would offer up one of their own.”
More ominous murmuring adds to the tension as we all wait for what Joe will say next.
“In a similar fashion, we offer up the best of Paso.”
Joe looks around the room, enjoying his performance more than the rest of us, I think. Dad widens his eyes, like he doesn’t know what’s about to come next. But then Joe holds up
two bowls—one overflowing with deep purple spheres, the other with yellow green.
“Grapes!” Joe shouts.
“I don’t like where this is going,” I say to no one in particular, but the glee on my dad’s face warms me. He is so very loved in this town, by everyone. There isn’t a single person in this room he hasn’t helped, or who wouldn’t give Dad the very shirt off their back. They respect his authenticity, his passion for viticulture, and for this town. And because he is always there for them, they are always there for him, no questions asked.
“Where do they get those grapes?” I ask Kelly. From here, I can tell they’re wine grapes—not something that could be purchased at the store—but they look ripe, as if they’d been picked earlier today.
Kelly shrugs but the person behind me—a middle-aged woman I don’t recognize—leans in to answer for her.
“Each of the vintners donates a bundle at the end of the previous season and Joe keeps them in his freezer all year.”
I shake my head in amusement.
Joe picks up his monologue. “Each of the vintners who have chosen to participate in this sacrificial ritual will crush these grapes grown right here in Paso Robles as their offering to the gods, to ensure another great season.”
The crowd cheers as the men surrounding the tables make their way to the chair, a makeshift ladder. Joe hoists the men onto the tables. It’s quite precarious and some of the men are much older than my dad, but looking at them now, they could all be boys again as they bask in the attention and glory. When my dad climbs onto the table, I cheer especially loudly. Sam leans against the wall across the room, staring at me and clapping.
Once all the men are on the tables, Joe holds the bowls of grapes up high, eliciting another loud roar from the crowd, then he dumps them on the tables and the vintners—six of them—stomp wildly on the grapes, laughing, slipping around, and egging each other on. Other men surround the tables, offering the vintners hands to hold on to so they don’t fall. The townspeople cheer them on as if it’s a sporting event. The closest ones get sprayed with grape juice, squealing and laughing.
Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard Page 9