Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard

by Jamie Raintree

  Side by side, Kelly and I clap and yell my dad’s name over the din. When I look over at her, bitterness burns in my chest like acid. If we aren’t friends, if we never were, what claim does she have on my family?

  When the men are satisfied that every grape has been crushed, Joe bangs his wooden spoon on the moonshine bottle and yells, “Bring on the rain!”

  * * *

  After the official celebration, some of the crowd hangs around for another hour, finishing Joe’s moonshine and chatting. As the night goes on, more of them trickle out. By ten o’clock, there are only about half of us left, which is still more than capacity.

  I sit at the bar, stirring some fruity vodka concoction Tyler made me to reduce the alcohol content of my frequent refills. I haven’t seen Sam since the grape smashing and Kelly got pulled into a game of pool. I alternate staring absentmindedly at my drink and watching Tyler walk up and down the bar, pouring moonshine for the other patrons.

  “You look tired,” Tyler says, suddenly in front of me again. “Why don’t you head home?”

  I nod toward Kelly. “She’s having fun. I don’t want to rush her.”

  He smiles warmly. “You’re a good friend.”

  I snort. “Am I?” I ask.

  The words fall out of my mouth, meant to be a rhetorical question, but I find I’d really like to know the answer. Especially when it comes to Tyler’s opinion. I trust him to tell me the truth. For my first years in New York, I could blame my lack of friendships on the fast pace of the city and my focus on work. But the more time that passes, the more I’ve begun to feel like it’s me. And Kelly has only confirmed my fears.

  Tyler takes my drink and I hear it clink into the bussing bin. After a bit of searching, he pulls out a half-eaten sleeve of crackers and sets them where my drink was.

  “I’m not drunk,” I say as I peel the sleeve open farther. Though I’m not entirely sure I’m a good judge of my sobriety after three shots of moonshine and two cranberry vodkas.

  “You are,” he says, lifting my chin with a finger, affection warming his cheeks.

  “Which?” I mutter. “A good friend? Or drunk?”

  “Both,” he says.

  There’s a clank of silverware on glass farther down the bar that draws our attention. I lean back and am surprised to see it’s Dad. He hoists himself up onto a chair, then continues banging his fork against a mostly empty wineglass. Always wine.

  “What is he up to now?” I ask Tyler, but Tyler only shrugs and shakes his head, as charmed by Dad as everyone else.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?” Dad says, stumbling on his chair. As much as wine is a part of our everyday lives, I’ve hardly ever seen Dad drunk. I have the strong urge to rescue him before he hurts himself or says something ridiculous, but he’s clearly having the time of his life. He has so much to celebrate.

  “Before we leave here tonight,” he says, “I just want to thank you all for being here and for supporting me all these years. I know twenty-one years ago when I showed up, I was some city slicker moving in on your territory. But far from trying to push me out, you all welcomed me and my family and taught me everything you knew.”

  He looks to the three other vintners who are still here and tips his glass to each of them in turn.

  “The Wandering Vineyard wouldn’t be the success it’s become if it weren’t for all of you, and I can’t thank you enough for that. Because of your generosity, this old roughneck got to follow his dreams. Elizabeth couldn’t make it tonight but I want to raise my glass to her, too, for being there for me for so many years of struggle. There were many years of wondering if we were going to be able to put food on the table.”

  Dad nods to me and at this, many faces turn in my direction. I put on a smile, but my cheeks warm in embarrassment at their attention.

  “You know,” he says, “it’s because of that girl that I even had the courage to follow my dreams. You know what I mean, right? You go about your life, making money, making ends meet, and you don’t think too much about what it all means or how quickly the days are passing by. But then we had Mallory and when I looked into her eyes for the first time, I finally knew what I was living for. And as she grew older, I wanted to do better for her. I realized the best thing I could ever do was to teach her to let her heart be her guide. It took me a while to realize I wasn’t doing that myself, and that the best leading is done by example.”

  I know everyone must be looking at me by this point, and I’m not usually one to show my emotions, but I no longer care. Tears blur my vision and I grin stupidly at my father, whose pride has always given my own life meaning. He, my mom, and I have shared one hell of an adventure together, and sometimes it’s hard to believe it’s over. It’s hard to swallow that we can’t go back.

  I feel Kelly’s sudden presence behind me. The tears roll down my cheeks as I look up at her. My parents and Kelly. She has been my sister in every way but blood, and that doesn’t just go away. It can’t. There’s a look in her eyes that says she knows it, too.

  “And the best part of all,” Dad goes on, “is that I know all the hard work and sacrifices were worth it. Because now my daughter is doing the same thing. She followed her heart to New York, got a degree from one of the best universities in the country, and is doing amazing work that she loves.”

  My smile falters. Is that what I’m doing?

  As I look around the room, I see nothing but expressions of pride. Small-town girl makes good. I force congeniality through my tears.

  “Mallory,” Dad says, raising his glass to me directly, “I am so immensely proud to have raised such a smart, beautiful, kind, driven woman and you make me happier every day to be your father. In a few days, we’ll be celebrating the success of the vineyard, which you also played a role in, but tonight, I want to celebrate you and all your accomplishments. So, to you, honey.”

  Everyone else in the bar raises their glasses and chants, “To Mallory.”

  Tyler appears in front of me with a water and the shot of moonshine he saved for himself. I’ve dreamed of moments like this as I sat alone in my cubicle, surrounded by people who know almost nothing about me. Now I’m surrounded by the people who are like family to me and, while technically everything Dad said about me is true, I feel like a fraud. I can’t pinpoint why.

  “To you,” Tyler says softly. Genuinely.

  I lift my water, looking around uncertainly. And when they all take a drink in honor of me, I drink, too, the ice-cold liquid getting stuck in my throat.

  * * *

  Kelly drives me home in my rental car. Not a fan of the moonshine, she stuck to water most of the night and didn’t trust me to drive. She rolls down the windows, letting the dry heat whip through the car in an attempt to sober me up. It’s too loud to speak over, and for that I’m thankful, because even though Kelly seemed softened by my dad’s speech, I don’t have words for the emotions coursing through me. I rest my spinning head on the window frame, watching the rolling hills climb and fall like whales swimming through the night.

  At home the car door echoes across the vineyard when I slam it shut.

  “Thanks for driving,” I tell her through the open driver-side window.

  “I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” she says. I nod and turn away.

  “Hey, Mal,” she says.

  My heart stutters as she calls me by my nickname. I turn back to her.

  “Don’t think too much tonight, okay?” she says. She must have seen right through my reaction to all the unintentional lies my dad told tonight. She always could read me like a book. “Get some sleep. It will all look better in the morning.”

  I purse my lips, grateful for her thoughtfulness and also to be known so intimately by another human being. That is what I’ve missed in losing my friendship with Kelly. “I’ll do my best.”

  She backs out of the parking lot and
leaves me in the dark.

  I see movement on the porch as I approach, wobbly on my feet. Thanks to Tyler’s crackers and water, I’m no longer drunk, but a combination of the moonshine and my dad’s words still has me tipsy, leaving me off-balance.

  “Late night,” Sam says as I reach the stairs. I can make out the shape of him but not much else with the porch light off—Mom must still be in her office, completely unaware of the outside world, as she tends to be when she works.

  I didn’t see Sam sneak out of the bar. I’d tried to keep my eyes from seeking him out and for once, I managed it.

  “Not that late,” I say. “I live in the city that never sleeps.”

  I reach the top of the stairs and stop, not ready to go to bed but not prepared to navigate another tricky conversation with Sam. Then again, the alcohol still in my veins may make it the perfect time to ask him how he could once so easily pretend to feel something for me. I’m discovering how exhausting pretending can be.

  “Where’s your dad?” he asks.

  “Still living it up. He said he’d follow close behind me. What about you? You’re just sitting out here by yourself in the dark?”

  “It’s a nice night,” Sam says.

  “Then why aren’t you still out enjoying it?”

  “I am out, and I am enjoying it.”

  My body feels like liquid, incapable of holding itself upright. The thought of getting myself up the stairs to my room right now is too much. I lower myself into the chair across from Sam to regain my equilibrium. Just for a minute, I promise myself.

  “Had a little too much moonshine tonight, I take it?” Sam says with a chuckle. “That doesn’t sound like the Mallory I know.”

  I snort a cynical laugh. “And what Mallory do you know?” I ask. I search the table for Sam’s usual nightcap but find only a glass of water. Sam nudges it toward me but I wave it away. I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes. “Since when don’t you drink?”

  Sam ignores the second question. “I thought I knew the Mallory who hates wine and used to be the one to nurse me back to health after a few too many drinks.”

  So he does remember. When I used to try to talk to him about our nights together on the mornings after, he blamed the alcohol for his fuzzy memory, evading my questions and my heartaches.

  “Well, that just goes to show how little you know the Mallory in front of you.”

  “I think I’m getting to know her more,” he says. “That was quite a speech your dad gave.”

  I lift my head to look at him. I still can’t see enough to decipher his expression or the meaning behind his words.

  “You were still there?” I ask.

  “I struck up a conversation with a couple of the other vineyard owners in the back. They wanted to know more about the work I did for your dad. Apparently, your dad has a hidden agenda in inviting me back here.”

  I hear the smile in his voice. He adores my dad and I’ve seen very little make Sam happier than impressing him, which he does as easily as breathe.

  “Dad gets emotional when he drinks,” I say, writing off his affections for Sam and for me in one fell swoop. It’s easier that way than to accept that Sam would ever have a reason to come back here, or worse yet, to stay.

  “Maybe,” Sam says. “But he was right. About you, I mean. It’s not easy to do what you’ve done, Mallory. I think it’s awesome that you went into marketing. You were always great at it. Most people don’t stick with these things long enough to succeed. Most people don’t have the guts to pursue their goals in the first place.”

  Sam’s compliments fill me up with resentment. He always pushed me to strive for more, to set goals and achieve them, but he never told me how lonely success could be. And if he takes any credit for my success, for being the one to guide me in that direction, I hate him for it. Whether or not it’s true.

  “You did,” I say.

  “Which is how I know how hard it is. And what it takes to make it. I think what you’ve done is incredible.”

  I lean forward, my elbows on the table. After all these years, I still can’t decide if his refusal to acknowledge the downsides of pursuing a career above all else is a pretense or a delusion. Frustration loosens my tongue. “But don’t you ever feel like you just want to jump out of your own skin?” I ask, not expecting him to admit to anything. Sam wears his life choices like a well-cut suit—all confidence, no apologies.

  But he mirrors my posture and the moonlight hits his face. It grazes the definition of his strong jaw, the slight curl of his hair, the length of his neck where his shirt has been unbuttoned and fallen open.

  “Every day,” he says.

  I furrow my brow. “Then why don’t you?”

  His mouth quirks up on one side. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  The quiet nights, the wistful days, the wine, the warm welcome from my parents. I get it. The vineyard lifestyle is the way I’ve lived most of my life, but I’ve learned how lucky I am to have this place to call home. For most people, places like this are an escape from everyday life.

  “But you’ll go back.”

  “Yes,” he agrees.

  “Why?”

  He thinks about it for a moment, then says, “Because what kind of life can you live without goals? Without hopes and dreams?”

  There’s that word again. Dreams. Something everyone seems to have but me.

  “What’s your dream?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “A five-thousand-square-foot house with an infinity pool that looks out to the ocean. A second house in Europe. France or Italy.” He considers it. “Maybe Spain. A Bentley with a driver and if we’re really going crazy, a private jet, or at least one I could charter.”

  A bitter laugh pours out of me.

  “But why? For what purpose?” I ask before he can go on listing the most superficial dreams I’ve ever heard. Maybe he’s relaxed and learned a few things in the years that have passed, but he hasn’t changed. It’s still all about the flash. The glitz and glamour.

  Do you have a heart? I want to ask him. I know something stirs deep within him, in a place no one ever gets to see. It’s what I tried so badly to uncover that summer. I wonder if there’s a woman in the world who will ever get him to bare his truth, his soul.

  “To say I could,” he says with a shrug.

  “No.” I slam my hand down on the table. “That’s bullshit.”

  “To prove I’ve made it,” he jockeys.

  “Made what?”

  “Made it big. To prove that I’m successful.”

  “And what does that get you exactly?”

  I can’t help it. His responses infuriate me—I know they’re just an act, a cover for something very real hiding beneath. No one wants success as badly as he does without a deeper insecurity. I know this because I feel it, too.

  I expect him to evade the question, like he’s done every time a conversation has gotten difficult between us. But he doesn’t.

  “Vindication,” he says.

  “With your dad,” I assume.

  “For one.”

  But he doesn’t elaborate. I’m so surprised by his honesty, I forget to ask who else didn’t believe in him, and why. How could anyone not see that Sam is a man who gets whatever he wants? I knew it from the moment I saw him—it just took me many months after he left to realize the implications. If he’d ever truly wanted me, we would have been together.

  “After all this time, do you even remember what you’re fighting for? Do you even remember who you are?” After a pause, a painful confession slips through my lips. “Because I don’t.”

  Sam must not know how to take my admission because he doesn’t respond. Finally, he says, “I remember you, Mallory. I could never forget you.”

  “Don’t say that,” I’m quick to counter. My head spins. �
�You don’t get to say things like that. You left. You never called—not once. You gave me no reason to believe I meant anything to you and now you say this?”

  There it is. Everything I’ve been holding back. Everything that has been sitting just below the surface. I tried to move on from the pain of his abandonment. I thought I had. But he changed me in a way I didn’t fully understand until I came back here, and that isn’t something I could just get over.

  “I was an idiot,” he says, but that’s not enough. He altered the course of my life. No amount of words will ever be enough.

  “You don’t even know what you did,” I say. “You have no idea what you leave in your wake in the single-minded pursuit of your goals. I sure as hell hope they’re worth it.”

  I push myself out of my chair, fueled by adrenaline, to storm into the house but I lose my balance and trip over the leg of the chair. Hands reach out to steady me. Strong hands. Tender hands. Familiar hands.

  “I don’t know,” he says, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to tell me. We never did seem to speak the same language.

  “Let me go,” I say, more a plea than an order, admitting that he has a hold on me in more ways than one.

  He releases me.

  I stand there, feeling like I should say something more, make him feel the hurt he caused me. But the look on my face must be enough. It must reflect all the loss and confusion and loneliness I’ve felt because he steps away from me. I turn away and go into the house.

  TEN

  THEN

  “There you are,” Dad said as I walked up the porch steps after checking another item off the Summer Bucket List with Kelly. I clasped my hands behind my back, hiding the evidence.

  Dad and Sam were sitting at the table with steaks and glasses of a Wandering Vineyard Riesling. Dad knew where I’d gone, had given me nothing but a skeptical look when I’d told him, but I wasn’t ready to get his opinion on it.

  “You want some chicken?” Dad asked, already rising from his chair.