The Vineyard

by Barbara Delinsky

  From the far side of the room, Natalie said, “She can’t accept that I have a heart that beats, and beats hard. I’m supposed to be old and dried up.”

  Olivia hadn’t covered the mouthpiece quite fast enough.

  “I heard that,” Susanne charged. “She’s standing right there, but she’s too cowardly to take my calls. She knows that she shouldn’t be doing this, not after everything my father did. He built that vineyard. She wouldn’t be there today if it weren’t for him. Look, will you give her a message?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell her that her family isn’t going to that wedding. My brother and I are sick about this. She was supposed to have loved her husband.” There was a tiny pause. “What did you say she hired you for?”

  “I’m helping out in the office.”

  “Oh dear. Someone else left? They’re dropping like flies. They don’t like what she’s doing either. Are you another one of her strays?”

  Olivia was mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

  “She takes them in, you know. Some work out. Marie has been there forever. Others are one-week wonders. She goes by gut instinct. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes. But I’m not a stray. I’ve spent the last five years doing photo restoration work under Otis Thurman. I left his office to come here.”

  “That’s very nice, but I’d like you to listen for just a minute. Please don’t speak. Just listen. We’re worried that Natalie is either fading mentally or that she’s being brainwashed by Carl. We don’t know how else to explain this marriage. So I ask you—beg you—to keep an eye on her. If you sense that either of those things is happening, will you call me?”

  Olivia’s loyalties instinctively lay with Natalie, but she wasn’t getting into a fight with Susanne. “I’ll try,” she said.

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. Please tell my mother that I’ll call again next week. Oh, and welcome to Asquonset.”

  Olivia hung up the phone and turned to Natalie.

  The older woman looked sheepish. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve dragged you into the middle of my hornet’s nest.”

  Olivia wasn’t sorry in the least. Barely five minutes there and she felt part of the household. “She sounded upset.”

  “She is. She doesn’t understand.”

  “But if you’ve explained it to her …”

  A guilty look stole over Natalie’s face.

  “You haven’t?” Olivia asked, startled. “Maybe if you did …”

  Natalie looked torn, as though she desperately wanted to do that but for the life of her couldn’t. “It’s easier said than done. She idolized her father, as did her brother, Greg. And that’s wonderful. I wanted that. I worked to make it so.” She studied the wall of books, seeming suddenly tired. “So now there are misconceptions that need clearing up. How to do that without speaking ill of the dead?” She kneaded her fingers. “Family dynamics are like nothing else in life. You set a pattern early on, and it’s nearly impossible to change. I’ve always had trouble talking to my children—talking openly to my children. Some things are hard to discuss. Some things are more easily said to a stranger.”

  “Like me?”

  Natalie didn’t answer at first. She put a hand on Tess’s head, seeming to take comfort as Tess stroked a loudly purring Henri. “I hope so.”

  “And it all has to do with the wedding?”

  “Oh, no. It has to do with more. Lots more. But the one common thread is Carl.” She looked up toward the door through which Marie had gone, and her face brightened. “Ah. Two more boys. The big, mangy one on the left is Buck. He’s a Maine coon, dropped off at Pindman’s last fall by a tourist who couldn’t stand his howling in the car a second longer. The tall, lean one is Simon. He’s my vineyard manager. Simon, say hello to Olivia Jones and her daughter, Tess.”

  Olivia looked up to see the man from the vineyard—apparently not just any old worker, but the vineyard manager, no less. Well, he certainly was tall, she decided, although she wouldn’t have said he was lean from that earlier chest-and-above glimpse. She could see the whole of him now, though. His waist and hips, covered by loose work shorts, were lean indeed, as were his legs, which were as dirty as his work boots and the gray socks that protruded from the top. His sunglasses sat on the top of his head, half lost in all that auburn hair, but his sunburned nose was the only touch of warmth on his face. His eyes were a midnight blue and cold. His jaw was shadowed.

  Natalie’s vineyard manager. This could be a problem, Olivia thought as she glanced at Tess, who was staring at Simon. Although the child didn’t seem frightened, she made no effort to move away from the hand Natalie had placed on her head. There was safety in that hand. Olivia could feel it even from where she stood.

  Simon nodded first toward Tess, then Olivia. He doesn’t want us here, Tess had said. Olivia didn’t know if it was that or if the man was simply tough.

  “He’s the dark, silent type,” Natalie said with fondness, even pride. “Like his father. Speaking of whom …”

  “He’s in the shed,” Simon said in a voice that was dusty and deep. “He says he’ll be over in a bit. I’m heading up to Providence.”

  Natalie’s smile faded. “Oh dear. There’s a problem.”

  “I’m not sure. I saw something on the reds that may be the start of mold. I want a second opinion.”

  Natalie explained to Olivia, “It’s been a wet winter and spring. We were hoping that the sun and wind would dry out the vines.” To Simon, she said, “I was planning on your joining us for dinner.”

  Olivia thought she saw a wry twist at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes held Natalie’s and his voice remained respectful. “I’m sorry. I can’t tonight.” With only the briefest glance at Olivia, he turned and left. Buck followed him out.

  The phone rang.

  Natalie sighed and said, “Since the business phone doesn’t ring here, that will most likely be my son. Susanne calls him to complain the minute she hangs up with me.”

  Olivia gave the phone a quick look. “Shall I?”

  “Please.”

  She lifted the receiver. “Seebring residence.”

  “Is this Olivia Jones?” asked an authoritative voice, and for a split second Olivia feared she had unknowingly committed a crime and been tracked down by the FBI—or, worse, by Ted.

  But it wasn’t Ted’s voice. Besides, she had barely arrived. Nonetheless, such a call would be typical Ted. Perhaps he was using a friend as a foil?

  “Who’s calling?” she asked guardedly.

  “Greg Seebring. Is this Olivia?”

  She relaxed. Natalie was right; Susanne must have given him her name. No crime committed, and even better, no Ted. She was free. “Yes, this is Olivia.”

  “I’m Natalie’s son, and let me tell you, I don’t have the time to make this call. I have problems of my own right now, but my sister is driving me nuts because our mother is driving her nuts. I just want to tell you this. Natalie is behaving oddly. This marriage is inappropriate and untimely. I suspect that with Dad gone she’s just needing someone else to lean on, and the nearest one for that is Carl. It could be that there’s a Burke conspiracy to take over the vineyard, I don’t know yet, but if so, it won’t work.”

  Olivia had been thinking merger, as in an amicable union of two powerful families. She didn’t have to be a finance expert to know that a takeover could be hostile. “Perhaps,” she said, “you ought to talk to your mother.”

  “I don’t have time for that. I also don’t have the energy for it. My mother and I function on entirely different levels. I just want you to know that we know what’s going on, and that if you do anything to aid and abet the Burke cause, we’ll consider you part of the conspiracy. Good God, you may be anyway. Did Carl hire you?”

  “No, and I know nothing of what you’re talking about.”

  “Honey,” he said with a dark laugh, “I deal with political animals day in, day out, and one thing I’ve learned is that when they insist they kn
ow nothing, like you just did, they know plenty. I’m wise to the situation. Consider yourself warned. Give my regards to my mother.” He hung up.

  Replacing the handset, Olivia wondered for the first time about the exact nature of the hornet’s nest Natalie had mentioned. One vineyard taking over another was serious stuff. The family could be torn apart. Natalie could move to Napa. Asquonset could fold. Olivia could be implicated in a lawsuit that could drag on for years.

  “He’s angry,” Natalie said.

  Her voice put Olivia’s speculation on hold. “I think he’s worried.” That sounded gentler.

  “But not worried enough to get on a plane and fly up here,” Natalie charged. “Did he mention his conspiracy theory?”

  “Um … in passing.”

  Natalie’s eyes grew sad. “This should be a happy time,” she said and for a brief moment succumbed to the sadness. Then she drew herself up and regained visible resolve. “It is a happy time. Come, I’ll show you around. Then I want you to meet Carl.”

  Six

  PRECONCEPTIONS LINGERED. Olivia had already seen that the Great House wasn’t as large as she had imagined it to be, yet the interior startled her. Through all these months and so many pictures, she had envisioned room after room, alcove after alcove, sofa after settee after Louis XVI chair, with the ghosts of guests mingling, eating, talking, sleeping. What she saw in reality was smaller and simpler—exquisitely decorated, with designer furnishings and every modern convenience, but far more casual than formal.

  Undaunted, she amended her thinking from grand and large to charming and small. There would be no indiscriminate galas in this place. Visitors would be carefully selected. Parties would be intimate.

  The first floor consisted of a dining room and kitchen on one side and a living room on the other. Branching off the living room were a parlor and a den. “These were intially bedrooms,” Natalie explained. “When the family grew, we added the second floor.”

  That second floor housed four bedrooms. The door to one was shut, but Natalie showed them the others, one more beautifully outfitted than the next, again in an inviting and livable way. The best, though, was yet to come. At one end of the hall was a narrow staircase. It led to an airy room that looked out from the back of the house over rolling vineyard-covered hills. It was Natalie’s personal office, replete with a cat named Achmed.

  “Achmed?” Tess echoed, heading straight for the cat.

  “He’s Persian. My vet thought he’d be a dignified addition to her office, but he wreaked havoc with the other animals. That’s why I told you no pets. Bring a dog in here, and fur would fly. Achmed is a temperamental son-of-a-gun. Takes to you, though, Tess. Look at that.”

  Tess was on her knees, on eye level with the Persian, which sat straight and tall on a brocade footstool and didn’t seem to mind at all the small stroking hand.

  “He stays up here,” Natalie said. “Doesn’t mix with the hoi polloi down below. Achmed. The name seems to fit, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” Tess said appreciatively.

  “I call this my loft,” Natalie told Olivia. “We’ll be working here.”

  Olivia was as charmed with the setting as Tess was with the cat. Skylights and a computer were the only modern concessions. The desk was of dark wood, the two side chairs were upholstered wing-backs, the sofa was of thick velvet, and the walls were shelved with a vintage collection of books. The lamps were brass with aged shades. The carpet was faded and fringed. Even Achmed had an air of age.

  Time stood still in this room. Olivia couldn’t imagine a better place to write a tale of the past. The place even smelled old, in the richest possible sense. She easily could have stayed here for the rest of the afternoon.

  But Natalie had other ideas. Assuring Tess that there would be more cat time later, she led them back to the second floor, down the hall, and off through a short corridor to the new wing. This, too, was smaller than what Olivia had envisioned. Rather than many rooms with a central gathering area, even a minikitchen, it was a mere three bedrooms built over the back patio. What these rooms lacked in size, though, they oozed in quaintness. They were simply but beautifully appointed—bed, easy chair, bureau, and dressing table in each—not too much, just enough. The window dressings were floral to match the comforters on the beds. The carpets were a solid color and plush.

  One of the rooms stood alone. The other two were connected by a large bathroom. These were the two Natalie guided them toward.

  “I want the blue one,” Tess whispered excitedly, tipping her head back to eye Olivia through her glasses.

  Olivia was so delighted that the child seemed pleased with Asquonset that she would have given her whichever room her little heart desired. She actually preferred the other room, herself. It was green, which was her favorite color, and it was slightly larger than the blue room. Best of all, there was a window seat, from which the view was breathtaking. Past the awning below, she saw the tail end of the back patio, bordered by vibrant-colored flower gardens and paths. She could see the spill of vineyards down the hill to the far woods and—the pièce de résistance—off in the distance, a hazy view of the ocean.

  Forget Natalie’s office. Olivia would have been content to spend the rest of the day on that window seat.

  Again, Natalie had other ideas. She had arranged for the daughter of one of the office workers to take Tess exploring. The girl was thirteen, with a mass of long blonde curls, a halter top and jeans, and full smiles for Tess, who seemed immediately to respond. As soon as the two set off, Natalie directed Olivia back up to the loft.

  She took a picture from the desk, one that Olivia hadn’t seen before. It was small and grainy, a black-and-white snapshot of a young boy resting against the edge of a horse-drawn cart filled with barrels. The boy wore a shirt that was dirty and thin, and overalls that were torn at the thigh, faded at the knee, and so lengthened at the shoulder straps that the bib reached only midchest. Even then, the pant legs were short enough to show dirty socks and worn leather shoes.

  Olivia had lived through enough old photographs to guess that this one had been taken during the Depression. The clothes were the same, the bleak background, the boy’s somber expression. He looked to be thirteen. He was probably ten. Hard times did that, she knew.

  Then Natalie began to speak. Her voice was so clear, the flow of her words so smooth that Olivia could see the narrative of the book taking shape even then.

  Have you ever tried to pin down your earliest memory? I’ve tried often over the years, because I wanted mine to be different. Sometimes I pretend that it is. Sometimes I remember being four years old, hearing the silence between my parents and feeling the tension. But I can’t visualize an actual scene. I can’t see myself standing in one particular spot or looking at one particular thing.

  I should have been able to do that at four, even at three. You probably can. But the upheaval in our lives was so total in the days following Black Thursday that those earlier details were wiped out.

  I repressed them. I did. The remembering was too painful. We had been rich. Suddenly we were poor. Any recollections I have of that early silence and tension are simply a reconstruction of what I later learned to be fact.

  My earliest memory—the one that I can conjure up in living color, right down to the time, the weather, and the clothes I was wearing—took place when I was five, on the day when we moved to Asquonset.

  “You were five when you came here?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes. Five.”

  “Then your family was the one that owned Asquonset?”

  Natalie smiled. “Ah. You thought I married into it. No, don’t be embarrassed. You aren’t alone. Alexander has always been the public face of Asquonset, so people assume that he was here first. Let it be the first of many misperceptions that my story will correct.”

  Another certainly had to do with financial means. We had been rich. Suddenly we were poor. Even after working on those early pictures, Olivia hadn’t put povert
y into the tale. She was in the process of mentally shifting to a riches-to-rags-to-riches angle when Natalie went on.

  Nowadays, moving from city to country is in vogue, but in November of 1930, in that tier of society whose underpinnings were tied to the stock market, it was a sign of failure.

  My father had owned a bank. It was one of the many that collapsed after the crash. Could he have saved his? Oh, he tried. He sold our house in Newport. He sold the Pierce-Arrow. He even sold our family heirlooms. But the bank had issued too many loans to too many speculators. Besides, we had been buying on margin, too.

  The losses caused by the crash were just too large. My father sold the house in New York, the car, even my mother’s diamond ring, all to pay off debts so that we could start again free and clear.

  Try to imagine his pain. He had failed people who had entrusted their money to him. Many of them had been personal friends. Some sold their houses and any possessions of value, as we had. Some were seen on breadlines. Others suffered worse fates. I remember the hush that came over the dinner table, years later, when one name or another was mentioned. My parents had lost more than one friend in the days immediately before and after the crash, men who had chosen suicide over suffering the humiliation, the embarrassment, the pain of total ruin.

  My father suffered all three. Not only had he failed his friends, but he had failed his family. We had had money, but it was gone. The farm was all that remained. We left the city in disgrace.

  She stopped talking. Her expression was pained, her eyes faraway.

  “And you were able to feel it?” Olivia asked softly.

  Natalie was slow in answering, slow in returning from that place so long ago. “The disgrace? Yes. I felt it.” It was in her voice even now, a self-consciousness that hadn’t been there before. Her eyes didn’t meet Olivia’s.

  “Did people say things to you?”

  She studied her hands. “I don’t know. I was either too young to understand or too young to remember. My brother never mentioned anything specific. Maybe I blotted it out.”