by Mia Caldwell
“Corbin, I have to go back to teaching in September. I love Maeve, but my job comes first.”
“I know, I know, I’ll keep looking, but you could help me pick the new nanny. You wouldn’t have to commute any more. I’ll pay your rent if you can’t break your lease! Say you will.”
Those blue eyes were pulling a Jedi Mind Trick on me, I knew. I didn’t have to go back to the bar. I could stick it to Carol, which would give me great joy.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
Chapter Five
“Manipulative bastard” or “Strong enough to admit vulnerability”? I prefer to think I’m the latter, but god knows Elise threw the first one in my face enough.
The truth? I really want Vanessa to move in.
And okay, it’s not entirely because she’s so good with Maeve. She is! I can see she’s brushing it off, trying to convince me that Maeve is just as happy with Marta or, when she’s really trying to butter me up, with me. But I can see that Maeve’s blue eyes light up when Vanessa comes into the room. I suspect mine do, too.
See? I’m not even being manipulative. It’s just true. Yeah, I may have played up the whole “I need you to be here for the baby” angle. But I was only enhancing the truth. I can see that even my powers of charm might not convince Vanessa to stay on once the summer is over, so I need to maximize the time I have. She saves rent money, Marta and Connie are freed up a bit more for their jobs managing this ridiculous house, and I get what I want. Or at least some of it. The rest I’ll have to work on.
I’m not naive enough to believe in love at first sight, but there was definitely chemistry at first sight. Even before she took Maeve so I could take a phone call in that cafe, I was drawn to Vanessa. I watched her tend to the other table, noticed the dimple that’s only on one side, the way her eyebrows move as her expression changes. She was clearly a terrible waitress, flustered and distracted, but there was something magnetic about her. Something more than just her flawless skin or her curves or…
Anyway. She’s staying. I’m thrilled.
I offered to pay her rent so that she’d still have the apartment if–when–she goes back to her teaching job, but she told me she was very happy to find another place. She also waved away my offer to help her move– well, to send someone to help her move. She said if she thought she needed help, she’d have her best friend come up from Oakland. Apparently there’s not a whole lot to pack up, as the apartment had come furnished.
But now I have to focus on this stack of paper on my desk. I keep clicking over to the tab that is open to the security feed of the front gate. When I first arrived, I found all the cameras pretty damned creepy, but I have to say, knowing I’m just a click away from watching Vanessa pull up or come in the front door or play with Maeve in the playroom…okay, it’s pretty creepy.
My predecessor, it seems, was convinced the staff were just itching for the chance to clean the whole Domaine out for re-sale on the mean streets of Napa. The black market for heavy antiques is not what you might think, but I have found the cameras useful–I was able to see Maeve put that button in her mouth, for instance.
I didn’t have to exaggerate my panic for effect that time. I’d just clicked over in time to see Vanessa’s lovely rear end as she set Maeve on the rug. She walked out of frame and I saw that chubby hand reach out and pick up the button. The cold hand of fear closed around my heart instantly. I think I stood up even before I saw the look of terror on her little face. I bolted from my office–partly to avoid having to watch, I think, but certainly to get to her in time.
To find her alive and sobbing in Vanessa’s arms when I burst into the room…I was so relieved I was nearly sick. As the gratitude and the left-over fear washed over me, I knew I needed Vanessa to stay. So maybe I was very sincere. Maybe I embellished just a little.
Looking at the stack of papers before me, I have to wonder if Bob Jenkins wasn’t being spiteful. Sure, the story was that he claimed he was “too old” to learn to digitize all the information, to track the vineyard in a spreadsheet. But really, how hard is it to type it in instead of write in a crabbed, smeary pencil? I’d throttle that old man if I saw him now. But I imagine he’s on a beach in Key West, waving chickens away from his never-ending margarita.
I’m grateful to my folks for handing Domaine Chanterelle over to me, I’m glad I got out of Boston and away from all the prying eyes and sympathetic glances and low whispers. I regret leaving my work with the textile mills, though. I’ll miss those guys and the trips to India. Can’t really haul a baby to Gujarat, though.
So here I am, a non-drinker running a winery. A Bostonian living on the West Coast. A selfish bastard trying to raise a child. I need help for all those things, I guess.
I’m trying to figure out if an entry says “grafted Chardonnay” or “giraffes Old nanny” when I hear an engine on the security feed. Vanessa is coming through the gate. I happily abandon my work and head downstairs.
There’s someone in the passenger seat, probably the friend from Oakland. I wave them to go around the back entrance. I’m hoping my grin doesn’t look too idiotic when Vanessa gets out of the driver’s seat.
“Welcome home!,” I say, giving her my most winning smile.
She laughs, a throaty chuckle I find impossibly sexy. “Thanks, honey,” she volleys back. Can’t say I mind the sound of that. “This is Asia,” she says as a tall, thin woman gets out of the Range Rover, holding a sad looking plant in a clear vase.
I step forward to offer Asia my hand, but she just offers an elbow so she can keep her hold on the plant. “Don’t want to drop Bootsy, he’s had enough trauma today. Nice to meet you.” Asia is beautiful in her own way, athletic with close cropped hair, but my eyes are drawn back to Vanessa.
She swings open the trunk and pulls out one of the cardboard boxes with liquor logos on them. “Perk of being a bartender–sturdy moving boxes.” Before I can even offer to help, she thrusts one into my hands.
I smile. “Follow me to the service elevator, we can lock it in place and just load it up.”
Vanessa was right, she doesn’t have a lot. I know she’s been here at least two years, clearly she travels light. I can’t help but think that would be a good thing if I took her to India…
“Where’s Maeve? Sleeping?”
Vanessa and Asia step into the elevator and I close the doors behind us. “Connie has her today, Marta needed to help her mother go to a doctor’s appointment. I promised we’d just order pizza or something for dinner, but still she worried.”
“Oh, good. I’ll just get all this stuff into the room and then I can take over. I can unpack when she’s sleeping.”
“Nope,” I tell her with a smile. “Connie said you should settle in and then relax. She said that moving is hard work and she’ll just watch Maeve today. Clearly, she didn’t know that you travel with not much more than a duffle bag. And a pet plant.”
“I know, right?” says Asia. “I drove all the way up from Oakland to help and she could have done it in, like, two trips.”
“Did I tell you to come or did I tell you not to bother, I forget.” says Vanessa, cocking an eyebrow at her friend.
“Oh, you always say don’t bother, Miss Self Sufficient. I just imagined you trying to drag a couch down the stairs on your own.”
“Well, I’m glad I had you to keep Bootsy from sloshing around, anyway.” She sees my look of confusion and adds, “Bootsy Collins is my betta fish. He lives under the plant.”
When the elevator doors open, I lock it into place and pick up a box. “Let’s get you to your chambers.” I lead them to the room beside the nursery, the room where Vanessa stayed the night to keep an eye on Maeve. It takes the three of us only two trips each to get all of her belongings into the room.
Reluctantly, I say, “I guess I should get back to work. Just text if you need anything.”
“I’ll walk you back to the elevator, make sure I didn’t drop anything,” says Vanessa. It’s clearly a ruse.
She smiles and I see that dimple. "Yeah, I got to thinking…You say you saw Maeve choke on the security camera. Um, where else are they? I mean, it’s your right to watch your house, but I feel like I have a right to know where I’m being watched." Hurriedly, she adds, “Not that I’m going to steal the china or anything, I just want to know where I shouldn’t…pick my nose.”
I’ve felt guilty about spying on her, so getting called on it makes me blush, I’m sure. But I can answer truthfully, “Maeve’s crib, playroom rug, north end of each hallway, front door, back door, front gate. That’s it.” She looks relieved. “So be sure to do any nose picking while facing away from the north end.”
“Will do, good advice. Thanks for your help, Corbin. Both with unloading the car and, um, financially. This helps a lot.”
“My pleasure.” And it is.
As I head to the stairs, I hear her say, “Let’s go see Maeve, anyway. We can unpack later.” She seems to genuinely care for her.
Back in my office, I see them on the rug with her, pushing buttons on a plastic box. Each time a door flips open to reveal a farm animal, Maeve squeals in delight. It’s pretty cute. For a moment, I think I should go up there, join in the fun, but no. Better to do the job, sort the giraffes from the grafts. I click back to the spreadsheet.
Just as my eyes are about to glaze over, my phone buzzes with a message from Vanessa.
V: Going to take Asia back to town so she can go home. Should I pick up take out? I know a place…
Great, I text back, that’s a good idea. see you soon.
I stare at my stilted message. She must think I’m such a stick in the mud.
Man, if my college self could see me now. He’d definitely pass me a joint and tell me to chill out. And I’d tell him to get a haircut and a job. How quickly we become our parents, right? I could do worse, certainly, my dad is a pretty great guy. College Corbin didn’t think so, of course. He thought Edward Pierce was a serious buzz kill, all up in my grill about grades ‘n’ shit.
It’s easy, when you’re the youngest sibling, to feel like no one cares what you’re doing because all the cool stuff has already been done–and probably better–by another kid. So I’d let my sisters be the Smart One and the Driven One and the Artist, and I was left with the Fuckup. I was really good at it. At boarding school, I got into trouble for smoking weed and got kicked off the lacrosse team–which I hated–freeing up yet more time for smoking weed.
In what I told myself was an act of rebellion, I didn’t even apply to my father’s alma mater, Harvard. In truth, he had to pull strings to get me into Dartmouth. It would have taken a serious donation to get me into Harvard. Dartmouth was willing to lower its standards in exchange for a new locker room in the gym. I did not take them by storm.
When Dad had a pretty serious heart attack my junior year of college, I realized I was being an idiot. I’d met enough people from seriously messed up families–my then-girlfriend Elise, for example–to know I had it much better than most. So I decided to make him proud of me if I possibly could. I actually did my work and went to class and got good grades. Of course, that’s the bare minimum a kid should do, so I joined the college newspaper–just like my dad had done.
Still, I felt like they had trouble seeing that I had changed. I’d been the Fuckup for so long that I’d kind of worn a groove into my place in the family. So, as Senior year started to wind down, I decided to marry Elise Hamilton and take my place in the family business–what could be more grown-up than that? My folks had gotten married right after they graduated from Harvard and Radcliffe, my dad going right to work managing the family textile mill in Maine.
Of course those mills had moved to India, but the offices were in Boston, and my parents agreed to let me learn the ropes there. So I started right after graduation, taking off a month for our honeymoon after the ridiculous wedding Elise’s parents threw for us. I told my mother, once, about a month before the wedding, that Elise and I were fighting constantly. She said, “It’s probably just the stress of the wedding, but if you think it’s more than that, it’s never too late to call it off.”
But of course I didn’t listen. I was afraid I’d look like the Fuckup.
My phone buzzes.
V: Food’s here! I’m in the kitchen.
I respond that I’m on my way and head to the basement. The Domaine is built in the old European style, with the kitchen and laundry in the basement, as if one wouldn’t want the actual work of the house to be seen by anyone. When I arrive, Vanessa and Connie are at the rough butcher block table, a spread of take-out around them.
“I think I got too much!” says Vanessa, “but it all looked so good. I should never order when I’m hungry.”
"I can’t imagine why you order when you aren’t hungry," I say, sitting down across from her.
“Fair point. So, how much do you know about Latin American food?”
“Enough to know not to go to Taco Bell. But that’s about it. I know the standard Mexican restaurant dishes, and whatever Marta cooks, does that count?”
“Marta is from Mexico, so those probably overlap a little. You’re from Honduras, right Connie?”
“My parents are. I moved to the US when I was a baby, though.” I feel a little bad for not ever asking them where their families were from. Or maybe I shouldn’t ask? Anyway, I had no idea.
"So you’ll know baleadas, here." She points to what looks like a soft taco made with a thick tortilla. “These are refried beans and Honduran creme which is soooo good.”
It’s funny to see her go into teacher mode. Her voice is even slightly different as she points out each container and what it holds. "These are pupusas, Salvadoran, tamales–these are Mexican style, I like that best…"
I cut her off as she points to corn on the cob. “I know that one!” I say, like an eager schoolboy.
She laughs, “Okay smart guy, what is it?”
“Corn.”
"Yes, but street food style, with lime, chili, and queso fresco. One of my students last year was in a restaurant family. They make street foods from around Central and South America and drive a food truck around. Taste the baleadas, Connie, tell me what you think."
“Mmm, it’s good!” She nods as she chews. “Like Mama made!” I wonder, for a moment, where Maeve is, and realize it has already gotten dark. Maeve must be asleep. Guess I got wrapped up in work.
“Dig in!” says Vanessa, heaping food onto her own plate. I know it’s a cliche by this point, but I like to see a woman enjoy her food. It’s such a refreshing change from the country club “I couldn’t possibly!”s.
The food is terrific, but even better than the meal is when Vanessa says, “You can go on to bed, Connie, we’ll clean up.” Connie looks at me uncertainly–lord knows Mr. Pierce has never offered to clean up before–but I nod in agreement.
“It’s mostly disposable,” I say. She hands Vanessa the baby monitor and heads to her room.
“Thanks for bringing in dinner,” I say, piling the waste into the plastic bags the food came in. Vanessa was wrong about getting too much. I was hungry.
“I’m glad to do it,” she says, smiling into my eyes. “I wanted a chance to just hang out and talk with you. And Connie, of course.”
Of course.
“Do you need to rush off? We could sit out by the pool for a bit. The breeze is almost pleasant tonight.”
Vanessa chuckles. “Well, since I just sleep upstairs now, I don’t think I have to go far. But as long as Maeve is snoozing, I’m free to hang out. Say, isn’t this place a winery? What’s a gal gotta do to get a glass of wine, take the tour?”
I could think of several things she could do, none involving tourism, but kept them to myself. “Red or white?”
“My winemaker buddies in town say you’re growing Cabernet Franc, do you have any of that?”
“No, that’s years out, I’m afraid. I do
have Cabernet or Merlot, though those are our only reds.”
She chuckled again, that sexy sound. “Guess I’ll come clean, I don’t know anything about wine. I worked in a cocktail bar and I tend to drink beer myself. So just get me something that’s not too complicated. Something witty, yet approachable.”
I waggle my eyebrows at her. “That’s my favorite combination,” I say, and am rewarded by seeing the color darken on her cheeks. The dimple flashes into view for just a moment as she smiles at the floor.
When I hand her the glass, half full of a dark red Zinfandel I’ve been told is delicious, she says, “Won’t you join me?”
“I’ll join you in conversation, but I don’t drink anymore.” That “anymore” usually shuts down any pressure to drink.
But Vanessa just laughs. “Well, you’re in a funny job then, aren’t you?”
“Indeed I am,” I say and lead her out the back door to the gazebo near the pool.
It’s a perfect mid-summer night. The breeze is soft, like it had come in off the water. The nearly full moon reflects off the water of the pool.
“I’d never been in a salt water pool before,” says Vanessa, as she settles onto the lounge. I had hoped she sit on the wicker couch, so that I could sit beside her. Instead I sit in a chair that lets me see her face, lit by the moonlight–and all those lights around the pool.
“That was my sister’s idea. When she heard I’d be coming out here with Maeve, she insisted that we get it refitted for salt so that I wasn’t, as she put it, ‘dipping the baby in bleach every day.’”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way, but she has a point. I do like it better, it doesn’t dry my skin out the way the city pool did when I was a kid. So, do you just have the one sister?”
Ah yes, the “how many siblings” conversation.
“I have three older sisters. I’m the baby and the only boy.”
She smiles at me. “I bet you were spoiled rotten.”
“Probably. I imagine my sisters would tell you so. How about you? Siblings?”