by Laura Dave
I pointed at him. “Don’t cause trouble.”
He smiled. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, just say that,” he said. “Just say, ‘Shut up, Dad.’ ”
“He’s not the reason.”
He shrugged. “In a way, he is. Actually, he’s the reason for all of it. A guy decides to buy a vineyard from a winemaker. Weddings get cancelled. The daughter goes crazy.”
“You’re talking crazy.”
“I’m not saying you’re going to marry him or anything,” he said. “Calm down.”
“That’s good.”
“We do have that tent, though,” he said.
I leaned in and hugged my father. I hugged him and felt it. The strength that came from him, that you couldn’t get from anywhere else.
My father leaned in close. Then he smiled, pushed my hair back off of my face. “Can I tell you, you’re my favorite kid.”
“You say that to all of us.”
“Well. That doesn’t make it any less true,” he said.
The Wedding
There was supposed to be a wedding at our vineyard. And in the end, there was.
Five days after my wedding was to take place, my parents stood there together under a homemade altar. My father wore a sports coat and jeans. My mother wore a blue beret, the blue beret she’d been wearing the day she’d met my father, the day he’d gotten into her car and never gotten out.
It wasn’t an official ceremony. They were never officially divorced, but it felt official: Finn married them, and all their friends from town—from the life they’d built in Sebastopol—stood with them. All the local winemakers were there, Jacob included. Suzannah and Charles flew up to be there too.
I was by my mother’s side. Bobby, my father’s best man, stood by his. Margaret and the twins, eager flower boys, completed the circle.
“There is nothing for me to say that I haven’t said,” my father said, talking to everyone, his eyes held fast on my mother.
“Except bon voyage,” my mother said.
He smiled. “Except bon voyage,” he said.
With that, he kissed her. Everyone cheered. And we opened wine, more and more wine, as they spoke about leaving there, closing up the house. They told us they were going on a trip around the world, boating to the south of France and the Mediterranean, the gorgeous coast of South America. That part of the plan they kept: my father buying that wristband that he thought was going to stop the seasickness that he wasn’t even worried about coming. There was no worry. Just excitement. The two of them were heading off to be together on a new adventure. Though this time instead of following, my mother was leading the way. My mother was leading him.
Suzannah and I walked away from the crowd, up to the top of the hill, the very top of the hill that looked out over the entire vineyard. The fifty acres that had taken my father his adult lifetime to accumulate: the original ten, the house and gardens he and my mother had built on them, the forty that followed.
How long ago had my father been the one standing here, looking over this land? How had he known what to do with it? How had I not figured out, before it was too late, how much that mattered?
“It’s a good thing you listened to me and decided to stay here,” she said.
I laughed.
“So is this your new look?”
She pointed at my curls falling over my shoulders, no makeup, none of my Los Angeles armor.
I smiled. “Much less refined?”
She shook her head. “Much more . . . happy.”
She gave me a kind smile.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Apparently not return phone calls,” Jacob said.
We turned around to see him behind us, his hands in his pockets, a button-down shirt on, wine running down the front of it.
“Am I interrupting?”
Suzannah smiled at him. “Of course you are,” she said, irritated.
Suzannah walked away, turning back and making the so-so sign with her hands. I laughed, looking away from her, looking back at Jacob and his wine-covered shirt.
He shrugged apologetically, pulling on his shirt. “I’m a mess,” he said.
“What happened?”
“The twins. They were fighting each other for my licorice.”
I smiled. “Who won?”
“Not me,” he said. “I had to take off my vest.”
He moved closer so he was looking where I was looking, over the late-day vineyard. His vineyard now, The Last Straw, a subsidiary of Murray Grant Wines. And it was starting to feel like that was okay. I had lost that fight, which was hard to accept. But my parents were happy again, my brothers were on the mend. In the ways that mattered, I had won so much.
“They’re leaving on their boat trip tomorrow?” he said.
I nodded. He knew the answer, but he was trying to ask me something else, maybe why I hadn’t called him back. Maybe if it meant that I was staying here.
“You’re okay with that?”
“As long as they’re going together,” I said.
“I told your father that the boat is a good idea,” he said. “It will take them to the place they want to go next.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “I know some things.”
I smiled, wanting that to be correct, that my parents would dock somewhere, call it Big Sur. Somewhere surrounded by water and trees. Somewhere they would make their home.
Jacob crossed his arms over his chest. “Lee’s gone,” he said.
“I heard something about that.”
“I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking.”
I laughed.
“She left the day after the harvest party,” he said. “She moved to Seattle to take a job with Tim O’Reilly. And to get away from me. It was the right thing. She’s happier there.”
Jacob kicked the ground beneath him, soil rising up. Soft and damp. November soil, ready for a quiet winter, its well-earned rest.
“What about you?” he said. “What’s next?”
He looked at me, held my eyes. It was too much, though, to meet his gaze. So I looked away, to the vineyard.
“I’m going to get a plot of land. I won’t be able to afford much. But I’m going to start with a small plot of land. Five acres. See what I can do.”
“Make some wine?”
I nodded. “That’s the plan.”
“You’re going to need a winemaker to teach you,” he said.
“Yes, and my father isn’t available. He’s so out of here.”
He smiled. “You’ll find someone good.”
“Well, first I’ve got to get the land.”
He pointed to the vineyard. “What if I told you I could help you with the land?”
This was when he did it. He handed me the deed. For The Last Straw Vineyard. My father’s original deed. For the original ten acres.
I looked up at him. Then back down at the deed. Ten acres. That was where we were standing. It held the house and some of the gardens. And a half-burned wine cottage. And five beautiful acres of vineyard. Enough for me to get started.
“You’re giving it back?”
“I’m not giving anything back.” He shrugged. “We’re going to have a contract and everything. A guy’s got to eat.”
I shook my head, not knowing what to do, thinking if I tried to do anything I might pass out.
“There is a caveat too. We still own the name The Last Straw Vineyard now, so you’ll have to pick a new name for these ten acres, for what they produce. You’ll have to start fresh.”
I nodded, still staring at the deed.
“And if you flame out, you sell these ten acres back to me.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t say okay. Think about it. Think about the fact that if thi
s doesn’t work, you’re going to be the one selling the land back to the mean and mighty Murray Grant Wines because you’re going to have to put that part in writing.”
I started to say that wasn’t going to happen, but he was looking at me. He knew that wasn’t going to happen. It seemed like he knew too much. And it flashed before me: What if Ben and Michelle hadn’t walked by the dress fitting? What if we’d walked down the aisle together in that beautiful tent and I hadn’t met Jacob. Jacob, who was standing before me, offering me a future I hadn’t known I wanted.
My father would call it synchronization. Not fate. Don’t confuse it with fate. Because there was still the rest of it. The deed in my hand, the sense I was moving toward a place to build a home. The need I had—the hope I had—that I would do the right thing with these gifts now.
“You look like you might pass out,” Jacob said. “FYI, I don’t know CPR.”
“You should know. I’m not ready to date anyone,” I said.
Jacob nodded. “Me either,” he said.
Then he kissed me.
Part 5
An Unnamed Vineyard
Sebastopol, California. Present day
She takes a seat, cross-legged, and looks at the vineyard. It is her vineyard now. The gardens and the vines, rested from the winter. The winemaker’s cottage—the new incarnation of it—painted a royal blue. Bobby helped with the painting. Bobby and Margaret both helped to paint. They had argued about the color. Bobby and Margaret had wanted to pick something more neutral, an ivory or a sand. Though she could only picture a bright blue greeting her in the early morning hours when she was supposed to be sleeping. And it’s her winemaker’s cottage. So she insisted.
Sitting here, she knows two things to be true. She shouldn’t have insisted. The winemaker’s cottage looks like a dollhouse. That is the first thing. It looks like a strange and impossible dollhouse. And she should be more nervous than she is. That is the second thing. She should be more nervous than this. But she isn’t nervous, not looking over this land.
She has spent the winter quietly preparing for today. She painted the cottage and studied the compost patterns. She bent the ear of every winemaker who would spend time with her. She wandered the halls of her childhood home, her home now. She has turned it into something that feels like hers, slowly and surely, making better choices than that dollhouse blue.
She hears a loud honk and flips around. Jacob pulls down the driveway, Finn not too far behind him. They are stopping by on their way to work—Jacob heading to Napa Valley, Finn heading to a photo shoot in San Francisco, then to lunch with his new friend Karen. But they wanted to stop by quickly to talk about the weather, to talk about her plan for the compost, to remind her that on the other side of today, they would be there to buy her a beer and for Jacob to cook some bad spaghetti.
That is the plan for tonight: Jacob’s overcooked spaghetti, complete with a store-bought rich and creamy pesto sauce, which Jacob thinks masks the fact that he can’t figure out how to boil water. She can hardly wait.
For another minute, she’s alone in the vineyard. She will produce different wine than her father did, but she won’t know what that means until she makes some decisions. So she turns toward the vines and bends down to touch the soil beneath the vine, the telling soil. To see where it is starting. Rubbing the soil between her fingers. Soft, lush. To see where she imagines it will go.
She is not twenty-five years old. She has a new boyfriend who has usurped her father’s winery, a useless law degree, no money to speak of in the bank. And no backup plan if this vineyard goes bust. This unnamed vineyard, her whole beautiful future. Her past, her beautiful future. And something like the best thing that she could possibly do for herself.
She’s been told that it takes ten years to figure out what you’re doing. Ten years.
She takes a breath, smiles. She’s ready to get started.
With the beginning of it. Her life.
Acknowledgments
I have to start with Suzanne Gluck, who not only encouraged me to write what I wanted, but was a dynamite partner while I did; and the brilliant Marysue Rucci, who made every page better. My deepest gratitude to you both. You are the dream team.
So many talented people gave their energy and expertise to this novel: Richard Rhorer, Cary Goldstein, Elizabeth Breeden, Andrea DeWerd, Sarah Reidy, Annemarie Blumenhagen, Clio Seraphim, and Kitty Dulin. My gratitude to you all—and to Carolyn Reidy and Jonathan Karp for a great publishing home.
I owe so much to the vintners and the gracious people of Sonoma County and Napa Valley who welcomed me into their world. A special thank-you to Shane Finley and Lynmar Estate Winery for your guidance—and for your Quail Hill Vineyard Pinot Noir, which takes my breath away. Thank you also to Helen Keplinger of Keplinger Wines. And to the good folks at Williams Selyem, Ampelos Cellars, and Littorai, who provided inspiration at critical junctures. I’m in awe of what you all do and how you do it. Any narrative liberties are mine.
I can’t say thank you enough to Sylvie Rabineau, cherished friend and invaluable advisor, and Jonathan Tropper, whose guidance and friendship are irreplaceable. Many thanks also to Elizabeth Gabler, Greg Mooradian, Marty Bowen, Wyck Godfrey, and Jaclyn Huntling.
For insight and early reads, thank you to: Allison Winn Scotch, Dustin Thomason, Heather Thomason, Amanda O’Brien, Camrin Agin, Michael Fisher, Amy Cooper, Alisa Mall, Ben Tishler, Dahvi Waller, Johanna Tobel, Gary Belsky, Tom McCarthy, Wendy Merry, Shauna Seliy, and Dana Forman, who reads every story first.
A heartfelt thank-you to my parents, Rochelle and Andrew Dave, and the entire Dave and Singer families. And much love to my wonderful friends, who let me talk about titles and wine long after it was interesting.
Finally, my husband, Josh Singer. Despite five drafts and eighteen months of work on a mystery, he didn’t blink when I put it aside. Thank you for not blinking. Thank you for never blinking. I love you with all my heart.
About the Author
© Allen Murabayash
Laura Dave is the author of the critically acclaimed novels The First Husband, The Divorce Party, and London Is the Best City in America. Her work has been published in fifteen countries, and three of her novels, including Eight Hundred Grapes, have been optioned as major motion pictures. She resides in Santa Monica, California.
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The First Husband
The Divorce Party
London Is the Best City in America
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead,
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Copyright © 2015 by Laura Dave
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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition June 2015
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dave, Laura.
Eight hundred grapes : a novel / Laura Dave. — First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition.
pages ; cm
“Simon & Schuster fiction original hardcover.”
ISBN 978-1-4767-8925-5 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4767-8928-6 (softcover) — ISBN 978-1-4767-8929-3 (ebook) 1. Families—Fiction. 2. Vineyards—California—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction.
I. Title. II. Title: Eight hundred grapes.
PS3604.A938A616 2015
813’.6—dc23
2014034389
ISBN 978-1-4767-8925-5
ISBN 978-1-4767-8929-3 (ebook)