The Shortest Way Home

by Miriam Parker

  “That’s the joy of a family winery,” he said. “But we can tell those stories to the reps. We can put them in the sales catalog.”

  “Do you ever wish it was bigger?” I asked. “The winery? William told me that you sell three thousand cases a year. Could you get up to five thousand or ten thousand?”

  He shrugged and idly unfolded the newspaper that he had been doing the crossword in. “We own the land and the house outright, and we grow more grapes than we need. So it’s really just covering the costs of making the wine. Right now, in a good year, we break even. But a bad year . . . that would kill us. Last year wasn’t great. So that’s why we put up the For Rent sign. This year was slow to start out. We lost a few restaurant accounts and a few wine club members.”

  I nodded, trying to figure out the math of it all in my head, which, after half a glass of wine, felt impossible. I was never great at math, and drinking really didn’t help. I wondered if I would improve my tolerance this summer. I certainly wasn’t used to drinking wine with every meal like we did here. I also wasn’t sure if I should tell Everett what I had discovered about the billing and that many people were so late with their payments. Maybe it didn’t quite matter at the end of the day. Regardless, it made sense to bring in more money. “So, you have the capacity to make more bottles?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Last year I even sold some grapes. That’s actually a great business. These dot-com millionaires want to make wine, and they have a lot of money and they hire some experts. But they don’t have land and they don’t know how to grow grapes.”

  “Did any of them make anything good?”

  “Who knows,” he said. “One guy sent me a bottle of Merlot, but I didn’t drink it. I thought the label was ugly.”

  “Life can’t be too bad when you turn down free wine,” I said, trying to make a joke.

  “Wine is the only thing we have in abundance,” he said.

  “Wine is life,” Felipe contributed.

  “Felipe, tell me about your family,” I said.

  He smiled and showed me the lock screen of his phone—a photo of a beautiful brunette with blue eyes and two small children, a boy and a girl who looked around the same age. “This is Maria José, Alejandro, and Lucia. They are in Santiago now, but we, Maria José and me, are from Viña del Mar. Her family also has a winery. My family worked in one, not hers, though.”

  “Viña del Mar sounds like a perfect place,” I said.

  “It is,” he said.

  “Do you miss it?” I asked.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “I wish they were here. But one day we will be together again. This is such a good opportunity for me. It will help me to prove myself in Chile that I succeeded in California. They understand. And they will come here after the harvest.”

  “How did you meet your wife?” I asked.

  “At a wine tasting,” he said. “We were . . . fifteen? I’ve been tasting wine since I was four. And she too.”

  “How did you know? You were so young.” I was truly curious.

  “It just felt right.” He blushed a little.

  “That’s a nice story,” I said. Felipe was always communicating with Maria José and the kids, texting, video chatting. They were definitely the happiest couple around this place. “You inspire me that true love is out there.”

  “Just keep going to wine tastings,” he said.

  “Good advice,” I said. Now I was the one blushing.

  * * *

  —

  Just then, Linda came out carrying a plate of chicken. “Hannah,” she said, “can you be a dear and run in to get the salad? I’ve already dressed it and the wooden tongs are on the counter next to it.”

  I nodded and pushed myself up from the table. My head was aching. Maybe it was from being on my best behavior or trying to learn or just being polite for so many hours in a row. I found the salad just where Linda said it would be, on the counter, next to the tongs. It looked amazing—fresh-picked lettuce with little slices of clementines, raisins (which I assumed came from their own vineyard), goat cheese, and orange peppers. I was about to pick up the bowl when the house phone rang. By instinct, I answered it.

  “Rockford residence. This is Hannah speaking.”

  “Hannah!” It was William, and my stomach jumped a little.

  “Hi,” I said, a bit sheepish.

  “How’s it going? I wasn’t expecting to talk to you.”

  “I know. Me either. Things are good,” I said. “I went on a sales call with your mom today and I even made a friend.”

  “Celeste?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “She’s everyone’s first friend. A little needy,” he said, “but harmless.”

  “Okay,” I said, “good to know. I haven’t had a friend in a while.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “How are my parents?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I think. I’m planning a party for the tasting room. To drum up new business. It’ll be the first Friday in June.”

  “Fun,” he said.

  “Jackson Hill is going to play the music.” I wondered if he knew about Jackson’s relationship with his mother.

  “He’s got a good sound,” he said. “Has a thing for my mom, though.”

  I smiled. So he didn’t really know. “Who wouldn’t?” I asked.

  “That’s gross,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “How’s New York?”

  “Okay,” he said. “I randomly saw your boyfriend the other day. I passed him on the street in Soho, and I recognized him. I don’t know if he saw me or not. But I noticed him because at first I thought he was homeless. And then I wondered if maybe he was someone I knew from college, but then I realized who it was. He looked like shit. He hadn’t shaved. He was wearing the same outfit he’d been wearing at the winery, and it kind of looked like he hadn’t changed in weeks.”

  “Ugh,” I said.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he said. “But . . . since you picked up the phone . . .”

  “It’s okay.” I said. “I appreciate it. That makes me worried about him. But what can I do? Do you want to talk to your parents?”

  “No, it’s okay. Actually, don’t tell them I called. I’ll call later. I’m glad you’re there with them. It keeps them occupied. Creates a buffer.”

  “Do they fight a lot?” I asked.

  “It’s just not always easy,” he said. “Be kind to them.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I like them. I think we’re getting along. It’s nice to be part of a family. Okay, I guess I should go back out. I was just in here to get the salad.”

  “Right,” he said. “Talk to you soon.”

  The conversation made me feel sad. Poor Ethan. I needed to call him. But I wasn’t ready to have him tell me what an awful person I was. How I had ruined his life. I sent him a quick text that read, “Hope all is well in NYC,” to assuage my conscience. When he shot back, “I feel like garbage,” my conscience was not comforted, but I also decided not to respond. He was trying to make me feel guilty. And I did. Calling him would acknowledge what was going on between us (or not going on, as the case may be). I knew it was cowardly to ghost on your own boyfriend, but I just wasn’t ready to acknowledge anything quite yet.

  * * *

  —

  I went back out with the salad, explaining that I had gone to the bathroom to wash my hands before eating. Felipe, Everett, and Linda were already eating their chicken, legs and thighs covered in a mushroom lemon sauce, in silence. I felt like making conversation was my job. “I learned a lot on the call today. What do you do next?”

  “Oh, I’ll drive them up next week, like I told him.”

  “Is delivering yourself a good use of your time?” I asked.

  “Who else is going to do it, especially now that William is gon
e? Usually when I get there a nice young barback or kitchen hand will help carry the boxes out of the car.”

  “Seems like a lot of work,” I said. “Is there a delivery service?”

  “That would cost money,” she said. “This way, we make all the profit.”

  “But your time,” I said. “And gas . . .”

  “It reinforces things, for them to see me again. And I’ll make another sales call when I’m up there. We have a few restaurants we work with. It’s like a rotation.”

  “It’s not efficient, Linda,” Everett said. “I’ve been telling you this for years.”

  “If we had a distributor, we’d lose twenty percent.”

  “But the costs of travel and maybe you’d sell more?” Most of what I had learned in business school didn’t apply here—they didn’t teach us about the ins and outs of wine making (how could they have missed that important topic?), but I did know about the basics of running a small business—about sunk costs and efficiencies. About the importance of timely invoicing and good bookkeeping. Linda was doing her best, but efficiency was not necessarily her forte.

  “I don’t know,” Linda said. “How would I know that they would pitch my wine correctly and to the right people?”

  “I’m sure you could give them all the background. Maybe there’s, like, a small local distributor who could help you? Or maybe just a part-times sales rep? Or I could do some of it? At least the delivery?” I said.

  Linda nodded and served herself salad. I sipped the Sancerre, which had started warming up in the evening air. It tasted less crisp, but no less peachy. “I’ll think about it,” she said to me. “You put her up to this,” she said, turning to Everett. There was anger simmering under the surface; it made me nervous. Especially after having seen how Linda was with Jackson.

  CHAPTER 14

  I’m afraid that you aren’t ready for First Friday,” Celeste said. It was a week and a half away. She had barged into the cottage while I was still sleeping and jumped onto my bed, startling me.

  “I think we have plenty of time,” I said.

  “You need to be prepared,” Celeste said. “You’re taking this all too casually.”

  “I feel like we have everything under control,” I said.

  She arranged the pillows behind her head and started leafing through the design magazine that Linda had left on the bedside table. “Isn’t this marvelous?” she asked, showing me a photo of a waterfall in a rock garden. “Linda should do this here. She has great rocks.”

  Celeste was fun and she was helping me a lot, but I didn’t love how familiar she felt in my home. We had really just met, after all. And what did it say about me that I had someone storming into my home all the time trying to take care of me? I guessed it was mildly my fault for not locking the front door, but I could never find the key in my bag. Besides, in New York, my friend Nicole and I had gone back and forth into each other’s apartments like we lived together. But we always knocked before we entered. In retrospect, though, it was a friendship of convenience, because neither one of us kept up with the other now that we lived three thousand miles apart.

  “You’ve already talked to Jackson about the music?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “Great,” she said. She continued flipping. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have an ocean view?” she muttered.

  “He’s in for Friday. I’m calling it First Fridays at Bellosguardo. And I found some servers. A bartender. I set up a ticket website. No caterer, though.”

  “Brilliant,” she said. “I have the perfect person. Annie Sanders will cater it at cost. We’ll have to do the shopping, though. And what else do we need? A few decorations. I’m sure we can dig something up in Linda’s house. She doesn’t even know what she has.”

  “Thanks . . . ,” I said, feeling a tiny bit defensive. The party was my idea, and I weirdly wanted the credit for it, but I also knew that without Celeste’s help and knowledge of Sonoma, I wouldn’t be able to make it perfect.

  “So, how’s it going otherwise?” she asked. “Your boyfriend break up with you yet?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, the other morning, you weren’t sure.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I talked to William last night and he said he saw Ethan on the street in the city and that he looked really pitiful. But I just didn’t have the emotional energy to call.”

  “Well, he can call you too. He’s a grown man with a phone.” She stood up and dropped the magazine on the bed. “Annie will be in touch about her menu. Make sure you have her make the mini sliders. They’re always the most popular! See you soon.”

  I wanted to call Tyra to tell her that William had seen Ethan. To see if she would check on him. They were friends too, after all, and they were in the same city. She couldn’t be mad at me anymore; she had gotten what she wanted. I checked her Instagram before texting her, though, and found a selfie of her in a new Armani business suit with the caption “First major client meeting today and I feel fabulous.” She didn’t have time to chase Ethan around the city. I put my phone back on the bedside table.

  Celeste left as quickly as she had come. I wasn’t even quite sure what had happened to me. She was a whirlwind. Loud voice, long nails, ultrablond hair, Lilly Pulitzer prints. But with her help, the party was planned in one day. Now we just needed people to attend. Her relationship advice was less sound than her party advice, but what could I do? I pulled on leggings and a tunic, ran a brush through my hair, and headed down to the office to talk to Linda about the idea of hiring Annie Sanders for the catering. I was sure that Linda would know her if she was, as Celeste claimed, a local.

  * * *

  —

  The office was unlocked, but Linda wasn’t in it, although her usual mess was. I ventured into the main tasting room and found her curled up on the leather sofa using what looked like a pashmina scarf as a blanket. I didn’t want to wake her, but I was also worried about her. I went back into the office and got the Penny Vincenzi novel that had been sitting on Linda’s desk since I started, unopened. I settled myself in the overstuffed leather chair across the coffee table from the couch that she was sleeping on and started reading. I was immediately swept away by the story of the rich London publishing family and the intrigues that could happen between parents, siblings, colleagues. Family business was family business, I guessed, no matter what the type of work. I had read about thirty pages when Linda started stirring. She turned over to face me and looked shocked. She also looked puffy, like she had been crying.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had something to tell you. An idea that Celeste had. I figured you’d be in the office, but then I found you sleeping here and I wanted to stay to check on you.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I had a hard night. Everett and I got in a huge fight after you left. One of the biggest. Now that William isn’t here, it’s just . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “About the distributor?”

  “About everything. My role. His role. The business. How best to grow it. Why maybe we shouldn’t grow it. How we don’t respect the work the other does. That kind of thing.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. I felt that somehow the fight was also about me, but neither of us brought that up. “How did you leave things?”

  “Well, then the argument devolved into more what I don’t do for him, what he doesn’t do for me. How we are just business partners at this point.”

  “Oh,” I said. This was a kitchen sink fight—the kind where you just said everything that you had ever thought about the other person. It was hard to recover from such fights. I decided not to say that, though, because what did I know about marriage in general and their marriage in particular? Nothing. “But you guys have such a long marriage. You can survive a night like this.”

  “We have before,�
�� she said. “But I’m done. After seeing Jackson the other day, and this fight, it makes me realize I’m just wasting away here. I’m sorry that you’re here while this is happening. You can stay or go. I know you don’t have the best relationship with Everett, but he’ll probably need you more than ever with me gone. You already have all the billing under control. I’ll tell you about the deliveries. But that’s easy. He’ll see how much I do when I’m not here to do it. I know he thinks it’s unnecessary, that I create work for myself, but nobody else does.”

  “Of course,” I said. “You do so much.” My mind was racing. What was I going to do? I was supposed to learn from her. How would I keep the place afloat? What was going to happen? I just wanted to plan a party and post cute photos of a dog on the Internet. Not take over for the woman who ran the business side of the winery.

  She sat up on the couch and shivered into the thin cashmere shawl. “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked.

  “Maybe you’ll be happier,” I said, trying to push my own anxieties aside.

  “Maybe,” she said. She looked like a little girl at that moment, red eyes, messy hair, a too-big shawl, an oversize couch. I hadn’t realized how tiny she was until this very moment. She had such a loud voice and a big personality and was always moving so fast that you didn’t notice that she was small—petite, fine boned.

  “Whatever you need to do to make yourself happy,” I said. Although I wanted to scream: “Don’t abandon me! I am totally clueless!”

  “You’re sweet,” she said. “I admire you.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just moved next to her and gave her a hug. She snuffled a bit more, then stood up. “I guess I need to get some things in order.”

  “I guess,” I said. “I had originally come down here to tell you that Celeste is going to help me with the party—organize the catering and decorations.”