The Vineyard (13 page)

Or so he explained standing there for as long as he did. If life moved at its normal pace, he would be on his way to work. He was behind. He had been behind for three weeks now. His e-mail had piled up unanswered. Same with phone messages. His desk was covered with proposals to study, findings to analyze, correspondence to handle.

He could delegate—that was what his staff was for—but no one at the office could help him here at home, not with what he needed to do.

The place was neat and clean. He had done the laundry the night before, had folded it and put it away. Now he made the bed. He made breakfast. He read the paper cover to cover and gave his laptop a distracted glance, thinking all the while that he ought to shower and dress.

Instead, he remained in his boxer shorts, wandering from room to room, checking his watch. At nine he put in a call to Akron. His mother-in-law answered, just as she had each of the other times he'd called.

“Hi, Sybil. Is Jill around?”

There was a pause, then a cautious, “She's in the other room, but I'm not sure she wants to talk.”

“She's my wife. She
has
to talk.”

The line was silent.

“Sybil?”

“Yes.”

He ran a hand around the back of his neck, hung his head, and sighed. “Okay. I was upset last time I called. I probably shouldn't have been so …”

“Imperious?”

“Yes.”

Jill's mother was clearly skeptical. “And you feel differently now?”

Yes, he felt differently. He had run out of anger. What was left was harder to name. It wasn't anything he was used to feeling. “I miss Jill.”

The tone of his voice must have conveyed something he couldn't put into words, because Sybil finally said quietly, “Hold on.”

He held. And held. He imagined an argument going on in the other room. Jill really didn't want to take his call. He wasn't sure where that left them.

“Hi, Greg,” she said in a chilly voice. “What's up?”

“You tell me,” he said, then caught himself and added a more contrite, “Forget that. I want to apologize. I shouldn't have shouted at you the way I did last time.”

“You're right.”

“I was angry.”

“That wasn't what I needed.”

“I know.” He was wandering again, holding the cordless phone. For a small house, the place seemed monstrous. Jill was at the same time everywhere and nowhere. “I miss you,” he said. It had worked with Sybil. He wanted it to work with Jill.

It did, but in a very different way. She let loose. “Well, now you know how I've been feeling for the past five years. You run all around the country—gone for days at a time—building the business, you say, but after a while that sucks, Greg. Marriage is supposed to be about you and me. There's supposed to be an
us
in it, only there isn't in ours. Our lives are about you—you and your business, you
and your clients, you and your friends. There's always something else you have to do, other than me. Why in the world did you ever get
married?”

Strange. He had never asked himself that question. Not once. Not once in five years had he regretted marrying Jill. That was such a basic fact of his life that he found her remark to be offensive. “I could ask you the same question,” he shot back. “What kind of woman runs home to her mother at the first problem?”

“The kind who can't get through to you any other way.”

“You're my wife. You should be here.”

“Because I'm your wife? No. I should be there because we love each other.”

“We
do.”

“You can't even define what love is!”

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and swore softly. “Come on, Jill. Let's not go there again.”

“I
need
to go there. Saying the words just isn't enough. I need to know what they mean.”

She would. She was a woman. But he was a man, and his mind grew unfocused when confronted with words like “love” and “soul” and “eternity.”

But possession was nine-tenths of the law. She was his wife. She had taken vows. “Fine,” he said. “Come back, and we'll talk.”

She didn't respond.

“Jill.”

“I don't want to come back. I know what'll happen. One look at you and I'll cave right in.”

He dared a small smile. “Because you do love me.”

“Yes. I've never denied that. But it doesn't mean that I want to stay married to you. I can't live this way, Greg. It's too lonely.”

Lonely.
That felt familiar. Perhaps he was feeling that, too. “Come back, babe,” he said in a voice that was heavy with emotion. “Come back and we'll talk.”

She said nothing.

“Jill?”

“I'll let you know.”

Eight
 

O
LIVIA AWOKE NEARLY AS EARLY
as Susanne and Greg, but while Susanne's sleep was disturbed by annoyance and Greg's by loneliness, Olivia's was broken by bliss. Dawn found her on the window seat in her bedroom, delighted to be at Asquonset.

In the west, the sky was the color of eggplant. In the east, it was a paler, softer mauve. The occasional cloud added texture and depth, more purple to the west, more pink to the east. A blanket of fog lay on the lowlands farthest from the house. Olivia fancied that the vines in that part of the vineyard were stealing a last few winks before facing the work of the day.

And that work? Making grapes. It had been the major point of discussion at dinner the evening before.

Dinner had been in the dining room, a welcome feast of a roast duck served on fine china by the husband of the cook. Only Natalie and Carl, Olivia and Tess had been there, a small, intimate group—a one-step-removed-from-family group. Olivia found it such fun to pretend.

Olivia and Tess had overdressed, of course. They had worn long skirts, bandeaux, and sandals—all new. Natalie and Carl had on the
same clothes they had worn that afternoon, and though they had gone overboard telling Olivia and Tess how nice they looked, Olivia took it as their first lesson of the evening about Asquonset life. It was casual, unpretentious, and focused on work.

The second had to do with wine. It was served, but only sparsely. No one at Asquonset really drank; they merely tasted. This night's sampling was of a three-year-old Estate Riesling, a sweet white wine that went well with duck. There was sniffing, gentle swirling, then sniffing again as the bouquet was released. Even Tess took part in the ritual, though her wineglass was filled with Asquonset Little Bunches, a snappily labeled grape juice that was actually one of the vineyard's biggest sellers.

The third lesson concerned the weather. Carl talked about it at length, and this was no small talk. The weather could make or break a vintage, and the weather this season had been far from optimal. Spring had come late and been too wet. Still, the vines had bloomed, and what Carl called, with some reverence, the “grape set” looked good. But the weather remained iffy. They needed sun more than one day out of four—if not, he explained, the year's yield wouldn't ripen and grow sweet.

Holding Tess's hand, squeezing it now and again to keep her focused, Olivia had listened closely to every word. She had followed as best she could the talk about sugar and acid, about Brix levels, prophylactic spraying, and predatory beetles. Greater understanding would come this morning—Natalie was giving them a tour of the vineyard.

In anticipation of that, Olivia already had her camera loaded and ready. But she couldn't wait. On impulse, she opened the casement window and carefully removed the screen. Suddenly the morning air entered unhampered, cool and moist, fresh, sweet. It should have chilled her—she wore only a light nightshirt—but instead she was invigorated.

Taking up the camera, she photographed the sky, varying her settings to make sure she got the color and the clouds. She photographed that blanket of fog, which was lifting and thinning even as she watched. She photographed the vineyards below as, minute by minute, dawn embraced the vines. She photographed the patio beneath her window, where wrought-iron furniture was artfully placed and peonies were still damp with dew.

She was like a child in a penny-candy store, and the tempation was simply too great. Tiptoeing through the connecting bathroom, she peeked in at Tess. The child was sleeping soundly on a mound of pale blue linen, her face nearly buried in a jumble of hair. Olivia had watched her sleep often enough to know that she would be out for a while still.

Closing the door carefully, she crept out to the carpeted hall and slipped down the narrow staircase that led to the outside directly from their wing of the house.
Not that I expect a fire,
Natalie had assured them when she showed them where it was, but it served Olivia's present purpose well.

Only after she turned the handle and had the door ajar did she freeze, wondering if the house was alarmed. Most everything in Cambridge was, as was just about everything in most
every
city in which she had lived.

The thought of waking the entire house gave her a moment's pause. She would feel like a total fool.

But all was quiet. There was no alarm. The door opened without a squeak.

Heart pounding with excitement, she slipped out onto the patio. The flagstone was cool and damp, but the effect was bracing. Clearing the awning, she crossed to the edge of the stonework and stood, taking in the view, for a good ten minutes. The camera hung idly from her shoulder while her eye captured images as precious as any she might capture on film.

In time, she raised the camera. The view through the lens, however, wasn't as whole as the one in real life. The camera couldn't capture the sound of birds waking up to the new day. It couldn't capture the crystal stillness of a dewy vineyard, or the gentle movement of clouds, or the smell of lilacs and damp earth, or the sound of a distant foghorn.

Enchanted, she returned the camera strap to her shoulder and went down the stone path that led away from the house. Low-growing greens framed it—a nubby tableau of juniper, cypress, and yew. Eventually they gave way to grass and the open space so precious to the vines, space that they needed to breathe. She had heard enough the night before to understand why.

Putting her shoulders back, she lifted her head, laced her fingers behind her, and filled her lungs with the morning air. In that instant, she felt strong. She felt confident that she could do Natalie's job. She
felt proud of herself for having gotten herself and Tess to such an incredible place. She felt defiance toward all those who had given up on her in the past. She felt fresh and renewed.

“That's quite an outfit.”

She turned with a start. Simon stood behind her, holding a steaming mug. His hair was damp, newly washed, but his beard was an even darker shadow than it had been, and his eyes matched. Or maybe it was just an effect. Perhaps the last trace of night obscured color. Or maybe it was the tight muscle of his upper arm, bare where his sleeves were torn out. Or those heavy work boots. Whatever, he looked menacing.

But Olivia wasn't being menaced out of her Eden. Nor was she playing the coy maiden. She had been caught outdoors in a perfectly respectable nightshirt. There was no harm in that.

She stood her ground. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“I work here,” he said with what was either a small smile or a twitch. “I live here.”

She knew that was not exactly true. He had a place of his own several acres over, though Natalie did say that he was in and out of the Great House all the time.

“I meant,” Olivia clarified her statement, “that you're not supposed to be up this early.”

Those dark eyes didn't blink. “I'm always up this early. This is the best time of day to work.”

“In the vineyard?”

“Sometimes. Today, in the office. I have e-mail to send. I need advice.”

“About mold?”

“Fungus. Yes.”

“It was confirmed, then?”

He nodded. “No surprise there. The season's been cool and wet. We need more sun.”

“Looks like you'll get it today,” Olivia said with a glance at the glimmer of gold that was starting to touch the tops of the trees.

He shrugged in a way that said maybe yes, maybe no, and took a sip of his coffee. His eyes held hers over the mug, which was a chunky ceramic thing that she imagined was his and his alone. He lowered it, holding it easily in one large hand.

Olivia would have gone inside to dress if he hadn't been blocking the way. She kept waiting for him to move on, but he continued
to stand there, just where the path to the patio began, looking big and very male, with his weight on one lean hip and his eyes on hers. Well, she wasn't looking away. She refused to. If the game was about who would blink first, she could play as well as he.

Finally she won. After a long minute, his eyes moved off.

She felt oddly deflated. “Is something wrong?” she asked.