The Vineyard (37 page)

“Oh, no,” Olivia said, breaking into a smile. “It's not absurd at all. I hope when I'm her age I can do all sorts of things. Can you imagine the freedom of being seventy-six? Admittedly, you have to be healthy to enjoy most of it. But even if you aren't, there's a plus side to things. You don't have to worry about what people think. You can do what you want.”

“That's a plus side?” Susanne asked. “What about the people you hurt in the process?” She pushed things around in the cabinet, removed flour, cornmeal, and sugar, and shut the door with more force than was necessary.

“I wasn't talking about Natalie,” Olivia said. “I was talking about the idea of … wearing hot pink when you're eighty-five.”

“Is that any different from a six-month turnaround in husbands?” Susanne was at the refrigerator now, assessing its contents. When Olivia didn't have an answer, she said, “Gotcha there,” and pulled out milk and eggs.

Olivia rested against the edge of one of the counter stools. “You have to read Natalie's story. Once you have, six months won't seem so fast. I can give you what I've written so far, if you'd like.”

Susanne pulled mixing bowls from a cabinet under the counter. “Thanks, but I have plenty to read before that.”

“It explains things.”

“If my mother wants things explained, she can do it face-to-face.”

“She has trouble talking about some of this. I've had to coax and prod.” Olivia grinned. “She'll be so glad you're here. Is your husband here, too?”

Susanne took measuring cups from the drawer. “Nope. He's working.”

“Are your kids coming?”

“Nope.” She put shortening in the baking pan. “They're working. In case you haven't guessed, I'm the only one who isn't. Homemaking isn't considered work nowadays.” She spread the shortening with a paper towel.

“Well, that shows how much
they
know,” Olivia declared. “Homemaking is the oldest profession in the world.”

“I thought prostitution was that.”

“Nope, homemaking is. Think about it. Neanderthal men went
out to hunt, while their women did … what? Kept the cave neat, cooked the meals, raised the kids. If they hadn't done that, their men would have starved to death. I mean, they couldn't very well eat raw meat, and if the kids didn't get raised, there wouldn't be any descendants, so that would be the end of the species, right there and then. Could those men have kids without us? No. Their bodies are
totally
ill-equipped. Us? We can do anything we want. We can clean and cook and raise kids. We can make clothes and sell clothes—and
market
clothes. Getting back to my analogy, we can also hunt—though I don't know about you, I think I'd
shatter
if I ever killed a deer. Of course, I've never had to make the choice between hunting and starving. I guess I could do it then. Your mother did.”

Susanne paused, about to dip a measuring cup into the flour. “Choose between hunting and starving?
My
mother?”

“Well, not exactly between those two things, but there are correlations in her life. I didn't think so, either. I came here assuming that everything at Asquonset had always been elegant and posh, but it wasn't.”

“I know that,” Susanne said and went on with her work. “The vineyard was slow to grow, but I don't think Natalie was out in the wild killing grouse for dinner in the meanwhile.”

“Are there grouse here?” Olivia asked, but before Susanne could answer, Natalie appeared at the door.

“I heard your voice,” she said to her daughter, crossing the floor with a smile on her face and her arms open wide. She waited only until Susanne wiped her hands on a dish towel, then gave her a hug. “I'm so glad to see you.” She held her back, suddenly accusatory.
“When
did you get here? You weren't driving in the wee hours, were you?”

“It was midnight when I pulled up. Your door was shut. I wasn't about to disturb you.”

“I was sleeping alone,” Natalie replied archly, but the tone held a ghost of humor, and she was quickly smiling again. “I see you've met Olivia.”

“Oh, yes. She was in your office when I went up there to surprise you. She followed me down here and has me talking in a way that I should never do with a stranger.”

Olivia was infinitely grateful that Susanne hadn't mentioned the scene in the office. She didn't want to have to explain.

“She's been a help to me that way,” Natalie said and stood back
to study her daughter. “You look beautiful, Susanne. Young, young, young. I love your hair. How are the children? Melissa? Brad?”

Olivia listened for only a minute. It wasn't that she didn't want to hear, only that this seemed like a private mother-daughter time. She left, marveling that things could sound so perfectly pleasant between two women who had such a major block between them.

Twenty-two
 

S
IMON DIDN
'
T GO AWAY
. He lurked in the back of Olivia's mind for the rest of the day, pulling her this way and that. It was a tug-of-war, with sex at one end and logic at the other.

Logic won. Regardless of the attraction, she couldn't afford to be sidetracked from where she was headed—which was what she told him the next morning. She went outside as soon as he appeared on the patio, and feeling the physical pull even then, launched into it with barely a hello. He listened to her without a blink and, in response, asked a calm, “Where are you headed?”

“I don't
know
. That's the problem. But I need maximum flexibility, which means no involvement. It means focusing on Tess and focusing on me. I'm at a crossroads in my career—a crossroads in my
life
. It's a crucial time.”

They were walking down the path that divided Cabernet Sauvignon grapes from Chenin Blanc ones. The sun was starting to rise in a cloudless summer sky.

“What's your dream?” he asked.

“My dream? As in, my ideal job?”

“Other than living at the Plaza and being a concierge,” he
teased, and for a minute she didn't answer. Teasing was something she hadn't expected from a man who had been so cold at the start. He wore the gentleness well—which didn't help her cause any. She would have preferred that he do something crude, like scratch himself or burp. It would make her decision easier.

“My dream?” she repeated, mustering resolve. “Seriously?”

He nodded.

“I'd like a grant to do a photo essay on the elderly.”

He gave a curious half smile. “The elderly?”

She nodded. “Our society is attuned to youth and beauty. Seniors don't rate on that scale, but they have a wealth of experience to impart. It's written all over their faces, if you have the patience to read between the lines. Their faces can be
the
most expressive. I could capture that on film.” Self-conscious at having shown so much enthusiasm, she smiled. “Just a dream.”

But Simon wasn't laughing. “Vines are like that too. The older they are, the more character they have. A vine has to grow for four years before it produces a steady yield; then, like wine, it gets better with age. We keep them hedged tightly during the growing season, so you don't get a feel for their individuality. That comes out during the winter months. Once the leaves fall, you see the uniqueness of each vine.”

Olivia wanted him to keep talking, if only to hear the feeling in his voice. “Once the leaves fall, doesn't the place seem barren?”

“No, because it isn't. Dormancy is an important time. It's when the vines rest up from the work of one season and gain strength for the next. We prune them then, and that's crucial, too. The yield can be ruined if the pruning is wrong.”

“Do you do it all yourself?”

“Donna helps. Paolo used to. I'll hire someone else in the fall, but I'll have to spend most of the first year training him. Or her.” A distracted look came to his eyes, a small smile to his lips.

“What?” Olivia asked, intrigued by that smile.

“The sound is amazing.”

“Sound?”

“The vineyard in winter. There's creaking in the wind. There's a woody cracking when we cut a limb, and a snap and echo when it falls on the pile. The air is crisp, your breath is white. The sun is weak, but fine for the vines.” The gentleness that had been in his
smile was in his eyes now, along with anticipation. “Then comes bud break. You wait for that, wondering when it'll happen, getting up each morning, looking outside, ready for it after winter”—his voice held suspense—“and then there it is. Just like that. It can happen at dawn, or at ten in the morning, even at two in the afternoon, that single moment when the buds emerge from their casements enough to be seen. It's like a pale, pale green mist creeps over the vines. The buds are so small, so pale, almost fragile—no,
entirely
fragile. A frost at that point can kill the vintage.”

“Kill the
whole
thing?” Olivia asked.

“I know of cases where that's happened. We've never had it here. The ocean moderates things so that once it's warm enough for bud break, a frost is rare. Cold air sinks, though. We've lost a few rows low on the hill in a freak frost. A degree or two can make the difference. But we're careful where we plant things. Some varieties are more resistant to cold than others. Some do better higher or lower on a hill, some do better facing east than south, or south rather than west.”

“How do you know what works where?”

“Trial and error.”

“My God. That must be expensive.”

“Not necessarily. When we wanted to produce a Chenin Blanc grape, we planted a few vines in different places.” He tossed a glance at the rows beside them. “This was where they grew best, so we ordered more and planted a block. This block has been here a dozen years now.”

“Did you have to uproot something else to make room?”

“Not in this instance. We had tried Gewürz here, and it hadn't worked, but it thrived off there to the side. What's good for one vine isn't necessarily good for another. It all evens out. There's still the weather to factor in. Weather patterns change. Something can work well in a spot for three years, then have an awful time for another two. When a vine withers and dies, you know you've planted it in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

They walked on, more aimless than not.
The wrong place at the wrong time.
The words lingered.

“Like us,” she said quietly.

He stopped walking and nodded.

“The wrong place at the wrong time,” she mused.

“Yeah.” He gazed off down the hill. Watching him, she thought him more handsome than ever with his auburn hair newly washed, his square jaw newly shaved, his broad, sinewy shoulders relaxed, ready for work.

“Maybe in another five years,” she teased to break the moment, “when I'm a renowned concierge at the Plaza and my daughter has captivated the place to the point that publishers are beating down her door begging her to write about her experiences. She could be the next Eloise. Okay, she'd be fifteen then, but that wouldn't matter. There's a market for teenage adventure—or angst. She could write
Tessa Jones's Diary,
and I'd be her assistant. We'd get a big advance that would keep us in Starbucks mocha-latte-Rio-Grande-cappuccino-whatever for years, so I'd retire and we'd move here and I wouldn't have any worries about what work I should do and where Tess should go to school …”

She might have spun the vision even more if, chuckling, Simon hadn't hooked an arm around her neck, pulled her close, and started heading her back toward the house. It was the gesture of a fond friend, with nothing predatory in it—the kind of gesture Olivia could fall in love with in no time flat.

O
LIVIA SHOWERED
thinking of Romeo and Juliet, and dressed thinking of Antony and Cleopatra. She was thinking of Scarlett and Rhett while she helped herself to breakfast from the lavish spread Susanne had laid out, and headed for Natalie's office thinking of Gwyneth and Brad.

She and Simon weren't tragic, but she felt a certain sadness that morning. It didn't help that she was working alone, or that the work in question was the restoration of some of Natalie's newer photographs. Her brushes and inks were set up on the desk, and she did love the work, but it didn't require the concentration writing would have. Her mind wandered any number of times. The tug between what was and what might have been was strong.

Natalie saw it immediately when she joined Olivia at mid-day. “You look worried about something. Is it anything I can help with?”

Olivia capped her inks and sighed. “No. I'm just starting to think about where I'll be in the fall. Summer's passing too quickly.”
Wiping her brushes, she changed the subject. “I'm glad Susanne is here. She's lovely.” Indeed, if Susanne had negative thoughts about Olivia and Simon—or about Olivia and Natalie—she didn't let it show. She was friendly each time Olivia saw her. “And she's a wonderful cook.”