The Vineyard (44 page)

Susanne swallowed. “There's change, and there's
change.”

“Right,” Mark said, “and we don't know which kind will fall into our laps. Our kids may hate what we decide to do, but does that mean it's wrong? Does that mean we shouldn't do it? What's right for us isn't necessarily right for them, any more than what's right for Natalie is right for you. She's not asking
you
to marry Carl.” He paused, then hurried on before she could argue. “I may well die before you. If I do, and if you had a shot at happiness with another man, I'd be the first one to tell you to take it. If the kids have trouble with that, they're just being narrow minded.”

Susanne wrapped her arms around her middle. “Like me?”

He started to deny it and stopped. “Talk to her, Susanne. And if you can't talk, read her book. You owe her that.”

S
IMON WAS IN AN ODD PLACE
, neither here nor there on several counts.

Take the weather. On the one hand, it was ideal. The sun was working its magic on the leaves, which were feeding sugar to the grapes, which were growing larger now and were fungus free. On the other hand, the tropical depression in the Atlantic had worked its way into a tropical storm and continued to grow.

Take Susanne. On the one hand, she relied on him to run the vineyard the way her father would have wanted. On the other hand, she refused to discuss anything
but
the vineyard with him, lest he forget his place and think he was family.

Take Olivia. On the one hand, she brought passion to his life in ways he hadn't ever known, which wasn't taking anything away from Laura, simply saying that Olivia was different. On the other hand, she was leaving, gone in three weeks max.

Take Tess. She was a pest, albeit a sweet one. She was lurking down the next row of vines even then.

“I know you're there,” he called, not particularly loudly. “Are you following me for a reason?”

There was a pause, then a faceless, “How did you know I was here?”

“Your sneakers are orange and huge. Is that the style?”

“These are
last
year's,” she said, crouching down to peer at him under the grapes. “This year's are more clunky, but my mom wouldn't let me buy any.” She started to crawl under the vine.

He stopped her with a quick, “Hey. The grapes are right there. Walk around.”

She ran, but he could live with that. He looked up when she rounded the end of the row and came toward him. She had a hand in her pocket and looked innocuous enough.

“Now,
those
look like grapes,” she said. “What do they taste like?”

“You tell me.” He picked one from the back of a bunch.

She put it in her mouth and made a face. “Sour.”

“Not as sour as they were yesterday. More sour than they'll be tomorrow.”

She looked up at the vines, which were significantly taller than she was. “Are you pruning again?”

“Nope. Just checking around. I want to know if birds are eating my grapes.”

“What do you do if they are?”

“Fire a cannon.”

“You
shoot
them?” she asked in horror.

“No. I just scare them away with the noise. It's not really a cannon, just a machine that makes a boom every few minutes.”

Her hand moved in her pocket. With her free hand, she pushed curly wisps of hair from her face. She looked up at him through her glasses in a way that magnified her eyes and tugged at his heart. For once, she seemed to be hesitant about asking a question.

“What?” he asked, not wanting to be tugged.

“Did you decide what to do with the kittens?”

“Not yet.”

“You won't just drive down a highway and leave them on the side of the road somewhere, will you?”

“I told you I wouldn't.”

She gasped and yanked her hand from her pocket. Seconds later, it was back in, and she was trying to look nonchalant.

He cleared his throat. “How many do you have in there?”

“How many what?” she asked innocently.

He rolled his eyes, sighed, squatted down. A conspirator now, he asked, “Is it Bruce?” Tess had named each of the kittens, claiming that even if it was too early to know the sex, Buck had managed just fine as Buck.

She whispered, “Tyrone.”

“Lemme see.”

She pulled the kitten out of her pocket and kissed the top of its furry little head. “His nails are sharp, but he's the sweetest thing,” she said and smiled.

Simon was dazzled, and not by the kitten. “Did anyone ever tell you how pretty your smile is?”

He could have sworn she blushed. “Kids don't say things like that. And I don't smile for them.”

“Not even when you told them about these guys?”

She tucked Tyrone under her chin. “One of the other kids has a cat who just had kittens. Hers had
six.”

“Ah. So her story was better.”

“Everything
she does is better,” Tess said, solemn now. “Everything they
all
do is better. They won't miss me when I'm gone.”

“Sure, they will.”

“If they do, it's because I make
them
look good. I'm the one who doesn't get things.”

“What don't you get?”

“The tiller. I always push it in the wrong direction. I make the sail luff. I forget which way the wind is coming from, so I jibe instead of coming about. Last time, the boom nearly hit one of the other kids.”

“Well, you sure have the lingo.”

“I'm not
stupid,”
she said in a defensive reflex, but softened in the next breath. “It just isn't easy. There's so much thinking to do. I like tennis better. The ball comes over the net, and you hit it.”

Simon knew both sports. If he had to choose between them, there was no contest at all. “Yup. The ball comes, and you hit it. Always the same. And that flat, hard court? Nah, the ocean's much more interesting. It has different moods and different sounds. And it's not that you have to think so much, once you've been out sailing enough. Tennis is easier for you just because you've done it more.”

“I'll be able to play tennis wherever we live. I won't be able to sail.”

“That depends on where you live.”

Under her breath, she mumbled, “Don't know where
that's
gonna be.”

It struck him that moving around had to take a toll on the child. “Wherever it is, you'll have skills you didn't have before this summer. Your friends will be impressed.”

“Maybe about tennis. Not about sailing.”

“Sailing, too. You just need more time on the water. I could take you out.”

The words bounced between the rows of vines. He couldn't believe he'd said them.

Tess was nearly as incredulous. “Do you mean it? Really? Will you?”

“Well, I could,” he said, suddenly hemming and hawing. “I mean, you'd have to get your mother's permission, and she might not want it.”

“She will,” Tess said excitedly. “I know she will.”

“There's … there's also the problem of getting a boat. We don't have one that's like what you're used to.”

“Mrs. Adelson does. Seth showed me.” She started walking backward. “He could come, too. I mean, he can't hear the waves, and you have to poke his arm to let him know when the boom is going to change sides, but he's
so
cool.” She was trotting backward now.

“Where are you going?” Simon called, suddenly frightened.

Still trotting, she turned and called over her shoulder, “I'm asking my mom. If she says yes, I'll ask Mrs. Adelson. If she says yes, can we go today?”

He raised his voice. “No. Not today. I can't do it today.”

“Then tomorrow,” she called.

“I don't know—there's a hurricane brewing—and that kitten needs to go
home!”

He might as well have saved his breath. She was gone.

O
LIVIA HAD ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED
one of Tess's Asquonset T-shirts into a load of laundry with bleach, which meant that what had been burgundy in the afternoon was bright orange by night. It wasn't a unique occurrence. Tess had long since learned to find at least one thing good about a color gone bad. In this instance, the good thing was that the shirt matched her sneakers.

She had promptly put both on that morning, which was why Olivia knew she was in the vineyard with Simon. The vines were tall and as lush as a plant that was kept plucked could be, but bright orange still stuck out. And Simon? Simon was tall enough to stand out on his own.

Besides, Olivia had the advantage of height. She was at the window of Natalie's office, watching Simon in his fields, when she caught sight of Tess. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she didn't hurry down to referee. She trusted Simon now. When Tess left him and headed here, her run was of the excited variety. Olivia figured she had two minutes before the child burst into the room.

Olivia studied the envelopes in her hand. They had come for her with the morning mail, three letters in all. Two were school acceptances for Tess. One was a job offer for her.

The schools were in Hartford and Providence. The job offer was in Pittsburgh.

Life was never simple.

“Are you Olivia?”

She glanced at the door. Other than updated clothes, a tired look around the eyes, and tension at the mouth, the man standing there was the image of Alexander.

She smiled. “You're Greg.”

“How'd you guess,” he said. It wasn't a question; he didn't wait for an answer. “I'm looking for my wife. Do you know where she is?”

“She was at the office an hour ago.”

He hitched his chin in thanks, and had to step aside when Tess barreled through the door, but seconds later he was gone.

“Simon's taking me sailing,” Tess cried. Her eyes were wide, her freckles bright, her mouth sweetly curved. “Seth can come, but we need to use Mrs. Adelson's boat. Will you call her, Mom? Please? Will you do it now?” She put her hands together in front of her nose, as though that would keep her excitement in check. “He promised to teach me everything I don't know. This means so much to me I can't
tell
you!”

Olivia was startled—and it had nothing to do with the fact that Achmed had risen from Natalie's desk chair and was growling softly. Olivia knew how long it had been since Simon had gone anywhere near the yacht club, and she knew why that was so. “He's taking you sailing?”

“Maybe not today, but tomorrow, for sure.”

“Did he say that?”

“Well, I'm not making it up.” She softened. “I know about the accident. One of the kids told me, but he had nothing to do with it. He wasn't there. I'm not afraid to go out with him.”

No. Olivia figured she wasn't. But that wasn't what gave her pause. She was wondering if there was any significance in Simon's ending his exile from the sea for Tess's sake—or whether she was imagining something that had no deeper meaning at all.

Achmed was making an uncharacteristically wary circle around Tess, and suddenly Olivia understood why.

“Will you call?” the child asked.

“As soon as you take the kitten in your pocket back to its mother.”

Tess rolled her eyes. “He is fine.”

“Take him back and I'll call.”

“All right. I'm doing it now.” She ran to the door, then returned to Olivia and gave her an exuberant hug.

When she left, Olivia was still holding the three letters. Quietly, she put them on the desk to be dealt with later.

•   •   •

“U
PSTAIRS, SECOND DOOR ON THE RIGHT
,” Anne Marie told Greg.

He nodded, took the stairs two at a time, and strode down the hall over dove gray carpeting that was new since he had been there last. Same with the walls, which were sponged a compatible soft gray, and the furniture, a surprisingly high-tech burgundy and slate. Asquonset had come a long way, he thought in passing. Had he been any more tired, he would be convinced he was in the office of any one of his last three clients.

The second door on the right was open. Jill was seated at a desk there, but his view of her was obstructed by the man leaning over whatever it was they were studying. Greg patted the doorjamb just enough to get their attention.

When Jill's eyes met his and widened, he felt the same surge of pleasure as when he had first met her eight years before. She had been running a fund-raiser that he was attending, and the connection was instant. He would have thought the thread would be weaker now, especially with all that had gone on between them of late, but it wasn't. At least, not on his part. He wasn't sure about her. Wide eyes could mean a dozen things.

He gave her shoulder an intimate squeeze and extended his free hand to Asquonset's head of sales. “How are you, Chris?”

“Fine, thanks to your wife. She's been a godsend.” To Jill, he said, “You didn't tell me Greg was coming.”

“I didn't know,” Jill said in a way that could have reflected surprise, or pleasure—or indignation, for all Greg knew. Once, he had thought he could read her, but he wasn't sure anymore. That writer had it right; she was Venus to his Mars.

“We can finish this later,” Chris told Jill. “Visit with your husband.” He closed the door on his way out.

Jill's eyes fell to the papers on the desk. Her shoulder was tense under his hand, as though she resented his touch. Feeling rebuffed, he put the hand in his pocket and asked quietly, “What are you working on?”

She moistened her lips. “Getting our wines into new markets. Natalie's been working with an ad agency on a new campaign. The slogan is ‘Truly Asquonset.' This is the marketing and sales side. We need name recognition. We're trying to edge our way west—creep
up on California wine territory.” She sipped from a water bottle and shot him a fleeting glance. “What brings you here?”