Eight Hundred Grapes (31)

Maddie felt my eyes on her and looked up. “Would you like some?” she said.

Her tiny, British accent could make you melt it was so cute. And there was this: She held out the fork to share, which looked like it pained her to do, to share anything with me—the cake or her father.

Who could blame her? She had just found him for herself. And now she was being forced to meet the woman he was going to marry? Who might want to take her father away from her. And her cake.

I smiled at her, anxious to relieve her anxiety. “That’s all for you, Maddie,” I said. “But thank you.”

She nodded, relieved. “You’re welcome.”

Then she turned back to her chocolate cake.

Ben looked between us. I kept my eyes on Maddie, avoiding looking at him or at Jacob, who watched me, amused.

Ben gave Jacob a look. “So catch me up. How do you know Jen and Dan?”

“I’m a local winemaker,” he said.

“Kind of,” I said.

Jacob gave me a smile. “I own Murray Grant Wines,” he said. “We’re based in Napa Valley.”

“I know Murray Grant Wines.” Ben smiled condescendingly. “Everyone near a grocery store knows it.”

Jacob ignored Ben’s insulting tone. “I guess that’s true,” he said.

“You’re Murray’s son?”

“Grandson.”

Ben took a bite of Maddie’s cake, winked at her. He didn’t turn back to Jacob when he spoke next.

“I didn’t know Murray had much to do with Dan,” Ben said.

“He didn’t, but I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“We’re purchasing The Last Straw Vineyard,” Jacob said.

Ben turned toward me, shocked, compassion filling his eyes.

“We’re planning to keep the vineyard in the tradition of Dan’s work, to offer a biodynamic option to our customers. The vineyard will be run exactly the same.”

Ben smiled, tightly. “If Dan’s not here, it can’t be run exactly the same.”

“Dan isn’t worried about it,” he said.

Ben leaned in. “How much money did you have to pay him so he wouldn’t be?”

The tension between them was thick. I should have enjoyed it, neither of them in my good graces. But I didn’t want to watch it either, which maybe Jacob sensed.

“I should probably get going . . .” Jacob said. It was less a statement, more a question. Did I want him to go or did I want protection from the talk Ben would demand we have as soon as we were alone?

I didn’t meet his eyes. I didn’t want protection from Ben, at least not from Jacob.

“You need us to call you a cab?” Ben said.

His eyes were still on me. “No,” Jacob said. “I’m going to walk.”

“Who’s walking where?”

Margaret walked into the kitchen, more like breezed into it, smiling, animated. She wore workout clothes, a sun visor, her long hair swept beneath it. She looked around the table and noticed Ben.

“Ben!” she said. “When did you get here? Did you come up for the family dinner tonight?”

Ben stood up to hug Margaret, wrapped his arms around her. “Of course.”

He smiled, happy to see Margaret, happy to be going to the family dinner. He hadn’t missed it since we’d started dating. The intimate family celebration before the big harvest party celebration. Ben loved it so much that he flew from a meeting in New York one year to be there for it. Another year, he cancelled a trip to London. He loved it as much as any of the Fords did.

Margaret smiled. “We were hoping you’d show up,” she said. “And who is this cutie pie?”

Ben looked at his daughter, smiling. “This is Maddie,” he said.

“Maddie?” Margaret said.

“Ben’s daughter,” Jacob said.

“What was that?” Margaret said.

Ben drilled Jacob with a dirty look, but I stifled a laugh, enjoying the confused look on Margaret’s face.

“Maddie, this is Margaret,” Ben said. “Margaret is going to be your aunt.”

Maddie nodded, uninterested.

Margaret looked like she’d swallowed paste. Then quickly recovered.

She bent down so she and Maddie were eye to eye. “It’s nice to meet you, sweetie.”

She forced a smile, looked at Ben and me.

Then she motioned to Jacob.

“Do we know each other?” she said. “You look familiar.”

“I’m Jacob McCarthy. I think we met once at a pickup party for Angus.”

“Right,” she said. “Great.”

She looked back and forth between Ben and Jacob, noting the tension.

Then she forced a smile, motioning to Jacob. “You’re coming with me,” she said.





Sebastopol, California. 1989




Murray had been the one who told him that you have to give farming—winemaking included—ten years. Ten years to figure out how the land beneath you was going to work. How you were going to work it.

This would mark year ten—the beginning of it, the end. Today was the harvest party, a small party. Dan had taken the extra money this year and built a winemaker’s cottage, where he could do his work. It had been Jen’s idea. She’d thought that they needed a separation between church and state.