Eight Hundred Grapes (32)

He’d thought it was a bad idea, but he hadn’t argued with her, and he was glad he hadn’t. He was glad to be sitting on the porch of his cottage now, watching the festivities happen—tons of good pizza and free beer for the workers.

It wasn’t much of a party, but it was something. He was glad to do something for them. They had earned it. And they were happy sitting in chairs that Jen had set up, umbrellas shielding them from the sun, Bob Dylan playing in the background.

It had been a good harvest despite the cold temperatures. The grapes had held on, and he had no complaints. Or, he had one complaint. His five-year-old daughter had taken this opportunity to announce that she knew what she wanted to do for a living. She wanted to be a winemaker like him. It broke his heart. It broke his heart and made him happy all at once. He didn’t like to think about her out here, without having him to protect her. Now the vineyard was a joy for her, a pure and unadulterated joy. What if it became something else? But you don’t get to choose for your kids, not once they were grown-ups: not once they were five, going on fifty.

She was sitting on the porch with him, reading a book, when Murray walked up.

“Dan,” he said. He was smiling, holding a bottle of his wine in one hand, holding his grandson in his other, his grandson, Jacob, who was visiting from New York City.

Dan’s daughter dropped her book and ran away. She ran toward her brothers, who were playing catch. Finn picked up another glove as soon as she got there, wanting to play, Bobby biting his nails. This was a two-person catch and he didn’t want to include his sister. But Finn put his arm around Georgia protectively until Bobby relented and threw her the ball. This was the interesting part. Jen had pointed it out, and now Dan would notice it too. Bobby always threw the ball so Georgia could catch it. Bobby threw the ball softer than Finn would throw it to his sister. He threw softer and he waited longer. He moved to her level as opposed to asking her to climb to his. This was why they didn’t intervene too much, letting the kids work it out. Because Finn seemed like he was the one taking care of his sister, but, in the ways it counted, Bobby was too.

“How are you doing, Murray?” Dan said.

“Good. Good. No complaints.”

Dan motioned toward the pizza, smiling. “Help yourself,” he said.

Murray nodded, picking up a piece of the greasy pizza, handing it to his grandson, Jacob taking a big bite.

“You want to go play?” Murray said to him.

Jacob nodded and ran out into the yard, toward Dan’s children—the kids dancing, Jen dancing. Then he ran past them to a tree in the shade, guarding his pizza, and pulled out a comic book.

“He’s a city kid. Not much for the outdoors.” Murray shrugged. “I’m working on it.”

Murray took a seat beside Dan on the steps, Dan pouring him a glass of wine.

“I was just thinking of you when you walked up.”

“Were you?”

Dan nodded. “I was thinking how you were the first to tell me that it takes ten years for a vineyard to become itself. That I should be patient and I would get there.”

Murray took the wine, tilting it in Dan’s direction. “I was right, wasn’t I? This has become something lovely. Don’t you think?”

Dan smiled. He knew Murray meant that. But he also knew Murray profited ten million dollars last year, which meant more to him.

Murray smiled back. “I want to make you an offer,” Murray said.

Dan shook his head, impressed by the old guy’s perseverance. “You’ve made it. I’ve gratefully declined.”

“Remind me why?”

“I can’t do what I do for a hundred thousand cases of wine.”

“Five hundred thousand.” He shrugged.

“Five hundred thousand.”

“You thought Sebastopol was going to turn into a bastion of winemaking, didn’t you? It hasn’t happened.”

“Yet.” Dan smiled. “There’s time.”

Murray took a long sip of the wine. “That’s true.”

“More people are coming out. There are two new vineyards up the road.”

Murray nodded. “Also true. I think I passed one on my way in. What is that? Five acres?”

Dan ignored his tone.

“If you’re so sure Sebastopol isn’t going to become anything, why do you want my little vineyard so badly?”

“I don’t. I don’t want it at all, really. I want your winemaking. I want you to come and work for me. You can keep control over your vineyard, which I’ll fund as a thank-you.”

Dan took a sip of his own wine, hoping that Murray couldn’t see in his eyes what that kind of money would mean to him. He would have financial security. And he could still do what he wanted. He could still make wine. He could stay in this house, with his kids, without worrying about it. But that was the thing about how Dan made wine. It wasn’t just about the wine for him. It was about the land and how he was changing it, ten years in or not. He was still getting there, and wherever he was going, he knew that Murray and his offer were going to send him in the wrong direction.

“I’m not going to do that,” he said.

“Well.” Murray tipped the wine in Dan’s direction. “There’s time for that too.”





The Terroir Has a Story My mother loved to tell a story about the day she fell in love with my father. They were having dinner at a small Chinese restaurant before her performance that night, before he was scheduled to fly back to Northern California. Over stuffed cabbage and pork dumplings, she asked him what a winemaker did. What he actually did: If you do your job, he said, then you make good soil. She liked how he said it, even if she didn’t understand what he was saying. It took her a while to understand what he did mean.