Eight Hundred Grapes (34)

She looked up when we got close, smiling up at her father. Ben bent down beside her, cupping his hands over the flower next to hers. “Hi,” she said. “What are these, Dad?”

Dad.

Ben smiled at her, pointed toward the sign behind them. “It says they’re dandelion leaves,” he said.

“For what?” she said.

“I think they help to feed the land. What’s the fancy word for that, Georgia? For the land?”

Maddie met my eyes and looked like she didn’t want any information from me, even about this. Ben ignored this. He motioned for me to bend down between them, explain it to her.

“What’s it called, Georgia?” Ben said.

I wanted to throttle him. “The terroir.”

Maddie nodded. Serious. “The terroir,” she repeated.

I started to explain that terroir wasn’t just about the land. It was also about the winemaker, how he interacted with that land, bringing out different things in the geography and climate than someone else might. But Maddie looked up at me and smiled—her smile just like Ben’s. It stopped me from saying anything. It stopped me from doing anything except smiling at her too.

Then she stared at the plants, considering, the same way Ben would do. This stopped me even more.

I bent down so I was by Maddie’s side, Ben moving out of the way.

“The teas are put into the soil to help take care of it. They all do different things for the soil in the vineyard and for the compost.”

“What’s compost?”

I smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

Maddie smiled back, moving closer so I could be tucked in among the flowers, beside her.

She pointed toward the yarrow. “What does this one do?” she said.

“The yarrow tea helps the soil make the grapes. It fills the soil with potassium and sulfur.”

I picked off a piece of yarrow and held it closer to her nose so she could smell it.

“Should I smell?” she asked Ben.

Ben smiled, nodded.

She moved in close, making a face. “Yuck,” she said.

I laughed, not blaming her. I should have reached for some lavender instead.

Maddie picked up a chamomile flower, gingerly putting that to her nose.

“What’s this one do?”

“You just picked out one of the most important teas,” I said.

Her eyes got wide, pleased with herself. “I did?”

“Yes. That’s the final tea that goes on the vineyard, and once all the grapes are picked, my father spreads this out over the whole vineyard to help the vines know it’s time to sleep for the winter.”

“Like milk and cookies.”

I laughed, Ben joining in, touching Maddie’s back. “Exactly like that,” he said.

Ben looked at me and smiled, as if to say, see? We can figure this out. The California sun shining down.

I smiled back, agreeing in spite of myself. And there was something deeper happening as I explained to Maddie how the vineyard worked. I remembered my father explaining the same thing to me when I was a little girl: how when he’d opened up the vineyard to me, garden by garden, it had felt like he was opening up an entire world, the most important piece of the world, the most magical. Everything he taught me about the vineyard became etched in my mind, like a prize.

Maddie held up the tea. “What’s it called?” Maddie said.

“Chamomile,” I said.

“Chamomile,” she repeated. “I think my mum likes chamomile tea, right, Dad?”

I was still lost in the moment, feeling connected to Maddie. And to Ben again. Then I saw his face.

He looked nervous. “I’m not sure, Maddie,” he said.

Maddie ran up ahead, toward the hillside, toward the barrel room and the cave. Leaving Ben and me alone. Ben forced himself to smile.

“I’m sorry she said that,” he said.

“Why?” I said.

He paused, starting to say something, then stopping. “I don’t know.”

“What aren’t you saying, Ben?” I said.

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, but he looked down, shielding his eyes—the way he did when he was keeping something from me. It was usually something insignificant that he was withholding: like when he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or drop off our rent check. Though, apparently, it could also be something less insignificant: like what he felt he needed to keep to himself now.





The Last Family Dinner (Part 1) Ben put Maddie down for a nap and I went to the kitchen to find my mother. She was standing by the farmer’s sink, washing the vegetables she had picked from her garden for dinner: tomatoes and cucumbers and onions and garlic and broccoli filling her small woven basket. She was still wearing her gardening hat. And she had the music on high.


She was dancing to it. She was dancing this awkward little two-step in front of the sink. It wasn’t surprising that she was dancing or that she was doing it oddly. She and my father both danced terribly and they both loved dancing, especially together. Growing up, I’d often walk into a scene just like this one: the two of them awkwardly two-stepping, arms happily flailing, in front of the tomatoes.

My mother was dancing, alone now, looking at her vegetables, not turning toward me. “How does pot roast sound for the family dinner?” she said.