Eight Hundred Grapes (42)

Ben immediately got protective, defensive. “Leave her out of it, Bobby,” he said. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Finn laughed and turned away from Bobby for the first time. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Now you’re in the business of protecting our sister, Ben? That’s impressive.”

Bobby turned toward Ben, confused. “What is he talking about?”

The vein was throbbing in Ben’s forehead. “Finn, now is not the time.”

Finn shook his head. “Exactly. What are you doing bringing your kid here?”

“Your kid?” Bobby said. “That little girl is your kid?”

Bobby was connecting the dots, and for a minute it seemed like he might turn all his Finn-anger at Ben. Bobby moved to tackle Ben, Finn joining in. The three of them locked together.

“Hey!” my father said.

He jumped in between his sons and his future son-in-law, separating everyone out. He pushed Finn first, his eyes holding tight on Bobby, warning him, warning them both.

“That is enough,” he said.

His voice was serious and steady, enough to stop them in their tracks. Finally.

Everyone stared at him, no one used to seeing him that angry. The anger, alone, stopped everyone in place.

“Bobby, you’re going to go talk to your wife.” He pointed toward the house. “And Finn, you’re going anywhere else.”

They both stared at him.

“And I really don’t care what you both have to do to act like grown men until then, but at five A.M. tomorrow morning, I expect you both in the vineyard, for my final day.”

Then my father walked back into the barrel room, everyone separating. My mother followed my father inside. Bobby moved toward the twins, Ben toward Maddie, Finn walking the other way. Finn walked out into the vineyard. Past the gardens and the winemaker’s cottage. Getting lost among the high vines, the evening wind swallowing him.

Until I was left alone, or mostly alone.

Alexis appeared in the doorway. “I think I’m going to go,” she said.





Exile on Main Street My father had a theory that what was of equal importance to the wine you presented in your vintage was the wine you left out of the vintage. In winemaking, this was known as declassification. Declassification: a fancy word for what wines you were willing to throw out. The decision was made as early as when the grapes were picked. It was made as late as after investing months fermenting the wine.


I always thought that was what made my father such a great winemaker. There were some winemakers who wouldn’t declassify anything that came from their vineyard—the factory winemakers, the big producers. They didn’t care about quality control to begin with and they didn’t care about it at the end. They wanted high yields, regardless of weather, regardless of rot. Give it a shiny name and sell it for five dollars. Someone would be glad to drink it.

My father believed in low yields, working from the best grapes, balanced pruning. The year of the second awful harvest, after sweeping fires, my father declassified more wine than he bottled, even though it meant he risked going broke in the process. Even though it meant that he risked everything.



“I shouldn’t have brought her to the house,” Finn said.

We drove toward The Brothers’ Tavern, Finn slipping around in the passenger seat even though he swore he was fine to drive: a full-on fistfight with his brother over his sister-in-law apparently sobering him up.

“I’ll apologize tomorrow,” Finn said. “First, to Ben. Then I’ll apologize to Dad.”

“Great, sounds like a start.”

He looked over at me, trying to read my tone. His lip was bleeding, his eye starting to swell—the package of frozen peas my mother had grabbed for him useless on the dashboard. “Thank you for giving me a ride,” he said.

“I didn’t have a choice. Dad made me.”

He looked out the window. “He shouldn’t have. I’m a better driver drunk than you are sober.”

He reached for his peas, holding them to his face.

I checked the clock. I promised Ben that we’d talk after I took Finn to work. Ben didn’t quite understand why I had to go into town with Finn, even though he wasn’t mad at Finn.

Ben was mad at me that I hadn’t kept my family out of our relationship. Ben had been the one who screwed things up—and, arguably, it had been a mistake to bring Maddie with him. But I hadn’t protected him from my family. Wasn’t that the job? It was about the two of you. And you told the rest of the world that you had it figured out or that you would. That was love, after all. Loyalty in the face of despair.

Finn ran his tongue over his busted lip. “I’ve been trying to keep my space. To do the right thing.”

“I know that you have.”

He tossed the peas back on the dashboard. “She kissed me. I was the one that walked out.”

“You just need to explain what happened to Bobby. I can explain it to him. You can talk to Margaret and just tell her it was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He shook his head, laughing. His bloody lip was splitting open against the pressure. “Bobby isn’t going to see this as a mistake.”

“Finn, if I explain to . . .”

“No.”

“Why?”