Eight Hundred Grapes (57)

As I got older, my father would take me with him to taste the newly blended wines—to help put the final touches on what he’d created. He’d share that first taste with me, trusting me to tell him that it was ready. It felt impossible that he was never going to do that again—that we, together, were never going to do that again. It felt impossible that someone else was going to finish the wine that he’d taken so much pride in starting.



The morning of the harvest party, the sky was clear and stunning. The type of California sunshine that made you believe again was shining down. We had a tradition in our house of spending that morning out in the vineyard. The vineyard was mostly stripped at that point, except for Block 14.

My father tried to time the harvest party to when Block 14 needed to come off the vines. We picked them as a family, staying up all night after the harvest party, picking the grapes before the sun came up.

And, every year, the morning of the harvest party, we would check on the grapes together. Even when we were little, my father would bring us to check on those grapes and make a group decision as to whether they needed longer. All of us peeking at my father’s spreadsheet, the weather conditions, the grapes themselves. Do they leave the vines today? Do they stay on longer?

But when I looked out the window, no one was in Block 14. The grapes swayed quietly, so rich and ripe on the vines.

Ben wrapped his arms tighter around me. I could feel his newfound appreciation that we were on the other side of it, his mistake, my reaction.

“Good morning,” he said.

He looked so happy. And I remembered the joy I felt at making him that way.

He smiled and looked out the window, to see what I saw. Block 14, empty. Then he turned back to me, trying to make it better.

“What do you say that we go into town? Get me some of those pancakes Maddie can’t stop talking about?”

I smiled in agreement as Ben leaned in closer, kissing me. As he did, his phone rang. He ignored it, but I could feel his body tense.

I pulled away from him. “Michelle?” I said.

Ben turned to his phone, checking the ID and quickly silencing it. “Yeah . . .” he said.

“Are they back in London?”

“Not exactly. They stayed in San Francisco last night,” he said.

He paused as that registered.

“Maddie wants to come to the harvest party tonight.”

I looked at him, confused. “She does?”

“I can tell her it’s not a good idea.”

I jumped right in. “I don’t want you to. If Maddie wants to be there, I want her there.”

Ben nodded, appreciative. “That’s very sweet. But I’m just not sure how we would handle Michelle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think she wants to be there too.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “What? Why?”

“Michelle is a very good mom, despite her other faults. And I think she wants Maddie to know we all get along. I can tell her no, but I just . . . I don’t want to alienate Maddie by alienating her mother. If that makes sense?”

It did. I nodded, getting that, and trying to process what to do. “So let’s invite her too,” I said.

“What?”

“You should invite Michelle.”

“To the harvest party?”

Ben looked like that was the last thing he wanted to do, the scene in the kitchen flashing before his eyes. Why would he set himself up for another terrible encounter?

I moved closer, trying to figure out how to explain how important it felt to rectify our awkward first meetings, to begin to all move forward. Michelle was going to have as much power as I handed her, and I was done handing her any.

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“If we’re going to make this work, we need to make things right. We need to all be on the same page.”

“Michelle is on her own page.” Ben took a breath in, as if he didn’t know how to explain it, as if he didn’t want to explain it. “Isn’t tonight going to be hard enough? I don’t want spending time with Michelle to be another hard thing.”

“Maybe this is one thing that doesn’t have to be,” I said. “Let’s just decide that.”

He looked skeptical, but he nodded. “Okay, then. Whatever you want is okay.”

I smiled. “Good.”

He smiled. “Good. I’ll call her now.”

Then he moved closer, kissing my neck, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Well, not right now.”





People Who Screw Up Bobby stood by the kitchen table. He was drinking the green drink he had most mornings, the green color that made it hard for me to look at, let alone ingest.


Bobby was in his suit already, the newspaper open in front of him—the only indications of the fight the cut by his lip, his bruised hand.

Even though he heard me walk in, he didn’t look up. He sat down, turning the page of the newspaper.

“Beautiful day for a harvest party,” he said.

I took a seat beside him. “It is.”

He turned to the back of the first section, reading the sports rundown. “Dad was just here,” he said. “He wants to wait on Block 14. Have the family pick them together after the harvest party, like usual.”