Eight Hundred Grapes (79)

My father would call it synchronization. Not fate. Don’t confuse it with fate. Because there was still the rest of it. The deed in my hand, the sense I was moving toward a place to build a home. The need I had—the hope I had—that I would do the right thing with these gifts now.

“You look like you might pass out,” Jacob said. “FYI, I don’t know CPR.”

“You should know. I’m not ready to date anyone,” I said.

Jacob nodded. “Me either,” he said.

Then he kissed me.





Part 5


   An Unnamed Vineyard





Sebastopol, California. Present day




She takes a seat, cross-legged, and looks at the vineyard. It is her vineyard now. The gardens and the vines, rested from the winter. The winemaker’s cottage—the new incarnation of it—painted a royal blue. Bobby helped with the painting. Bobby and Margaret both helped to paint. They had argued about the color. Bobby and Margaret had wanted to pick something more neutral, an ivory or a sand. Though she could only picture a bright blue greeting her in the early morning hours when she was supposed to be sleeping. And it’s her winemaker’s cottage. So she insisted.

Sitting here, she knows two things to be true. She shouldn’t have insisted. The winemaker’s cottage looks like a dollhouse. That is the first thing. It looks like a strange and impossible dollhouse. And she should be more nervous than she is. That is the second thing. She should be more nervous than this. But she isn’t nervous, not looking over this land.

She has spent the winter quietly preparing for today. She painted the cottage and studied the compost patterns. She bent the ear of every winemaker who would spend time with her. She wandered the halls of her childhood home, her home now. She has turned it into something that feels like hers, slowly and surely, making better choices than that dollhouse blue.

She hears a loud honk and flips around. Jacob pulls down the driveway, Finn not too far behind him. They are stopping by on their way to work—Jacob heading to Napa Valley, Finn heading to a photo shoot in San Francisco, then to lunch with his new friend Karen. But they wanted to stop by quickly to talk about the weather, to talk about her plan for the compost, to remind her that on the other side of today, they would be there to buy her a beer and for Jacob to cook some bad spaghetti.

That is the plan for tonight: Jacob’s overcooked spaghetti, complete with a store-bought rich and creamy pesto sauce, which Jacob thinks masks the fact that he can’t figure out how to boil water. She can hardly wait.

For another minute, she’s alone in the vineyard. She will produce different wine than her father did, but she won’t know what that means until she makes some decisions. So she turns toward the vines and bends down to touch the soil beneath the vine, the telling soil. To see where it is starting. Rubbing the soil between her fingers. Soft, lush. To see where she imagines it will go.

She is not twenty-five years old. She has a new boyfriend who has usurped her father’s winery, a useless law degree, no money to speak of in the bank. And no backup plan if this vineyard goes bust. This unnamed vineyard, her whole beautiful future. Her past, her beautiful future. And something like the best thing that she could possibly do for herself.

She’s been told that it takes ten years to figure out what you’re doing. Ten years.

She takes a breath, smiles. She’s ready to get started.

With the beginning of it. Her life.





Acknowledgments




I have to start with Suzanne Gluck, who not only encouraged me to write what I wanted, but was a dynamite partner while I did; and the brilliant Marysue Rucci, who made every page better. My deepest gratitude to you both. You are the dream team.

So many talented people gave their energy and expertise to this novel: Richard Rhorer, Cary Goldstein, Elizabeth Breeden, Andrea DeWerd, Sarah Reidy, Annemarie Blumenhagen, Clio Seraphim, and Kitty Dulin. My gratitude to you all—and to Carolyn Reidy and Jonathan Karp for a great publishing home.

I owe so much to the vintners and the gracious people of Sonoma County and Napa Valley who welcomed me into their world. A special thank-you to Shane Finley and Lynmar Estate Winery for your guidance—-and for your Quail Hill Vineyard Pinot Noir, which takes my breath away. Thank you also to Helen Keplinger of Keplinger Wines. And to the good folks at Williams Selyem, Ampelos Cellars, and Littorai, who provided inspiration at critical junctures. I’m in awe of what you all do and how you do it. Any narrative liberties are mine.

I can’t say thank you enough to Sylvie Rabineau, cherished friend and invaluable advisor, and Jonathan Tropper, whose guidance and friendship are irreplaceable. Many thanks also to Elizabeth Gabler, Greg Mooradian, Marty Bowen, Wyck Godfrey, and Jaclyn Huntling.

For insight and early reads, thank you to: Allison Winn Scotch, Dustin Thomason, Heather Thomason, Amanda O’Brien, Camrin Agin, Michael Fisher, Amy Cooper, Alisa Mall, Ben Tishler, Dahvi Waller, Johanna Tobel, Gary Belsky, Tom Mc-Carthy, Wendy Merry, Shauna Seliy, and Dana Forman, who reads every story first.

A heartfelt thank-you to my parents, Rochelle and Andrew Dave, and the entire Dave and Singer families. And much love to my wonderful friends, who let me talk about titles and wine long after it was interesting.

Finally, my husband, Josh Singer. Despite five drafts and eighteen months of work on a mystery, he didn’t blink when I put it aside. Thank you for not blinking. Thank you for never blinking. I love you with all my heart.