This Place of Wonder (14)

I was just little, too. My sister and I are only eight months apart in age. On that day I was at home with my mother, who was at the time my father’s wife. I don’t bring this up, either, but I suddenly feel as if my dad is right there in the room with us, taking up all the space and air. I narrow my eyes, looking around, but of course the room is empty.

Meadow looks at the end of the counter, then back to me. “Something wrong?”

“Nope.” I straighten, pushing away from the counter. “I need to get my car, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I can do that.”



The car has been parked behind Peaches and Pork since I went to rehab. Meadow and Augustus drove up to the winery while I was passed out in Meadow’s guesthouse and picked it up for me. As I unlock the car door, I get a sudden flash of myself that night, sticky with wine. I wasn’t in blackout, amazingly enough, so I remember every detail of Josh’s betrayal—his confession that he’d fallen in love with the woman whose name had been eternally on his lips for six months, Sophie—and then every step I took to destroy what we’d made together.

Such a beautiful wine.

A hot yearning stirs in my gut, a longing for the swirl of that beautiful pale yellow in a glass, the crisp sharpness on my tongue. It seems impossible that I will never taste that again, that I will never make it again. I am so good at it, and so not good at almost anything else.

Wine I know. Wine I understand.

The vines are still there. It just won’t be me who makes the next batch. Josh will, with his great love, Sophie, the French winemaker who so besotted him. I had to “sell” my half, including the house, back to make up for the cost of the lost vintage. The only thing that makes me feel better is that he was always the business half, not the talent. Without arrogance, I know there are few people who have my nose, the innate ability I have to taste and smell the smallest variations in blends. Even the great Sophie, born and bred in Alsace, would not have my nose.

But I will never use it again.

Never ever again.

Grief breaks through my belly like shards of glass. I take a breath, bring myself back to this moment. It occurs to me that I feel terrible sorrow over losing my career, and the loss of my beloved wine, but almost nothing over the death of my father.

What kind of person am I?

The parking lot is weirdly empty, but of course, without Augustus there’s not really a restaurant. I wonder what they’re going to do with it now.

Them.

For the first time, it hits me. “Them” is me. It’s mine. Not a responsibility I ever wanted and will have to unload, but that’s also not something I have to deal with today. The manager is competent, and Meadow knows everything about it. I wonder why he didn’t leave it to her.

Along with the house, which Meadow loves so madly and missed bitterly after the divorce. I don’t want the responsibility of it, either, but at least it gives me a place to be until I figure myself out.

I look around for a minute at the patched asphalt, the saltwater wear on the wooden building, the outdated font on the sign. It’s not seedy, not yet, but it has an air of weariness, a sense of time gone by.

“It used to be so glamorous,” I say.

“Yeah. It really needs some updating. Probably the menus need an overhaul, too.” Meadow hands me the key to my car. “I’d be happy to help you do that if you like.”

I stare at her. “I’m not keeping it.”

She swallows, looking at the building, and I think there are tears in her eyes.

I look away, ashamed that I feel nothing.

“Maybe you can give it a few weeks before you make any decisions.”

I nod, tucking my hair behind my ear, then lean in and kiss her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you, too, baby,” she says. “Text me later.”

The car is a boring blue Prius, and even though it’s been sitting, it starts right up. I turn to raise a hand to Meadow to let her know I’m okay, and she’s standing in the empty parking lot, staring out toward the ocean under the morning gloom. Her skirt whips around in the breeze, and she reaches up to pull hair out of her mouth, and she looks so sad and broken that I turn off the car, step out, and cross the pavement to wrap my arms around her. This time she buries her face in my shoulder, and clings hard to my back, and I gently rock her, saying nothing. I can feel the dark hole of her grief right on the other side of her silence.

After a minute, she pats my shoulder blade. “You’d better get going.”

“Yep. Text me and let me know you’re all right.”

She gives a little laugh.



I researched meetings before I got here, and although the most important thing is to get my ass to a meeting, I’m glad to have found a women’s group at an Episcopal church. I sail in a few minutes late and slide into a chair in the back. I was afraid it would be in a circle, which means you have to face and look at everyone the whole time, but the rows are arranged to face the front and a speaker.

They’re reading the opening, then take turns reading the steps. As I hear the familiar words, something in me lets go. It’s a motley crew, from the very well-tended mom-type with her fancy manicure and yoga pants to a ragged girl next to me with unwashed hair who is chewing on her fingernails and doesn’t look old enough to be in the meeting. She stares at me for a long moment when I come in, and I give her a lift of my chin. “Hey.”