“Really?” She tried to recover. She did a terrible job. “Very exciting!”
He was looking straight ahead.
“Are you a winemaker?”
“No.”
She looked at him, perplexed. “Do you have someone to help you?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
He was twenty-five years old. He had no family, no money, two classes so far in viticulture. Fourteen more classes to go.
He had no business doing what he was about to do.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
And he looked out at nothing. The beginning of his life.
Mr. McCarthy
After we left the vineyard, I went back to the house and showered. When I got out, I checked my phone for the first time that day.
There were two messages from Suzannah in my office. Suzannah Calvin-Bernardi (Savannah-born, former homecoming queen, current spitfire), who in addition to being a co-associate at my law firm was one of my best friends in Los Angeles. She managed to make it all seem easy. She was raising a child and eight months pregnant with a second (both with her homecoming king), kicking all kinds of ass at work. Taking no bullshit from any of them. Her kid, her colleagues. Herself.
But in my attempt to get out of town as quickly as possible, I’d done something unlike myself. I’d saddled her with the case we were currently trying to close. I never saddled her with anything—never left a deal unsigned, worked late into the night so that she didn’t have to—especially now that she was pregnant. Which made me scared to listen to her message. Her tone firm and fast.
“Hey . . . this is work Suzannah. Remember when you were stepping out of the office for your dress fitting? Call me when you get this. I hate you.”
Then there was Suzannah’s second message. Her tone soft and melodic.
“Hey . . . this is friend Suzannah. Remember when you were stepping out of the office for your dress fitting? Call me when you get this. I love you.”
As I clicked over to phone her back, I got another call. I thought it was going to be Ben—who had left several messages of his own. But it was Thomas Nick, Ben’s business partner.
Thomas was in London, setting up the office. He wanted everything to be up and running by the time he flew to the States for our wedding.
“Georgia,” he said. “How’s the move going?”
The move. I sat down on the edge of my bed and wrapped the towel more tightly around myself. Ben and I were moving today. In the chaos, I hadn’t even considered that. All of our stuff was leaving our house in Silver Lake, heading in a van and then a plane to our new home in London, on the edge of Notting Hill. It was my dream house, situated on a pretty cobbled mews near Westbourne Grove, arguably the coolest street in London. The house was a knockout. It had lovely natural light, white bookshelves lining the living room, large windows throughout the kitchen. And maybe the greatest thing of all was the front door, a red door, reminding me of my parents’ door.
“I’m standing in the town house now. It’s lovely. Lovely but empty. You’ll need to come in here and make it homey. It needs the Georgia touch, if you know what I’m saying.”
Thomas was just being nice. Ben was the one who made things beautiful. He could take any room and turn it into a place no one wanted to leave. When he moved to Los Angeles, he moved our bed to the back room. It was a library that wasn’t supposed to be a bedroom, but he knew how good it’d feel to wake up under the large bay window. Was it yesterday that I’d woken up there beside him? My heart hurt, thinking of it.
“Thomas, I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“Sure thing, but I’m actually just trying to reach Ben. We have an issue with the Marlborough Project. I need a quick answer from him so I can handle it,” he said. “Is he with you?”
“No.”
He paused, my short answer confusing him. “Okay, do you have any idea where Ben might be?”
“Did you try the mother of his child?” I said. “Maybe he’s with her?”
“The mother of his child?” he said.
The world slowed down to a crawl, hearing him repeat those words. And I realized how deranged I sounded.