“It feels like he’s still withholding part of the story. That I’m going to have to pull it out of him. It feels really hard to talk to him.”
She looked at me, waiting. “Did you consider that if you keep trying to talk to him, it will get easier again?”
“I don’t think I should have to work that hard.”
She laughed, tossing her cucumber into a bowl. “That is love, baby girl. Working hard when we don’t feel like it.”
I put the vegetables down. “Is that what you’re doing, Mom?”
She looked up at me. It seemed
like she was going to argue but then she wiped her hand across her head, water smearing on her cheek. “I guess that’s fair. I guess I’m not working so hard right now, but it didn’t happen because of one misunderstanding.”
“That’s what you think this is?”
“Ben was put in a bad situation. He got a call finding out that he has a kid. He had to try to handle that however he could.” She shrugged. “No one is saying he’s handled it well, though.”
I felt like she was finally listening, understanding the two ways I felt. On the one hand, I felt terrible for Ben that he’d been dealing with this, but I also was angry he hadn’t trusted I would deal with it with him.
“Of course, it doesn’t matter how well he handled it,” she said. “What is going to save you two is how well you do.”
Her phone buzzed and she looked down. It was Henry, Henry smiling. It made her blush, looking like a schoolgirl, which made me roll my eyes.
I peeked over at the phone, at the text message.
La Gare. 10 PM?
La Gare. That was the French restaurant in town. The only restaurant in Sonoma County that served that late. The only restaurant in Sonoma County my mother could get to after family dinner. The last family dinner, celebrating the last harvest.
My mother met my eyes, knowing what I’d seen on the phone. But as she started to say something, she closed her mouth. “I’ll call him back later, but not because you’re being mature about it,” she said.
“What would you like me to say, Mom? Have fun on your date?”
“Would that be so hard?” She paused, shutting off the water. “Or maybe just don’t look at me with such anger. I’m not looking at you with anger.”
“Why would you look at me with anger?”
My mother looked at me. “I’m just going to ask you this once but I want you to think about it. Have you considered that your desire for us to keep the vineyard has less to do with us and more to do with you?”
She motioned toward the vineyard. I followed her eyes, and looked out the window at the vineyard below: foggy and swirling in the late afternoon wind.
The grapes were getting heat, but getting something else too in that wind, getting a certain amount of peace.
“Well?” she said.
“No,” I said.
My mother looked at me, anger in her eyes. “No, you haven’t considered it? Or no, it isn’t true?”
“Have you considered why you’re willing to give this place away?”
“I have considered it. And I have my answer, darling. It’s just not one you like.”
I heard a beep, Henry texting again. “He should really play harder to get,” I said.
My mother pursed her lips. “Go away,” she said.
“Does he know you hate French food?”