Eight Hundred Grapes

I nodded. That I could do for my father. I could take his wife home and get her some rest.

“FYI. The last time I felt this shitty, I was pregnant with you.”

I smiled. “Are you going to tell me what Dad said to you? When he whispered in your ear.”

“Do you think that’s what turned everything around? You think it’s as simple as that?”

“I’m just nosy.”

She pushed her hair behind her ears, considering what he said, whether she was going to share it. Then she smiled.

“Your father said the same thing he said when he got into my yellow buggy.”

“What was that?”

She shrugged. “So, where are you taking me?”

She shook her head, taking a stick of licorice, taking a large bite. Then she stood up to go, care package in hand, my arm over her shoulder as we headed out the hospital door.

“It’s not all a happy ending. We’re going to have to get you a new tent,” she said.

I looked at her, confused, at which point she rolled her eyes, like she couldn’t believe she had to explain this.

“A new tent for your wedding. Rain damaged it. Rain and wind and everything else that a tent like that is supposed to stand up to, but doesn’t.”

She leaned in, as if listening to my heart, as if listening to how that made my heart feel.

“Not tonight, though.” She shook her head. “Nothing is open tonight.”

The First Contract

When I got back to the vineyard, I went down to the winemaker’s cottage, the back of it burned off, Bobby sitting on the porch. He was sitting alone, drinking a beer. At 5:55 in the morning.

He didn’t look at me, keeping his eyes on our vineyard, the sun not yet lighting it. The fog still dusting the vines, laminating them in frost and half-light.

Bobby stared straight ahead, glassy-eyed and confused, the stare of someone who had been up all night. “You may as well sit down,” he said. “There’s half a beer left, and I don’t think anything is going to collapse.”

He moved over and handed up the bottle of beer. I had a sip, taking a seat.

“Long night,” he said. “We got half of the grapes. We can use half of them.”

“It could have been worse, then,” I said.

“It also could have been better,” he said. He paused. “Mom back?”

“Yeah. She went upstairs to go to sleep.”

“Good. She must be exhausted.”

Then he took his beer back, even though I was mid-sip, which was when I noticed he had Band-Aids on his fingers, over the nails.

Bobby shrugged, looking down at them. “You’ve got to start somewhere, right?”

Then he took a sip, turning back to the vineyard. The morning glaze holding in the sky, intoxicating him. It was comforting, the way this place got more beautiful every day. Wasn’t that the gift of a home? You looked at it the same way, but then when you needed it to, it showed you all over again the many ways you’d been during the time that you had been living there. The many ways it had brought you back to yourself. The many ways it still brought you back to yourself.

“Margaret went back to San Francisco with the twins just a few minutes ago. They were asleep but I helped her load them in the car. They didn’t make a move. We’re good at that. The two of us. You’d be surprised how much skill that takes.”

I reached for the beer, took a small sip, mostly because I wasn’t sure what to say, and I didn’t want to upset him more than he had already been upset these past few days.