Eight Hundred Grapes

I smiled. “Who won?”

“Not me,” he said. “I had to take off my vest.”

He moved closer so he was looking where I was looking, over the late-day vineyard. His vineyard now, The Last Straw, a subsidiary of Murray Grant Wines. And it was starting to feel like that was okay. I had lost that fight, which was hard to accept. But my parents were happy again, my brothers were on the mend. In the ways that mattered, I had won so much.

“They’re leaving on their boat trip tomorrow?” he said.

I nodded. He knew the answer, but he was trying to ask me something else, maybe why I hadn’t called him back. Maybe if it meant that I was staying here.

“You’re okay with that?”

“As long as they’re going together,” I said.

“I told your father that the boat is a good idea,” he said. “It will take them to the place they want to go next.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I know some things.”

I smiled, wanting that to be correct, that my parents would dock somewhere, call it Big Sur. Somewhere surrounded by water and trees. Somewhere they would make their home.

Jacob crossed his arms over his chest. “Lee’s gone,” he said.

“I heard something about that.”

“I’m doing okay. Thanks for asking.”

I laughed.

“She left the day after the harvest party,” he said. “She moved to Seattle to take a job with Tim O’Reilly. And to get away from me. It was the right thing. She’s happier there.”

Jacob kicked the ground beneath him, soil rising up. Soft and damp. November soil, ready for a quiet winter, its well-earned rest.

“What about you?” he said. “What’s next?”

He looked at me, held my eyes. It was too much, though, to meet his gaze. So I looked away, to the vineyard.

“I’m going to get a plot of land. I won’t be able to afford much. But I’m going to start with a small plot of land. Five acres. See what I can do.”

“Make some wine?”

I nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“You’re going to need a winemaker to teach you,” he said.

“Yes, and my father isn’t available. He’s so out of here.”

He smiled. “You’ll find someone good.”

“Well, first I’ve got to get the land.”

He pointed to the vineyard. “What if I told you I could help you with the land?”

This was when he did it. He handed me the deed. For The Last Straw Vineyard. My father’s original deed. For the original ten acres.

I looked up at him. Then back down at the deed. Ten acres. That was where we were standing. It held the house and some of the gardens. And a half-burned wine cottage. And five beautiful acres of vineyard. Enough for me to get started.

“You’re giving it back?”