Eight Hundred Grapes

“Who’s asking you to?” I said.

“Well, being there for Maddie, that means not turning my back on Michelle, either.”

“Meaning what?”

He shrugged. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

That stopped me, especially when Michelle’s version of his being there probably meant I wouldn’t be.

Ben shook his head. “Let’s relax for a second,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”

I heard a knock and looked in the direction of the house. We both did.

My mother stood by the sink, waving at us through the window to come inside. Michelle and Maddie were visible behind her, Michelle kneeling down so she and Maddie were eye level with each other.

My mother waved again as though the reason we were stuck in place was that we hadn’t seen her. Her words ran through my head. Be careful what you give up.

Still, I met his eyes, taking in his smell, his sweetness. “I think you should leave.”

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

He reached forward and held my face, trying to make me look at him. Except I couldn’t look at him and not see all the stories he had kept private about his life this last year. There were breakfasts with Maddie, secret cards and phone calls, a million stories that he hadn’t shared—including the story about how much Michelle still loved him.

Wasn’t the ultimate form of fidelity whom you told your stories to? Ben had stopped telling me his.

Ben leaned forward. “If the situations were reversed, I would look to understand as opposed to the opposite. You know that I would. What does that say about what you want from me?”

&nb

sp; I had no answer for him. All I knew was that my heart had moved in my chest, right into a place where it felt heavy and stuck.

“We’re getting married in five days, Georgia. Five days. Don’t you still want that?”

Ben met my eyes, asking me to say yes.

I didn’t say anything.

Then he walked out of the beautiful and empty wedding tent.

Sebastopol, California. 1999

When she reached for his arm, Dan followed her into the dining room, irritated and tired.

“I just need to talk to you for a minute,” Jen said.

It was the night of the harvest party and he didn’t have time for this conversation. In a couple of days, Dan would have endless time. He was closing down for the season. The grapes had come in early. He was already putting chamomile on the vines. He would take her, his lovely wife, down the coast. He would take her to Los Angeles, a night at the symphony. He was ready to give her what she needed, just not tonight. Except tonight was when she wanted his attention.

“I got an offer,” she said. “To go to New York for five months. And substitute.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the symphony. It’s not in the city. It’s outside, but it’s a good symphony. And they need a cellist. I’d be working with Henry Morgan again. Do you remember Henry?”

Dan did remember Henry and he didn’t like him. Jen had dragged him to Portland when Henry was in town, a guest conductor at the prestigious symphony there. They had drinks afterward at their hotel, Henry and Jen talking about music into the early morning hours. Dan would have excused himself and gone up to sleep, but he felt like he couldn’t leave them alone together. He didn’t like the way that Henry looked at his wife. He didn’t like the way Jen seemed to enjoy it.

“He’s a fantastic conductor.”

He bit his tongue, staying quiet. This was a trope of Jen’s—Henry’s brilliance. A trope that presented itself every so often. Not regularly enough to cause alarm, but enough to cause irritation. Jen noting any new symphony he moved to, Jen sharing a photograph of his son with a gorgeous model. As if that proved Henry’s brilliance.