I dumped the wilted roses from the vase at my mother’s grave and replaced them with the wildflowers. Then I sat, my back against her sun-warmed headstone, and called Quinn.
He answered on the third ring, breathing hard like I’d caught him in the middle of doing something involving intense physical labor.
“Lucie? Hey, what’s going on? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything okay?”
I leaned farther into the stone until I could feel the chiseled grooves of the words of my mother’s epitaph:
Quinn’s familiar baritone was so matter-of-fact, so normal, that for a moment it seemed like he’d never left, and I was just calling to find out where he was. At that moment, I missed him—and all the times we’d spent together in our up-and-down relationship—unbearably.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “How’s it going with you?”
“Good.”
I should have known it would take a crowbar to pry anything out of him. Or some form of torture banned by the Geneva Conventions.
“What are you doing?” I asked. His breathing had slowed but it still sounded as though he’d been running or lifting heavy objects.
“Talking to you.”
“Okay, wise guy, maybe I’ll just hang up—”
“Hey, please don’t!” He didn’t seem to realize that I was kidding. “I’m sorry. It’s good to hear you. I’m glad you called … I’ve been thinking about you.”
Something caught in my throat. “I’ve been thinking about you, too. When are you coming home?”
He took a long time to answer, too long. Maybe I shouldn’t have said “home.” He was, after all, from California, born and raised. Maybe he was home.
“Soon … I promise. I’ve still got a few things to wrap up.”
“Thelma and the Romeos are spreading the word that you’re staying out there for good,” I said.
His laugh sounded self-conscious. “Good old Thelma. I even miss her, too. Tell her that Ouija board of hers isn’t always dead-bang right. And say hi to the Romeos for me.”
I wanted to say I wished he’d deliver those messages himself in person, but I couldn’t do it. “Sure, next time I see them. I guess if it’s soon, you must have finally sold your mother’s house?”
“Maybe. Cross your fingers.”
“Quinn, even my eyes are crossed. Will you be here for harvest like you promised?”
“I won’t let you down. You have my word.”
He had said the right thing, but something was still missing. My heart, which had been pounding in my chest, slowed to a dull thud.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got some news. I’m coming to California with my grandfather. We’re flying in to San Francisco.”
A swallow flitted past me, landing on a nearby headstone. The cicadas seemed to amp up their volume, drowning out the silence on the other end of the phone.
Finally I asked, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I can tell that news went over big. Look, it’s just a quick trip and I’ll probably be pretty busy. I’m sure you are, too—”
“Hold on,” he said. “You caught me off guard, that’s all. I’ve been working flat out all week. I owed an old friend a favor. We wrapped up bottling last night and I just finished racking over some Chardonnay. My head’s someplace else.”
“Oh.” The racking over at least explained the huffing and puffing.
“So what’s the deal? Pleasure trip? Sightseeing? When do you get here?”
“Tomorrow. It’s business, not pleasure. Pépé will be in some town called Monte Rio in Sonoma to give a talk at the Bohemian Grove.”
He whistled. “The Bohemian Grove? Are you serious? Luc must be going to that big summer shindig in the woods they have every July. Every mover and shaker in the country flies in for that. It’s huge.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“What are you going to do? That place is men-only.”
“Going to Napa—Calistoga—to check out some wine Mick Dunne is considering buying. He wants something to sell this fall before his own wine is ready … and he wants me to make the blend for him.”
“Good for you.”
“I can’t do it without you. Please say you’ll help me?”
He sidestepped that. “Where are you staying in Napa?”
“With a friend of Pépé’s. Robert Sanábria.”
“Sanábria? Jesus, Lucie, you’re full of surprises. You know who Sanábria is, don’t you? California Winemaker of the Year a couple of years ago. One of the heavyweights in Napa. I didn’t know your grandfather knew him.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“What question?”
“Will you or won’t you help me blend this wine? You’re so much better at this than I am.”
“You must really want my help if you’re buttering me up.”
“You make it sound like I’m asking you to hang the moon someplace new,” I said. “Mick pays well, you know that.”
“Whose wine?”
“Cab from a vineyard called Rose Hill. It’s in Calistoga on the Silverado Trail.”
“I’ve heard of it,” he said. “Winemaker is some guy named Fargo, I think.”
“There’s a new owner. It’s probably a coincidence, but her name is Brooke Hennessey. I don’t suppose she’s related—”
He cut me off. “Jesus, Lucie! You left that until the end on purpose, didn’t you? She’s his daughter. Man, of all the gin joints in the world, Ilsa. Why’d you have to pick that one?”
“Please don’t be angry. I didn’t pick it.” He’d blown up like a volcano as soon as I mentioned Brooke. “There’s a lot more to the story that you don’t know. I can’t go into it now; it’s too complicated.”
“When is anything you do not complicated?”
I let that one pass. At least he hadn’t turned me down. But he still sounded mad. I plunged ahead.
“So you’re not in touch with Brooke Hennessey?”
“Last time I saw her she was sixteen. I heard she went off to Davis to study enology and viticulture like her old man. I never thought she’d stick it out, but she did.”
“Will you please come with me to this meeting? Please?”
His laughter was harsh. “You make it sound like it’s no big deal.”
I waited and bit my tongue.
When he answered, it was grudging. “I suppose I knew sooner or later I’d run into her. Just didn’t figure on it being now.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m really grateful. You have no idea.”
“Oh, you’ll pay for this, don’t you worry.”
“Send the bill to Mick,” I said. “Why don’t I call you when I get to town? Are you staying in San Jose at your mother’s place?”
“I’m kind of moving around. Right now I’m in Sausalito. Keeping an eye on a friend’s houseboat.”
When he was being evasive like that there was always more to the story. Until now, I’d thought of Quinn as someone who belonged to the land, with his innate understanding of the rhythm and pace of the growing season, his intuitive knack for knowing exactly when to harvest the grapes and when it was wiser to wait. It never occurred to me that he might be equally comfortable on the water, that maybe he was an adept sailor who knew firsthand about navigating the pretty bays around San Francisco or had grown up surfing California’s golden beaches like the sun-kissed boys and girls in the endless summers of old Beach Boys songs.
I knew almost nothing about his past, what his life had been like growing up. But that’s how he’d kept it in
