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“Daddy, these are huge.” The awe in Olive’s voice is a reminder that, in her world at least, there’s still plenty of room left for me. “Why did you say it was a surprise, though? They’re just chocolate chip cookies.”
“Are they?” I slip one onto a plate, fishing a knife out of the drawer. Slicing it in half, I turn the plate to show her.
“There’s an Oreo inside?” Olive snatches her half off the plate before I can warn her about it being hot. She nibbles the edge, her eyes closed, dark curls bouncing as she bobs in delight. “Mmmmmmm. Daddy, these are delicious!”
I take a bite of the other half, the sweet, chocolaty flavor exploding across my tongue. “Hot! But delicious.”
We eat our cookies in appreciative silence for a minute before Olive explodes with a recap of her week with June. The only surprise from what I’d already heard is the addition of her weekend homework.
“I have to bring in a baggie of stuff I found outside, and I knew there would be better stuff here than at Mommy’s house. Can we go look out in the vineyard? Please, please, please?” There’s melted chocolate smeared around her lips and crumbs on her fingers, exactly how a kid should look. Happy.
“Sure, let’s just wash up first.”
Five minutes later Olive is racing ahead of me up the hill toward the main part of the property. My cabin is one of three smaller buildings Mr. Sutton, the owner, had built when he first bought the place four years ago. Jackie and Greg moved into the one on the opposite end of the row, leaving their old house, for the Suttons. The empty cabin in the middle was intended for their son. Some pests got into it last spring and chewed through some wiring, which I haven’t had a chance to fix, so it’s currently without electricity. Fortunately, Nate hasn’t been home in years.
Greg is relaxing on his porch in a rocking chair, a beer in his good hand, the other wrapped up in a splint and hanging across his chest in a sling. He lights up as Olive veers toward him. “Hey there, Pickle. How goes it?”
Olive launches into a full-scale story about some boy in her class at school and the frog he brought to class. She has both of us in stitches as she hunts around the yard for bits of golden leaves, animal bones, and any other random bit of vegetation she stumbles across.
In between all of her stories, Greg and I chat about the grapes and how long we think it’ll be before harvest starts. We don’t mention the fact that with his wrist banged up, he likely won’t be back to full strength by the time harvest comes. He’s not as worried about it as I am, but then again, he’s not the one who would be doing the heavy lifting. He’s got decades more experience at this than I do, so I’m doing my best to trust that everything will work out.
Greg has been like a second father to me my whole life—ever since his son Nathaniel and I met in first grade. Just like Olive, I used to love coming to visit their house on the vineyard and listen to his stories. Nathaniel and I served as the extra hands on deck during harvest from the time we were big enough to bring water and sandwiches out to the fields.
“Grandpa Greg, I found a good one!” Olive comes running back to us from the far edge of Jackie’s vegetable garden, interrupting my worrying. “Daddy look, this is perfect.”
Thrusting out her hands, Olive shows us the almost perfectly preserved snake skin in her hands. “Wow-wee, Pickle, that is a good one.” Greg leans over to peer at it. “It’s even still got the head.”
The snake shed is dried and brittle, so I push my concerns to the back of my mind—it’s probably from the end of summer. With any luck, the little guy’s already found somewhere to curl up for the winter.
When I started working full time on the vineyard, snakes were the last thing I thought I’d worry about. Four years ago, I was worried about how I was going to handle being a single parent every other week, and if Jackie and Greg would regret helping me out when I needed a place to stay.
When June and I separated, I was in desperate need of somewhere to live, and Greg and Jackie were in desperate need of someone to help them run the vineyard when Nathaniel declined to come home after his fancy apprenticeship in France ended. Ridge Runner had always been like home to me, so the decision to move onto the property was easy. Even with the new name, Sunshine Cellars, it was still the same place my best friend and I had run wild as boys.
But running around a vineyard as a kid, like Olive is doing now, is very different from running it as an adult. These days I worry more about if the profit margin of the winery is going to be enough to support us all and if the destemmer is going to last another season.
Plus, there’s always the question of Nathaniel. He’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember—but he’s been gone for almost five years, with no hint at when he’ll be back.
I try not to tell him how often his parents talk about him, but I know they miss him. I miss him too. Ever since Mrs. Walls had to separate us because we kept goofing off during reading, he and I were like peas in a pod. But this place is supposed to be his dream, not mine, and I don’t know why he won’t come home and claim it.
All I know is that I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this place going without him.
Maggie
The toothpaste dripping onto my cashmere sweater is the last straw, really. I glare at my reflection as I take in the disaster in front of me. Only I would get so distracted going through my mental checklist that I would finish applying the perfect pink lipstick before realizing I forgot to brush my teeth. And instead of just swishing around some mouthwash and calling it good, I figured I could brush carefully enough to have both minty fresh breath and perfectly applied lipstick.
What I didn’t account for was that by trying not to mess up my lips, I ended up with an extra large mouthful of toothpaste foam—which dripped out the corner of my mouth and onto my black cashmere sweater. My carefully preserved, only wear it on special occasions because I’m terrified I’ll ruin it black cashmere sweater that was a gift from my ex-fiance’s mother. Her son turned out to be an entitled asshole, but the woman had excellent taste in sweaters.
Spitting the excess out of my mouth, I turn on the water and attempt to salvage the situation. Squatting awkwardly, I lean as close to the bowl as I can get, squishing my boobs painfully as I angle the edge of the v-neck under the water. If it had dripped just an inch to the right, it would have gone down my cleavage instead. As a general rule, I don’t enjoy liquids dripping between my boobs, one too many unfortunate experiences in that department, but this morning I would have vastly preferred it.
Thighs burning, I dab at the spot, grateful that it’s coming clean and maybe I won’t have to change. Just when I think I’ve averted disaster, my leg gives out—my ankle going one way and the rest of me going the other. I catch my hands on the countertop, but not in time to stop the side of my face from bouncing off the cold marble-like surface. Pain explodes across my cheek, matched by a sharp flash of pain in my ankle that immediately begins to throb.
“Maggie? Are you ok?” My younger sister’s voice is muffled by the bathroom door, but her concern is loud and clear.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I manage through gritted teeth.
“What was that crash?” The door cracks open and Ophelia sticks her head through. “What the fuck, Mags? Why are you kneeling on the bathroom floor? You’re supposed to hug the toilet, not the sink.”
“Ha. Ha. I’m fine. Just a little toothpaste accident.” I scramble to get my feet under me, steeling myself for pain when I push upright. Ophelia grabs hold under my arms and helps me up, making fussing noises in my ear.
