The Vineyard of Hopes and Dreams

She only knew that, sometime much later, her mother had helped her into the living room—just to the right of this foyer—and onto the sofa. Her consciousness went in and out with a fiery, strobelike effect.

She didn’t ask why her mother wasn’t taking her upstairs and putting her into bed. She assumed that she wasn’t able to climb—one of her hips hurt so much she thought it must be broken. But hours later, when her mother woke her again and helped her limp in total silence out to the car, she realized that her mother had kept her downstairs because that would make the escape easier.

She knew, somehow, that she mustn’t cry out, though she had figured out by then that it was her leg, not her hip, that really was broken. As she exited the house, the moon was full on the vines. Genevieve already sat in the front seat, clutching her ballerina bear, her face like a white button at the window.

Her mother had brought pillows and blankets, and made a sort of bed in the backseat for Hayley. She lay gingerly down, hugging herself against the pain, and passed out again.

She woke somewhere near the Nevada line, screaming. Someone was stabbing her stomach with knives, and blood streamed out of her, soaking the denim of her jeans.

“No,” she had cried, squeezing her legs together in spite of the pain. “No…no…no…”

The sudden sound of a car engine snarling to life returned her to the present. She sagged against the door, relieved. Finally, Colby was leaving.

Somehow, just knowing she wouldn’t have to face him anymore tonight brought back a little of her courage. She moved away from the door, deciding it was time to do something practical.

She pulled out her cell phone and put a call in to Genevieve. To her surprise, her sister picked up on the first ring.

“I was just about to call you!” Genevieve’s musical tones sounded scratchy, as if she’d worked too many hours today. “I’ve been on since about six this morning, but they finally gave me a couple of hours to sleep. How are you? Did you make it through the funeral okay?”

“I’m fine.” And, as always, the sound of her little sister’s voice was enough to bring the world back into balance. “The funeral was uneventful.”

“Did you decide to stay at the house after all? I still think a hotel might be—”

“No hotels, silly. There’s a lot to do before we can put the place on the market, and I might as well get started.” Hayley had to smile at herself. Two minutes ago, she’d been seeing specters and barring the door against demons of the past, but now she was back to sounding like the bossy big sister.

“Honestly, I’m fine. The place isn’t as big a mess as I’d expected, actually.”

Genevieve sounded unconvinced. “Well, that’s good, but…”

“But nothing.” With her sister’s voice as company, Hayley marched resolutely up the stairs. “I want to hit the ground running in the morning. So I’ll just turn in early and—”

She stopped at the door to her old room. Confused, she swiveled on the landing, checking the layout to see if she’d become disoriented. But no, this was her room.

Had been her room, anyway. In Hayley’s mind, the room had never changed. It had remained exactly as she left it that final afternoon, when she dashed off, late to work as usual.

She could remember every detail. She’d bought a new pair of sneakers, because she got a discount now that she worked at the sports superstore. She’d stuffed the empty box into the trash can, but she hadn’t quite been able to make it fit, which she knew would make her father mad. The shirt she’d worn to school—white with a scoop neck trimmed with blue sequins, all the rage that year—had been tossed onto the foot of the bed, abandoned for her uniform shirt.

And, of course, all along the edge of the mirror were pictures of Colby. Laughing, confident Colby, with his arm around her, about to dunk her into the pond, or leaning over her, dangling a cluster of grapes just above her open mouth.

But none of that remained. Instead, a sea of boxes greeted her. Such a mess. She couldn’t have stepped two feet inside this pink-walled room if her life had depended on it.

It had become the rubbish closet. Maybe, she thought, that was where all the possessions they’d left behind had ended up. Maybe, somewhere in there, was her diary, which her father had undoubtedly found when he took the mattress off her bed. And the pregnancy test, which she’d wrapped in a bag and stuffed behind her winter sweaters.

“What’s wrong?” Genevieve sounded concerned. Hayley wondered how long she’d been silent.

“Nothing,” she said. She launched into a light-hearted description of the sweet touches Roland and Miranda had added to make the house homier.

As she talked, she closed the door on her room and tried Genevieve’s. Though he’d left the pink ballerina border along the ceiling, her father had turned Gen’s room into some kind of home gym. A treadmill, a weight bench, a stationary bike.

She tried to picture him using any of this—and she suddenly realized that her mental picture was seventeen years out of date. She’d asked for a closed casket, and she hadn’t felt the slightest urge to look inside.

She shut the door. She kept talking, but her mind was sending out a string of painful questions.

Had he changed very much as he’d grown older? He would have been nearly seventy. He’d always been a little overweight. Beer belly, mostly. The lawyer who phoned had said her dad died of a heart attack. Was it a surprise? Had he been warned about his habits? Had he spent the last months of his life in the converted exercise room, trying to sweat out a lifetime of booze?

“Hayley,” Genevieve said, breaking into her mindless chatter, obviously not buying it for a minute. “You sound funny. What’s going on?”

Hayley had just opened her father’s bedroom door. Finally, a bed, the same dark walnut four-poster her parents had always shared. The same picture window that overlooked the vineyards, though the drapes were closed now, and the overhead light fixture was missing a couple of bulbs.

Now she understood Miranda’s furrowed brow, her anxious eyes, when Hayley insisted on coming up here to sleep.

She knew within ten seconds that she couldn’t. Without her mother’s presence, her mother’s perfume to lighten the air, the whole room smelled like her father.

The odor was sickly sweet, with a hint of sweat and leather. Heavy undertones of beer, though someone, probably Roland, had emptied all the trash cans and even wiped down the nightstand.

She would never forget that smell. Her uniform shirt, covered in the beer from her father’s broken bottle, and the sweat of her own pain as she lay on the sofa, had smelled exactly like this room.

But if this was the only available bed…

Her only other choice would be the divan in her mother’s sewing room, if it were even still there. But that was where her mother had always retired, so that she could be alone to weep.

She could use the sofa downstairs. That might have a certain poetic justice. Her last night here, and her first night back, spent on its leather cushions…

“Nothing’s going on,” she said to Genevieve. “I’m just realizing the place is messier than I thought. I think…” She hated to admit defeat, but, damn it, she wouldn’t sleep a wink here tonight. “I think you may be right about the hotel.”

“Of course I am,” Genevieve said, clearly relieved. She laughed. “Get the heck out of there right now. I know you believe you’re invincible and everything. But you’re only human, Hayley. Like the rest of us.”

Hayley shut her father’s door quietly, and headed down the stairs. She wasn’t defeated. She was just tired. It had been a long day. The funeral, then Colby…

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she’d return to being invincible. Tonight, she just needed to sleep.

SHE ARRIVED BACK AT THE vineyard just after dawn the next day—or so her watch said. It was difficult to tell if the sun had risen, because a heavy gray rain pummeled her windshield as she made her way up the hill. It pounded the dirt rows between the vines, too, exposing stones and cigarette butts—plus all manner of debris unidentifiable in this dim light. A small but telling sign of how her father had neglected this property, maybe for a long, long time.

Up ahead, the main house squatted, dark-eyed and unwelcoming, under the low-hanging clouds. The car bounced over the driveway ruts slowly, and she finally came to a stop inches from the front porch.

For a minute, as she debated whether to bother with an umbrella, she exchanged scowls with the two-story structure. Wet and muddy definitely wasn’t its best look.

But sleep had restored her determination, and she was ready. A cup of take-out coffee nestled warmly against her thigh, and a banana from the hotel’s free breakfast poked out of the zipper of her purse. She’d scraped her hair back in a ponytail so tight her ears stuck out like a leprechaun’s—not exactly flattering, but functional.

In the backseat, she had a blank book for jotting notes, a plastic crate to collect important papers and a box of a hundred and forty-four garbage sacks in which to dump the rest. Plus, her cell was newly loaded with phone numbers—lawyers, real-estate agents, estate-sale agents, charitable organizations hungry for donations, carpenters, glaziers and house cleaners.

To heck with the umbrella. It wasn’t as if she’d put on makeup, or fixed her hair. This was work. Dirty work. Suddenly eager to get going, she flung open the car door and darted out into the rain.

Two hours later, the rain hadn’t let up. The big kitchen windows looked like they were covered in watery gray curtains, but she had all the lights blazing. She was on her knees in front of the pantry, a yawning garbage bag on the floor next to her, when the doorbell rang.

“It’s open,” she called out, hoping she could be heard over the drumming of the rain. She figured it had to be either Roland or Miranda, who both had promised to stop by and help if they could.

The shiny black plastic bag rippled as a gust of damp, earthy wind swept through the shotgun arrangement of front door, hallway and kitchen.

“Back here,” she said, reaching for a clear container of what looked like pasta dipped in pepper. When one of the grains of pepper began to move, she realized her mistake. She dumped it, container and all, into the bag and turned as Miranda arrived in the doorway.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to that,” the older woman said, shaking raindrops from her long, black hair as she folded up a glistening umbrella. Her brow wrinkled. “We thought the fridge was more important. Your father wouldn’t let us in the house for weeks before he passed, and these last few days, with Roland finishing up the harvest and—”

“Don’t be silly. You guys have done so much already. I’ll have this cleared out in no time!” Hayley climbed to her feet and embraced Miranda, who smelled like cinnamon, as if she’d been baking. “I’d offer you something to drink, but nothing in here looks safe, except maybe the beer. I’ve already finished the milk you left.”

“I’m fine.” Miranda looked around, obviously registering the magnitude of the job Hayley was facing. “I can’t stay long, unfortunately. Just until Elena’s preschool lets out.”

Hayley assured her that was great. And it was—she knew the Eliots meant well, but some of the work she’d have to do here would undoubtedly stir emotions. The kitchen was merely grimy and annoying, but chores like sorting through her old things, or her father’s finances…

She’d rather tackle those alone.

Clearly not intending to waste a minute of what time she had, Miranda pulled out one of the padded bar stools that faced the granite island and moved it closer to the counter above the sink. She opened the cupboard door and sniffed.

“Most of these canned goods are probably still okay,” she said. “Shall we start a bag for the Food Bank?”

“That one over by the stove is set aside for donations. There’s not much salvageable in here, though.” Hayley surveyed the still-teeming pantry shelves. She was already on her third garbage bag, and only about half done. “Everything is years past the sell-by date. I guess he didn’t cook much. I must have found a dozen empty pizza boxes stacked up in the mudroom.”

Miranda laughed. “Yes, we saw the delivery boy head up here maybe four or five times a week. But never Diamante. He still refused to do business with them, even though they’re the most convenient. They probably have five locations within ten miles of here.”

Hayley paused, her fingers gingerly holding a can that had one bulging side, as if something on the interior was trying to get out. “Really? They’ve expanded that much? Before I left, they had only the one take-out place in Sonoma.”

“They’re everywhere. But your father…” She chuckled. “He said their pizza was crap.”

Hayley didn’t answer. She couldn’t. When Miranda said those words, Hayley could almost hear her father speaking. “Arrogant bastards,” he used to say when anyone mentioned Diamante. “Think they’re better than everyone, but under those expensive suits, they’re still just hash-slingers. And it’s crappy hash, too.”

He lied, of course—everyone knew Diamante had the best pizza. Strictly a California product, though. The first few years after she left Sonoma, Hayley had suffered intense cravings for the honey-sweet crust and signature red sauce.

“I guess he never forgave the Malones for…for Colby,” Miranda said tentatively. “I mean…Colby and you.”

Hayley tightened her jaw, but managed a smile and a shrug. “That was just the most recent sin. The truth was, Dad never forgave the Malones for deciding not to carry Foggy Valley wine in their restaurant anymore.”

Miranda nodded. “They were the first, weren’t they? But not the last.”

That was an understatement. Diamante had merely been the leading edge of a tidal wave of vendors abandoning the tiny winery Ben Watson had been neglecting for years. The Foggy Valley label had been well respected when Hayley’s mother’s parents were alive, but by the time Hayley was thirteen, the winery end of the business was only a memory. A few bits of silver equipment quietly rusting away in an abandoned barn on the eastern edge of the property.

Miranda probably regretted opening old wounds, because she changed the subject smoothly and began asking Hayley questions about her life in Florida. Hayley was happy to tell her all about Genevieve, and her promotion, and the little string of dress shops where Hayley had worked for the past fifteen years.

She still kept the baby news to herself.

They talked until nearly noon, by which time great, lumpy garbage bags covered fifty percent of the blue-tiled kitchen floor. All the cabinets were empty, except for the ones that held plates and mugs, glasses and other housewares. The estate-sale agent would be selling things like that. And soon.

Thankfully Hayley had learned that she wouldn’t have to maneuver through a complicated probate process. When her father’s lawyer had telephoned her with the news of the death, he explained that Ben had set up a trust that made the transfer of assets quite simple. He’d left everything to Hayley and Genevieve, no mention of his wife, as if he’d known quite well that Evelyn Watson had died long ago.

Hayley hadn’t been sure which shocked her more—that her father obviously knew where to tell his lawyer to find her, or that he’d been sensible and proactive enough to organize his will into a trust.

For some reason, both bits of information made her chest tighten, as if there might have been a great many things she didn’t know about her dad.

But the important thing was, if she worked hard, and luck was with her, she could be free of all this much sooner than she could have imagined. She could hardly wait to see what the real-estate agent said the property was worth. She hadn’t cared much about money for the past seventeen years, but with a baby coming into her life…it would be wonderful to have a cushion in the bank.

At fifteen minutes to twelve, Miranda’s cell phone beeped. She knotted off her last trash bag and whisked her hands together briskly. “Gotta go. School’s out at noon, and Elena cries if I’m even a minute late.”

Hayley nodded. They had spent some of their time this morning discussing Elena’s fragile situation, so no more explanation was needed. After a full year, the little girl hardly remembered her mother—consciously, at least. But she had a dread of abandonment that proved how deep the damage went.

When Miranda left, Hayley decided to take a break. She needed to stretch. She needed to smell something other than stale beer bottles and stagnant garbage. She grabbed the banana from her purse and wandered into the living room, where she could sit on the sofa, the most comfortable piece of furniture in the house, and watch the rain on the vines while she ate.

She wasn’t aware of falling asleep. She wouldn’t have thought, in fact, that she even could sleep on this sofa, however comfortable, because of the memories it held. But suddenly she was waking up to the sound of the front door opening. Her heart raced in her chest as she awkwardly hoisted her sluggish body to a sitting position. The banana peel tumbled to the carpet at her feet.

“Miranda?”

But that didn’t make sense. Miranda was picking up Elena…wasn’t she? Hayley looked at her watch, but it wasn’t there. She’d taken it off while she was grubbing around in her father’s trash. She rubbed her eyes and started to move toward the hall, but before she could take a step, a man appeared in the doorway.

Colby…?

But no. The contours were similar to Colby’s, but the colors were all wrong. It looked like…

What was wrong with her? Her mind really wasn’t working. Maybe she was still dreaming. Because the man in the doorway was…

It couldn’t be. He was in Florida, three thousand miles away.

“Greg?”

The tall, broad-shouldered man smiled. His thick blond hair glistened with raindrops, but its robust waves, which had earned him the nickname “Dr. Delicious” among the nurses, were unconquered.

“Sweetheart,” he said in his most mellifluous voice. He came closer. “I couldn’t wait for you to come home. I missed you too much. So I came to you.”

He held out his arms, and in spite of how gorgeous he was, a ripple of distaste ran through her. This wasn’t right. It was incredible, literally impossible to believe, that he could be here. And…somehow creepy. Why on earth had he come all this way, across the country, on what could only be a fool’s errand?

The last time she saw him, she had told him it was over, and she’d meant it. She had been clear-cut, almost insultingly explicit. No two ways about it. She meant it, and he knew she meant it.

“What on earth are you doing here, Greg?”

He took another step closer, bringing him near enough that she could smell his aftershave. Lime sharp enough to sting her nostrils. Instinctively, she folded her arms across her chest. Her heart still beat too fast.

And then her head cleared.

“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes. “How did you even know where to find me?”

He must have seen that she was very angry, but, as always, he remained calm, so calm. Greg Valmont, M.D., had the perfect bedside manner, the manner that had guided dozens of pregnant women through labor.

Always under control. Never ruffled or impatient, like her father. Never a hint of wildness, arrogance or danger, like Colby.

For Hayley, that soothing manner had always been one of his most appealing characteristics. Finally, she’d thought, here was a man who wouldn’t ever hurt her.

Until that day two weeks ago. The day he lost his temper.

“How,” she repeated, “did you know where to find me?”

“I’m so sorry, Hayley,” he said with a disarming candor. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I was going crazy, wondering when you’d be back. I looked at your mail. I saw the letter from the lawyer.”

“What?”

He tilted his head, and even in the watery light, his green eyes were brilliant, flecked with golden lights. “I know it was wrong, but you left it open on the hall table.”

“You went into my house?” She was almost breathless with fury. “How? You gave me back the key.”

He shrugged, looking sheepish. “I had another copy. I’d forgotten about it completely, until… Look, sweetheart, I know you’re upset. But you should have told me about your dad. You shouldn’t have faced this alone. I could have been here for the funeral.”

“I didn’t want you here for the funeral. I don’t want you here now. We aren’t together anymore, Greg. You do remember that we broke up two weeks ago?”

The corners of his mouth moved into little-boy-sad position. “I remember that we had a fight. I remember that I goofed up, badly. I upset you. But surely one little mistake isn’t enough to destroy a relationship as beautiful as—”

“It wasn’t a little mistake,” she said, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. Once, that kind of talk might have sounded romantic. But now she heard how false it was, how manipulative. It made her skin crawl. “It was a huge mistake. A fatal mistake. And if it hadn’t been enough to destroy our relationship, this would have done it anyhow.”

“This?”

She waved her hand toward the door. “Yes, this. This—invasion of my privacy. You broke into my house, and now—”

“Hayley, that’s not fair. I may have been foolish, but I didn’t break into anything. I had a—”

“And now you’ve stalked me clear across the country. You’ve violated my privacy here, too. You have no right to be in this house, or even in this state. I want you to give back that key, and then I want you to get out of here. Immediately.”

Apparently without thinking, he reached out his hand. He got close enough for her to feel the heat of his fingers, but she whipped her arm aside before he could touch her skin.

She felt her cheeks start to burn, as her heart pumped oxygen faster than her veins could absorb it. Her throat tightened. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

For a split second, she was embarrassed, as if she were making too big a deal out of what was obviously a friendly touch. But then she caught it—the sudden tightening around his eyes, the momentary hardening in their green depths. It was the same look she’d seen that night two weeks ago, when she’d told him she didn’t feel like making love.

He was furious. Not just angry, not just upset. Furious.

That night, he’d been aroused, and he hadn’t been able to cover his frustration. He’d grabbed her irritably, and he’d kept kissing her, pressing her toward the bed as though she were a moody, difficult female who was just confused about her own needs.

He probably believed that, once coaxed into starting, she’d end up enjoying herself. He hadn’t realized that she was the last woman in the world he should handle in such a way. Since that night seventeen years ago, she hadn’t let anyone touch her in anger. No one. She had zero tolerance—no amnesty for “one drink too many,” or for “just joking around” or for abject apologies and roses.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Hayley,” he said, shifting his shoulders wearily, as if he were a long-suffering martyr accepting an unjust verdict. “I thought you might have come to your senses. I hoped you would realize that any…extreme emotions I have are just because I love you.”

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