Page 9 of Love You Truly

“Mallory! We’re just getting up to cook breakfast before we milk the cows.” How my mother sounds this delighted when she should be fast asleep is beyond me. We seriously have nothing in common.

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Yes, I’m letting your father sleep for another hour. I think he was up late reading.”

We make small talk for another minute before I can’t stand it anymore and ask her what in the hell she and my dad were thinking.

“He has good business sense, and he’s always looked out for you. I think he’s still in love.” She says the last part quietly, like she’s divulging a secret.

“I highly doubt that. And I can’t stand him, so there’s that.” I wish my mother didn’t bring out the sassy teenager in me. It won’t help convince her I can rationally manage a business.

“Oh, he’s harmless,” she says, which only proves how little she knows him.

“He’s horrible, and he’ll micromanage me, and he’s not even that smart.” As I’m saying the words, my mom hums back at me as though she agrees with my account. “On top of that, we’re not married anymore!”

“Well, I know that.”

A flickering sound on the other end of the line could be knitting needles or a piece of taffy. I try not to let it distract me.

“Great. So since we’re no longer married, you can assume I don’t want him to have anything to do with my life. Or our family business.”

More humming. I assume she agrees.

“You see, I disagree. I think you can be helped by the support of a partner. A husband. The way your dad and I have each other. It would be different if you were married to someone else, but Mallory, you’re all alone. That’s why we made the deal with Felix. Like I said, if you were married, you wouldn’t need Felix?—”

“I don’t need him now,” I interrupt.

I hate the way she talks about my lack of husband like it means I’m sad and lonely. I’m not. I have a busy social life that includes lots of time spent wining and dining fancy winery owners who might make good business contacts. I spend so much time getting dressed up for industry meet-and-greets and galas that I wouldn’t mind a little sad and lonely time. No reason to get married again. Ever.

“I know what I’m doing, Mom. I don’t need a husband or a partner.”

“Agree to disagree. Isn’t that what people say?”

“Yes, but I don’t agree. I really wish you’d see me as capable without having a ring on my finger.”

“It’s not about a ring. It’s about the support a real partner can give you. A husband. I want that for my daughter. Is that so bad?”

“Yes. When you make a deal with my ex that keeps him in my business, it’s bad. It’s really, really bad.”

I hear grumbling, which means my mom is now summarizing the past five minutes of our conversation for my dad so he can catch up. If he’s awake, I know they’ll be off to sheer a sheep in a matter of moments, so I need to say my goodbyes.

“When are you coming back? Can we sit down and talk about this when you’re home?”

More mumbling, and then my dad picks up the phone. His voice is raspy and deep, and I’m not sure he’s fully awake. “Do me a favor and check the mail, will you? It should be right in front of the house inside the?—”

“Mailbox?” I interrupt because we’ve had this conversation before also. My dad is always afraid the mail carrier is holding out on him, not delivering valuable postal gems and keeping them for his own or something. “I’ll check, dad.”

My mom grabs the phone back. “Gotta run, sweetie. Sixteen cows need our help emptying their udders.” Damn, she’s cheerful as she smothers my dreams in Felix’s smarmy brand of ketchup.

I gun the engine of my Jeep, which seems to want an up close and personal relationship with every bump in the road. I love it anyway. When it’s warm and I can put the top down, nothing makes me feel more free of worry than driving along the Silverado Trail with the mountains fanning out on one side and miles of vineyards on the other.

Some of the mountains still bear the scars of a huge fire a couple of years back. It will take a while for the larger trees to repopulate the hillsides. I notice some new rows of grapevines crawling up a hill and wonder how long that new winemaker will persist before realizing the sloping terrain isn’t right for growing grapes.

Often, it’s wealthy newcomers who buy a piece of land with designs on being winemakers. They don’t understand much about the business, only that having a vineyard in Napa is some sort of prize like owning a jet or a share of a pro sports team. It’s easy enough to find people who will convince them they can grow grapes anywhere.

They mount fancy signs at the highway entrance to their property and take selfies in front of them for their social media. I swear, half of these people just want to own a sign with the word ‘vineyard’ on it.

The old-school winemakers know better. They’ve been here for generations in many cases, and they take pride in the terroir of their fruit. That basically means they spend a lot of time playing with dirt. It’s the soil on the valley floor that gives the best grapes their ability to grow without a lot of intervention, and that allows them to make the best wine.

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