Page 70 of Love on the Vine
“Aha! There were more!” He handed me a stack of larger prints. On top was an image of my dad in his baseball jersey, kicking back with some friends.
“Oh! He had so much more hair. And no beer belly.” I tried to smile despite the ache in my heart. It was a wonderful portrait and really captured the moment so well. I could almost smell their sweaty teenage bodies and hear their laughter. The other photos were all of my grandparents or their dog, and the old house by the lake.
“I’m sure Janet thought I was a big pest. Always hanging out at dinner time.” He shook his head. “Your family just seemed so perfect compared to mine.” He showed me another photo of my grandparents on the porch, Gran leaning her head on my grandfather’s shoulder. “Keep those if you want.”
“Sure you don’t want them?” I asked.
“Nah, I’ve got everything I need up here.” He tapped a finger against his temple. Then he reached into the box and took out the last leather-bound album. His smile disappeared as he flipped through it.
The pages were filled with newspaper and magazine clippings of Jake’s career. From the article about him becoming the youngest Master of Wine in history to small quotes in wine and food journals. There were articles from Asian magazines and French newspapers all annotated in Dutch and an elegant script.
“Your mother must have made this,” I said as he handed me the album. “She must have been really proud of you.”
“Well, she never showed it,” Jake grumbled and stood abruptly. “I think we’re finished here. Are you hungry? I’m taking you to La Vague d’Or tonight.”
“Don’t we need a reservation? That’s fancy.” His sudden change of mood had me reeling. Was he really going to change the subject by taking me to the most sought-after restaurant in Saint-Tropez?
“I know the chef.”
“Of course you do,” I said, pins and needles in my right foot pricking me as Jake helped me up from the floor. “Let me help you clean up.”
“No way, you’ve done enough.” He pushed me toward the door. “Go get ready. I’ll handle this.”
I stepped out into the hallway, pausing briefly to glance back at Jake. He’d picked up the album again and was staring down at it as if it contained the mysteries of the universe.
Chapter 23
JAKE
After my morning run, I peeked into the downstairs guest room expecting to find Olivia. She’d decided to redecorate it now that we’d cleared out the boxes and the bad energy. But instead of Olivia hanging my old photos on the wall, I found Chantal dusting the shelves and humming to herself.
For some reason, she’d set the mystery album of my accomplishments on the dresser, and I found myself thumbing through it again. The album had raised a lot of questions that only my mother could answer. Whether she’d be willing to was another question.
Olivia had suggested I invite her over, convinced that the existential slump I’d been living in the past year had something to do with my father’s sudden death and all the things we’d left unsaid. But I didn’t want my mother to visit now for obvious reasons. I only had a couple weeks left with Olivia and wanted to enjoy them. It would be over soon enough and then I’d have to get on with my real life.
Real life.
This wasn’t real life. I had to keep reminding myself of the fact or else I’d be tempted to indulge in pointless “what-if” scenarios: What if Olivia did stay in France? What if I did? What if we continued to see each other?
No, it was too complicated. This wasn’t long-term, it couldn’t be—our goals were too different. She’d want someone who was around more than I was. This summer was the first time I’d stuck around anywhere for more than a month. Normally, I got itchy if I stayed in one place too long, and I didn’t want to check-in with someone, alter my schedule to fit theirs. Understandably, no woman I’d ever dated had been happy with that.
And then one day she’d want a family. I’d never once considered the possibility, convinced that I’d be just as awful at it as my father was. I could never figure out why someone would willingly create small humans who were entirely dependent upon them. Olivia would be a wonderful mom though, and she deserved to have that.
Most importantly, she deserved the freedom to enjoy her time in Paris without the distraction of a cynical killjoy like me. So, yeah, no possibility for this summer fling—or whatever it was—to turn into anything more than that. I had to keep that in mind, no matter what my stupid feelings might try to convince me to the contrary. Prolonging this would only be selfish in the long run.
God knows I could be selfish. But not about this.
I took the album to my office and set it on the shelf next to my old account books, then went in search of Olivia. She wasn’t in her usual spot in the kitchen experimenting with new recipes, but the scent of lemon and basil hung in the air and a cake, dusted with powdered sugar and sprinkled with almonds, sat cooling on the counter. I plucked a fig from the basket next to the sink and split it open, struck by the carnality of it with its fresh pink flesh splayed open, and the need to find Olivia became more urgent.
She was on her knees in the garden behind the cottage, a small shovel in her hand. The cat was watching her from itsperch on the stone wall, and she was talking to him as if he was capable of real conversation.
“This should help with your hairballs. That was a nasty surprise you left me the other day, Sly. I thought it was a dead mouse,” she admonished. The cat turned its gaze slowly to me as I snuck up behind her. I glared at him. He needed to know who the boss was around here, even if I was pretty sure he could fuck me up with those claws if he wanted to.
“Talking to yourself again?” I asked. Startled, she fell backward and peered up at me from under the brim of her floppy straw hat.
“I was talking to Sly. He’s having digestive issues, so I’m planting some cat grass.”
I rolled my eyes. “Because regular grass isn’t good enough for him?”
