Page 90 of Love on the Vine
She was also eager to make amends for my miserable childhood. I’d brought out the scrapbook, and we’d gone year by year through the pages. “I have much guilt, Jakob,” she admitted. “I never wanted to be a mother. I tried it but failed miserably. So I do understand why you don’t want children.”
“Actually, it’s not that I don’t want children,” I answered, surprising myself. “I just don’t want to end up likehim.”
There I’d said it out loud, admitted that my father’s shadow still hung over me despite all I did to construct my identity in opposition to him. Deep down I was terrified that I’d wake up one day and see him staring back at me in the mirror. I’d already inherited his fucked up emotional legacy, and I sure as hell didn’t want to pass it on to anyone else.
“You’re not like him,” she said adamantly. “Except in the way that put yourself away in your little box. I was the one who suggested it when you were small because you were such a sensitive little boy. I wish I hadn’t now.”
A memory came back of her comforting me after the cat incident. Telling me he couldn’t hurt me if I tucked myself away inside somewhere where he could never reach me. I’d applied that to nearly every area of my life since then. The shock of understanding had me reeling.
“I’m just so relieved that despite having your father as a role model, you still turned out to be a good man. And I hope that oneday we will be closer. I would like to get to know this man you have become.”
And again, to my utter astonishment, I found myself saying, “I’d like that too.”
She lit a cigarette and continued. “I can’t help but feel that you are unhappy somehow. And I just want to say that it is never too late to change. To open yourself to other people. I learned that lesson too late, but now, I’m trying to fill what’s left of my life with people I care about. That’s why I want you to be a part of it. Even if I don’t deserve your love or forgiveness.”
My throat constricted. I’d held on to my resentment of her for so long, it was hard to let go of the childish belief that either of my parents had known what the hell they were doing. As an adult, I understood now that we were all just trying to figure life out as we went along. Maybe my parents hadn’t done their best, but they were only human after all. Maybe it was time to forgive them and stop hiding myself away in that damn glass box.
“And as for what the future will bring. I’m sure the universe will give you a sign.”
I rolled my eyes. That was a step too far. I was not about to start praying to the universe. “I don’t believe in signs.”
We packed away the old albums and she agreed to let me treat her to dinner. On the drive down to the coast, I pulled up to the Domaine de la Ruche. Harvesting was nearly finished, and old Reynaud was sitting on his terrace with some of the local men and women who’d come out to help. It dawned on me that I could actually participate in the harvest this year.
“You know, I have some time on my hands. I could help you with the fermentation next week,” I told him, excitement bubbling up in me like champagne at the prospect. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
“Enfin!” He laughed and patted me on the back. “I’ve been waiting years for this.”
He insisted on showing my mother around the vineyard and I could tell he was smitten, just as he had been with Olivia.
I was watching the sun setting over the vines, turning the sky a magnificent coral and purple, when my mother came rushing back toward me. “You must take a photo. Quickly, quickly.”
She spun around, opening her arms up to the sky, striking a pose. Shaking my head at this new hippie version of her, I took a couple shots of her alone and then one with Reynaud.
“It’s a pity you don’t have your Leica anymore. Although the phone now is almost as good,” she said. “You’ll send me the photo before you forget?”
“Sure.” I knew I would forget. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used the phone for anything other than checking email or taking calls.
I scrolled through the photos, sending them to her as I went. When I got to the last photo of her with Reynaud, I swiped left, and another image appeared, knocking the wind out of me.
I stared at the screen unable to believe what I was seeing. At first glance it was identical to the portrait I’d taken all those years ago of Olivia’s grandparents, the one I’d hung on to as proof that real love did exist.
But the couple in the picture wasn’t the Petersons. It was us. It was the photo of Olivia and me that Claire had taken in her vineyard.
We were both laughing. Olivia was leaning into me, and I had my arm around her like it was the most natural thing in the world, my face half-buried in her hair while King jumped at my side.
I remembered everything about that day—the golden light filtering through the leaves, Olivia’s laughter wrapping around me, Claire’s exasperated cry, and the dog’s excited barking. I remembered how right it felt to hold Olivia in my arms. Most of all, I remembered how I hadn’t wanted to let her go.
So why had I?
“Jakob, are you all right?” I heard my mother’s voice through a tunnel.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. All I knew is that I’d had something beautiful, and I’d let it go.
I prayed it wasn’t too late to get it back.
Chapter 31
OLIVIA
