Page 26 of Meet Me in the Vines
“Audrey, stop it,” I grit to myself, looking in the rear-view mirror. “He humped and dumped you and made you out to be a fucking fool. Get. It. Together.” There’s my sad attempt at a pep talk. I sigh. “I’m so fucked.”
But then a playful smirk appears on my lips when I think about my knee to his balls. He deserved it.
I sit up straight and look out to the wrap-around front porch at the house I grew up in. I’ve been so consumed with Donovan that it hasn’t hit me until now.
I’m finally home.
Three pine green Adirondack chairs sit, facing the view—one for Pop, one for Gran, and one for me. Sweet memories flood my brain of the three of us sitting together, drinking tea and telling stories. Mostly Gran telling the stories. She was the best storyteller. Pop and I would sit here, listening to her all night like she hung the moon.
Home has a rustic wine-country visage with aged vines snaking up the earth-toned stones on the facade—a touch of nature to make this massive estate approachable.
I especially love the Juliet balcony off to the side, where I used to sit and read books until the moon was my only company.
This house was far too large for just Gran and Pop, but they had plans to fill it with lots of children and grandchildren. Sadly, my gran went through a tough journey of infertility and lost more babies than anyone should in their lifetime. My chest gets heavy with the thought of Gran’s miracle baby, my father, who turned out to be an utter disappointment. I wonder if he even knows Gran died.
I step out of the car and grab my carry-on from the trunk. The scent of eucalyptus and olive trees overtakes my nostrils. Rolling green hills as far as the eyes can see paint the background of my childhood. The front door opening shakesme from my nostalgic revery, flooding me with warmth and sunshine.
I drop everything and run up the front porch steps like when I was five years old, crashing straight into my grandfather’s arms.
“Oof! Well, hey there, kid. Oh, I missed you so much,” he murmurs. His Carhart jacket smells like cinnamon and Earl Grey tea. I’m unable to hold in the tears that stream down my face. I hold on to him like I’ll die if I don’t.
“Hey, Pop. God, I missed you so much. I love you so much.”
We squeeze each other tighter, and I notice he is more frail than before. My pop is getting older, and I missed so many years being away. He holds onto me and moves his hands to cup my face. He kisses my forehead and pulls me in for another bear hug.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” he hums.
We hold each other for what feels like hours until I finally let go, turning down the steps to grab my belongings from the ground.
“Come on, Audrey. I got an early dinner for us.”
I walk inside and take a deep breath in. It still smells like Gran. I do a full turn, taking in all the pictures on the walls and the warm tones of this house. Even though this house holds painful memories, it’s also where I spent the most time with my grandparents. They raised me, protected me, nurtured me.
“What do you think?” Pop puts his hands on his hips, following my eyes as I look around me.
“It’s the same. Nothing has changed. I missed it so much,” I coo, running my fingers along a framed picture of Gran at the entryway table. This house is a stark contrast to Kellan’s New York penthouse. My grandparents made this a real home for me.
I survey the entry way, drinking in every detail I took for granted back then. The grand staircase with the charming woodfinishes. The crown molding that adds a sense of character. The enormous wood beams that adorn the vaulted ceiling, filling my adolescent mind with wonder. But most precious of all are the paintings by Gran and my mother that scatter along the walls.
My mother was a gifted artist. I remember being a little kid, pretending that I was in a museum of my mom’s work, admiring everything she made like I was a famous art collector.
My eyes land on a picture resting on the fireplace.Mom.She’s pregnant with me, her hands making a heart on my belly as she looks down and smiles. I touch the edges of the frame, wondering if she’d be disappointed at how my life had turned out.
“She was a beauty, wasn’t she?” he interjects. Bringing my gaze to his. “You are the spitting image of your mother,” he says softly.
I flinch at his words. They carry a painful weight behind them. There isn’t a single picture of my father in this house, my grandfather’s only son.
My grandparents always raved about how lucky my father was to find my mother. They loved her fiercely, as if she were their own daughter. My father loved her with every fiber of his being. A sharp pang of envy rips through me, wondering why I was never enough to deserve the love I craved from my father. Gran and Pop did their best to mend what was lost with their son when my mother died. The day she died, my father died with her. I suppose a part of me did too. And the start of his alcohol abuse became a heavy weight on my grandparents’ shoulders for years to come.
His grief drove him mad as his drunken tirades escalated from verbal lashings to attempted arson. My father sealed his own fate the night he drunkenly decided to set the King Family Vineyard on fire. Why? I guess that’s a secret between him and the case of whiskey he drank that night. But I’ve always thoughthe figured if his life was already burned to the ground, he might as well burn everything else, too. The Kings didn’t deserve the trauma my father put them through. He was unhinged in his drunken stupor, targeting Donovan’s family for contributing to our winery. A place that reminded him so much of my mother, a place where they had built a life together.
And just like everything Ted Winthrop touches, his attempt to burn down their vineyard failed, too. Pop caught him just as the first vine started to catch and called the authorities. But the real damage was done. Pop cut him off and exiled him right then and there. The night Ted left was the best night of my life.
My father used to tell me I was the spitting image of my mother and that he hated me for it. I can still smell the whiskey and wine on his breath as he pinned me down, bruising my wrists and screaming in my face. Kellan’s rage smells more like cognac. Same anger, different flavor.
My grandfather notices my discomfort with his words—unintentional, of course—but he changes the subject, anyway.
“Let’s eat and catch up, kiddo. Come on.”
