Sweet Forgiveness (10 page)

The town is nearly a picture book. A white Bentley turns left in front of me. When did Harbour Cove become so posh? Can my mother afford to live here?

My hands grip the steering wheel and a sick feeling comes over me. What if she's no longer here? What if the address on White pages.com is out of date? After all this time, what if I can't find her?

It dawns on me. In the span of three weeks, I've gone from not thinking of my mother at all, to dreading the thought of making contact, to a desperate longing to find and forgive her. But desperate or not, I need to wait until morning. I cannot risk running into Bob.

I
drive through Harbour Cove feeling antsy and anxious, and head north on Peninsula Drive. I pass a dozen signs for vineyards, and smile when I see
MERLOT DE LA MITAINE
. Cute. Merlot of the Mitten—Michigan's nickname. At least this vineyard doesn't take itself seriously. What the hell? It's 3:20 and a glass of wine and a clean ladies' room sound heavenly. I follow a patch of arrows up a steep dirt drive and wind my way back to a gigantic old barn and a parking area.

I stretch when I get out of the car and gasp when I take in the view. Perched atop a hillside on this pencil-thin peninsula, twisted grapevines covered in snow intertwine wooden fences and trellises. Barren cherry trees—still months from bearing fruit—form perfectly straight rows, like children lined up for recess. In the distance, I spy the waters of Lake Michigan.

My stomach growls, forcing me to turn away from the dazzling vista. I cross the empty parking lot, wondering if this place is even open. The only thing I've eaten today was a tiny bag of pretzels on the airplane. I quicken my pace, yearning for a glass of wine and a sandwich.

The wooden door creaks when I open it. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. Huge oak rafters suspended from the vast ceiling suggest that this place was an authentic barn at one time. Shelves of wine line the perimeter, and scattered tables display gourmet crackers and cheese spreaders, fancy corkscrews and wine aerators. Behind a cabinet I see an old-fashioned cash register, but nobody is in sight. Whoever owns this place must not care if they're robbed.

“Hello?” I call, and step through an archway into the next room. A huge fieldstone fireplace is ablaze, giving warmth to the big, deserted space. Round tables fill the wood-planked floor, but it's a U-shaped bar, made of old wooden wine kegs, that grabs my attention. Obviously, I've landed in the wine-tasting room. Great, now if I could just get some vino I'd be all set.

“Hey!” A man steps out from behind a wall, wiping his hands on an apron covered with pink stains.

“Hi,” I say. “Are you open for lunch?”

“Absolutely.”

He's a tall, fortysomething with a mop of unruly dark hair and a smile that makes me feel like he's actually happy to see me. I'm guessing he's the winemaker.

“Have a seat.” He gestures to the empty room. “I think we can squeeze you in somewhere.” He smiles, and I can't help but laugh. The poor guy has no business, but at least he has a sense of humor about it.

“Good thing I arrived before the rush,” I say. I bypass the round tables and chairs and opt for a leather barstool.

He hands me a menu. “We're still keeping off-season hours. From the first of the year until May, we're only open weekends and by appointment.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize—” I push back my stool, but he places a hand on my shoulder.

“No worries. I've been in the back experimenting with some soups. I was hoping for a guinea pig. You game?”

“Uh, if you're sure, then absolutely,” I say. “Mind if I use the powder room first?”

He points to the back of the room. “First door.”

The spotless bathroom smells of a lemon disinfectant. On a table behind the sink, I spy mouthwash and paper cups, hair spray, and a bowl of wrapped chocolate mints. I pop one in my mouth. Oh, that's good. I grab a handful and stash them in my purse, something to nibble on during tomorrow's flight.

After splashing water on my face, I look into the mirror, horrified at what I see. I have no makeup on, and I didn't bother straightening my hair this morning. I pull a clip from my purse and gather my wavy locks at the back of my neck. Next, I grab a tube of lip gloss. But just as I go to apply it, I stop. I'm up here in the middle of the boonies, where nobody knows or cares who I am. Do I have the guts to go au naturel? I tuck the tube back into my purse and grab another handful of mints on my way out the door.

When I return to the bar, I find a basket of breadsticks alongside a glass of red wine.

“Merlot,” he says. “Two thousand ten. My personal favorite.”

I lift the glass by the stem and put it to my nose. It's heady and pungent. Next I swirl it, trying to remember why I'm supposed to do this. The man watches me with a whiff of a smile on his face. Is he mocking me?

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you laughing at me?”

He sobers. “No. I'm sorry. It's just . . .”

I crack a grin. “Of course. I'm doing exactly what every amateur wine connoisseur does when offered a glass of wine. The swirl.”

“No, it isn't the obligatory swirl, though you're spot-on. Everybody swirls. I'm laughing because . . . you . . .” He points to my purse. It's open, and looks as if it's my trick-or-treat bag, so full it is with chocolate mints.

I feel my face heat. “Oh, geez! I'm sorry. I—”

His laughter is hearty. “No worries. Take all you like. I can't keep my hands off them, either.”

I laugh, too. I like this guy's casual manner, treating me as if we're old friends. I kind of admire this regular Joe, trying to make a go in this northern town, with a business that operates only eight months a year. It can't be easy.

I skip the rituals and take a sip of the wine.

“Oh, wow, that's good. Really good.” I take another sip. “And this is where I'm supposed to insert words like
oaky
and
buttery
.”

“Or
musky
or
smoky
. Or my personal favorite,
This shit tastes like wet asphalt.
”

“No! Someone actually said that?” The sound of my laughter sounds foreign to me. How long has it been since I've truly laughed?

“Sadly, they did. Gotta have a thick skin in this biz.”

“Well, if this is wet asphalt, you're welcome to pave my driveway.”
Pave my driveway?
Did I actually say that? Shut me up now! I hide my face in my glass.

“Glad you like it.” He stretches an arm across the bar, offering a large paw. “I'm RJ.”

I fit my hand into his. “Nice to meet you. I'm Hannah.”

He goes into the back room and returns with a steaming bowl of soup.

“Tomato basil,” he tells me, and places it on the place mat before me. “Careful, it's hot.”

“Thanks.”

He hoists himself on the edge of the back counter facing me, as if he's settling in for a long conversation. The personal attention makes me feel special. I remind myself that I am his only patron, after all.

We cover the basics while I sip my wine and wait for my soup to cool. Where I'm from, what brings me to this neck of the woods.

“I'm a journalist. I grew up down South,” I tell him. “I'm here visiting my mother.” It might be a lie of omission, technically, but I'm not about to tell this stranger my childhood saga.

“She lives here?”

“Just west, in Harbour Cove.”

He raises his eyebrows, and I can guess what he's thinking: that I grew up summering in one of the mansions on the lake. When people make assumptions about my background, I normally don't correct them. As Michael says, my image is important. Perhaps it's because I'm a thousand miles from my fan base, or perhaps it's because I sense this guy is real, I'm not sure. But for whatever reason, this time I correct him.

“It's a long-overdue visit. I don't have the best memories of this place.”

“And your father?” he asks.

I stir my soup. “He died last year.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He would have loved your vineyard. His motto was
Why eat fruit when you can drink it?
And he wasn't talking about juice.” I don't laugh when I say this. I don't even smile.

RJ nods, as if he gets it. “My dad would've agreed. Though he'd have extended that phrase to include rye and most grains as well.”

So we have that in common—two fatherless children of alcoholics. I take a spoonful of soup. It's creamy and tangy, with a hint of basil.

“This is delicious,” I say.

“Too much basil?”

“It's perfect.”

Our eyes hold for a split second too long. I look away, feeling heat rise to my cheeks, the result of the hot soup or hot guy, I'm not certain.

He pours me a sample from a different wine bottle, then pulls a second glass from the rack. “What the hell,” he says, and pours a dollop into his glass, too. “It's not every day I get to fraternize with my customers. Another six weeks and I'll be knee-deep in chaos.”

I smile, but I can't help but wonder if he's just an optimist. “Have you worked here long?”

“Bought it four years ago. I spent my summers up here as a kid. It was my favorite place in the world. Went off to school and majored in plant science. After graduation, I got a job with E&J—Ernest and Julio Gallo Winery. Moved to Modesto and before I knew it, a dozen years disappeared.” He stares at the red liquid in his glass. “But California, for as great as it is, just wasn't my style. One day I was dinking around on some real estate website and found this place. Bought it at auction for a pittance.”

“Sounds like a dream,” I say. I wonder whether he has a family, but I don't ask.

“It is, for me.” He picks up an empty glass and wipes it with his towel. “I'd just been through an unpleasant divorce. I needed a fresh start and some distance.”

“Two thousand miles will get you that.”

He looks over at me and smiles, but his eyes are heavy. He busies himself wiping imaginary spots from the glass. “How about you? Married? Kids? A dog and a Subaru?”

I smile. “None of the above.” Now is the time to tell him about Michael. And I should. I know I should. But I don't. It seems alarmist, as if I'd be sending a presumptuous message saying,
Warning! Keep away!
I don't sense that RJ is coming on to me. I'm enjoying the light and friendly banter. It's been a long time since I was just hanging out with a regular person, not a businessman or politician. It's also refreshing to be with someone who doesn't know me as Hannah Farr, talk show host.

I pull another breadstick from the basket. “Did you make these?”

“Naturally you'd ask. They're the only item on the menu that isn't made on site. I get them from
la boulangerie
Costco.”

He exaggerates his French accent, and I laugh. “Costco? Really? They're not bad,” I say, examining one of them. “Not as good as mine, but not bad.”

He grins. “Oh, yeah? You think you can do better, eh?”

“I do. These are a bit dry.”

“That's the whole idea, Hannah. Gets people drinking.”

“Oh, subliminal seduction. Isn't there a law against that?”

“Nah. I tell Joyce at the bakery counter I want them dry as dust and doused with salt. These here breadsticks are the only thing keeping me in business.”

I laugh again. “I'll send you some of mine. Rosemary asiago are my favorite. You'll see. Your customers will sit for hours just eating bread and sipping wine.”

“Oh, now, that's a business plan. Fill up on the free bread and skip the thirty-dollar entrée. I can see why you're a journalist, not an entrepreneur.”

“And for dessert, free mints,” I add, patting my purse.

He throws his head back and laughs. My head swells, and I think I'm Ellen DeGeneres.

Our conversation continues at a leisurely pace. He teaches me about the elements that affect wine's taste and aroma.

“All these factors are generally lumped together and called the wine's ‘terroir.' The terroir is thought to be the result of where and how the wine was produced. The type of soil, the amount of sunlight, the type of barrel.”

I think of my own “terroir,” and how each of us is the result of where and how we were raised. I wonder if I give off notes of judgment and rigidity. Of insecurity and loneliness.

I'm as relaxed as a dog in the shade when RJ jumps down from his perch. I hear it now. The sound of the door opening, and then stomping feet. Damn, another customer.

I glance at my watch—it's four thirty. I've just frittered away a good portion of the afternoon talking to a stranger. I should scoot. I still need to find a motel, and I'd like to do it while there's still daylight.

The footsteps grow louder. I turn around and see two kids, their jackets covered with snow. The boy looks to be about twelve, lanky and tall, wearing a pair of jeans that barely reaches his ankles. The girl, a tiny, freckled redhead with a missing tooth, stares at me with wide eyes. “Who are you?” she asks.

The boy slings his backpack onto a table. “That's rude, Izzy,” he says, his voice deeper than I'd expected.

“Izzy's just curious, Zach,” RJ says. He walks over to the kids, gives Izzy a hug and Zach a fist pump. He takes their coats, shaking the wet snow from them. The floor becomes a puddle, but he doesn't seem to mind. As if reading my mind, he looks over at me. “It'll give me something to do later.”