Page 128 of Gone With the Wine

“The things you’ve accomplished…I don’t know how you could feel that we didn’t respect you for that. I mean, I believe you, I’m not trying to dismiss your feelings. We all have such different perspectives on things. I do regret that we didn’t talk more, back when we were teenagers. About how you were feeling after Mama left.”

“I regret it too. But we were kids.”

“True. I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could come to me, with anything.”

Now we’re gripping both of each other’s hands. I nod. “I’m really happy for you and Jake, When I first got home, I wanted to be mad at him for how he hurt you, but he’s a good guy and it didn’t take long to see that he makes you happy.”

“He does. And I don’t know Jansen well, but I like him.”

My smile trembles. “I like him, too.”

“Don’t do it again.”

I blink. “Do what?”

“Don’t leave because you’re afraid. If Argentina is where you want to be, and you have people there you care about, who care about you, and you’re accomplishing the things you want to do—then that’s where you should be. I would never hold you back. But…” She meets my eyes. “Don’t leave again because you’re afraid.”

I give a jerky nod. “I need to…I need to think. I’m still trying to sort out everything in my head.”

She nods, “That’s fair. I’m here for you. If you want to talk more, about the family, or Jansen, or wine…I’m here.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I go upstairs to my room and lie down on my bed.

I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. I play Rosa’s words over and over in my mind. I think about my family. About how happy they were for me being nominated for that award. Vitto’s admission of envy. Their respect.

Maybe not Uncle Geno. But if I feel the love and respect from everyone else, maybe that doesn’t matter.

I’m drained. And yet I feel a growing lightness. Hopefulness. It was hard, but I’m glad Rosa and I talked and that she was honest with me. Hearing that I’m the one who shut down…I’m the one who left…it’s true. I don’t regret it—the experiences I’ve had and the people I’ve met have made me who I am. But it has made me realize that my resentment toward my family probably wasn’t completely well-founded. I may have created some of my own problems by not letting go of the past. In not letting go of the belief that my mother abandoned me because I was lacking. In not letting go of the belief that I need to prove my worth to be part of this family.

Nervous energy fills me and I jump off the bed and cross over to the window. It’s dark but faintly, through the trees, I can see the lights of Bar Down. I lean against the sill.

Who I am…my worth…isn’t determined by others. It’s determined by me.

I’m a winemaker. I’m successful. I love doing it. I’m not musical, but I can create a symphony. I’m not an athlete, but I can create a team. I can bring people joy. Bring them together. That’s something.

I love the history of wine. For thousands of years, wine has brought people together. It’s friends and family and even strangers. Every bottle is a chance to create new memories. I love that I’m part of that.

Don’t do it again.

I turn away from the window and run back downstairs. Rosa and Jake are sitting in the parlor watching TV.

“I’m sorry.”

They both look up at me blankly.

Rosa blinks, her brown eyes soft and warm. “What for, Bee?”

I cross the room and sit on the chair next to them, leaning forward. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…so blocked. That I couldn’t see things clearly. I couldn’t see myself clearly.” I swallow but hold her gaze. “We won’t do the orange wine.”

Her mouth falls open. “What? Why not?”

“It’s not practical this year. You’re right. We need to be more strategic to get started.”

She blinks.

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