Page 49 of You're So Vine
Lee was going to sell up, but Shelby, who wanted to run Flora Valley Wines more than anything, persuaded her mother to give her six months to find an investor who’d buy Lee out. And Shelby did. She found an old guy with money and a soft spot for enthusiastic young women and organic wine: J.P. McRae, who brought Nate in to be the new manager. That’s how Nate and Shelby met. That’s how I met Ava…
I should let Nate know where I am. He’s my boss, after all, and he only gave me leave for this morning. I should text Shelby, too, so she doesn’t worry. I should absolutelycheck in on Ava, and apologize, like a grown-ass man.
I do none of these things. I put the Dodge in gear and light out for the coast.
Lee lives outside a tiny village that often gets used for movie locations because it’s ridiculously picturesque. Her house is on the cliffs overlooking the bay. It’s not unlike my place, in that it’s a converted shed. Except where my place is tidy and minimal, Lee’s is a messy, gaudy riot. Probably why she can be so calm: she lets all the craziness out, instead of trying to keep it buried inside.
The Dodge isn’t a quiet vehicle, and I half expect Lee’s door to open as I pull up outside. She wouldn’t know it was me; it could be anyone from Flora Valley Wines—Shelby, Nate, even Javier or Doug—who use the truck to run errands and, if they’re in the neighborhood, will stop off and say hi. They all miss Lee. She was everyone’s friend and confidant. But I was the one who took up most of her time.
The front door stays shut as I get out of the Dodge and walk up. The garage is closed so I can’t see if Lee’s car is there. It’s an EV, of course. She doesn’t use it much as the town is a half hour walk away and Lee has always kept fit. Yoga at sunrise and sundown, hiking, swimming. All of which, over the years, she’s tried—and failed—to get me into. Shedidsucceed at making me see the point of mindfulness. Taking time to look around, focusing on smells, sights, sounds, lettings those sensations quieten down your thoughts. It works for me. When I let it.
I knock. No one comes. I check my phone. No text. No missed call.
What now? Sit in the truck and wait?C’mon, Hollander. That’s stupid. Go home. Go to work. Stop letting down people you care about.
Then I remember where Lee hides the spare key – under the Buddha statue by the path. Because I should double-check that she’s okay, right? Don’t answer that.
I unlock the door as quietly as I can. But Lee has these gong chimes hanging just inside the entranceway and immediately they begin jangling in (so Lee once informed me) perfectly tuned pentatonic scale. A harmonious burglar alarm.
I freeze. Listen. No movement. No one calling out “Who’s there?” The gong chimes may be in perfect harmony, but they’re loud, which means the obvious: no one’s home.
The rational part of my brain has finally won. I’m leaving. I’ll just grab some water first. Thirsty work breaking and entering.
Lee’s house is shaped like the top half of the letter H. Bedroom at one end, studio at the other, connected by a long kitchen and living area with glass sliding doors that open out to a deck surrounded by a pretty, coastal-style garden. Every front-facing room has an amazing sea view. On this November day, it’s blustery, and the sea is all choppy whitecaps and crashing surf. I’m drawn to the wildness, the wind, as if it’ll clear my head of all the noisy, circling thoughts. I slide open the glass doors and walk out on the deck.
Only to hear a quiet voice say, “Hello?”
Heart thumping, I swing round. Lee’s sitting in her wicker egg chair, cocooned in a blanket, red hair spilling out from under a wool beanie.
No, wait. Not Lee. Butsoalike, it’s uncanny.
“Sorry.” I do my usual mumble. “I’m Cam. Friend of Lee’s.”
“Ah,” she says. “Of course.”
This woman is either exhausted or frozen. Every movement seems to be a huge effort.
“You okay out here?” I ask, concerned.
A small smile. She gestures to the chair next to her. “Join me.”
I take a seat. This woman not only looks like Lee, she has the same magnetism. I’d always thought it was Lee’s warmth and openness that drew people to her, but now I can see a steely quality I’d overlooked. Probably why we all say yes to whatever Lee asks of us.
The other chair has a sloped back and I’m too tall to recline in any comfort. So, I sit forward, arms propped on my knees, hands finger-knitted together because I don’t know what else to do with them.
“Lee’s-friend-Cam,” she says. “She didn’t mention you were coming.”
Tone’s not warm exactly, but it’s not judgmental.
“Didn’t tell her,” I say. “Was passing.”
Another small smile. “She did say you come across as a man of few words.”
Defense mechanism, I could tell her. Don’t engage. Keep your distance. Safer that way. But when it’s obviously an effort for this woman to speak, I can’t let her do all the lifting.
“Came here to talk to Lee,” I say. “Got a few things on my mind.”
“Lee’s in town. Organizing an art exhibition. A fundraiser.” The woman pulls up the blanket so she can check her watch. “She’ll be back within the hour.”
