Page 80 of This Is How It Started
“Pretend it didn’t happen.” I take the easy way out. These days I’m all about easy. It’s really all I can do right now.
He holds my gaze for what seems like an eternity, and I can see the wheels turning in his head.But it did happen.And it meant something.
“Okay,” he finally says and lets out a sigh. “But why? Why do you want to pretend?”
“Because it shouldn’t have happened. I’m grieving my husband, Campbell. And you’re grieving Jess. We reached for each other because we’re vulnerable. That’s all.”
For a long time, he doesn’t respond and just looks at me. Really looks. And then, as if he’s made a decision to lay it all on the line, he says, “I didn’t reach for you because I’m vulnerable, Rachel.”
I look away because I don’t want to think about Campbell or the kiss right now. I don’t want to think about second chances. Or love. Because all it’s ever gotten me is loss.
Chapter 28
The Fleas
The next morning, I make the ninety-minute trek to Napa to meet with Shelby Dumas, an event planner who comes highly recommended by Josie. Shelby organized a charity auction for Josie’s parents, who own a small share of a winery on the Silverado Trail. According to Jo, Shelby represents lots of vintners looking for small, unique venues to throw parties where they can wine and dine their San Francisco clients. I can’t think of a better place than ours.
Shelby’s office is off the beaten path in an old repurposed stone farmhouse with views of the rolling hills and vineyards of the Stags Leap District. I am at once smitten by the place. The receptionist, who sits at a live-edge wooden desk, offers me a glass of sparkling wine, which I of course accept. When in the Napa Valley...One sip and I’m in heaven. I know zip about wine but am certain I detect hints of pear and apple.
I get comfortable on the overstuffed leather couch that sits in front of an enormous stone fireplace and pretend to scroll through my phone—look at me, so many emails, so little time—instead of ogling the lobby, which Josh would’ve loved for its rustic simplicity.
A woman with long blond hair, dressed in black ponte leggings, a silk tunic top and a pair of beautifully tooled cowboy boots (very Napa chic) appears, takes one look at me and says, “Rachel?” I rise, and she folds me into a hug like we’re old friends. “Let’s go back to my office.”
I follow her down a short hallway into a large open space with more comfy leather seating and views of Stags Leap. The ceilings are tall with chunky wooden beams. The whole setup reminds me more of a living room in a resort than an office.
“Josie says you have a spectacular event space in Pacific Heights.” Shelby motions for me to take one of the chairs (Restoration Hardware’s Wine Country Collection if I had to guess) by the coffee table, which appears to be made out of a reclaimed oak barrel.
I nod, questioning whether to tell her it’s actually my family’s home and decide to hold off.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, water, wine?”
“No thank you. I had champagne in the lobby.”
“I’m sure Josie told you that we’re always looking for unique venues in the city for charity events, vintner parties, even retreats, and it sounds like you have something special.”
“I took some pictures,” I say, suddenly self-conscious that I snapped them myself instead of having them professionally taken. Shelby is probably expecting a leather-bound portfolio with photos of the house, grounds, and of events we’ve held. Other than family and friends’ parties, I don’t have any. I suppose I could’ve included pictures of Josh’s and my wedding, but I didn’t think of it.
I cue up my gallery and sheepishly hand her my phone. While she swipes through the pictures, I flip through an album on the coffee table that is filled with pictures of their events. Weddings, charity auctions, wine galas, concerts, and parties of all stripes and colors. Everything is uber classy and professional, and I’m starting to realize that she’s out of our league.
“This looks lovely,” she murmurs as she takes a second slide through my handful of snapshots.
I can’t tell if she’s just being polite or really likes the house.
“What’s the capacity?” she asks.
I should’ve been prepared for the question, but I’m not. There were two hundred guests at my wedding. That’s the most people I suspect we’ve ever had at once in the house on Vallejo. But it’s not like we checked with the fire marshal or adhered to any kind of city safety rules, which I’m sure there are. That’s when I decide to come clean with Shelby and not waste any more of her time.
“Can I be honest? This is my family home. My stepmother owns it now, and until recently it was strictly residential. That’s not to say we didn’t have lots of events there. My parents were not only proud of the home, they knew how fortunate and privileged they were to own a piece of San Francisco history and felt a karmic responsibility to pay it forward. Because of that, the house was always open to friends and family to use for their special celebrations. In the last year, though, my stepmother, Brooke, and I have decided to turn it into something of a small business. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t really know what the legal capacity of the property is, only that we’ve entertained up to two hundred guests at once at my wedding. I know it’s not the most professional answer, but it’s all I’ve got.”
Shelby surprises me with an ear-to-ear smile. “We like that. We like properties to have a story and to have lived a life that’s full. Most of our clients are vintners and farmers. Their homes are their businesses, and as good stewards of the land, they share them with the public. They’ll love the idea that you and your stepmom are doing the same thing. But we do have to comply with city ordinances and ask that you have the proper permits and insurance. In the meantime, I’d love to set up an appointment for me to come see the property in person and get a feel for the kinds of events that fit best there. Would you be amenable to that?”
“Absolutely,” I say, cheered by Shelby’s reaction to my confession. From everything I’ve seen, they’re a top-notch company with a respectable clientele. In other words, no bachelor parties with hookers.
Shelby walks me out into the bright Napa sunshine. No fog here, not even an ozone layer. Just clear, beautiful, blue skies.
I’m so excited about the meeting that I call Brooke from my car while still parked in front of Shelby’s office. The call goes to voicemail, and I leave Brooke a long, rambling message that I hope she can decipher. After I hang up, it hits me that in the years she was married to my father, I never once called her. Not even after my father died to see how she was doing. When Josh died, she called me at least a dozen times.
The realization dampens my good mood. Whatever I thought of her, she was my father’s wife. Anyone with even a speck of humanity would’ve called her. I can’t make up for it now, but I’ll try to do something nice for her.
