ONE

The summer before I left for college, I lost everything. I lost my best friend, I lost my heart, and I lost my grasp on all the plans I had for my future.

I lost who I was.

Some goodbyes were inevitable. Like leaving my parents to move to New York, where I would attend Columbia Uni- versity. That alone would have been difficult enough. Half my heart never left the family vineyard, with all the memo- ries that were made there, all the people I loved. The other half of me was tentatively stepping out into the world on the wobbly legs of a fawn, ready to run.

There were also unexpected goodbyes. A lost love. My first. He walked into my life that summer, seemingly with the sole purpose to make me question everything I believed about life, relationships, and myself. By the time I got on the plane, I’d been shaken, broken down to the core, ready for a fresh start if there ever was one.

Then there was the devastating goodbye. After one too many bad decisions, my best friend—the person I considered a sister—walked away from our ten years of friendship with one final, ultimate blow: the declaration that she didn’t know who I was anymore. The implication that she didn’t want to. I couldn’t blame her. That summer I did things I didn’t know I was capable of, and I hurt her. But after everything we’d been through, I was sure there was nothing that could ever break us apart. I was wrong.

But despite the years that have passed and my many heart- breaks our small wine town has witnessed, it calls me back, pull- ing at my heartstrings. I sense it now—its unique gravity—at eleven minutes before midnight as I take the final right turn onto the dirt road that leads to The Wandering Vineyard.

My home.

I snap the radio off in the little four-door rental car and sit up straighter in my seat. With a knee on the steering wheel, I twist the elastic out of my thick hair and shake it out in prep- aration for the greeting I’ve looked forward to all day, and every day that’s passed since my last visit. Then, so I don’t disturb anyone, I switch off my headlights, drowning the car and the expansive property in darkness. The car continues to jostle down the long drive, the moonlight guiding my way, and I wait for the house to come into view. It’s been almost ten years since I left Paso Robles and moved to New York but the scents, the sounds, the feeling that washes over me is the same. Home never changes.

That’s what I love most about it, but also why I couldn’t stay.

I roll down the windows to let in the warm spring night as I drive beneath the arching welcome sign, and past the refurbished barn turned tasting room, the paint still as fresh looking as the day I helped roll it on. Though the dozens of acres of land that surround me are shrouded in darkness, I can picture it in my mind’s eye. The rolling hills, the trails I’ve trodden a thousand times, the smell of the dry earth, the bitterness of unripened grapes on my tongue. I know the song every tree sings when the wind blows, calling me out into the hills... farther, farther.

When I reach the top of the hill, the house finally appears— a dark ghost, looming in the distance. It’s the house I grew up in, the porch light on like a beacon. Farther up, the out- buildings come into view. The stables. The guest house. I think of him still.

I swallow back the memories and creep my way up the parking lot, dust and gravel betraying my arrival, and park next to my dad’s new pickup. When I turn off the engine, it’s deathly silent. So silent I feel the pressure on my eardrums. The kind of silence that doesn’t exist in New York City.

I tiptoe down the path to the stables. The barn door clicks as I lift the hatch and pull it open. I leave the lights off. I can walk the path to Midnight’s stall with my eyes closed, but enough moonlight shines through the high windows that I don’t have to. It’s a full moon. A sign, maybe.

“Midnight,” I call into the open space. The only sound is the rustle of live animals.

I call again and when her nose pokes into the breezeway, I let loose a laugh, no longer caring about waking anyone. I close the space between us and open my palm to her silky lips.

“Hey, girl,” I coo. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Between earning my degree at Columbia, working random, low-earning jobs to pay for it, and then landing my first position at a respected marketing firm, my visits home have been few and far between. The last time I was back here was two long years ago, and the love of my horse—that fierce, accept- ing, unwavering kind of love—is what I’ve missed the most. I rub my fingers over the length of her nose and rest my cheek against hers.

When she grows antsy, I grab Midnight’s halter from the wall and lift the stall door latch. With the quick motion of a choreographed routine, I slide the halter over her muzzle and lead her out of the stall. Her dark color blends into the night, aside from her white haunches, which practically glow. Her coat shimmers with every subtle shift of her hooves.

“Want to go for a run, girl?” I ask.

“Not even gonna say hi first, are you?” a rough voice responds. I start, my hair whipping over my shoulder as I look behind me. The light in the stable office flicks on, and my dad stands in the doorway. He leans against the frame with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, holes in the knees, because all his jeans have holes in the knees. But his jaw is smooth and his plaid button-down is one of the two he saves for holidays. He dressed up for my homecoming.

“Dad,” I say, breathless. I run to him and throw my arms around his neck, allow myself to be enveloped in his earthy scent, his subtle strength, and his love.

“You are in big trouble, Mallory Victoria,” he says, his voice watery. “You are not allowed to leave your room for the next twenty years. No, make that thirty.”

“I missed you, too,” I whisper in his ear, grinning.

“Could’ve fooled me.” He gives a gruff laugh and nods toward Midnight.

I shrug, unabashed. Anyone who knows me would expect nothing less.

Dad takes my shoulders and holds me at a distance. He looks me over and shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes. “How did you get so grown-up?” he asks. “You were still a little girl when you left.”

“I saw you last Christmas,” I laugh.

“Is that what you call handing each other gifts over the salt and pepper shakers at a restaurant I can’t even remember the name of?”

“Sorry, Dad. But any apartment this girl can afford isn’t big enough for houseguests. I don’t even have a full set of dishes.” I laugh. “I appreciated you coming, though. And I love the necklace.”

I dig the pendant out from beneath my shirt—an abstract outline of a horse, its mane blowing in the wind of my breath. Dad rubs his calloused thumb across the white gold surface and his smile saddens.

“Hey, none of that,” I say, nudging his shoulder. “Save that for when I leave.”

“You just got here and you’re already talking about leaving?” He groans and feigns stabbing himself in the heart.

I have a flight booked for a week from now, the day after the planting party I’ve returned home for. At least that’s the excuse I’ve given my boss and myself. Subconsciously, I rub the dark symbol inside my right wrist. When I catch myself, I drop my hands.

“Dad, don’t be dramatic.”

“Oh, go on,” he says, shooing me toward Midnight.

“Are you sure?” I ask, even as I’m stepping toward her. “Go on.” I smile, plant a kiss on Dad’s cheek, then grab hold of Midnight’s mane. I throw my leg over her bare back, send one last glance toward the only man I could ever really depend on, and then with the quick hitch of my heel, Midnight trots out of the stables into the night.

***

When I wake in the morning, the sun is high in the sky, lighting up my childhood room in a soft orange glow. Just behind my eyelids are memories of the night before—the pounding of Midnight’s hooves against the earth, my hair in the wind, the moon chasing after us. The images flash in my mind like the highlights of a lover’s tryst. I tried to find a sub- stitute for this feeling in New York but nothing else has come close—not praise from my boss, not presenting a successful pitch, not a first kiss, not getting lost on an endless beach. The closest I get are these dreams. But when I open my eyes this time, I’m actually here.

Not all of my reasons for coming home are so sweet, though. And if the good memories come back so easily, the bad ones can’t be far behind. I groan and pull a pillow over my eyes.

Half an hour later, I finally drag myself out of bed and rummage through my suitcase for running clothes, the only casual attire I own. I catch a glimpse of my old riding boots sitting in the corner of my room where I left them, worn in and dusty. I pause, reminiscing on a time when they were practically part of my body, and then lace up my tennis shoes.

Outside, the weather is cool but the undercurrent of warmth that seeps up from the dry ground promises that summer will be here soon. I never have gotten used to the penetratingly cold New York winters, and the sun on my skin warms me to the core. There’s a hint of moisture in the air, which we only get in Southern California when the heavens are smiling down on us. I send a prayer to the sky—the new vines we’ll be sowing at the planting party will need a healthy amount of water to acclimate to the new soil.

When I reach the stables, Tiramisu’s stall is open and I hear the clanking of a bucket on the horse feeder. I already know who it is. I stop at the entrance and say, “Hey, cowboy.”

The bucket clatters to the ground and I cover my ears with my hands, laughing. When Tyler peers around the corner, his eyes light up and his jaw hangs open.

“No way,” he says. I laugh as he jogs toward me, wraps his arms around my waist and spins me. “Your dad told me you were coming back and I didn’t believe him. But shit, you’re actually here.”

His mouth is still slack as he looks me over, gauging how much I’ve changed. I haven’t seen him since my last summer here, after which, according to Dad, Tyler also went in search of greener pastures. And yet, here we both are again.

“Look at you,” he says. “You’re, like, a woman.” He stumbles on the last word like it’s explicit. Tyler and I have always had a sibling-like relationship, especially since neither one of us have any of our own. But we haven’t seen each other since I was eighteen and he was twenty-two. I am a woman now.

“Look at you,” I counter. He’s changed, too. His face isn’t as soft as it used to be, having grown into its angles. His cheeks are scruffy with strawberry stubble where it was once as smooth as a freshly polished saddle. He’s still got the stocky muscle of a working man, though.

I swipe his baseball cap and run my fingers through his cropped red hair. It’s darker. “You’ve grown up yourself.”

“And still no cowboy hat,” he says, snatching his cap back from me and pulling it onto his head.

“I’ll get you one for your birthday.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

I shrug. “Part of being a woman. I’m more stubborn than ever.”

“As if that’s possible.”

I smack him on the arm playfully and he laughs. Something foreign stirs inside me at the exchange. I clear my throat.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asks. “I was just about to saddle up Rocket.”

“Like you have to ask.”

A few minutes later, as we ride out between the vines, Tyler says, “Ten years, Mal. Jeez.”

He draws out the words as he sits atop Rocket, a large American Warmblood who stands two hands above Midnight and me. Rocket’s coat is a splotched dark brown and white, like chocolate milk not fully mixed together. He is technically Dad’s horse, though my parents rarely ride, trusting Tyler to manage the vineyard trail rides. Rocket’s affection for Tyler is obvious and understandable, being the only person who can handle his unruly nature.

Midnight and Rocket saunter side by side through the rows of grapevines that spread as far as the eye can see. Looking out to the east, I see the plot of land that has been prepared for the new vines, the trellises currently standing empty, waiting. Having been gone for so long, I appreciate its growth anew. Dad moved us here twenty-one years ago when the Paso Robles wine country was just up, not so much coming.

“Has it gotten quieter since I was here last?” I ask.

Tyler laughs. “No. You just have a lower tolerance for it.”

“I couldn’t even sleep last night. I swear, I could feel it pressing in on me.”

“You went and turned into a city girl on us, didn’t you?” I narrow my eyes at him, assaulting him with a long glare.

“Never.”

He laughs. “When was the last time you even rode a horse?” I hesitate.

“Yesterday? Well, how many stables do you think there are in New York City?”

“Fair enough,” he says.

Tyler and I point the horses up the trail that leads to the top of the hill overlooking the vineyard. Tyler lets me lead, and I breathe in the fresh air. Midnight rocks side to side beneath me with every step and the sensation is so familiar, I could be a teenager again, full of hope and confusion...love and a bro- ken heart.

“So your boss finally let you take a vacation?” he asks. “Something like that,” I say.

“What’s it actually like?”

I smile. Tyler hasn’t changed at all—always a straight-to- the-point kind of guy—and I adore that more than I probably should. People are supposed to change. Life is supposed to march on. But it’s been nice to imagine that home has been frozen in time, here waiting for me when I was ready to come back. With Tyler, at least, that seems to have proven true.

“I’m up for promotion,” I say. “Which isn’t necessarily the best time for a vacation but once I get it, I’ll be even busier. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. My boss can be pretty demanding—it’s just the norm in the marketing in- dustry. She really didn’t want to let me come but... I had to.”

Tyler nods but doesn’t push. “Assistant marketing man- ager, your dad said? What exactly does an assistant marketing manager do?” Tyler asks, unabashed by his own ignorance. He has little interest in the corporate world and makes no apologies for it.

“I would be working more directly with clients of the firm and helping oversee the project teams. Coming up with strategies to promote client products and services. Basically, we make sure their messaging is clear, concise, and catchy.” When Tyler gives me a blank stare, I add, “You know, prod- uct names, slogans, web content, ad content...”

I trail off when Tyler shows no signs of catching on. A nervous laugh slips through my lips. I assumed coming home would be awkward, but it’s as if I’m speaking a different language.

“I’m sure you’re very good at it,” he offers.

I shrug. “I suppose. My boss kind of took me under her wing during my internship there. I’m not entirely sure what she saw in me, but I’m glad she did.”

“I know what she saw,” Tyler says, a twinkle in his eye. I glance away, uncomfortable with his flattery.

“Well, I learned my diligence from the best.”

I learned from Kelly.

At the thought of my best friend—I refuse to think of our friendship in the past tense—my smile falters.

We climb the final incline, focusing on avoiding the sharp, dry tree limbs overhead. I used to be able to maneuver around every branch that jutted out, thirsty for blood. Now there are too many, the path less trodden.

We reach the top and Tyler brings Rocket to a trot next to me. We lead the horses to the break in the trees, stopping at the edge where we can see the entire property. Straight ahead is the house, on top of the bare hill, the other build- ings snuggled around it. The grapevines spray out in every direction like the sun’s rays. I used to sit here and memorize the horizon for hours.

“Why did you have to come home?”

Tyler asks the question I’ve asked myself a thousand times over the last few weeks.

“Why now? Really?”

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Why now, indeed? I’m building a life in New York. I have an amazing job at a top marketing firm. I have an apartment that isn’t much, but it’s mine. I’ve been there for a decade, which seems impos- sible. And yet, it never quite feels like home. There’s some- thing here I can’t let go of.

Not something. Someone.

Kelly.

I hoped that if I could talk to my best friend, explain why I made the choices I did our last summer together, she might forgive me and I could stop carrying around the guilt for the mistakes I made. I could stop holding on to the past and fully step into my future.

The problem is, she hasn’t spoken a word to me since I left.

“When I take this promotion,” I finally say, “I want to feel settled. I want to be all in.”

Tyler’s expression is curious as he tries to apply this new information to the Mallory he used to know. The old Mallory didn’t think through decisions like this. She made one and let the cards fall where they may. But the stakes are so much higher now. I don’t trust myself anymore.

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It’s just...you usually run headlong into any opportunity that presents itself. That’s kind of your thing.”

I find a loose leaf of leather on Midnight’s saddle and pick at it. “Well, I’m not a teenager anymore. Everyone is a little reckless when they’re teenagers.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“Some things do.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He winks, taking some of the pressure off the conversation.

“You know,” I say, “you talk a lot for a cowboy.”

“I’m not a cowboy.”

Tyler moves Rocket sideways until he’s close enough to hook his arm around my neck, pulling me into a rough hug. “It’s good to have you back,” he says.

I slip my arm around his waist. The way his T-shirt sticks to his back hints at the sheen of sweat beneath and reminds me of many summer days spent washing horses and polishing saddles with him.

“It’s good to be here,” I say.

“You see Kelly yet?” he asks, reading my mind. I let my arm fall away from him.

“No. I haven’t.”

TWO

THEN

My last summer at home with Kelly started off with long, hot days and an innocent ease—horseback rides and binge-watching our favorite TV shows in my bedroom, an attempt to escape the dry summer heat that seeped into our bones, leaving us languid and drunk on freedom. That first week, Kelly almost never left my house and that was how it was supposed to be for the next three months. We were set to leave for Co- lumbia together in the fall, but we planned to have one last adventure at home, knowing that adulthood would change us, that once we left Paso, nothing would ever be the same.

But things began to change sooner than either one of us expected, the day I started my summer job with my dad.

Just that morning, Kelly had made me promise for the third time that my summer job wouldn’t get in the way of our plans. She would be working at the coffee shop but her ability to clock out ensured we could have our grand adventures around her schedule. After eleven years of running and living on a vineyard, my dad no longer had any use for clocks—a trait I may have inherited from him, not that I would ever admit to it. Dad lived by the sun, and in the summer the sun hardly sets before it’s up again.

But when Kelly and I were on our ride that day, I laughed at her need for reassurance. With Midnight’s sure feet beneath me, I settled into the saddle and my hips rocked along with her natural rhythm. I reached my hand toward the sky and felt the warm, early sun press against my eyelids. Who needed reassurances when the summer itself seemed to be promising us everything?

“Cross my heart,” I told her anyway. “Don’t worry. I would never stand in the way of you and a to-do list.”

“It’s not a to-do list,” Kelly called out, riding Tiramisu— Mom’s horse, a beautiful bay quarter horse that looked golden in the sunlight. Kelly’s red braid had a golden quality to it, too, and it trailed behind her, horselike in itself. “It’s a bucket list. A summer bucket list. And will you ever slow down enough that I can keep up?”

The hooves of the horses pounded out a steady beat beneath us, barely more than a walk, through the vines, up the hill. The Summer Bucket List had been Kelly’s idea. Determined to make the most of our last few months at home, she decided we’d make a list of all the things we wanted to experience together during our final days between childhood and adult- hood. We’d been adding to the list for the last month.

“It’s a to-do list,” I teased, but while Kelly was known for her penchant for planning, this one seemed especially important to her. So instead of asking her if she’d ever stop letting Tiramisu boss her around, I said, “Road trip.”

She huffed. “In my beater or yours?” I shrugged. “Mine. Yours. My dad’s.”

“Uh-uh, Mal. Committing a felony is not on the list.” “Please. My dad wouldn’t call the cops.”

“Your dad would call the cops. On principle.”

I relented. “Fine. Mine.”

We made it to the top of the hill and looked out over the land, the vines still in their infancy for the year. For the brief- est moment, I felt ungrateful that I wanted to leave this place, with the endless blue sky and the feeling that to step off the porch could take you away from the world. Or closer to it, depending on how you looked at it. But then I closed my eyes and wondered what it would feel like to roam free, with no one expecting anything from me. Where no one knew me and I could be whoever I wanted to be.

Kelly already knew what she wanted to be when she grew up, had pretty much always known. Most of the time, I en- vied that in her, but sometimes she needed to be shaken out of her careful planning.

“Do something spontaneous,” I said.

“You want me to plan not to plan?”

“Isn’t that the only way you’ll do it?”

I grinned and after a skeptical moment, she laughed.

“Fine,” she said. “Added.”

Before the sun fully rose in the sky, our list was finalized and Kelly’s worries seemed to be assuaged. We rode the horses back and Kelly left me to my dad.

I dreaded the idea of working, my first act of adulthood. I would need money, my dad assured me, for living expenses in New York. He wasn’t as convinced as I was that I would be perfectly content with two feet below me, a blue sky above me, and the occasional protein bar or two. So I waited in his office for the first sign of him and the business consultant he’d hired to help him rebrand and market the vineyard.

Up until now, Dad had been focused on maintaining the vines he’d inherited from the previous owners and, in his free time, refining the flavors that would become his own unique signature. Finally, he felt it was time to break away from the vineyard’s established reputation and create his own.

The night before, when my mom had asked what exactly the consultant would do, Dad had said, “He’s going to assess the company’s blah, blah, and create a strategic blah, blah, blah, and then charge me out the ass for it.” My job was to do all the menial labor to allow the consultant to do his job most efficiently. Personally, it was an attempt to put some of Dad’s money in my own pocket. For protein bars.

Waiting for the consultant’s arrival, I sat with my feet propped up on Dad’s desk in his barn office, twisting and untwisting a paper clip. I heard their voices first, as they entered the breezeway, my dad speaking.

“The previous owners used to do trail rides and I’ve been meaning to get back to it.”

This was the first I was hearing of this plan. Usually Dad just complained about the feed costs.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

The stranger’s voice was different than I expected. There was a melody to it, a finesse.

I set the paper clip down and inched my way toward the door. I peeked my head out so I could get a look at him before he saw me—to assess the man whose right hand I’d be for the next few months, ready to talk Dad into letting me run trail rides instead. I’d expected one of the older schmoozing types he’d previously worked with—their receding hairlines, their guts hanging over their belts, their little ladys. That was not who was standing next to my dad.

He was young—in his midtwenties, I thought, though I’d been bad at calculating age before I’d seen enough of life to know how it affected the lines of a person’s face. He was dressed in slacks and a button-up shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his smooth forearms. His dark curls were a little long for business, but styled to perfection. Everything about him was perfect, in fact, like he’d been sculpted by an artist exactly the way he appeared now, not born and grown into the man who turned to me and smiled.

Brown eyes.

Soft lips.

“There she is,” Dad said and motioned for the consultant to shake my hand. I swallowed hard and wiped my hand on the front of my jeans as they walked closer.

“Mal, this is Sam. Sam, this is my daughter, Mallory.”

They stopped in front of me and Sam lifted his hand with the grace and experience of a man who’d shaken the hands of diplomats and queens.

“Nice to meet you, Mallory,” he said in a deep, strong voice.

I searched my mind for something clever to say, but all that came out was, “Nice to meet you, too.”

I slipped my hand into his smooth fingers, and in that moment, I knew all the things I’d planned to focus on that sum- mer had converged and narrowed down to one thing.

Him.

THREE

NOW

When I get back to the house after my ride with Tyler, Mom is humming in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and frying bacon. She’s in sweatpants and a tank, her dark hair messy down her back, no bra. This is her small rebellion against the nine-to-five life. Dad’s rebellion was to give up a job in con- struction, move us halfway across the country, and deplete my parents’ entire savings to follow his hasty ambition to run a vineyard. My mom forgoes bras on the weekend.

“Hey, Mom,” I say. She squeals when she sees me and her bare feet dance across the Mexican tile as she rushes over to wrap me in a hug. She kisses me all over my face like I’m still four years old and I laugh, allowing her this indulgence. In the time I’ve been gone, we’ve only seen each other on a handful of occasions and it’s been as painful for me as it has, no doubt, been for her.

“I made everything,” she says and motions toward the breakfast bar on the kitchen island. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and pull up a stool.

“Dad out loving on the vines?” I ask with finger quotes. I didn’t see him out there but Mom’s smirk says it all. She sets a plate in front of me, stacked high with pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, half a grapefruit, and some strawberries.

“What time did you get in last night?” she asks.

“Midnight,” I say between bites of egg, realizing I haven’t eaten anything since the pretzels I had on the plane.

She grins, shaking her head. “Your dad was out there waiting for you at six. I couldn’t even get him to eat dinner.”

Her words are laced with affection, but it doesn’t ease the guilt I feel about being away from home for so long, for making excuses to stay away even though I’ve wanted to be here as much as they’ve wanted me to be.

But the more time that passed without seeing, speaking to, or more important, apologizing to Kelly, the more in- surmountable the task felt. It was one thing to allow a few days for us to cool off, but as the weeks passed, I realized I was angry at her, too. What I did that summer was selfish and inexcusable, but she wasn’t faultless either.

Eventually, I convinced myself that Kelly had forgotten about me, moved on. I never stopped thinking about her, though. Not for one day.

“How’s work been?” Mom asks. She still eats standing up at the island, I see. She sits for so many long hours at the office that if she isn’t in front of the computer, she’s moving. Mom has worked at the same small legal firm since we moved here, the only paralegal to two family lawyers. She’s almost always in front of the computer. I have more sympathy for her plight than I did as a teenager.

“Good.” I sip my coffee. “Fine.”

“Looks like more than fine,” she says.

“The portfolio on the company website has been growing quickly these last couple of years.”

“You’re stalking the company’s website?” I ask with an exasperated laugh.

“Just occasionally. On my lunch breaks.”

I roll my eyes, but her support warms my cheeks with pride. “It seems like they really value you there.”

She could only be basing this assumption on the fact that I never leave. I haven’t told my parents about my promotion yet. Mostly because it won’t be official until I get back. A lifetime of changing my focus with every shift in the breeze has taught me to keep my mouth shut until I’m sure.

Besides, this trip isn’t about me.

“They seem to,” I say vaguely.

My tone and the way I pick at my eggs with my fork must be less than convincing.

Mom comes around the kitchen island and wraps her arm around my shoulders. I lean my head against her collarbone.

“I hope...” she says, the sound of it vibrating through her rib cage. “Well, I hope you feel good about the direction your life has taken. I hope you don’t regret going to New York.”

New York had been the plan for years but I think Mom always knew it was because I’d taken Kelly’s lead. She com- mented once, a long time ago, how much it surprised her since I’d never had the tendency to follow anyone. But that was how my friendship with Kelly was right off the bat and I think my parents were just grateful I’d chosen a worthy role model.

A lot changed in those final weeks and though I never spoke with Mom about my fallout with Kelly—I was too ashamed and afraid of disappointing her—her probing questions and sideways glances proved she wasn’t entirely ignorant.

In light of everything that happened, I could have chosen to stay.

I could have gone anywhere.

I look up at my mom. “Things are good,” I say. “I’m good.”

Her expression softens and she plants a kiss on the top of my head.

The back door slides opens and Mom turns to greet our visitor. I expect to see Dad standing there, but Kelly appears in the doorway, and the sight of her sets the hair on the back of my neck on end.

I was planning to see her in the next couple days but I thought I would be more settled by then. I thought I would have time to mentally prepare myself. I didn’t expect her to show up in my kitchen unannounced. Is she still as comfort- able dropping by as she was when I lived here? If she has a reason for being here, my parents never mentioned it on the phone. Then again, they probably got the message loud and clear that Kelly was a sore topic after my many changes of subject. Now that I think about it, they haven’t brought her name up in conversation in years.

Kelly halts, too, her mouth falling agape. She had to have known I would come home for the party, but maybe like me, nothing could prepare her for being face-to-face again. I cling to that explanation rather than the possibility that she believed I would miss this important milestone with my family. Not that I could blame her if she did. I’ve already missed so much.

She looks strikingly the same as when I saw her last. Her red hair is even twisted together in the braid I was accustomed to seeing her wear. Her fair skin is as bright and flawless as it was when she was seventeen, or even seven, splotched with orange freckles. Her petite frame is adorned in the simple jeans and T-shirt she’s always worn, out of preference or necessity it’s hard to say.

For a long moment, we stare at each other. My last memory of her is her yelling at me, accusing me of lying to her and of breaking all the promises we’d made each other that summer. Never mind that she was breaking promises of her own. Standing in front of me now, she’s the collected, put- together person I’ve always known her to be, my presence the only crack in her armor.

I wait for her to speak first, to see if the silent treatment between us still holds.

“Hi,” she finally says but her eyes don’t warm a single degree.

“Hi,” I say.

After another long pause, Mom says, “Oh, come on. It’s been ten years. The past is the past, right?”

Her bold confrontation of our cold-shouldering does the trick. A nervous laugh escapes Kelly’s lips and she looks away.

But could forgiveness be that easy? I certainly don’t deserve to be off the hook without a fair amount of groveling but that doesn’t stop me from hoping. Maybe it’s cowardly of me to be willing to release Kelly of her sins so easily but to know she didn’t hate me would be a load off my heart. Maybe it would stop me from questioning every choice I make in every area of my life. Maybe it would allow me to open up to relationships again.

To my surprise, Kelly breezes through the dining room and with only a slight hesitation, wraps her arms around me. She smells like sun and dirt and home.

At first, I’m taken aback, but then I wrap my arms around her. I don’t know if there’s meaning behind the gesture or if she’s only doing it to appease my mom, but I revel in it anyway. There have been so many times in these years without her that I would have given anything to feel her support and love again. Growing up together, Kelly had become a part of me. I didn’t realize how much until that part was removed.

Too quickly, she pulls away.

“It’s good to see you, Mallory.”

She uses my full name, which she hasn’t done since the day we met, clarifying where we stand. My stomach sinks.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I say softly.

“Well,” Mom says, patting us on the shoulders, “that’s more like it. Want some breakfast, Kel?”

“Oh,” she says quickly, “I already ate. Thank you. I’m just going to get to work.”

I don’t know what I expected when I spoke to Kelly for the first time, but this dry, polite greeting and empty dis- missal wasn’t it. I would have taken anger, sadness, even hatred over this. But as they say, the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference.

“Okay,” Mom says. “Help yourself if you get hungry later.”

Kelly nods and lets herself out the way she came, not glancing at me as she goes, and leaving without whatever she came in for. Maybe for Kelly the past is in the past, any love she once had for me gone along with it.

***

Kelly and I met on our first day of second grade. My par- ents and I had moved from Chicago earlier that summer and until school started, I hadn’t met anyone my age. Kids didn’t come to the vineyard and I never left, following Dad around as he learned everything there was to know about winemaking. I loved being outside, free to wander in a way I never had been in the city. But it was a relief when the first day of the school year arrived.

I spotted Kelly before she noticed me. She sat two rows over and was distracted by the boy sitting behind her who kept pulling on her ponytail. The way she bit her bottom lip and tried to pretend she didn’t notice his existence made my stomach clench in a way I hadn’t felt before.

By the time we made it to lunch, I’d gotten the distinct impression that this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her. I’d seen her be teased in the lunch line and denied a seat at one of the cafeteria tables. These were long-standing prejudices. She’d clearly grown up with these kids and even at my young age, I pondered over the unfairness of it all. I couldn’t see how Kelly was any different than the rest of us. In fact, she was quite pretty, but the way she kept her head down and avoided making eye contact with anyone proved she didn’t know it.

It must have been because I wanted to know what was in store for me once I caught my new classmates’ attention that I followed Kelly at recess. I watched her pass the swing set and the slide and take shelter under a tree with a trunk three times as wide as she was. She picked up a stick, crouched close to the ground, and began to draw figures in the mud. From my angle, hidden behind a nearby tree, I couldn’t see what the pictures were, but I watched her. She dug the stick into the ground with increasing fervor and it struck me that she was taking out her anger at those kids who teased her and bullied her.

And then, the worst thing that could happen to a seven- year-old made time slow as I watched Kelly lose her balance and land butt-first into the mud.

A gasp escaped my lips. I waited to see what she would do. For a long moment, she was in shock, her delicate pink mouth gaping open. And then she began to cry. Not a sob, but a silent, contained mourning. Because she knew what I knew—once the kids saw the stain on the seat of her pants, that would be the undoing of her. She would spend the rest of her life in this small town, growing up with the same kids, and they would never let her forget this day.

I looked down at my own clothes. I wore a pair of leggings underneath my skirt. I quickly slipped the skirt down over my hips and stepped out of it, then I bundled it up and hid it behind my back. With no one looking, I hustled over to her and crouched beside her.

She was still crying but when I held out my offering, her sniffles abruptly stopped. She looked up at me with watery eyes, a puffed-out bottom lip, and a question. I nodded to her once and with that, she pushed herself up to standing, hid behind the tree, and quickly yanked the skirt up over her own pants.

I left her in privacy and we didn’t so much as glance at each other for the rest of the day. I didn’t want anything from her in return. I only wanted to ease the uncomfortable churning I felt in the pit of my stomach whenever someone teased her.

The next day she came to me outside the classroom before the bell rang and handed the skirt to me. It was freshly cleaned and folded. I wondered if she’d recounted the story to her par- ents, or if she’d sneaked it into the washer and dryer herself. (I found out months later that it was likely the latter, since her dad had abandoned her before she was born and her mom was... well, not doing Kelly’s laundry anymore.) I stared at it and then at her, and when she smiled, I smiled back at her.

As the years passed, not much changed between us. Maybe it was that I didn’t have any siblings of my own, but I took on the role of Kelly’s protector, especially the more I found out about her home situation. I didn’t become a target for bullying like Kelly was. The boys found me pretty enough to be nice to me and the girls found me not pretty enough to be a threat. I didn’t much care what anyone thought of me, but my status kept Kelly safe from hair pulling and the names of spices being murmured under kids’ breaths.

In return, she protected me in her own way. I would never have been accepted to Columbia without her making sure I finished my homework and turned it in on time. The concept of deadlines had always escaped me, and my parents were too busy trying to keep our lives afloat to hover. I’d never given them any reason to believe I needed them to. Every report card I brought home proved I was doing fine without their supervision, but it wasn’t my own studiousness that ensured my success, it was Kelly’s.

She was also the one who pushed me to apply to Columbia, who combed through my application over and over again, and sent it out for me. My parents were as shocked as I was when I received my acceptance.

Kelly and I have always brought out the best in each other and while she seems to have forgotten that, I’m not ready to let it go.

After I shower the morning’s dust and sweat off me and respond to emails from the office, I find myself alone, with nothing but Kelly’s words to keep me company—both her coldness this morning and her accusations years ago.

I’ve come to accept responsibility for my deceit but what even I don’t understand is what came over me in the first place. I’d never purposely hurt Kelly before. I’d never pur- posely hurt anyone. Being three thousand miles away from this place made it easy to forget, but being back, there are re- minders around every corner.

I amble outside and stand at the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden rail in my hands. The dry heat simultaneously suffocates and grounds me. I glance at the guest house, nestled behind a few shady trees next to the barn. It calls to me, luring me to it with the promise of explanations and of memories— bad ones, yes, but good ones, too. As a girl, it used to be one of my favorite places to hide away from my parents—my own little home away from home. The few times I’ve come back to visit, I haven’t been brave enough to go inside, but I’ve avoided it—all of this—for too long.

The guest house is a small, one-room cottage with a queen-size bed, a bathroom, and a kitchenette with a mini-fridge and coffeepot. My last summer here it was a minefield of questions, uncertainty, and the overwhelming emotions of first love. It sits there unobtrusively, among the dust and sunlight like a faded photograph, but it holds my secrets.

I approach the door and reach for the key, dependably on top of the doorjamb. I wiggle it into one of the French doors, the billowing white curtains inside guarding the windows from prying eyes, and push it open.

The sunlight flows in behind me, lighting up the room and the dust motes floating in the air like glitter. My breath hitches as my gaze lands on the bed with its fluffy white comforter. In the corner sits the white wicker chair I used to curl up in when I talked to Sam in the early-morning hours. There’s a nightstand with a table lamp, a wobbly standing fan, neatly folded towels on the foot of the bed. Two chairs and a small table for eating to my left, the kitchenette on the right. There’s no room for much else, but it was everything we needed that summer.

I take a tentative step in and drop the key on the counter. It all looks exactly the same, like he never left. My mind flashes back to those hot summer mornings and I wait for him to emerge from the bathroom rubbing his eyes and smiling shyly. But it’s just me and the stillness. Was it always so still or did I not realize then how his electricity charged the air?

I walk to the bed and perch at the end, waiting to jump up if anyone catches me here. When I don’t hear Dad’s truck tires on the dirt road, I sink back into it, my arms stretched out in either direction and my hair splayed out around my head. The comforter wraps itself around me the way I always wished Sam would...the way he did. I swear I catch the scent of his cologne, and then I remember. I remember why I almost gave up everything.

***

That night, I help Mom throw together some spaghetti before she retreats to her home office to spend the evening typing up contracts for work. I dish up two plates and turn off the lights in the house, leaving only the dim glow from beneath the microwave and the sunset sneaking in through the blinds.

As I carry the plates to the patio, I catch sight of Dad performing his evening ritual—sitting at the patio table as he watches the darkness of night swallow his vines whole. The remnants of daylight dance over the tops of their leaves and glint off his glass of white wine. His feet are crossed and perched on the seat of the chair in front of him.

The scene is so familiar, déjà vu overwhelms me. I almost expect to see Sam sitting out there, too, next to Dad, the way he did so many nights. I expect to see his velvety curls, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, the way he cupped a wine- glass delicately with the tips of his fingers. I close my eyes and the echo of his laugh haunts me.

But when I open my eyes, he’s not there.

The sliding door chews on the dust in its track as I nimbly pull it open and close it again.

“There’s my girl,” Dad says without looking up.

I set his plate on the table in front of him, exchanging it for his glass of wine. I sit in the chair next to him and bring it to my nose, breathe in the citrus, and in a way that makes my dad cringe, take a large swallow.

“I take it back,” he says. “You’re not my Mallory. Someone has replaced you with a Mallory who drinks wine.”

I laugh. “I like wine now, Dad. No one gets through four years of college and a job in marketing without developing a penchant for alcohol. And beer...?”

I shudder at the single memory of its bitterness on my tongue. I tried it at a frat party, then turned around and left as quickly as I arrived.

“Well, at least you haven’t forgotten everything I’ve taught you.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything you’ve taught me.”

I take another swallow of wine and hand the glass back to him. Dad, sucking noodles into his mouth, takes it in his weatherworn fingers. I reach beneath the flop of hair that hangs over his forehead and rub my thumb against the strands above his ear that have gone gray. He smiles in a way that reminds me of Midnight when I rub my palm between her eyes.

“How’s the season going?” I ask, because if I don’t talk about grapes, Dad has little else to discuss. I want to talk about grapes and weather and bugs. They say you can’t go back to your childhood, but listening to my dad talk about the vine- yard is close.

“Really good, honey. Really good. I think it’s going to be a good year.”

“They usually are.”

Some years have been harder than others, but Dad has an understanding of the land that seems to transcend the ups and downs. Still, Mother Nature cannot be predicted and the lines on my dad’s face prove that he never forgets it. He gives a coy smile, then raises his glass to the heavens—a prayer.

“So... Mom said you picked a red?”

Dad clears his throat and gives me a sheepish grin. “Cabernet.”

“Wild man,” I tease.

The Wandering Vineyard is known for our white wines—chardonnay, zinfandel, and Riesling specifically. Though Dad would be the first to stress that there is no such thing as perfecting a wine with the yearly variations in weather, precipitation, and temperature, those who travel far and wide each year to taste them straight from the source might beg to differ.

Dad takes a sip of his wine. “Well, the whites are the ones that got us here, it’s true. But...”

“But doing something new is what keeps it interesting.”

Dad chuckles. “Exactly. And keeping things exciting is what life is all about, right?”

I nod but can’t help thinking about my life in New York.

Once I left for college, I committed to that path. Checking off one accomplishment after the other was easy because the plan had already been laid out for me. I focused on my classes, my schoolwork, and then on my internship. I got hired at the same firm and set my sights on climbing the corporate ladder—I had no reason not to, no other prospects. I couldn’t imagine simply changing trajectory for the sake of keeping things interesting. Not after doing so much work. But maybe when I’m my dad’s age, I’ll see things differently.

“Congratulations, by the way,” I say. “On your new wine, and how well the vineyard’s doing. I’m really happy for you. I know how hard you’ve worked to get here.”

“Thank you, honey. That means a lot to me. And you’ve made a lot of sacrifices over the years to support me in this. I appreciate it.”

Dad doesn’t quite meet my eyes when he says this, always grateful but apologetic about the concessions Mom and I have made so he could follow his dreams.

I never explicitly told my parents I planned to pay for my college tuition, but when I entered my second semester and they hadn’t seen a bill, they figured it out. That was the last time they nagged me about not coming home to visit and I suppose I held tighter to that responsibility than I meant to. Initially I stayed away to pay my bills, but eventually my workload around the office became too demanding to unload onto anyone else. It was easy to ignore my other reasons for avoiding coming home.

“I’m proud as hell of you,” Dad adds, seeming to follow my thoughts. He laughs but tears swim in his eyes. He reaches across the table and places his hand on top of mine, envelop- ing it completely. Its warmth is a balm to my heart after all the exhausting days and lonely nights spent on the other side of the country.

It’s worth it. It’s what I’ve chosen. But sometimes I wonder how I’ve gotten so far from the girl I used to be.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to manage more. I would never tell them this, but most of the decisions I’ve made in my adult life have been to make my parents happy—so they don’t feel like they have to worry about me, and to make them proud of me. I have a habit of ruining every other relationship that’s important to me. I won’t ruin this one.

The sliding door opens, breaking the moment, and Mom pokes her head out.

“Rich, did you get the guest house ready for tomorrow?” she asks.

Dad curses under his breath, and I laugh. Why would Mom ever expect Dad to remember something unrelated to grapes? Then again, with me gone, I suppose there’s no one else to do it.

“I’ll take care of it,” I offer.

Thank you, Dad mouths to me so Mom can’t see. He refills his wineglass and slides it over to me in repayment.

“Who’s visiting?” I ask Mom, sipping on Dad’s drink. It feels so natural, this familial intimacy that I’ve missed so much. It isn’t the same with my coworkers, could never be. We may have an open floor plan but our separate cubicles ensure that there’s always a wall between us, the lines drawn.

“Sam,” Mom says with a grin. “Isn’t that nice?”

I choke on the wine halfway down my throat. “Sam?” I gasp. “Like... Sam?”

Mom laughs. “Um, yes?”

“Why is Sam coming to visit?”

I didn’t realize my parents were still in contact with him since he’d disappeared all those years ago without a word. Did they still talk? Had he come to visit before? How much was I missing in my temperature-controlled corner of New York?

“We invited him to the planting party,” Dad says. “He played a big role in the success of the vineyard. He should be here to celebrate with us, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I mutter. “Of course.”

Outside of shock, I can’t decide how I feel. My anger at Sam has mostly subsided over the years, more because I had no productive use for it than because I’ve forgiven him. Dur- ing those first few months, I used to fantasize about all the things I would say to him if I ever got the chance, but I never thought that day would actually arrive. I tried to put it be- hind me. But Sam and I face-to-face again? My heart didn’t survive it the last time.

“Does he know I’m here?” I ask.

“It never came up,” Dad says, returning to his food.

Of course it didn’t. I was never a factor in any of Sam’s decisions. And Dad wouldn’t think to mention it. My parents, as far as I knew, were blissfully ignorant about what happened between Sam and me that summer. Most of our time together was spent after Dad went to bed and Mom was hidden away in her office. Sam was an expert at withdrawing from me whenever anyone was around.

The way Mom’s eyes narrow at my reaction to the news, though, makes me wonder just how clueless she is. She was obviously more in the know about what happened with Kelly than I realized.

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you,” she says.

I doubt it, I think, but don’t say. Instead, I chew a bite of spaghetti, the noodles and my words becoming mush in my mouth.

“I can take care of the guest house,” Mom offers, letting me off the hook.

“No, it’s fine,” I say. I swallow the spaghetti down and it sits heavy in my stomach. “I can handle it.”

<< CONTINUE READING >>

Thank you for your interest in reading Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard with your book club!

I love to meet with book clubs so if you'd like to invite me to meet with your group, either locally or via Skype, please visit my Book Clubs page.

Either way, please enjoy these discussion topics to get the conversation going.

*** NOTE: CONTAINS SPOILERS

1. What was your favorite bucket-list item Mallory and Kelly completed? If you had a summer bucket list, what would be on it?

2. What did you think of The Wandering Vineyard? Have you ever visited a vineyard? What was the experience like?

3. Did you connect with Mallory’s free-spirited nature? Why or why not?

4. How did you feel about Mallory and Kelly’s friendship? What are your thoughts on how their friendship evolved?

5. Do you think it was fair of Kelly to hold a grudge against Mallory for the choices she made in the past? Do you think it was right for Mallory to be so willing to forgive Kelly’s secrets that summer?

6. Do you find adult friendships to be different than childhood friendships? In what ways?

7. How do you feel about the way Sam interacted with Mallory, both in the past and present? Was Mallory truly duped by Sam in the past or was she willfully ignorant of his signals that he wasn’t ready for a relationship?

8. Do you have any sympathy for Sam, either in the past or the present? Why or why not?

9. What do you think of Mallory’s ultimate decision not to pursue a relationship with Sam? Do you think she made the right choice?

10. What do you think Mallory will do next? Do you think she’ll open up to a relationship with Tyler?

11. What wine would/did you pair with reading Midnight at the Wandering Vineyard?