Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Daisy
The next morning, a layer of fog blankets the vineyard, and the air coming through my open windows is cool and damp.
I’m tempted to stay in my warm, cozy bed, but I force myself to get up and get dressed, shivering as I zip up my hoodie.
In a few hours, it will probably be warm and sunny, but I remember how the temperature drops at night, and the mornings are still chilly even in the summer.
I grab my camera, hang out the window and snap a few photos of the fog rolling in from the coast.
And then I take a photo of myself in the gilt-framed mirror in the hallway.
When I was twelve, I embarked on the 365-day photo challenge and have been documenting my life ever since.
Girl with bedhead leaning against a terracotta wall .
I know Beckett wants to restore this house, but I think it’s perfect as it is. I love the cracks in the walls, the soaring ceilings, the carved oak doors, and the faded grandeur of another century.
It reminds me of the dreamy Italian villa in Call Me by Your Name and I can easily imagine that we’re in Europe, not California.
I wander downstairs, expecting to find Beckett in the kitchen or behind his laptop in the study, but he’s not here.
I waited up last night, listening for him, and by the time I fell asleep, he still hadn’t come home.
Why should I even care if he didn’t come home last night? It’s not like he’s a pleasure to be around. He’s rude, arrogant, and condescending. I’m better off alone.
I choose a vinyl from Robert Heyward’s collection and guide the needle to the first song on the LP. Last night I listened to Leonard Cohen on repeat. The man was a fucking poet. This morning Nina Simone serenades me while I brew a pot of coffee and peel an orange.
I’m drinking my coffee at the chopping-block island when I hear the front door closing and footsteps echoing on the limestone tiles.
A few seconds later, Beckett appears in the arched doorway dressed in a faded maroon Stanford sweatshirt and denim. His hair is disheveled like he’s been running his fingers through it for hours, and he looks younger, almost boyish.
More like the boy I vaguely remember from all those years ago.
In my scattered memories of that time, I remember his smile. His laughter. How once upon a time he was kind to me.
That boy was happy, but the man before me is not.
He sets a paper bag on the counter, pours himself a cup of coffee and sits across from me. I study his face over the rim of my mug. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night, which leads me to wonder if he was with someone.
Does he have a girlfriend? Did he hit up a bar and pick up a random girl for the night?
“What’s in the bag?” I ask instead.
“I don’t know. Someone left it on the doorstep.” He pulls the bag toward him and opens it, then shuts it quickly and shoves it away like it’s filled with venomous snakes.
Curiosity prevails so I peek inside and suppress a smile.
Beckett has jokes.
I pull out a cinnamon roll the size of a baby’s head and moan when I take the first bite. “So good,” I say, taking another huge bite of gooey deliciousness. “Is this a peace offering? A bag of cinnamon rolls?”
He snatches the bag away and moves it out of my reach. “The only reason you got one at all was because you tore into it like a rabid junkyard dog. I didn’t want to risk losing a finger if I tried to snatch it out of your jaws.”
“That’s smart,” I say with a nod. “I’ve killed for less.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
I finish the cinnamon roll and lick my fingers clean then jump up from my seat and wash my coffee mug at the farmhouse sink.
When I turn, he’s watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
If he wants to figure out who I am, he’s going to have to gain my trust first. But I have a feeling he doesn’t see it that way. I think he’s already decided who I am, and now he’s just looking for confirmation that he was right.
I’m smart enough to know that a bag of cinnamon rolls isn’t the equivalent of waving the white flag and shouting, I surrender , but this whole situation would be a lot easier if we called a truce.
Whether he likes it or not, we’re stuck with each other for the next three months, and it will be tedious and tiresome if we’re constantly in combat mode.
So I extend an olive branch by responding to the question he asked last night. “I drove to the coast.” He gives me a blank stare. “That’s where I went last evening,” I clarify. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to watch the sun setting over the Pacific and I didn’t want to miss it.”
His eyes narrow on me like he’s trying to catch me in a lie.
But why would I lie about that?
I was lucky to run into a group of teens at the beach who were more than happy to be in my photos. My work has evolved over the years, but I still love capturing those fleeting moments of youth on the cusp of adulthood when the future is so uncertain but filled with possibility.
“Now it’s your turn. Where did you go last night?”
He’s busy on his phone, probably checking his bank account balance or the stock market or something equally dull and uninspiring, so when he doesn’t bother responding, I walk out the door and go in search of Pete. Today he’s going to teach me the fundamentals of canopy management.
Unlike Beckett, who can probably work anywhere there’s Wi-Fi, my job isn’t like that, but he never once asked me if the timing would be convenient for me .
I had to rearrange my entire work schedule and even lost out on a big campaign I was commissioned to shoot, just to be here, so I might as well make the most of it and learn whatever I can.
By late morning, the sun has burned through the fog and I’m sweating in my tank top and cargo pants, but it feels good to be working outside and doing something physical. Farming is labor-intensive, and since this vineyard is farmed mostly by hand, there’s a lot of lifting and bending and stretching.
“At least we won’t have to buy a gym membership,” I tell Hunter as we pull leaves from the vines to allow the sun to hit the fruit.
The grapes are still green, only the size of a pea, and I’m looking forward to seeing them changing color and ripening in the summer sun.
“Definitely one of the perks of the job,” he agrees, tucking a wayward vine under the wire trellising that we had to raise earlier to accommodate the new growth.
We’ve been working side by side all morning, and I already know Hunter’s whole life story. He graduated from college a few years ago after changing his major three times and still isn’t sure what he wants to do with his life, so he’s been trying out different jobs to see what sticks.
Hunter is tall and lanky, built more like a runner than a football player, and cute in that non-threatening kind of way. Sandy blond hair. A nice smile. The kind of guy you can picture playing beach volleyball with his friends or running along the water’s edge with a golden retriever by his side.
He’s open and friendly like he has nothing to hide, and while I can’t entirely relate, it’s refreshing to be around someone who has no hidden agenda.
When we finish the row, he gives me a high five like we’ve accomplished something monumental.
“Food’s great too,” he says as we skirt the rose bush and start on the next row.
I snap off the laterals, leaving the main shoots alone like Pete taught me and toss the leaves into the middle of the row to be collected for compost. “Food is included?”
“Yeah,” he says, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm. “They didn’t tell you? We all eat lunch together.”
Oh. I guess he assumed I’m doing a harvest internship like him. All I said was that it was my first day, I live in Brooklyn, and I like taking photos.
Coaxing people into talking about themselves is a good way to avoid talking about oneself, so I use that tactic often. It’s one of my best tricks for capturing good photos too. Getting to know the person before you even lift the camera helps to create the narrative.
“I’m not sure how much Pete told you, but the owner passed away recently, and his son is in charge now,” Hunter says conversationally. “He was supposed to be arriving this week, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
The Dark Lord of the Manor is probably busy plotting world domination.
Or more likely, googling how to murder someone and get away with it.
I can imagine him rubbing his hands together and chortling with glee after he digs a deep hole to bury me in. It would be a nice gesture if he planted a rose bush over my grave, but I doubt he’d make the effort.
“Actually, I don’t think everything went to his son,” Hunter continues. “From what I’ve gathered, he left half to his stepdaughter.”
Aha, there it is. Now we’re getting to the good stuff.
I’m waiting for him to say more, to vilify the stepdaughter and call her a gold digger, but Hunter isn’t that kind of guy, so I give him a little nudge in the right direction. “Don’t you think that sounds a bit wrong?” I give him the side-eye. “I mean…it should all go to his son, don’t you think?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess it depends. Maybe he loved them equally. Just because someone isn’t related by blood doesn’t mean they’re not family.”
God. This guy. He’s just too good to be true. “You’re a good guy, Hunter.”
He gives me a funny look. “Why do you say that? Anyone would feel the same.”
No. No, they would not. Not in my world, anyway.
“I’m not so sure the stepdaughter deserved to get half of the inheritance.” I don’t know what compels me to continue playing devil’s advocate, but I’m on a roll now and can’t seem to stop myself. “It seems like a dirty trick to play on your only son.”
Hunter is quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Like I said, I can’t really judge because I don’t actually know the family. But for all we know, he had a good reason for it. A lot of time and care went into making this vineyard successful.”
My gaze sweeps over the rolling hills of lush green vines standing in hedged rows for as far as the eye can see. Almost two hundred acres are planted with grapevines and the other fifty are dedicated to fruit orchards, vegetable gardens, and woodland with a creek running through it.
The view is magical. Like something straight out of a movie.
“He wouldn’t have put so much love into it only to give it away to someone undeserving.” Hunter shrugs like he didn’t just say the sweetest, most beautiful thing ever. “That’s just my opinion.”
It's good to be reminded that people like Hunter exist and that not everyone assumes the worst of people.
Beckett could learn a thing or two from Hunter.