Miranda #3
In the wake of that horror, Emilio quietly took over the year-round operations of the vineyard.
“I couldn’t manage it alone,” Joan said.
“Not with you two girls to raise. And anyway, none of the men on the California Wine Advisory Board were going to listen to me, a lowly woman. The widow.” Miranda knew now that Emilio wasn’t treated much better by the Francophiles and Italians of the business, because no matter what variation of his name he used, no matter how Italian it might look on paper, he would always and only be head grower, a Mexican migrant worker who happened to rise through the ranks.
He was always regarded as an outsider even though he didn’t join the United Farm Workers union, cofounded by Cesar Chavez, who lobbied hard and loud for the rights of the men in the fields, most famously with the Delano grape strike and boycott, which brought national attention to the condition of farm workers in California.
Emilio walked the finest of lines at Hartley, staying separate from the union but encouraging all the men he hired to join it.
He worked masterfully with all constituents, which was yet another reason Miranda was so grateful for him.
With her little basket full of lettuce, snap peas, and a few garlic scapes, Joan came into the kitchen, where Miranda had gotten out the sourdough and a container of chicken salad, three plates, forks, and napkins.
Miranda poured glasses full of water with ice and added wedges of lemon from a neighbor’s tree.
In silence, mother and daughter put together their lunch as they had thousands of times.
Miranda had learned to let Joan fuss over the plates, arranging each item so that everything was aesthetically pleasing as well as delicious.
Today that meant a bed of colorful ruffly lettuce with sliced snap peas dressed in her shallot vinaigrette, sitting beside a thick sandwich of her chicken salad, made with local walnuts and dried cherries held together with exactly the right amount of Best Foods mayo, between two slices of sourdough bread baked that morning two hours south of where they stood.
Joan’s gardening and culinary skills were locally famous.
She loathed American grocery stores and went to them only for things she couldn’t grow, pickle, and can herself or that she couldn’t purchase from a farm stand within a fifty-mile radius.
Her holiday baskets, which she gave to the girls’ teachers and her own favorite shop owners, were the stuff of legends: a jar of preserved beans or carrots, another of beets or plums, a pepper chutney, some candied lemon peel, a handful of blue potatoes, and of course a bottle of Hartley wine.
By the time they sat down to eat, Miranda was ravenous, and she took an enormous bite of sandwich.
“I knew your sister didn’t feed you,” Joan observed.
Miranda swallowed her overlarge bite and managed not to roll her eyes. “We ate, Mom.”
“Oh? What did you eat?”
“Pancakes, and curry, and beans and rice, and we went out for tacos one night. Rachel made an amazing ham, and…”
“Did Winnie eat any of it?”
“Yeah, Mom, she did.” She hasn’t been weird about food in years.
Miranda thought back to how thin her sister had been in high school, especially after Lincoln left, and how obsessed Joan had become about feeding her.
God, the explosive fights the two of them had over toast and soup, which got worse after Miranda left for college.
Her sister called her hiccuping with tears about how “vicious Mom was about her stupid fattening stew,” and her mother called to vent about Winnie “wasting away to nothing just to spite me.” Miranda had learned to listen to both of them and let her silence and murmurs of “oh no” calm them both down.
Saying as little as possible—that seemed to be the key to everything.
“Why don’t you go and see her yourself?” Miranda suggested to Joan. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” Although…she wasn’t entirely sure that was the case. But if Joan never visited Winnie, her younger sister was liable to feel her mother wasn’t interested in her life at all.
“I doubt that.”
“You can go shopping at Gump’s. I know how much you love their dresses and housewares, and I’m sure Winnie would like a treat.”
“Dresses!” Joan laughed as if the word were ridiculous to her. “When do I ever wear dresses? I have a closet full of them. Such a waste.”
Okay, she’s in one of those moods. Tread carefully.
“If you like them, you can wear them, you know,” Joan offered, out of the blue. “I know some of them are a bit old-fashioned, but I could take the hems up to show your beautiful legs. Doesn’t Eddie still ask you out?”
“Eddie got married last year.”
“Oh, that’s right. To that homely Wilkins girl. He could have done much better.”
“Cassie is nice.”
“Well.” Joan sighed. “I suppose he was looking for strength over beauty anyway. They need sturdy children to help on their ranch. They do have the finest eggs and bacon around.”
Miranda wished Emilio would walk in and distract her mother from this annoying train of thought, but the door didn’t open.
She was on her own, and this conversation was giving her one of the waves she sometimes felt of missing Ben, which were mercifully getting rarer, as it had been a year since their breakup.
It had been nice to have someone special to go out to dinners and movies with, and hours later to wake up next to.
She sighed. Until I realized he was married.
This thought stopped any nostalgia about Ben in its tracks and filled her with a roiling, resentful anger that soured her stomach.
“I’m going to head back out soon and bring Emilio his lunch,” Miranda said to change the subject. “Want to join me?”
“Oh, I have other things to tend to,” her mother said.
“That’s fine. But…give some thought to visiting Winnie, okay?”
Joan shrugged and took another bite of sandwich.
Outside, Miranda felt the sun heat her shoulders through her white shirt, and she pictured Winnie’s life in San Francisco—going to concerts; freelancing for new, cool magazines; and writing her poetry in cafés while drinking coffee and smoking.
Part of her was jealous of her sister’s carefree city life.
But Miranda had Spring Mountain. It was a whole world. It was home. And she was going to make it famous with the best chardonnay in the world. She told herself it was enough.