Miranda #2
Then, so as not to dwell on that subject any longer than necessary, Miranda gave her sister’s hand a quick squeeze, then busied herself with tidying up their table. “Enough of that,” she said with conviction. “Let’s get to Carmel.”
It was midafternoon when they checked into their motel half a mile from the main artery of Ocean Avenue with its shops and restaurants leading straight down to the beach.
Miranda flopped on one of the two twin beds and groaned, “I need a nap. My nerves are shot after that drive.”
“You want to do that while I take a walk?” Winnie offered. “I can bring us back scones and jam from the Tuck Box and you can show me your pictures at long last.”
“Okay,” she said, “but you have to promise to go there again with me tomorrow.” The place was a favorite of their mother’s, and over the years the three of them had made some happy memories there, drinking tea and eating scones, then loading up on goodies to take home.
With her index finger, Winnie made an X on the left side of her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I hate that expression,” Miranda said as she yawned and curled up on her side.
“Sleep well.”
Miranda was dreaming before her sister was out the door, and she woke up groggy an hour later needing to pee. Winnie wasn’t back yet.
After some rummaging in her suitcase, she brushed her teeth and washed the sleep out of her eyes, and started feeling more awake—and starving. Where was her sister, anyway?
After close to another hour, during which she made a deal with herself that if Winnie wasn’t back by five, she’d leave a note on the bed and head out to find her, her sister turned the key in the lock and came in holding a big paper bag and smelling of pot.
Miranda was annoyed. They had only just arrived—why was Winnie checking out already? When she was about to show her the pictures?
“I smoked a joint and put my toes in the water. It was heaven.” Winnie set the bag on the little desk and pulled out a smaller bag inside, which she handed to Miranda. “Apple scones today. I already ate one. They are fabulous, as Mom would say.”
There were three more in the bag. “Did you get jam, too?”
Winnie pulled out two jars and handed them triumphantly to her sister. “Oh ye of little faith. Bet you thought I’d forget. Anyway, I thought apricot sounded better with the apple than olallieberry so I got both, since I know you’re obsessed with the berry like Mom is.”
“Thanks,” said Miranda. While she used a plastic knife to spread apricot jam on her scone—because after all, it did sound better—Winnie took a bottle of bourbon out of the other bag and set it on the desk with a thud.
“The liquor store also had a bunch of Hartley bottles. I didn’t tell him who I was, but the guy working there says they sell well. I asked if he had tried any of the wines, and he said the pinot was his favorite, and that he tells everyone it’s as good as anything from France and half the price.”
Winnie cracked open the seal on the bourbon’s cap, and poured herself at least two fingers. Miranda stared. Bourbon? On top of the pot?
“What?” Winnie said, clearly reading her sister’s expression. “We’re on vacation. And I went to the store as recon. I couldn’t just not buy anything. And Lincoln turned me on to this bourbon. Try it. It’s so smooth and sweet. Some little place in Kentucky is making it.”
“No thanks,” said Miranda.
“Let’s see your sketches, then,” Winnie said, plopping down on the bed.
I guess she doesn’t seem all that out of it. Miranda pulled her portfolio out of her rucksack and spread her pictures on the un-slept-in bed, making a patchwork quilt of paper.
“Wow,” said Winnie, who stood and bent over the little paintings. “Wow, Miranda,” her sister breathed with enthusiastic admiration, “I feel like I’m standing on Spring Mountain in this one. And looking at our vines in that one.”
Miranda flushed with embarrassed pride. “Thank you.”
“They are all amazing, but this one is my favorite.” Winnie pointed to one of the palest, most impressionistic representations of the view from the mountain, probably an eleventh or twelfth try, when Miranda had managed to get the right shades of greens and browns to wash out while never becoming sentimentally pastel.
“This one is mine,” she replied, pointing to a detailed study of the rows of vines framed by her own bedroom window. She’d used six different shades of green on that one, and she’d managed to mix purple with brown to get the exact hue of ripe grapes.
“Yeah, that one is great, too. They’re so different.
” Winnie pondered them a little longer, then said, “I know I suggested an original painting for each special-edition label, but maybe we should also pick just one special painting to reproduce on all the other bottles.” Winnie pointed at her favorite mountain view again.
“This one just says everything about the wine and what people are drinking when they buy Hartley. Elegance, beauty, terroir.”
Miranda whistled. “Terroir? Listen to you.” She didn’t realize her sister had been listening all these years, and the knowledge that she had made her happy.
“You want all those French winos to buy California, you got to speak their language.”
Ah, now I hear it. Something in the energy of her sister’s tone sounded just a little high.
In that moment, though, it also sounded celebratory. Miranda gave herself a generous pour and clinked her cheap motel glass to her sister’s. It sounded like the start of something, and Miranda felt the excitement burst in her chest.
“What I really want is some champagne,” said Miranda. “I think we’re onto something here. And I’m so happy you’re doing this with me. We’ve needed your creativity. It’s like the missing piece. You’ll still write something to announce this special grand cru?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now let’s get all dressed up and find a fabulous dinner,” Miranda said.
Winnie whooped her assent and went to her suitcase for supplies, and Miranda felt a gush of joy warm her from the inside.
I wish Dad could be here to see… But no.
No. He wasn’t here. Hartley Vineyard was hers, and she was determined to make sure the wine and its success were worth everything—every last unimaginable thing—they’d all been through.