Chapter 9
9
Sophie
A m I available for dinner tonight? No. But do I want to be available? So much.
Of all the nights to have a shift in the tasting room, why does it have to be tonight?
Truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten dinner away from the winery. Most nights I end up eating in the pool house while Phantom circles my feet. It’s not until right now that I realize how nice sharing a meal with someone else would be—two someones, in this case. Going from a communal living environment in New York City where I slept, ate, worked, played, and memorized lines with an entire cast to living alone with my cat has been far lonelier than I thought possible.
“Your dinner sounds delicious,” I tell Gabby apologetically, making sure to look at her when I speak. I’m still not sure what she can or can’t hear, but I want to learn. “And I appreciate your offer so much.” I swallow against the growing lump in my throat. “But I’m scheduled to work a shift tonight.”
“I missed that,” Gabby says as she signs to her brother.
“Sophie has to work tonight,” August confirms.
Gabby looks around. “But I thought you worked here? With my brother?”
“I do,” I say, “but I also work for my brother.” Admitting that out loud splinters my pride.
“Then maybe you should call him and ask for the night off?” Gabby places her palms together like the prayer hands emoji. “Please?”
If only. “My brother is not . . .”
“What?” Gabby asks, focusing on my lips.
I chide myself for letting yet another sentence run away from me.
“Sorry,” I say, looking at her now. “My brother isn’t nice like yours.”
Gabby points at August. “You think he’s nice?”
August stuffs his hands into his pockets and glances at the ceiling. “You’re so hilarious.”
Gabby beams at him self-indulgently, and something in their exchange makes me want to better understand their dynamic. Why does Gabby live with him? Where are their parents? I think back through our morning conversations when I changed his bandage—how I purposefully steered us toward light and easy discussions. August had seemed more than willing to wade in the shallows with me.
We talked about his surfing hobby and how much I was gonna miss NYC in the fall. We spoke about our favorite comfort foods, movies we rewatched annually, and the book series I wished I could read for the first time—a question only relating to me as August was still warming up to fiction. I didn’t ask him about his family simply because I didn’t want to reciprocate. The information I provided him during our morning chats was generic—mostly history about the winery that could easily be found on any search engine online.
And then, today, I’d gone and cracked the code on his secret prodigy genius.
E ven now, as my mind flashes back to the way he looked at me when I sang those runs, I feel the faintest fluttering in my chest. He’s only a friend , I’m quick to remind myself. In a way, I suppose August is also a colleague. The last thing I need is to read into something just because I’m desperate for companionship.
“Another time, then,” August says, but I don’t miss the disappointment I hear in his tone or the disappointment I feel. “Don’t let Gabby’s glowing review of me fool you. She loves boring nights at home with her big brother.”
But Gabby doesn’t comment on her brother’s teasing jab. Her eyes are too honed on me. On second thought, I’m not totally sure she heard him at all. The mystery surrounding her hearing continues to grow.
“I’m sorry,” I offer her again. “I’d be happy to talk theater with you any time I’m here.”
She gives me a smile that makes me wish I could give her something more than a declined invitation to a dinner she’s obviously excited to share.
“I’ll walk you out, Sophie.” It’s not the first time August has escorted me down the driveway to say good-bye; it’s just the first time he’s announced it. Perhaps because we both know there’s more to say to each other than a simple “See you tomorrow.”
I collect my stuff from the booth and tell Gabby it was lovely to meet her.
A few minutes later as I walk down the driveway with August toward the Wine-Calade, I admit, “I feel bad I had to say no.”
“Don’t be. She just had a month of playtime at camp. She’ll be fine.”
I stop at the curb and look up at him, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun over the tree line separating his house from the neighbors. There are so many things I want to ask, but I’m still not sure how or even if he wants me to.
“You can ask,” he prompts gently. “To be fair, I should have told you before today. I owe you that much.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
H e raises his bandaged hand. “I think you’re forgetting the last thirteen days.”
I give an uncomfortable laugh. “I just mean, I want to respect your personal life.”
He looks down at his feet, and for several seconds, I wonder if I’ve given him the out he needs and if I should just say good-bye now and be on my way. Whatever we’ve shared in these last two weeks has been fun and unexpected and maybe even the perfect kind of distraction—at least for me. But there is obviously so much we don’t know about each other. And maybe it’s better it stays that way. Maybe—
“Our parents died two years ago in a train accident overseas,” he begins. “They adopted Gabby at the age of six from Colombia when I was a senior in high school. She was traveling with them on that train, and she suffered a head trauma that resulted in unilateral hearing loss. Her cochlear nerve was completely severed in her right ear, and there’s only a trace amount of residual hearing in her left, depending on the frequency. Her condition is ... unstable. Our parents named me her legal guardian, and I moved back as soon as she was out of the hospital.”
For the second time today, my eyes grow misty. Only this time it isn’t due to fiction. It’s real. And it’s beyond heartbreaking.
I search his face, trying to process the crushing words he’s just spoken, and failing to come up with any of my own. Perhaps there are no words for this at all.
“It’s quite the conversation killer, isn’t it?” he teases darkly.
“August.” I close my eyes, swallow. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s perfect.”
“What?” I glance up at him again, confused. “What’s perfect?”
“That you don’t know. Nobody does. Heck, I don’t even know what to say about it half the time, and it’s my life. My story.” He combs his good hand through his hair, making a mess of the golden waves. I want to reach up and fix it. But really, I want to fix so much more than that for him. And for his precious sister, too.
I take out my phone then, trying not to think about the man who will answer on the other end, or any future consequences of asking h im for a favor now. Instead, I’m thinking only of a sixteen-year-old girl who shares the same passion I once did at her age and the small gift I can offer her by showing up to a dinner party she’s invited me to.
“What are you doing?” August asks as I tap Jasper’s contact.
“Calling my brother.”
“Sophie, no. You really don’t have to—”
“Hello?” The female voice on the other end of the line surprises me.
“Hello? Is ... is Jasper there?”
“Hi, Sophie. This is Natalie.” Strange as it is that I don’t recognize my own sister-in-law’s voice, I can’t remember the last time we spoke on the phone.
“Oh, hey. Um, I had a question for him. About tonight.”
“Jasper just stepped out for a minute. Is it something I can answer for you?” The surrealness of this interaction isn’t lost on me. Nobody speaks for Jasper, least of all Natalie, who up until recently rarely spoke at all. Especially where I’m concerned.
“Maybe? I’m in Petaluma right now, about to head back for my shift later this evening, but some friends have invited me over for dinner. I was wondering if I might be able to rearrange my work schedule and trade tonight’s shift for a double tomorrow. I just needed to ask if I could keep the Escalade tonight and get the name of whoever’s scheduled so I can see about a switch.”
She’s quiet for a second. “I’ll take it for you.”
I squint into the sun and then look at the pavement, trying to orient myself. “You’ll take what?”
“Your shift. I owe you a favor, and I have some inventory that needs doing, so I don’t mind keeping an eye on the counter if we get busy. Fridays can be hit or miss when there are no private events going on.”
I open my mouth twice before I finally get a word out. “Thank you, Natalie. I ... I really appreciate that.”
“No problem. And next time, you can bypass your brother and call me directly. He hates messing with scheduling details. I’ll send you my phone number.”
N ot quite trusting my strike of good fortune, I thank her again and hang up.
August eyes me. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I slip my phone into my back pocket. “You’re right, but I wanted to.”
The inside of August’s house is not at all what I expect. There is nothing about it that says “bachelor raising his younger sister.” Instead, the white brick rancher is cozy and well loved, furnished in soft neutrals with eye-catching pops of color and patterns in throw pillows, rugs, and wall art. It’s homey and comfortable, and I can’t help but feel a distinct family vibe as soon as I cross over the threshold. And that’s when it hits me.
“Was this your—” I swallow as he takes my backpack from me and sets it on the long wooden bench across the wall of the entryway—“your parents’ house?”
He dips his chin. “My parents purchased it when I was in third grade. It was an eyesore back then; worst house in the neighborhood by far. But my mom had vision and patience, and since my dad had worked in construction since high school, he did all the renovations on the weekends.” He looks around. “They spent the better part of two decades taking on projects little by little as they had money and time. They never planned to live anywhere else.”
“They did a beautiful job.” It’s an impossible thing to say without the bittersweet aftertaste that follows, but it’s true. The open floor plan is bright and airy, and I’m certain there were several walls torn down to make it so. From the wide-plank flooring to the unique lighting fixtures in every room to the gorgeous fireplace with the exposed wood mantel, it’s easy to imagine their vision for this home. It’s also easy to see why August’s studio was so well executed. He obviously inherited his father’s construction skills. “It’s a lovely home.”
A ugust clears his throat and hitches a thumb to the left side of the house toward a hallway. “I should probably let our chef know she’ll be cooking for three after all. Feel free to wander.”
“That’s a pretty brave offer,” I tease. “What if I’m a snoop?”
“If you are, would you mind keeping an eye out for two missing hairbrushes, a handful of spoons, and about a dozen single socks looking for their mate?”
I laugh. “Will do.”
August starts toward the hallway but then stops and turns back. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind keeping your exploration clear of the door at the end of the hallway, I’d appreciate it.” I can tell he’s trying to keep his tone light, and yet, the ache in my belly grows at the possibilities that lay beyond that doorway. And the grief attached to them all.
“Of course.”
When he disappears around the corner, I take the opportunity to study the pictures on the mantel. There are five in total. One of a beautiful couple wearing early nineties wedding attire gazing at each other over a three-tiered cake with white lattice icing. The next is a young picture of August—gap-toothed grin, sitting on a stool with a guitar that looks twice the size of him. There’s no denying he was an adorable kid. The next is a picture of his high school graduation. Gabby’s in this one. She’s holding her mom’s hand, but she’s looking up to her big brother with so much admiration I can almost feel the warmth of it through the glass. There’s a picture of Gabby dressed up as Snow White, standing on a tiny stage with her mouth and arms open wide. She’s definitely younger here—maybe eleven or twelve? It’s hard to say, but it’s clear by her expression how much she loves this moment in time. I wonder how her hearing loss has affected her love of theater, and more importantly, how much her life has changed because of it. Not only has Gabby lost her parents, but she’s also lost a critical part of herself, as well.
When I move to peer into the frame of the last picture, my breath stills. It’s August and Gabby on a sandy beach with their father between them. All three are dressed in wet suits, and all three are h ugging a surfboard. Their hair is windblown, and their smiles are huge. I wonder if their mom is the one behind the camera.
I also wonder how soon after this image was taken that their world changed forever.
“You’re back!” Gabby’s voice announces into the room.
I spin around. I wasn’t being polite earlier when I said Gabby was beautiful—if anything, beautiful is an understatement. Her rich, Colombian skin tone is honeyed in color, and her eyes are a striking molten chocolate. But it’s her hair that must be the envy of all her girlfriends. Thick, dark waves hang down to the center of her back.
I make sure to face her directly when I ask if I can help with dinner preparation.
“Do you like to cook, too?” she asks.
“A little. But I like to plate food even more,” I admit. “Does that count?”
August follows her into the room and laughs at my admission, but it’s clear by Gabby’s expression that my answer didn’t fully compute. “Do you mean you like to set the table?”
“No.” I shake my head and try again. “I’ve worked in a few restaurants over the years. I love the art of plating the food before serving it to customers.” I do a poor job of demonstrating the motions and wish I had taken ASL in school instead of the second language I chose that I haven’t used once in my adult life.
“Oh,” Gabby says, understanding this time. “Then you can plate our food when dinner is ready. Maybe you can teach me, too?” She turns to August and asks him to cut some fresh oregano and basil from the garden.
“You have an herb garden?” I wonder aloud.
“We have a greenhouse,” Gabby replies. “ If it’s still standing after August’s fall, that is.”
August glances at the ceiling, and I do my best not to look at his bandaged hand.
“Our mom loved to garden and cook,” she continues. “She taught us both.”
“ Who’s the better cook between the two of you?” I ask, leaning my back against the sofa.
Both siblings point to themselves.
“Right.” I laugh. “Got it.”
“Maybe Sophie should be our judge?” Gabby offers.
“You’re the only one cooking tonight,” August says.
“That just means she’ll have to come back when it’s your night.” She looks to me. “He’s a messy cook.”
August hitches his thumb to his sister. “And she over seasons everything.”
Gabby slaps a hand to her chest as if she’s been struck, and then promptly signs something to him that’s incredibly animated.
“You know I didn’t catch any of that,” he deadpans.
“And whose problem is that?” She smirks before she moseys her way into the kitchen, where she begins unloading the three bags of groceries sitting on the counter. She tosses a jar of sun-dried tomatoes to August, and without any further instruction, he opens it and sets it next to her on the counter.
I watch their lively dynamic and wonder if it’s always been like this between them—easy and comfortable. I can’t imagine having a sibling I could joke with, let alone cook and eat a meal with without it feeling like a punishment. I wonder what their relationship was like prior to the accident and how it’s changed since.
The thought replays a scene from two weeks ago in my mind: a sleepy August with an IV in his arm, telling me it’s much harder to be the one in the seat next to the hospital bed.
How many times has August sat in that bedside chair?
My heart is heavy in pondering when August asks if I want to venture to the greenhouse with him.
As we head into the backyard, I confess that I can’t identify many of the herbs without their labels, and August confesses that he doesn’t know the difference between red and white wine food pairings. We agree that both these confessions can be easily remedied with time and experience. Two things I find myself hoping for more of when it comes to August Tate.
O ver the next hour or so, the house is filled with delectable aromas as we’re all put to work by Chef Gabby. She makes homemade fettuccine noodles while August and I chop, mince, and grate. But most of all, we laugh as she regales us with the hilarious mishaps from her weeks at summer camp. I’m not sure if I’ve wiped more tears from laughter at her irreverent expressions or from the potent white onion I was directed to dice earlier. But even as she entertained us with stories of teenage drama, she managed to concoct a glorious cream sauce with fresh herbs and veggies and enough Parmesan to make me grateful I’m not lactose intolerant.
Once everything is ready, Gabby asks me to show her how I’d plate each item on tonight’s menu if this were a fancy restaurant. She focuses on my hands as I drizzle olive oil onto the rim of the porcelain plate and arrange the fresh herbs and then the food in each quadrant the way I was shown when I was around her age.
“You made it look so pretty,” Gabby says.
“Not too pretty to eat, I hope,” I say, spooning a bit of the cream sauce onto the steamed broccoli.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and realize my mistake. I’m standing on her bad side and was speaking to the plate, not to her. At the greenhouse, August informed me how her aids weren’t a perfect science and how female voices can be especially difficult for her to detect without line of sight due to the particulars of her hearing loss.
“Sorry,” I say and then immediately repeat my earlier comment to her.
“No way,” Gabby counters. “I think we should only eat pretty food.”
Which makes us all laugh as we carry the plates to the table.
We’re a little over halfway through our delicious meal—Gabby on one side of the table while August and I sit across from her—when her phone begins to flash and vibrate next to her water glass. And it’s not the only thing that lights up. Gabby’s entire face breaks into a huge, giddy grin, and I don’t have to wonder long about the person who’s calling.
I t’s one hundred percent a boy she’s crushing on. Chances are good it’s the Tyler guy she mentioned at least a dozen times during dinner prep.
She answers the phone, and I feel August go still beside me.
“Hi,” she says, grinning from ear to ear.
I pause my fork, waiting to hear his reply. But none comes. At least not that I can hear. Gabby laughs at the screen she’s holding and nods.
“Oh my gosh, really? It’s what we hoped would happen!”
August leans over. “She uses a special video app that provides real time captioning and can pair directly into her hearing aids. As long as she’s wearing them.” He says this last part under his breath.
After Gabby carries on for another minute or so, smiling and giggling without a care in the world, August sets his fork on his plate and stares at his sister pointedly. But Gabby pays no mind to him at all, not even when her brother goes uncomfortably quiet beside me.
“Do you know who she’s talking to?” I whisper.
“I believe I do,” he says flatly.
Gabby laughs into the screen again. “I will, I promise.” She looks at her watch. “Um, maybe in an hour or so? We’re still eating dinner, and we have a guest over.” She lowers her phone momentarily and flashes me a quick grin, which I return, despite the frosty presence to my left.
Once she resumes wrapping up her conversation, I glance at August expectantly.
“I’m guessing it’s Tyler.” He says this as if he’s just spoken the name of a wanted criminal.
“Are they dating?”
I see him flinch at the same time Gabby hangs up and places her phone on the table beside her plate. Either she’s choosing not to notice her brother’s recent rigor mortis, or she’s happily oblivious.
I’m going with option two.
“Tyler says hi,” she announces to us both.
“Oh? Hi back.” I make sure my face reflects only nonjudgmental curiosity when I ask, “Did you meet him at camp?”
S he shakes her head. “No, I met him here. We were introduced a little over a year ago by his mom. She’s my ASL and speech tutor. He just called to tell me the best news!”
She’s practically levitating out of her seat with excitement. But still, August remains mute, contemplative. I encourage her to continue with her story even though what I really want is to elbow her brother in the ribs and tell him to snap out it.
“So,” Gabby says conversationally, “while we were at camp, the two of us began to dream up ways we could bring some of the more immersive ASL teaching methods we experienced this summer into the greater community. Tyler called his mom to ask if she’d be willing to teach a class if we agreed to help out as mentors. She was pretty excited about it and called Pastor Kreissig, who just told her we can announce it at church this Sunday!” Gabby pinches her lips closed and does a little jig that’s impossibly cute. “Tyler’s working on a save-the-date handout for anyone who’s interested, since the class won’t begin until September.” She presses her hands to her pinked cheeks. “It’s just so neat to see everything coming together like we imagined it—the location, the time, and now a huge amount of exposure on a main stage in the community. That’s, like, seventeen hundred people if you add up both services.” Her eyes go wide, but I don’t see even the slightest hint of nerves. This girl would do amazingly well on a stage, no doubt. “Tyler and I need to work on our announcement script tonight since we only have tomorrow to practice our blocking.”
“Blocking?” I question. “Are you doing a skit?”
“More like a sixty second commercial. We just need to make sure we get it right.” She swivels her gaze to August, and I watch her deflate as soon as she registers his unenthusiastic response. “You’ll be there, won’t you, August? I’ve never been on stage at church before.”
He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than I expect. “I thought we agreed before you left for camp that you wouldn’t take on any new commitments without checking with me first.”
Despite what I’d consider to be a nonconfrontational tone, she bristles. “I told you about it in my texts.”
“ No,” August says matter-of-factly. “You told me you were enjoying camp and making friends and hoping to do more with them when you came home. It was Aunt Judy who told me you were making specific plans to start a class.” He waits a beat and picks up his ice water. “And that wasn’t all she told me.”
I see the instant Gabby’s mood switches from offense to defense. “Are you talking about Tyler?”
August pushes his plate away. “You tell me.”
“Um...” I look between the two of them and stand to clear the dishes. “I should go so that you two can—”
“No.” They both say in unison. “ Stay .”
Awkwardly, I sit back down.
“What do you want me to tell you?” Gabby asks her brother with a shrug. “That we have feelings for each other? That he makes me happy? That he’s the kindest, most caring person I’ve ever known?”
I see August wince, and then I get it. He’s never done this before. This girl-talk session is brand-new territory for him. Empathy strums my ribcage like a stringed instrument.
“Was Tyler the friend who gave you a ride home from camp?” August asks.
“Yes, Aunt Judy said it was fine. Why should she have to drive two hours out of her way when Tyler lives five minutes from here—”
“Because that was our arrangement, Gabby. Aunt Judy is not the one responsible for you, I am. You should have talked to me first, and you know it.”
I cringe inwardly. This is not going to end well.
“You mean like how you told me about the infected cut on your hand?” Gabby gestures to his bandage. Touché. She definitely scored a point there.
“I apologized for that, which I’ve yet to hear from you.” He sits back, crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re too young to have a boyfriend.”
She jerks her head back as if she’s been slapped. “I’m too young or too deaf ?” Tears flood her eyes. “Or maybe Tyler’s the one who’s too deaf?”
A ugust closes his eyes, rolls his neck. “Gabby—”
“No, don’t tell me I’m being overdramatic. You know as well as I do that if Tyler was hearing , this conversation would be very different.”
I expect August to defend himself, but he says nothing as Gabby pushes away from the table and rushes down the hallway. A second later, a door slams.
August sighs and drops his face into his non-bandaged palm. “I’m sorry, Sophie. Battle of the Siblings was not on the agenda for tonight.” He threads his fingers through his hair, and for a minute, I can’t do anything but stare. Not because I’m offended or uncomfortable, but because I’ve rarely witnessed such a passionate debate between two people who love each other like they do.
“This is new.” He huffs a breath. “The boy stuff, I mean.” Music blares at a volume that causes August to shake his head. “I thought I had a lot more time.”
I try to suppress my surprise. “How long did you think you had?”
“Two, three years? Maybe post-college if I was really lucky?” He glances up at me, and his expression is so innocent I feel a momentary pinch of guilt for having to be the bearer of bad news.
“What?” he asks. “What’s that look?”
I proceed with caution. “I’m just wondering if that’s how it was for you?”
He’s quiet, and I know the answer before he opens his mouth. “No, but I made a lot of stupid mistakes I don’t want her to make. More than that, I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“That’s understandable,” I say. “But from the sound of it, they’ve been good friends for a while now. And they seem to share some big common interests.” I stop myself from saying more. I haven’t parented anyone, and I don’t even have a sibling I can use in an example. So instead, I ask more questions. “What can you tell me about Tyler? Do you think he’s a good kid?”
“Technically, he’s not a kid. He’s eighteen.”
“Okay,” I say. “And what’s he like? Is he respectful?”
A ugust contemplates his answer for a minute. “I suppose. He always comes to the door when he picks Gabby up for church—looks me in the eye, shakes my hand, that kind of thing. He graduated in May, summa cum laude, though from what I understand, he’s taking a gap year to help his parents with a new business endeavor.” He looks down at his hands. “His family’s been good to Gabby, his mom especially. Although...” He pauses for a long moment.
“What?” I press.
“We have different perspectives.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Tyler’s dad was born deaf in both ears, and so was Tyler. They waited until he was old enough to decide if he wanted a cochlear implant.” August shakes his head, sighs. “I guess he didn’t. So instead he signs, reads lips, and sometimes uses his voice, although according to Gabby, it’s not his preference.”
I let his explanation sink in before I dare to ask another question. “Do you think there’s any truth to what Gabby said about you having more of an issue with her dating Tyler because of his impairment than someone who can hear?”
He studies my face for several heartbeats before I hear the tension release in his exhale. “I wish I could say it didn’t bother me. And yes, I’m fully aware of how awful that makes me sound, but nothing about Gabby’s situation is black-and-white. I’d be lying if I said their relationship doesn’t concern me—especially in regard to her future. A relationship between them adds another layer of complication to an already complicated situation.”
I nod, appreciating his honesty more than I can say, and then nudge his shoulder. “So what happens next?”
“I wait until it’s safe to approach her door and hope she doesn’t throw a shoe at my head?” His right dimple winks at me, and it’s so endearing I can’t help but reach out for his bandaged hand on the table. I give his fingers a companionable squeeze.
“You’re a good brother, August.”
He studies our joined hands. “I try, but I fail a lot. As you witnessed here tonight.”
“ That’s what she’ll remember most,” I say quietly.
“What?” He chuckles. “That I fail a lot?”
“No.” I meet his gaze and think of all the moments I could have used a big brother like him when I was growing up. “That you never stopped trying.”