Chapter 11
11
Sophie
I ’m on my feet as soon as the service ends, making my way to the prayer corner Pastor Kreissig pointed out at the close of his sermon. A kind lady in a floral top and white cropped pants is there to greet me, clasping my hands and asking if I’d like prayer for anything specific. “I don’t really know,” I admit. “I’ve never asked for prayer before, but there’s been a lot of big changes in my life lately, and I think I’ve been a wandering sheep for a while now. And I don’t want to be one anymore.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she assures me through a teary smile. “That’s one of the best prayers we can ever pray.”
The kind woman—Alisha—asks me several questions and genuinely seems to care about my answers. Soon, we’ve bowed our heads in prayer, and I feel an unmistakable sense of rightness. The kind that seems to echo through my heart with a sense of belonging I’ve always been searching for.
I’ve come close to finding it in theater and maybe even with cer tain friend groups. But today felt like a reminder of something I’ve only ever grazed the surface of. It felt like a homecoming.
After we say amen , Alisha reminds me to drop my information card off at the welcome kiosk and proceeds to give me a big hug. “You weren’t here by accident today, Sophie. God has a plan for your life.”
It’s perhaps one of the most beautiful sentiments a stranger has ever spoken to me. As I slowly walk back to the second row to collect my things in a rapidly emptying auditorium, I’m surprised to find August waiting at the end of the main aisle near the back, my purse and phone in his possession.
I make my way to him.
“Hey.” I smile, marveling at the swell of happiness I feel at the sight of him.
“Hey.” He barely meets my gaze as he hands me my belongings. “You okay?”
“Better than okay. Today was...” I bite my bottom lip, trying to find the words. “Exactly what I needed. It felt like Pastor Kreissig was speaking directly to me.” I laugh, though it feels more like an outburst of delight. “I’m so glad your sister invited me. I can’t wait to come back again next week.”
After a beat of silence, he says, “I’m happy for you.”
He moves to open the lobby doors, but I grasp for his elbow and pull him back. “Wait, do you know where Gabby is? I want to tell her what an awesome job she did today.”
His heated gaze studies the place my fingers hold, rising slowly up the length of my forearm. And something about the familiarity of our closeness triggers a muscle memory response I wasn’t sure existed before now. On instinct, I reach for his left wrist and gently rotate it the same way I’ve done a dozen times in order to assess the injury on his palm. When he flinches at my touch, I note the crease in his brow. “You’re not in any new pain, are you?” I trace the edge of his bandage with my fingertip, pressing the pinked skin for any hidden signs of infection. But everything appears to be healthy. Healing.
“ I’m fine, Sophie.” He closes his fist and drops it to his side. “Gabby went this way.”
Before I can ask anything further, he’s pushing open the lobby door, waiting for me to follow. A cacophony of voices hum in the large, open space, and I wonder how difficult this environment must be on Gabby’s ears. On anyone with impaired hearing, for that matter.
For as many people who have vacated the sanctuary after the service, it’s clear the majority of them haven’t made it out to the parking lot. They’re talking, laughing, sipping on coffees, making lunch plans with friends. And a few mingle around the kiosk where Gabby and Tyler are handing out sign-up sheets and answering questions.
And where Portia Pimentel is staring directly at me, the same way she did when she was on stage earlier.
My knees go a bit rubbery.
Whatever illusion I was under to hope she may have forgotten my face—much less the mortifying moment of me fleeing her theater last month without explanation—dies the instant recognition shines from her gaze. As she steps away from the kiosk, I’m braced for the worst. Even if Portia is the type of person who can overlook a grown woman using her wine wallpapered SUV as a getaway car, it’s clear from her first word that this will be no simple reintroduction.
“Sophie,” Portia calls to my shame. “What a small world. I had no idea that the Sophie Gabby’s told me about was you.”
“Yes, um.” I half laugh, half cringe. “Small world.”
“I was hoping our paths would cross again.”
Confused , I rub my lips together, the need to apologize for my awkward disappearing act as strong as the espresso wafting through the cafe. But I’m not quite sure how to bring it up when she’s smiling at me like she’s legitimately happy to see me again.
August glances between us. “How is it you two know each other?”
Here we go , I think, cringing inwardly as I wait for her to spill my secret.
“I met Sophie a few weeks ago.” Portia’s attention steadies on me. “She’s the most experienced actress we’ve had inside our little theater to date.”
A ugust rotates to face me. “I thought you said you haven’t acted since New York.”
“I haven’t,” I confirm, while pinpricks of perspiration break out on the back of my neck. “But I ... I...”
Portia touches my arm as if to pause whatever pitiful excuse I’m about to offer. “We’re hopeful she’ll audition for one of our shows some day.” She gives me a knowing smile, and relief floods my system. “In the meantime, I’m thrilled you’ve become friends with the Tates.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Gabby’s been a precious gift to our family this last year, and I’m thrilled she’s so excited about helping with this class in the fall. It’s nothing short of miraculous how quickly she’s picked up ASL since she began tutoring with me. Her passion certainly goes beyond her own needs.” Portia regards Gabby’s big brother then, her face softening. “I hope you’ll consider joining us, too, August. I know you hold a foundational understanding of ASL, but being able to practice new signs and vocabulary at home will expedite your learning, as well as Gabby’s. And since your sister is volunteering so much of her time, I’ll insist on waiving your class fees and materials costs.”
I’m expecting August to jump at this unique opportunity with a resounding yes ; after all, what isn’t there to love about Portia’s generous offer? But instead, he simply shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m afraid Tuesday evenings aren’t good for me, sorry.”
I nearly object at such a flippant response because one, what the heck does “not good for me” mean? And two, he’s the boss of his own schedule, and I simply can’t imagine him not being able to take two hours a week for something so important to his sister. I glance over Portia’s head, grateful that Gabby is busy having a conversation with an elderly woman pushing a walker where she can’t overhear her brother’s reply.
“Could I get some information on the class?” I ask. “I’d love to learn.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She beams. “Here’s the initial sign-up info.” She hands me an orange flyer. “And registration can be done online through our website. Oh, and I can take that visitor card you’re holding. Do you know which gift you’d like?” She moves to the other side of the kiosk. “Looks like we’re out of the water bottles here, but I do have a Seaside Fellowship pen and a Bible plan journal.”
“Oh, great, thanks.” In truth, I’ve never even heard of a Bible plan journal, but it sounds nice.
“I’ve loved this tool for my daily reading. I use it often.” She hands it to me, and I flip through it, noting the date and Scripture reference near the top of each page.
Over the years I’ve read some portions of the Bible, and I know most of the key stories, but I’ve never studied it. If I’m being honest, I don’t really know how.
“What would you say to a coffee date sometime?” Portia asks. “I’d love to hear more about your experience in theater arts.”
Surprisingly, I don’t feel a twinge of panic at her request. I feel ... hopeful. “I’d love to go to coffee with you.”
“Here’s my number.” She writes on the back of my ASL class flyer. “My schedule is pretty flexible now that the Summer Showcase is over and we’re heading into fall.”
“Sophie!” I spin at the sound of her voice, and then Gabby is all but leaping toward me. She throws her arms around me in a hug that feels as if we’ve known each other for much longer than a day. She pulls back and looks at the journal and flyer in my hand. “Are you gonna come to our class?”
She watches my lips.
“I’d like to, yes. I loved everything about this morning. Thank you for inviting me. I needed this today.” Gabby beams at my praise, and I gently squeeze her arms. “Also, you and Tyler did an incredible job—I was so, so proud of you.”
“She’s a natural on stage,” Portia agrees, rubbing a maternal hand over Gabby’s back.
The three of us fall into an easy conversation about stage presence and future opportunities for exposure and promotion of their class in the community, but when I turn to ask August a question, he’s no longer standing behind me. He doesn’t appear to be anywhere.
T he lobby is nearly empty now. The only people remaining are wearing lanyards or participating in clean-up activities.
“August said to tell you good-bye,” Gabby says quietly.
“He did? When?” I can’t keep the disappointment from my voice. “I wouldn’t have kept talking if I’d known he needed to leave.”
Truthfully, I was hoping we might go do something together afterward. Grab some lunch, talk through the service, take another step forward in our growing friendship. But Gabby’s expression tells me there’s something I’m missing.
“It’s not you,” she says. “August ... well, this isn’t really his scene.”
“ Ah .” It’s clicking into place now. “Because small talk makes him uncomfortable.” He’s mentioned this to me a time or two. Or twenty.
She seems to consider me for a moment, and I’m just about to repeat myself, when she says, “Actually, all of it makes him uncomfortable.”
“All of what?”
“Anything having to do with his faith in God. It’s been that way since the accident.”
Sorry I missed you when you left this morning. You doing okay? I’m headed home now if you want to call. I’ll be around all day. ??
By the time I’ve parked back at the winery, thoughts of August make up roughly ninety-two percent of my brain—many of them pertaining to what his sister told me after church. “It’s been that way since the accident.”
What did that mean? And what did God and the church have to do with his parents’ accident? Isn’t faith what people turn to most amid a crisis?
The minute I think it, a grainy, recycled image of the wine cellar downloads into my brain without permission. I shut it out immediately. Whatever August is going through now is far worse than anything done to me.
But as I walk the path to the pool house, I imagine how different my life might be today if I’d grown up hearing sermons like the one preached this morning, or if I’d sang songs about a God whose love is unconditional and full of mercy. How different things would be if my home had been a place where competition and comparison hadn’t led the way ... or where love hadn’t been as easily won as it was lost.
How far my family has strayed from the legacy Gigi had prayed for. I touch the cross at the base of my neck.
After Gigi’s first husband died in his early thirties, leaving her with a child to support, she came up with a plan to harvest the small crop of grapes on the hillside of her property. It was a last-ditch effort seeing as she was months away from losing her farm altogether. After dozens of wine critics turned their nose up at her request for a tasting, one lone soul had finally agreed: a fellow widower who was as impressed with my grandma’s tenacity as he was with her wine making. Eventually, she married Christopher Bentley, and between the two of them, they planted, harvested, bottled, marketed, and sold their wine to local vendors, stores, and restaurants for more than thirty years, until the day Papa passed quietly in his sleep.
The winery that started as a dream seeded in desperation had flourished into a profitable business with a reputable name, which is why Gigi put conditions on the inheritance she passed down to her daughter in her trust—a sore spot with my father, to be sure. I was too young to remember the specifics of all the disagreements between Gigi and my dad, but it was clear there was no love lost between the two of them when she died. His final protest against her removing his name from her beneficiaries and excluding him from the board of trustees was his boycott of her funeral.
It was my nine-year-old hand that rubbed my mother’s back as she wept and tossed white roses onto Gigi’s grave. I’d also asked the preacher to sing her favorite song: “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”
Shortly after Gigi was gone, I began to dread Sundays at the winery. As kids, Jasper and I were usually tasked with things like restocking inventory, cycling the service laundry, pressure-washing mossy pathways, and attending the weekly business meeting disguised as a family meal. When it came to the game of winning our father’s favor, I was rarely, if ever, the victor.
Thankful those days are over, I’m already planning to get in my comfys and open this journal as soon as I’m in the pool house—
“Sophie.”
At the sound of my name, I stop mid-stride to find my sister-in-law gliding across the back patio of what was once my childhood home—minus the latest renovations. Her ombre wrap dress ripples in the breeze, drawing my full attention.
“Hey,” I reply, trying to sound casual even though I’ve never felt casual around Natalie a day in my life. “How are you?”
She grips the railing, facing the glorious view of the vineyard and rolling hills beyond me. She leans in and pitches her voice low. “Your parents are here. They got in last night. Your mom said she’s been trying to get ahold of you all morning. I figured you’d like a heads-up before lunch.”
A brick of nerves lands hard in the pit of my belly. My parents are here? Now? Four weeks ago I felt ready for this. I’d had an entire day of travel to mentally prepare for conversations long overdue. But today? I lift my phone and see that, sure enough, it’s still set on Do Not Disturb. I panic scroll through my missed notifications. My mom has called three times and texted twice. And even though my nerves have just been set on fire, I notice the one notification that isn’t there.
“Do I have time to run to the pool house and—”
The back door opens behind Natalie, and my words freeze.
“Natalie? Have you heard from So— Oh .” My mother spots me and lightly touches her fingertips to her lips. “Sophie.” She blinks rapidly. “You’re home.”
For the briefest moment, it’s as if I can see Gigi staring back at me through my mother’s eyes, and I feel the most overwhelming urge to break into a run and throw my arms around her neck. To tell her I’ve missed her. To tell her I love her. To tell her why I had to leave home all those years ago even after she begged me to stay.
But then my mother blinks, and the spell is broken. Outward displays of affection are simply not the Wilder way. And my mother is nothing if not a model of proper behavior.
With practiced elegance, Anita Wilder crosses the patio dressed in white tailored pants and a pearl-buttoned summer cardigan. She waits for me to climb the steps and move toward her. Her eyes glitter as she assesses me, and I hold my breath when she reaches out to smooth a lock of my hair and tuck it behind my ear.
“Hi, Mom,” I say around the growing lump in my throat.
“That color of pink has always suited your complexion well,” she says before moving on to straighten the neckline of my sundress. When her fingers pause their compulsive fixing, I feel rather than see the moment she registers her mother’s cross pendant around my neck. But in typical Anita Wilder fashion, she avoids the potential confrontation and simply doesn’t ask the question that glows from her eyes.
“Did you have a nice cruise?” I ask dutifully.
The smile she offers is fragile but genuine. “The Mediterranean is always beautiful this time of year, although our schedule wasn’t conducive to a lot of sightseeing.”
Meaning my father kept them moving at a brisk pace.
“But your father enjoyed himself. He was quite the networker.” She gives a halfhearted chuckle. “So much for semi-retirement.” She looks over her shoulder at Natalie. “What are we gonna do with these men of ours, Natalie?” Mom shakes her head good-naturedly. “It’s all work and no play with them. It’s why your father insisted upon lunch today despite our jetlagged state. But your father wanted to share the potential contacts he made with your brother while they were still fresh in his mind.”
Never mind the daughter he hasn’t seen in nearly three years; it was business that brought him to the house today.
Natalie glances between us. “We should probably head inside. Looks like lunch is ready.”
I furrow my brow, wondering if Jasper arranged for one of the chefs to come in on their day off and cook. But once I step inside to the dining room, I discover that lunch has actually been provided by a popular Asian bistro in midtown. My father’s favorite. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sushi rolls in one place.
My brother pats my father’s shoulder twice with the hand not gripping a glass of amber liquid and lends him one of his most congenial smiles. The two laugh in the way only rich men sharing a cocktail at noon can laugh, and my feet pause there. Just a few steps behind my father’s turned back.
When Jasper’s gaze finally flicks to me, the energy in the room changes course.
My father, Ronald Wilder, is slow to face me, and I feel every millisecond of his rotation as if he’s tied a tourniquet around my chest.
“Hello, Dad. It’s good to see you again.”
“Sophie, my prodigal daughter returned,” my father says by way of greeting, lifting his glass ever so slightly before taking a sip. For a man who claims to despise all organized religion, as well as those who take part in it, he seems to pay no mind to the irony behind his biblical reference. “Your mother was worried you’d miss Sunday lunch when she couldn’t get ahold of you, but I assured her you’d come back. Same as I did when you left home the first time.”
“And here she arrived right on time,” my mom interjects peaceably, briefly touching my back before handing me a plate. She does the same for my father, my brother, and Natalie. The four of us shuffle toward the buffet and fill our plates before we take a seat around the table. All the while, I’m rehashing in my mind the conversations I’ve shared with Dana over the years regarding healthy boundaries and productive communication tools. We spent many evenings psychoanalyzing our dysfunctional family dynamics and sharing our secret hurts, fears, and hopes.
I am not the same helpless girl I was at sixteen. I have no reason to cower. My viewpoints are valid, and my voice is strong. I am strong.
These are the phrases I repeat in my head, the same ones I know Dana would coach me to repeat if she were with me now.
We sit at the grand dining table meant for a family three times ou r size, and I’m more than a little surprised to see my brother sitting at the head of the table. I realize this is no longer my parents’ primary residence, and that technically it’s Jasper who oversees the operation of the winery now, but I hadn’t expected the transfer of power to be so ... complete.
My mother, with her single roll and quarter cup of cucumber salad, glances around the table. “This is nice, isn’t it? All of us together again for a summer lunch at the winery.” Either everyone is too busy dunking their sushi in soy sauce to respond, or there are differing opinions on the matter. “Sophie, Natalie tells me what a help you’ve been to her in the tasting room these last few weeks.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s nice of her.” I spare a glance at Natalie, who only has a bowl of fried rice in front of her and appears to be more interested in counting each grain of rice with her chopsticks than eating. “Thank you, Natalie.” She nods once at my sentiment. It’s better than nothing, I suppose.
“Have you had a chance to catch up with any old friends? When you weren’t in the pool house this morning, I’d wondered if you’d met someone for breakfast.” I’m not sure which friends my mother might be referring to, as anyone I was acquainted with in high school moved on long ago. But technically speaking, she was on the right track.
“I was with friends, but I’ve only met them recently,” I begin, and my pulse doubles. It’s not until the words are halfway out of my mouth that I realize I’m fully committed. “I spent the morning with them at church, actually.”
“Church?” This, from my father.
My mother’s carefully selected piece of sushi slips from her chopsticks and splashes into her soy sauce dish. Natalie rushes to hand her a second napkin. And then a third. All eyes settle on me.
“Yes,” I answer. “It was a beautiful service. I really enjoyed it.”
“So you’ve traded in acting for organized religion?” my father asks dryly. “I’d assumed your blunder on Broadway might have curbed your affinity for living in a fairy-tale world.”
Shame pricks my cheeks at his mention of my screw-up on stage last February, and I catch my brother’s smirk as he takes a sip of his cocktail. Up until this moment, I’d figured the only thing my father knew about my homecoming was what I’d written in my email—that I needed a change of scenery and was hoping to secure a job at the winery until I could get back on my feet financially. But “Blunder on Broadway” was the title an online theater critic gave to my performance—or lack thereof. Which means my father must have seen it. Read it. Maybe even watched a clip of it.
The thought makes my appetite die.
Before I have a chance to recalibrate from my mortification, my father says, “You may have rejected my advice at eighteen, Sophie, but perhaps you should rethink it now, considering your less-than-desirable circumstances living as a squatter in the family’s pool house.” He lets his words hover for a good four seconds before he continues. “The only way to get ahead in this world is to pay your dues the way your brother has done here for over a decade now. He’s sacrificed momentary enjoyment for hard work, even when that work went unnoticed and underappreciated.” He lifts an eyebrow and then tips his head in Jasper’s direction. “If you play your cards right, you might just be able to work yourself into a managerial role under your brother’s tutelage and establish a reputable career.” He grips his son’s shoulder, and I note the pride in my mother’s eyes. Interestingly enough, Natalie’s expression isn’t as easy to read.
“I don’t believe,” Jasper says with a wry tone, “that she has much spare time for my tutelage, Dad.”
“And why’s that?” my father asks after another large helping of spicy tuna. “I was under the impression she was only working part-time.”
“Here, yes,” Jasper supplies. “But if her daily sign-out of the Escalade is any indication, I’d guess she’s secured other employment.”
“Jasper,” Natalie chides softly. “It’s none of our business how she spends her free time. She’s a grown adult.”
Jasper’s expression lifts in amusement as he silently circles a finger around the rim of his glass and cuts his gaze to his wife. “I’d say it’s my business when she’s using one of the vehicles in our fleet to drive herself there.”
“Y ou told me I could check out a car whenever I needed to as long as one was available.”
“I suppose I did,” Jasper says easily enough. “Although, at the time, I hadn’t realized just how often that would be.”
My mother’s gaze skirts to me, but she remains quiet.
“Did you take on a second job?” My father’s accusing tone dries out my throat.
I try to draw from the confidence I once summoned on stage, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot pull on a character quickly enough to protect myself. I can only be me. “Yes, I’ve signed a contract at a recording studio in Petaluma.”
“Oh, are you singing, dear?” my mother asks with something akin to nostalgia in her voice. “Are you recording music?”
“No,” I say feebly, “I’m voice acting—narrating audiobooks for a reputable publishing house.”
For the longest time, nobody speaks. Not one person.
Until my father breaks the silence. “You’re reading books.” He stares a hole through me. “What kind of adult job is that?”
“Ronald,” my mother says cautiously, “if it’s something she enjoys, then maybe—”
“Then maybe what, Anita?” He balls up his napkin and tosses it on his plate. “She’s embarrassed us from a distance, so why not allow her to do the same while she’s living off of our blood, sweat, and tears? Unbelievable.”
He’s still bemoaning my shortcomings as he leaves the table, but I can’t hear him. Not over the vivid memory that confiscates my mind and holds me captive:
Dad, with his back turned, talking to the sheriff on the phone three months after the incident in the cellar. “I understand, Sheriff, and we value the time and resources your men have put into this.” Pause. “No, no, moving to a private investigation won’t be necessary. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve had some doubts regarding the accuracy of Sophie’s story for some time now.” Pause. “Right, right. Exactly. She’s always been a bit of an attention-seeker, overly dramatic. You know the type.” Pause. Laugh. “Good to know I’m not the only one. Thanks again.”