Chapter 4 Nellie Today
The drive to wine country is drop dead.
Enough so that it distracts me for a while from my angst. Mostly.
When my driver, John, and I leave the airport in our gargantuan black SUV with its perforated leather seats—presidential motorcade style—the skies quickly morph to full white. In the distance, clouds obscure the crests of green hills.
San Francisco is not totally unknown to me, though I have never quite had my bearings here.
So, I am hit by a wave of nostalgia and even longing as I gaze at these vaguely familiar streets.
When I lived in LA in college, more years ago than I care to count, I used to come visit Cara here regularly to spend Saturday nights crashing house parties and kissing random boys, and Sundays wandering indie boutiques in Hayes Valley.
We gorged ourselves on hangover dim sum.
And, okay, maybe once when Sabrina was also in town, I threw up in a tiny water bottle not far from here.
It’s hard not to mourn those carefree days.
That sense of possibility sure beats the stress of my current employment situation, the worries of adulting.
My friends and I met up for holidays and long weekends and for no reason at all, driving back and forth on the 5 freeway between here and Southern Cali like it was nothing, as long as we had ample chips and mixtapes in tow. Let the truckers honk their hearts out.
It feels like eons ago—and like yesterday. Just like it felt to see Noah’s face.
It has been actual decades (over two and a half, I flinch) since he and I last crossed paths. I don’t know what I imagined I’d feel when I saw him. Anger, sure. Distance, definitely. Satisfaction, ideally—if he was balding and paunchy enough.
No such luck.
Instead, I am shocked by the freshness of the wound. Humiliated by it, even. By the sense of knowing him and of being known, which feels delusional after so many years of not speaking. By the lapsing into old rhythms, even antagonistic ones, so automatically.
It should be old news.
And I was angry, sure. But, I realize now with horror that it was less because of the original injury and more a sense that, with his actions, Noah had robbed us of so many years we could have had together.
And, even worse, that as he stood in front of me, hands in his pockets, completely fine, he didn’t appear to be experiencing the same sense of loss.
While I was tossed into some zero-gravity atmosphere, floating untethered through space and time, he had his feet planted firmly on the ground. Didn’t even seem thrown.
Which is so annoyingly him. To let everything roll off his back, to take the situation in stride. Like it’s all no big deal.
Like none of it meant anything to him. And, of course, why should it? We were literally teenagers. Just kids.
I’m the one who needs to get a life, after all these years.
But he could at least have had the decency to look like shit.
I’d had relationships since ours, of course, after I had taken some time early on in college to lick my wounds. Alfie and others—and for longer stretches. Shared apartments, shared jokes, shared pets. But somehow all that life experience seemed to vanish into the ether as soon as I saw Noah’s face.
Now, John and I come to a stop at a red light alongside a driverless car, as if to underline the passage of time. The past is past. This is the future.
Wake up.
We wind up, down, and through the hills of the city, past precious pastel town houses pitched at unnatural angles, artisanal juice shops, and seedy corners tagged with graffiti and littered with debris.
We pass through Golden Gate Park, green and lush with white dogwoods and cherry blossoms in bloom, and pass over Golden Gate Bridge with views of Alcatraz juxtaposed with crisp white sailboats in the glimmering distance.
We coast through the arched rainbows of the Robin Williams Tunnel and are transported to quieter Sausalito with its houseboats and untamed fields of yellow grass. We head toward dreamy bohemian Marin.
And all the time, I am vibrating.
And then, suddenly, things are pastoral.
There are farms—with hay bales and grazing velvet horses—that give way to redwood forests at their back edges, surely harboring mystical secrets.
And then the clouds lift. Like they never existed at all.
And we are in the full bouquet of wine country.
Cheerful grapevines rise toward the sky on all sides, sunning themselves in neat rows as far as the eye can see.
And I exhale. Because it is basically a prerequisite to arriving in this part of the country.
“We’re here,” says John as we pull into the gravel driveway at what Cara and Ben and the driver himself keep referring to as “the estate.”
“Great!” I say, but it comes out flat.
Because, as excited as I am to see Cara and Sabrina and Ben too, and as gorgeous as it is here, dread has settled leaden in my stomach.
I don’t move. The driver glances back at me. Pulls off his aviator shades.
He is probably accustomed to customers who exit his car once they arrive at their destination.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his blue eyes crinkling. Because even he—this stranger—can tell I’m off. And that is not good.
“Is it that obvious?”
He smiles warmly. “I have daughters.”
“Ah.”
I can do this, I tell myself. I can be just fine. I can face the past and then leave it there. I can make it through this trip. I can avoid Noah-who-must-not-be-named and I can celebrate my best friends and then I can fly home and figure out how to rebuild my life into something I want it to be.
John steps out of the car, pops the trunk, and, with a bit of effort, pulls out the Jolly Green Giant. As I climb out too and circle to meet him, I notice my suitcase looks pretty banged up in the light of day. A little less jolly.
“Can I take this in for you?” he asks.
I shake my head, forced bravery rising in my chest. “I’m good.”
He nods and rotates the bag toward me, so that I can easily access the handle. “Listen,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on. We don’t know each other. But I can tell you the thing I always tell my girls: You are stronger than you think. And then some. You’ve got this.”
I’ve got this.
His words reverberate through me. And I realize he reminds me of my own dad, who I could really use right now. I almost start to cry right then and there. My God, I’m a mess.
“Thank you, John.” I smile, my vision blurred.
“Also,” he says, leaning in. “The wine helps.”
And that I know is true.
Before I can fully thank him, I hear my name ring out from behind me and I swivel toward the voice. There is Cara, on the threshold of the property, arms raised above her head in celebration. And, despite my misgivings, a wave of relief washes over me.
“You’re here!” she practically sings.
Yup. I am. I am here. Whether I like it or not.
She drops her arms. “Be honest: Do I look okay in this? Because I feel like a character out of Laurel Canyon.”
And I can’t help but smile, the knot in my chest loosening ever so slightly. Because she is glowing, a vision of California bohemia in an Indian block-printed maxi dress and Birkenstocks—a stark contrast to her usual more tailored and preppy striped tops. She is trying something out.
“You look great. And like a character in Laurel Canyon.”
She purses her lips, rests a hand on her hip, and I rush toward her for a giant hug. And it’s just what the doctor ordered. My best friend.
She smells like vanilla and her—and it’s as comforting as anything could be.
When we finally release each other, she turns and leads the way deeper into the property. “I can’t wait to show you around!”
“Great!” I say. “But where’s your VW bus parked?”
She shoots me a death glare and we both dissolve into laughter.
I should have let John carry my bag. That’s my first thought as I drag the Jolly Green Giant along the cobbled path.
Though it’s sprawling and stunning, I think “estate” is not quite the right word for this place, which feels rustic in the most upscale and contained way.
Because there is nothing stuffy or grandiose here.
It’s beautiful but barefoot—every breezy detail considered.
No needs left behind.
The path is lined with an organized pandemonium of wildflowers against low stone walls—white clovers, violets, the friendliest daisy fleabane. Bees and butterflies flit harmoniously from bloom to bloom, sharing an abundance of nectar. It’s a free-for-all!
We walk by an understated indoor/outdoor dining area with twinkle lights strung from the trees above, and a spacious pool surrounded by plush loungers and sharp white umbrellas. Behind that is a row of small slatted buttercup-colored bungalows, clearly individual guest rooms.
On our way past the chicken coop and vegetable garden, I catch a glimpse of a tall blond man in overdetermined sunglasses and a too-hipster short-sleeved button-down coming around a corner.
I haven’t seen him in years, but I’d know him anywhere.
Damien. I duck my head and discreetly hustle behind Cara before he spots us, my heart pounding.
It’s one thing to confront these blasts from the past; it’s another to do it while airplane grime is still clinging to your clothes.
I am not ready to contend with him.
Gesturing toward the adjoining biodynamic vineyard and orange grove like a spokesmodel for artisanal living, Cara leads me beyond a spa wafting the scent of neroli to a larger barn-style building—also in slatted yellow—that she explains is the main manor house.
Renting this property must have cost a pretty penny. Ben and Cara both work in tech and all that implies, but still… they have gone all out.
Again, it occurs to me that this is all a little unlike Cara, who tends to be sensible, responsible, austere. This event, while being mostly symbolic, is clearly important.