Chapter 11
HOLLY
Except for two not so teensy-tiny things, Zoe’s planning is impressive.
Our itinerary is plotted to the minute. What she didn’t take into account, however, is the size of our economy rental car versus the number of Anna’s suitcases.
Zoe knew how that girl packs, and our Ford Fiesta can barely handle the load.
It was a serious game of Jenga fitting all five of her pieces plus my one into the space we had to work with.
That already put us behind schedule, and Zoe didn’t leave any wiggle room for me to swing by my house for a Quinn and Jack fix.
Because, seriously, we’re flying in and out of San Francisco.
Not to mention we could have taken my car instead of a too small, underpowered rental.
Better yet, Jack could have picked us up at the airport.
I could have used a shot of Jack right now.
“Are you trying to kill us?” Anna squeals, throwing her hand out toward the dash as the car lurches to a stop in the Chateau Lavigne parking lot.
We’re both breathing heavy and my knuckles ache from the death grip on the steering wheel. Traffic was predictably ridiculous, and the navigation app took us through every back road known to man. “We wouldn’t have had to be in such a rush if you didn’t have a million suitcases,” I complain.
“We wouldn’t have had to be in such a rush if you didn’t have to stop and pee a million times.”
“I can’t help it if I drink a lot of water,” I snap back, overly cranky.
My baby boy is ninety minutes away. Every ounce of maternal desire for my son rises into my throat and I swallow hard.
We’ve only been gone three days, but it already feels like three weeks.
I turn off the engine and grab my purse.
“It’s getting late. We need to get in there for the tour. ”
Anna rolls her eyes and pats at the tote bag in her lap.
For the entire two-hour drive, she’s had the bag, with Zoe’s urn inside, on her lap.
Several times I heard her whispering, but it wasn’t me she was talking to any of those times.
And when I’d asked, “What?” she’d answered with a dismissive, “Nothing.”
And yes, I’m slightly jealous that Anna is holding Zoe, that they’re having a private connection while I’m stressed about getting us to the tour on time.
We’ve barely spoken since last night. There wasn’t much to say after the jump from Pelican Rock. Well, there had been a lot to say but neither of us seemed able to put into words how we were feeling.
Once I got over the horror of (a) climbing that ridiculous penis-shaped rock, and (b) wearing Zoe’s ashes, the reality of what we’re doing hit harder than the rum hangover from a handful of those blasted banana drinks.
I want to say there was closure, or the beginning of closure, to losing one of my dearest friends, but all I felt was the numb disbelief that with each of these trips Zoe has planned, there will be a little less of her in the world.
Jack said there would be more of her because she’d now be everywhere.
Maybe. But all I felt was the wind taking her away. It was the first of seven goodbyes.
Even Anna had been uncharacteristically subdued. I can count on one hand the number of pictures she took the entire evening.
We get out of the car, but while I turn left toward the tasting room, Anna goes right in the direction of the Inn.
“This way,” I say, pointing at the winding stone path.
“I want to check in and freshen up. And that’s this way.
” She points in the opposite direction. She looks as fresh as she did this morning when she met me in the lobby of the hotel in Cabo.
She’s wearing a linen and silk minidress with a fitted bodice and a flouncy skirt, complete with fringe hem.
Linen and silk. And it’s still crisp and perfect despite a day of travel.
Not even first-class travel the entire time.
I shoot a dirty look at the Ford Fiesta.
I, on the other hand, look like I’ve been taken out of the dryer three days too late.
The knit pants I’m wearing were advertised as “wrinkle free” but clearly the pair I bought didn’t get that memo.
And, of course, the white T-shirt has a stain on it from when I dribbled while trying to drink a Coke during turbulence.
I check my watch, even though I’d just looked at the clock on the car dash not a minute ago. “The tour starts in five minutes.”
“I only need three.”
“You can’t even walk to the Inn in three minutes. Use the toilet in there.” I gesture toward the tasting room. Her teeth bite into her bottom lip and I sigh, reining in my impatience. We now have three minutes before the tour begins. “You look… perfect.” She always does.
“But I want to look my best for Zoe.”
I mentally start counting… one, two.
“All right, all right.” Anna tucks her bag under her arm, cradling the urn against her side and follows me to the tasting room, gravel crunching under our shoes until we reach the paved walkway.
The stone building looks like a transplant from another time and place.
Towering arches welcome visitors to a covered front patio where large terracotta pots with jasmine flank the entrance.
Lavender, mint, and eucalyptus scent the air.
The ornate wood doors are propped open, an invitation to enter the cavernous main hall with its stone floor and wood-beam ceiling.
Bistro tables are scattered at discreet distances, but it’s the massive French doors along the back wall that draw my attention.
The late-afternoon light hits the vineyard at an angle that feels almost intentional, turning every row of vines into a ribbon of green and gold.
The valley beyond softens into silhouette and I feel a pressure on my upper arm, the way Zoe used to lean into me, a silent connection in a moment of beauty.
The evening breeze carries with it the faint sweetness of ripened grapes and warm soil.
“Can you smell that?” Zoe had asked our first night here.
“I smell Chanel No. 5,” Anna answered.
Zoe had laughed, that from-the-soul laugh. “Oh my god, Anna. Nature, life, not perfume.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Chanel No. 5. Nature. Life. But no Zoe.
I march to the counter where a tall, dark-haired man in jeans and a polo shirt with the winery logo on the left breast pocket is setting out wine glasses.
He slings the black cloth he’s been using to wipe the glasses over his shoulder and smiles at us.
“Welcome to Chateau Lavigne. Are you here for a tasting?”
“Hi. No, we have reservations for the tour.” The tasting room is unnervingly devoid of people. Either we’re late and the tour started or…
His head tilts to the side. “Didn’t you receive our email last week? The tour was canceled.”
“What?” Anna and I say in stereo.
“We were never notified. Just a minute.” I hold up a finger and pull out my phone. I text Mr. Whitmore:
Arrived in Napa. Tour Zoe scheduled was canceled. Did you get an email?
I glare at the screen, waiting for the telltale three dots.
Next to me, Anna swishes her skirt with nervous energy.
“Not helping,” I say under my breath, waiting for Mr. Whitmore’s text to drop and then—
Possibly. I don’t check Zoe’s account anymore.
My heart plummets. I want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Come on, Zoe, why wouldn’t you have had the reservations for these excursions come to me? Or to Anna?
“What?” Anna peeks at the screen.
I press the phone to my midsection, hiding the screen. Hurt darkens her face and I instantly feel bad.
“What’s going on?” Anna repeats.
I force air and my mounting frustration out of my lungs.
Okay, Holly, you’ve got this.
Planning is what I do, what I excel at. And I’m not going to let this guy botch Zoe’s vision.
Channeling my inner confident principal, I smile politely at the guy behind the counter. “We did not receive the cancellation notice.” My eye spasms. It’s not a lie. We didn’t receive it. “We’re perfectly fine doing a private tour. I’m even happy to pay extra for that.”
Anna looks at me, impressed.
Well, okay then. My grin broadens, and I feel momentarily smug.
I suspect Zoe has us scattering her ashes in the vines, so a private tour is better.
We had a blast on our tour that first trip.
We tasted grapes from every varietal planted on-site as our guide explained the differences in acidity and tannins based on where the vines grew, the soil they were planted in along with the moisture content in the air and sun exposure. I found it fascinating.
“I’m really sorry,” the guy in the logo shirt says. “We have a private party that’s turned into an all-hands event. It would be my pleasure, though to comp you a bottle of wine.”
“But we need the tour,” Anna jumps in. “Holly, maybe Jack can pull a few strings.” She loud-whispers the last suggestion at me, then without waiting, turns back and adds, “This would be a personal favor to Jack Sterling. I’m sure you know who he is.”
“Anna,” I hiss. “Stop it.”
“Look,” I say, addressing the crusher of plans, “what did you say your name is?”
“I didn’t. But it’s Henri.” He smiles at Anna, who has the nerve to finger-wave hello. I loudly clear my throat and Henri has the decency to look sheepish.
“Henri, what I’m trying to say is, I understand that you’re short-staffed with this other event, but our friend,” I make a show of looking at the urn poking out of Anna’s bag, Sorry Z, but desperate times and all, “booked the tour before she passed. This was a special place for the three of us and she wanted us to relive those memories.”
Next to me, I hear Anna suck in air. She’s either stunned that I used the Zoe card or was afraid I’d spill about scattering ashes on private property.
“We don’t even need a full tour. Just a walk down to the vines,” I continue.