Sweet Forgiveness by Lori Nelson Spielman Page B

raises his eyebrows, and I can guess what he’s thinking: that I grew up summering in one of the mansions on the lake. When people make assumptions about my background, I normally don’t correct them. As Michael says, my image is important. Perhaps it’s because I’m a thousand miles from my fan base, or perhaps it’s because I sense this guy is real, I’m not sure. But for whatever reason, this time I correct him.
    â€œIt’s a long-overdue visit. I don’t have the best memories of this place.”
    â€œAnd your father?” he asks.
    I stir my soup. “He died last year.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œHe would have loved your vineyard. His motto was
Why eat fruit when you can drink it?
And he wasn’t talking about juice.” I don’t laugh when I say this. I don’t even smile.
    RJ nods, as if he gets it. “My dad would’ve agreed. Though he’d have extended that phrase to include rye and most grains as well.”
    So we have that in common—two fatherless children of alcoholics. I take a spoonful of soup. It’s creamy and tangy, with a hint of basil.
    â€œThis is delicious,” I say.
    â€œToo much basil?”
    â€œIt’s perfect.”
    Our eyes hold for a split second too long. I look away, feeling heat rise to my cheeks, the result of the hot soup or hot guy, I’m not certain.
    He pours me a sample from a different wine bottle, then pulls a second glass from the rack. “What the hell,” he says, and pours a dollop into his glass, too. “It’s not every day I get to fraternize with my customers. Another six weeks and I’ll be knee-deep in chaos.”
    I smile, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s just an optimist. “Have you worked here long?”
    â€œBought it four years ago. I spent my summers up here as a kid. It was my favorite place in the world. Went off to school and majored in plant science. After graduation, I got a job with E&J—Ernest and Julio Gallo Winery. Moved to Modesto and before I knew it, a dozen years disappeared.” He stares at the red liquid in his glass. “But California, for as great as it is, just wasn’t my style. One day I was dinking around on some real estate website and found this place. Bought it at auction for a pittance.”
    â€œSounds like a dream,” I say. I wonder whether he has a family, but I don’t ask.
    â€œIt is, for me.” He picks up an empty glass and wipes it with his towel. “I’d just been through an unpleasant divorce. I needed a fresh start and some distance.”
    â€œTwo thousand miles will get you that.”
    He looks over at me and smiles, but his eyes are heavy. He busies himself wiping imaginary spots from the glass. “How about you? Married? Kids? A dog and a Subaru?”
    I smile. “None of the above.” Now is the time to tell him about Michael. And I should. I know I should. But I don’t. It seems alarmist, as if I’d be sending a presumptuous message saying,
Warning! Keep away!
I don’t sense that RJ is coming on to me. I’m enjoying the light and friendly banter. It’s been a long time since I was just hanging out with a regular person, not a businessman or politician. It’s also refreshing to be with someone who doesn’t know me as Hannah Farr, talk show host.
    I pull another breadstick from the basket. “Did you make these?”
    â€œNaturally you’d ask. They’re the only item on the menu that isn’t made on site. I get them from
la boulangerie
Costco.”
    He exaggerates his French accent, and I laugh. “Costco? Really? They’re not bad,” I say, examining one of them. “Not as good as mine, but not bad.”
    He grins. “Oh, yeah? You think you can do better, eh?”
    â€œI do. These are a bit dry.”
    â€œThat’s the whole idea, Hannah. Gets people drinking.”
    â€œOh,