spa?” Annie asked. “Because I guess the lady was trying to get someone to come do a story on it, but I didn’t know she’d done it.”
“No, I mean vineyards and how some are vanity projects and some are businesses. I just finished this book.” Lila adopted the requisite movie trailer drama voice “CIVIL WAR: Napa vs. Sonoma.”
“That seems a bit much,” said Annie.
“It was.” If a book could have used a slow-motion camera and a melodramatic soundtrack, this would have. After rattling off some facts about varietals and the lifecycle of the average vine, Lila noted their blank expressions and brought herself to a stop.
“You had insomnia last night, didn’t you?” Annie asked. Well accustomed to Lila’s nighttime affliction, in college she’d been subjected to many breakfast lectures on topics such as travel in the Siberian wilderness and Amish quilting techniques. “But it’s true, there’s some Sonoma-Napa rivalry. Our biggie around here is Endicott. Big Bob’s in charge and he’s been growing it aggressively.”
“He’s about 6’5” and wears a huge cowboy hat,” Pete added. Lila recalled spotting such a man at the holiday party, towering over the board chair.
“They just announced that Endicott’s hosting the Sonoma County charity auction next fall.” Annie said. “That thing’s getting big. It’s nothing like Napa’s, but I heard this year Ben Stiller came.”
“Tiny man,” said Pete.
“They all are,” Lila agreed.
“Big heads, tiny bodies,” Annie added. “Speaking of,” she turned to her husband, “Lila’s no longer with Phillip. He’s gone off with some French witch.”
“What’s up with Phillip?” Pete made a face. “What’s wrong with Phil?”
“He’s not like that,” Lila quickly jumped to his defense, a well-worn habit.
“P-Dawg,” Pete offered as an alternative, making Annie laugh and even Lila crack a smile at the impossibility. “OK, but I have a question.” He sat forward, serious. “Can he handle the truth? Or did you have to tell him ‘You can’t handle the truth!”
Lila sat up, alarmed. Why was he quoting Jack Nicholson/drunk Lila Clark doing karaoke? Pete laughed and threw a pillow at her. “Oh come on! I loved it! You were hilarious.”
“Pete!” Annie exclaimed. “I hadn’t mentioned… Lila didn’t know we’d seen the YouTube—”
“You saw the YouTube video?” Lila nearly yelled, tamping down her panic only in deference to sleeping Charlotte.
“Just because it happened at the vineyard here next to town,” Annie said dismissively. “We never would have otherwise.”
“It was awesome, Lila.” Pete laughed again, kicking back in the chair and taking another sip of his beer.
Sitting on the couch, gasping for air like a fish tossed up on a rock, Lila wished intently she’d never drank champagne or never listened to music or something else that would have prevented her performance, like the Butterfly Effect.
Annie steered the conversation toward safer ground, asking after Lila’s Gram. She’d hosted Annie for a couple of Thanksgivings during college. “Remember she invited the mailman?” Annie recalled with a smile.
“She did again this past Thanksgiving,” Lila said, willing herself to save her freak out for the privacy of her hotel room.
“She loves a big holiday table,” Annie said. Lila agreed. Gram would have done well with a large family, but she’d only been able to have one child herself, who, in turn, only had one child. Together with the fact that her husband had passed away 14 years ago, Gram did an admirable job of surrounding herself with chaos. Just last month when Lila had flown home for Thanksgiving she, her mom and her mom’s boyfriend Rodger had been joined by a recently widowed neighbor, a 50-something “singleton” as Gram had called her from the rotary club, two dog rescue enthusiasts, a recently divorced mom and her Goth teenage son, and, of course, the
“No, I mean vineyards and how some are vanity projects and some are businesses. I just finished this book.” Lila adopted the requisite movie trailer drama voice “CIVIL WAR: Napa vs. Sonoma.”
“That seems a bit much,” said Annie.
“It was.” If a book could have used a slow-motion camera and a melodramatic soundtrack, this would have. After rattling off some facts about varietals and the lifecycle of the average vine, Lila noted their blank expressions and brought herself to a stop.
“You had insomnia last night, didn’t you?” Annie asked. Well accustomed to Lila’s nighttime affliction, in college she’d been subjected to many breakfast lectures on topics such as travel in the Siberian wilderness and Amish quilting techniques. “But it’s true, there’s some Sonoma-Napa rivalry. Our biggie around here is Endicott. Big Bob’s in charge and he’s been growing it aggressively.”
“He’s about 6’5” and wears a huge cowboy hat,” Pete added. Lila recalled spotting such a man at the holiday party, towering over the board chair.
“They just announced that Endicott’s hosting the Sonoma County charity auction next fall.” Annie said. “That thing’s getting big. It’s nothing like Napa’s, but I heard this year Ben Stiller came.”
“Tiny man,” said Pete.
“They all are,” Lila agreed.
“Big heads, tiny bodies,” Annie added. “Speaking of,” she turned to her husband, “Lila’s no longer with Phillip. He’s gone off with some French witch.”
“What’s up with Phillip?” Pete made a face. “What’s wrong with Phil?”
“He’s not like that,” Lila quickly jumped to his defense, a well-worn habit.
“P-Dawg,” Pete offered as an alternative, making Annie laugh and even Lila crack a smile at the impossibility. “OK, but I have a question.” He sat forward, serious. “Can he handle the truth? Or did you have to tell him ‘You can’t handle the truth!”
Lila sat up, alarmed. Why was he quoting Jack Nicholson/drunk Lila Clark doing karaoke? Pete laughed and threw a pillow at her. “Oh come on! I loved it! You were hilarious.”
“Pete!” Annie exclaimed. “I hadn’t mentioned… Lila didn’t know we’d seen the YouTube—”
“You saw the YouTube video?” Lila nearly yelled, tamping down her panic only in deference to sleeping Charlotte.
“Just because it happened at the vineyard here next to town,” Annie said dismissively. “We never would have otherwise.”
“It was awesome, Lila.” Pete laughed again, kicking back in the chair and taking another sip of his beer.
Sitting on the couch, gasping for air like a fish tossed up on a rock, Lila wished intently she’d never drank champagne or never listened to music or something else that would have prevented her performance, like the Butterfly Effect.
Annie steered the conversation toward safer ground, asking after Lila’s Gram. She’d hosted Annie for a couple of Thanksgivings during college. “Remember she invited the mailman?” Annie recalled with a smile.
“She did again this past Thanksgiving,” Lila said, willing herself to save her freak out for the privacy of her hotel room.
“She loves a big holiday table,” Annie said. Lila agreed. Gram would have done well with a large family, but she’d only been able to have one child herself, who, in turn, only had one child. Together with the fact that her husband had passed away 14 years ago, Gram did an admirable job of surrounding herself with chaos. Just last month when Lila had flown home for Thanksgiving she, her mom and her mom’s boyfriend Rodger had been joined by a recently widowed neighbor, a 50-something “singleton” as Gram had called her from the rotary club, two dog rescue enthusiasts, a recently divorced mom and her Goth teenage son, and, of course, the
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