The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [129]
Walter and I exchanged a glance.
“No,” I said, speaking for both of us. “We’ve each lost a son. We’re in this until the end.”
Nine Months Later
45
I nudged the screen door of the adobe farmhouse open with my knee, carrying Claire’s and Kate’s bags out into the dirt courtyard. It was a fine warm morning, air perfumed by the lavender rooted in the shade of the courtyard walls, and sun brilliant in a cloudless sky. Beyond the walls were endless rows of grapevines, tendrils heavy with purple fruit.
The house and the surrounding fifty acres were a slice of an old California rancho, half an hour north of Napa, that had been purchased by a thrifty migrant couple back before the area became wine country. The husband had restored the dilapidated house and outbuildings, while his wife revived the kitchen garden and planted lilacs, manzanitas, azaleas, and other flowering trees and shrubs wherever they’d take. They’d grown various cash crops in the early years—wheat, oats, and barley—but as time went by, and the wine boom gathered momentum, they’d leased most of the land to local vintners.
It had been a grandson who related the history to me, and who explained why the family was selling. His grandparents had died of old age, well after the succeeding generations had abandoned the land for the city. He was a UCLA-educated venture capitalist with a prominent Sand Hill Road firm, equal parts proud and ashamed of his humble heritage. The family didn’t want to spend cash on maintenance but couldn’t bear to see the place get run-down. I had the sense he was more interviewing than selling us, wanting to make sure the property was delivered into good hands. Despite our urban background, Claire, Kate, and I somehow passed muster. We found a housewarming gift in the kitchen after we closed the deal—a planting journal the elderly couple had kept over the fifty years of their residence, detailing what had flourished and what hadn’t, and packed with agricultural tips and advice. Claire had already become adept at translating it, leaning on one of our inherited farmhands for help with the colloquialisms that defied her Spanish dictionary.
I heard the screen door open again as I was loading the bags into our car, and turned to see Claire and Kate walking toward me. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts and dusty boots. Kate had a silver locket around her neck, a farewell gift from Phil. He’d visited us in San Francisco before heading off to Vienna for a semester abroad. He and Kate had parted friends, and they still chatted online frequently. She’d put him in touch with Gabor, her hacker friend from nearby Budapest. Phil and Gabor had discovered a mutual interest in electronic music, and Kate had been amused to learn that they were planning to meet up at an outdoor festival in Prague. I was glad her first real relationship had worked out well for her but not entirely unhappy that they’d been separated before things went too far.
“I wish you could be there tonight,” Claire said, standing on tiptoe to give me a kiss. “The dancing is really magnificent.”
The San Francisco Ballet was kicking off its new season with a twilight performance of Balanchine pieces in Golden Gate Park, and Claire was making her debut as their new pianist.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, hugging her tight. “I might catch the end. If not, I’ll definitely see you at the party afterward.”
Kate suddenly snapped her fingers and ran back toward the house.
“What now?” I said.
“Her sweater,” Claire guessed, shaking her head tolerantly. “I think she left it on a chair in the kitchen. She’s really nervous.”
The following day would be Kate’s first as a freshman at UC Berkeley. Our plan was to spend the night in a hotel in the city and then drive across the Bay Bridge to move Kate into her new residence hall. The previous week had been almost entirely consumed by speculation about her new roommate, with occasional