Eight Hundred Grapes: a perfect summer escape to a sun-drenched vineyard. Laura Dave

knew he didn’t mean it. My mother’s lasagna made him do crazy things. To make amends, he cut a small square, moved it toward my side of the pan.

      “Make it last,” he said.

      “What are we going to do about Mom and Dad?”

      “What can we do? I mean, it’s their life.”

      “And ours.”

      We each took a bite, quietly. Then I moved the contract over, so he could see it for himself.

      “It’s been a great day for you, huh?”

      “Why didn’t you tell me?”

      He shrugged. “It was Dad’s information to share.”

      My head was spinning thinking about all the things people in this family knew. And the things that people were leaving out.

      “He only told me to make sure I didn’t want the vineyard, which I assured him I didn’t.”

      “Why did no one ask me? What if I had wanted the vineyard?”

      “You don’t want the vineyard.”

      I was moving to London in twenty days and joining the new London office of my law firm. London, a city I had been a little in love with since the first time I’d visited for a friend’s wedding after we’d graduated college. After the reception, I decided to walk the city, winding my way down the cobblestone streets outside Chelsea, heading toward Pimlico. I dreamed of walking those amazing streets late at night, lantern-lit streetlights leading the way toward a tiny bistro famous for their rosemary potatoes. I couldn’t believe that bistro was about to be my neighborhood bistro, those streets about to be my streets. Even if my relationship was in shambles, I was excited for those things.

      Finn shook his head. “Honestly, Dad knew you don’t want the vineyard any more than I do,” he said.

      “That’s not the point.”

      “It should be,” Finn said. “Besides, you made me and Bobby sign a contract your second year in law school that said we’d never take over the vineyard. And we would stop each other from doing it. Remember that?”

      I did remember. I remembered why I had wanted us to sign it. I’d been having a hard time in law school, and part of me had wanted to come home and quit. But that was what coming home felt like to me. Quitting. Giving up on my dreams to build a life away from here, a life that was more stable than a vineyard felt. And I hadn’t wanted to give up. I hadn’t wanted Finn and Bobby to give up either.

      Finn shook his head. “Bobby still fucking has it, I’m sure …” he said.

      I pointed my finger at him. “What was that? And what is this about you moving?”

      He shook his head. “I think you should probably stay out of it,” he said.

      “I’d like to, but you both keep dropping hints, and it’s making it pretty hard to ignore.”

      He stuck his fork in the lasagna, like he was putting a stake into the ground, blocking off his portion.

      “Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But I don’t want your judgment.”

      “Of course.”

      “No, don’t say of course. You won’t mean it. Not when you hear the details. Because the details are going to make you think that you understand what I’m dealing with. And you don’t understand what I’m dealing with.”

      “Why? What did you do?”

      “Is that a good place to start?”

      I put my fork down, moving the pan physically toward him like a peace offering.

      “So I think it’s best, for impartiality, if we just talk about it like we’re talking about other people. People you don’t know. People who aren’t your brothers. A guy named Mark. And a guy named Jesse.”

      Did Finn see himself more like a Jesse or more like a Mark? I’d guess Jesse.

      “I see what you’re doing. Don’t try to guess which one I am,” he said.

      “Any other players I need to know for your story?”

      “Just Daisy,” he said. Then he sighed, Finn actually sighed out loud. “Daisy is this woman that Jesse met when he was really young. Daisy. And he loved her since he was very young. But he’s a guy. And guys are stupid. Sixteen-year-old guys are so stupid they don’t know yet what stupid even means. So he decided he shouldn’t have anything to do with her. He met someone else … Lana.”

      “Bobby is cheating on Margaret?”

      “How did you get there?”

      “It’s obvious.”

      “Except you’re wrong.” He looked at me. “I’m Jesse. Bobby is Mark.”

      “And who is Lana?”

      “Lana is Annabelle Lawrence.”

      I looked at him, confused. Annabelle Lawrence was a girl that Finn had dated in high school. She was short, with tons of freckles and a big laugh, the kind of laugh that made you want to be around her all the time. I cried when Finn broke up with her. And I remembered what he’d said. He’d said there were going to be many Annabelles. He hadn’t been kidding.

      Finn picked up his fork, taking two big bites in quick succession. “I can’t help how I feel and I can’t do anything about it. And that’s not new.”

      “What is?”

      “She has feelings for me too.”

      Which was when I knew what he was saying. I knew the people who were in love here and who were being kept apart. “Margaret.”

      He nodded. “Margaret. Me and Margaret.”

      My heart dropped. How had I not known this? How had it not occurred to me, ever? The summer before Bobby and Margaret had started dating, she had been at the house all the time. She and Finn had been lifeguards together at the Ives pool. She had been Finn’s friend first, before she was Bobby’s wife.

      “Please don’t look at me like that,” he said.

      “Finn, are you sleeping with her?”

      Finn shook his head. “That’s your question?”

      “Hey.”

      We looked up, the sound of a voice shocking us. It was Bobby, standing in the kitchen doorway. Bobby, who, if he’d heard the end of our conversation, certainly seemed to have no idea it was about him.

      He walked in, an overnight bag in his hand.

      “Holy shit,” he said. “Lasagna!”

      He made a beeline for the table, not even dropping his bag as he reached for a bite. Finn leaned back, not fighting him.

      It seemed fair: Something was going on between Margaret and Finn. Bobby should have as much of the lasagna as he wanted.

      “What are you doing here?” Finn said.

      Finn’s tone was less than welcoming.

      “Mom called for reinforcements,” he said, slightly taken aback. “You too?”

      “Yep,” he said.

      I looked up at Bobby. “So you know about Mom and Dad too?”

      Bobby nodded, took another bite. “It’s my second lasagna this week.”

      This was when Margaret walked in, a twin on each hip, Peter and Josh Ford, dressed in matching firefighter uniforms complete with enormous red pants, suspenders, and fireman hats. Margaret was that way: five foot ten, long, blond hair, beautiful. And able to carry matching five-year-old firefighters on each hip and make it look easy.

      Margaret forced a smile.