And he trained me to do the same. To smile, to be charming but reserved. You wanted people to think you were pleasant, even friendly, but it was easier, for your own sake, to keep your real emotions hidden. It allowed you to be in control of the face you showed the world, and when it came to things like business deals, it gave you the upper hand. Don’t let them see you sweat, he used to say.
My gaze shifts back toward Troy and Rebecca. Did their father teach them the same things?
The more I look at them, the less I see them as some sort of Twilight-Zone version of my family and more like the real thing. Is this how the rest of the world saw us? Distant and aloof?
Carolson glances toward me, and I quickly look away. I wonder what he’d say, what he’d do if he realized Louisa Cunningham was standing right in front of him. Would he even care?
We’ve reached the edge of the vineyards now—or at least what will be the vineyards in a few years, when the vines have grown some. But the tasting room is complete, and Mr. Haymore ushers our little group inside.
It’s the first time I’ve been in here. They built this little building completely from scratch, and while I should’ve guessed it would be as ridiculous as the rest of Huntington Manor, I’m still not prepared. Rather than more Rococo decor, they’ve decided to go for the rustic look in here—well, the luxury version of “rustic.” The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, and there are thick wooden beams across the ceiling. There are a number of large black-and-white photographs displayed around the room—pictures of some of the collection’s finer bottles, I realize when I get a closer look. I spot a photo of the one Calder gave my father for his fiftieth birthday. And there, on the far wall, the one my father said he’d open when and if he ever got remarried.
There’s a long marble bar at the far end of the room, and Haymore leads us toward it. He grabs several wine menus from behind the counter and passes them to each of the Carolsons.
“Would you like to try anything?” he says. “The Waterstone Ridge ‘99 is apparently spectacular.”
“Oh, there’s no need to open a bottle for us,” Carolson says.
“I insist,” Mr. Haymore says. “Consider it part of the tour. Maybe you’d prefer something lighter? The Ardenback ‘02 might be a good choice.”
I might just be imagining it, but something flashes briefly in Carolson’s eyes before he says anything. It’s gone quickly, replaced once more by his polite politician’s smile.
“I’d be happy to try it,” he says.
Mr. Haymore looks pleased.
“Ms. Thomas,” he says, “go fetch us a bottle.”
Oh right—that’s me. I follow his gesture toward the door to the cellar, then pause.
“That was the—”
“The Ardenback ‘02,” he repeats, his impatience clear in his voice. He shoots Carolson a look and shakes his head as if to say, What poor, stupid help I have.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I don’t even spare Carolson a glance—I have no interest in knowing what his reaction is to my incompetence. Instead, I turn and head down the steps into the cellar.
Frankly, I’m curious to see what they’ve done to the place. When my family lived here, we had a cellar in the basement beneath the house. Naturally, it was the perfect place to play dungeon or pirates. Sometimes, even when Calder was too old to want to play with me anymore, I’d sneak down there and pretend I was looking for treasure.
This cellar was clearly designed to give that old-world vibe. But it’s too new. Too shiny. The lights come on automatically as I descend, and there’s even a computer screen built into the wall at the base of the stairs, kind of like the one I used to have in my closet.
I tap the screen, curious. Instantly, it pulls up an index of all the wines down here. Well, most of the wines. As I scroll through, it looks like they’re still working on some of the lists. I don’t see the Ardenback on there at all.
Not that I mind. It gives me some time to explore and an excuse to stay away from Haymore and the Carolsons for a few more minutes.
I turn and wander deeper into the cellar, my eyes still adjusting to the dim light. My steps echo on the slate below my feet, but otherwise this place is empty and still.
I stop to inspect some of the bottles as I pass. I’m sure Calder took some of his favorites when he left. He was always way more into wine than I was. Me? I’d take a good beer over wine any day. But they’ve definitely supplemented whatever my brother sold them of my family’s collection. I don’t recognize many of these bottles.
But when I do, whenever I recognize a label from my childhood, I stop and touch the bottle. As if somehow the glass holds some of the memories I left behind.
I wonder…
The wine appears to be organized by where the vineyards are located. I wander through the rows until I find the section for French wines. It only takes me a minute to locate the bottle I’m looking for—the label’s easy to spot.
It’s called Le Miel Doré. I always thought it sounded so exotic when I was younger. But what made this wine my favorite was the scrollwork on the label—the paint was made with real gold. When I was little, this bottle was always my “treasure.” Once I even tried to steal it and hide it in my room, but I wasn’t very sneaky back then. My father caught me immediately, and when I got upset at him for taking back my hard-won prize, he sat me down and promised me that he’d save it for something special.
“Maybe for your wedding,” he said, stroking my hair.
“What if I never get married?” I asked him.
I remember him smiling down at me like I’d said something funny.
“Then we’ll think of something else,” he assured me. “Something extra special. And then we’ll drink it together, you and I.”
I reach out slowly, letting the tips of my fingers brush against the bottle. The main part of the label is slightly rough, but the golden swirls are smooth. I trace them with my finger one by one.
The emotion hits me like a wall. Suddenly I can’t breathe. My vision goes blurry. My heart is racing, and I feel like my whole chest is constricting.
I reach out and grab the nearest shelf. I can’t do this. I can’t be here. Why, why am I here?
My legs are shaking. I sink down to the ground, trying desperately to catch my breath.
I’ll never drink the Miel Doré. Not at my wedding. Not with my father. That was taken from me, too. Everything was taken from me.