My mother stands in the foyer, hands on her hips, her shrewd gaze taking me in. She’s not the kind of warm, loving mother I’ve seen on TV, or like my best friend Tripp’s mom. My mom is no-nonsense. Harsh. I tell myself she means well. In my head, I come up with excuses.She works hard. It’s not easy running the vineyard. Raising two boys who want nothing to do with the family business is probably frustrating.
“Hi, Mom.” I come closer, skimming her cheek with a kiss. For some reason this evening I’m feeling softer toward her. Maybe I’ll blame it on Ember. “Sorry to worry you. I went for a run by the lake.”
“And you’re wet because?”
Oops. My fingers touch the side of my shorts, testing to see just how wet I still am. Wet enough to not say I dumped my water bottle on my head after my run.
“I jumped in quickly, to cool off.”
She clears her throat and takes a step back. “Dinner is on the stove. Gretchen made zoodles.” She throws her eyes upward, a half roll. I hold back my laugh. The half eye-roll is a Johanna Sutton signature look.
“Zoodles?” I ask, glancing apprehensively in the direction of the kitchen.
She twitters her hand in the air. “Your father. You know how he is.”
“Right,” I say slowly. I’ve never understood my mother’s antagonism toward my father’s willingness to try new things. She likes constancy, and he wants to raze a section of field and plant hybrid grapes.
She gestures to the next room. “Go get dinner. I have emails to return.”
We go in opposite directions, but her pace is much faster than mine. Her heels make loud clicking sounds against the floor.
In the kitchen, Gretchen prepares a plate for me. Her wide frame takes up nearly the entire front of the oven. She’s worked for us for so long, she’s practically a member of the family. As a small child I loved burying my face in the front of her apron. There was so much of her to hug, and she always smelled like brownies.
“You’re eating late today.” She sets the plate on the counter beside the stove and reaches for the ladle. I eye the pile of pale noodles with suspicion. Some of them are green on one side.
“Don’t make such a face, Noah. They’re not that bad. Mr. Derek requested them.” She laughs to herself. “He saw them in a magazine.”
There’s no point in telling Gretchen she doesn’t have to call my dadMr. She ignores me every time.
When my plate is ready she hands it to me. I stifle my automatic revulsion at whatever these fake noodles are and smile my thanks. At least there’s tomato sauce on top. “If you made it, I’m sure it’s delicious.”
She winks and gently pushes me out to the dining room. “Your dad asked me to send you in when you arrived.”
Rounding the corner, I walk through the open doorway into the dining room. “Hi, Dad.” I step up to the long oak table. The best word to describe my dad isjolly. But not like Santa. More like…joyful. His personality can fill a room. He’s happy, and makes people laugh. He’s a third-generation Sutton, and loves the vineyard with all his heart. Brody and I joke that he loves those grapes more than us. Everyone adores my dad. From the vendors who supply the restaurant adjacent to the vineyard welcome center, to the groups he leads on the daily tour, and all the way out to the cleaning staff.
He looks up from the hardback spread open on the table next to his empty plate. “Noah, there you are.” His large hand pushes aside the book. I can’t see the title, but I’m interested to know what book is that huge. “Late tonight.”
“Yeah.” I take my place on his right.
“Kelsey?”
“Uh, no.” My eyes flicker down to my plate. My first thought is that the dinner looks like Christmas, but the red sauce reminds me of all the red hair that was nestled against my chest an hour ago.
“Not Kelsey?” His salt-and-pepper eyebrows are on his forehead. “Someone else?”
I push the noodles around and shake my head. I don’t want to talk about Kelsey. “I went for a run after practice. I need to increase my cardiovascular stamina.”
He nods slowly. “It’s getting pretty far along in the school year.” He steeples his fingers and rests his chin between the index and middle ones.
My chest puffs out. Heat fills me.
“It’s what I want, Dad.” It’s only ever been soccer for me. I live it, I breath it, I dream it. I have to play it in college, or else… I don’t know. The alternative is inconceivable.
“I know, son, but it might be time for you to pick your gaze up from the ball and start looking around.” His face is fixed in a concerned stare, the skin between his eyebrows cinched together.
I want to tell him if I kept my gaze on the ball I wouldn't score as many goals as I do, but I keep the comment to myself. Besides, I’ve heard him say it enough times that I could've said it myself the second he opened his mouth. He’s been saying the same thing since the fall when Tripp was picked up by Stanford. But how can I give up on my dream now? And how can he expect me to?
I get where he’s coming from. His parents died in a freak boating accident when he was my age. There was no time for college, no time for him to goof off and go to frat parties. On the day they died, he became the owner of Sutton Vineyard, Sutton Wine, and the whole Sutton brand. My determination to play professional soccer doesn’t help my dad keep Sutton Wines in the family.
