“Make sure you put it on ice,” he says. “Your ankle, I mean.”
And then I’m watching—again—as he walks away.
7
THE THIRD RING
JAMIE WAITED SO LONG TO INTRODUCE ME TO THEKAUFFMAN CLAN—more than a year!—that I had started to worry he was actively trying to keep me a secret… or else thattheyhad some terrible secret he didn’t want me to find out about. Like maybe his father was a cult leader with eighteen wives, or maybe they didn’t live on a former vineyard at all but some sort of chinchilla farm—just cages and cages full of shaved rodents. But a few weeks before Christmas, I was finally about to find out the truth.
We flew from LA to San Francisco then rented a car to drive the final hour up to his parents’ house in Napa. My nerves were shot by the time the car crunched up a long, gravel driveway—well, really more of a private road than a driveway—and the house came into view. Thoughhousemight not be the properword for it.Estatemight be more appropriate. The idea of this being home—as in, the place where you built pillow forts as a kid and watched Sunday cartoons and did homework and got in trouble for drawing on the walls—was a little hard to picture. The enormous chalet of creamy yellow stone was surrounded by garden paths that led out across the sweeping grounds. The house was surrounded by acres of grape vines—remnants of a once-thriving winery that now served as a playground for Mr. Kauffman’s amateur winemaking hobby. I knew Jamie’s family had money, but it hadn’t really registered for me howmuchmoney they had until someone greeted us at the door and took our luggage, like we’d arrived at a boutique hotel, before leading us inside.
Jamie’s voice echoed as he called for his parents, but no one answered. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves.” He grabbed my hand and led me back out the front door. “Let me give you the tour.”
Jamie pulled me around the side of the house where the perfectly manicured lawn gave way to a wilder expanse. Rows of grapevines stretched in every direction.
“Wow,” I breathed, taking in the scale of the vineyard. “This is incredible.”
Jamie ducked his head in embarrassment, but I could see there was a hint of pride in his eyes. “Come check it out.” We walked down a set of stone steps and crossed the lawn until we were standing in front of the rows of grapes. Jamie gestured toward a rustic barn nestled amongst the vines. “That’s where all the magic happens.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Magic?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you know, the fermenting, the aging,all that stuff. It’s pretty fascinating, actually.” He plucked a grape from a nearby vine and popped it into his mouth. “Open up,” he said, before slipping a grape between my lips.
It burst with sweetness, a hint of tartness lingering on my tongue. “Delicious.”
“Right?” Jamie grinned. “And the wine tastes even better. I’ve been telling my dad for years we should expand our sales beyond wine country. It’s off-menu at the Michelin-starred restaurant nearby, and the som there is a huge fan. He says it’s a total crime that no one can find it outside of Napa because of our limited distro.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across the vineyard. “I think it could be a much more significant piece of our business one day, and a really meaningful part of our portfolio, you know? It’s exactly the type of venture our Kauffman Group clients would love to invest in.” Jamie was practically glowing with this idea. He looked way more excited about it than he usually did when speaking about The Kauffman Group’s investment machinations. “Anyway,” he said with a shrug, “I just think maybe it could be something special.”
I couldn’t help but smile at his passion. I knew about as much about winemaking as I did about private equity—which is to say, basically nothing—but I knew one thing for sure. “If you’re behind it,” I said to Jamie, “Iknowit could be something special.”
Jamie squeezed my hand then led me toward a large meadow where half a dozen horses roamed leisurely, stopping every now and then to bend over to munch some grass. He leaned against a wooden fence gone silver with age, and for a second, he looked not quite real. Too perfect, like a photo in a catalogue.
“So, are you going to teach me to ride?” I asked, pulling myself up to sit on the top rail of the fence.
“Maybe. If you play your cards right.” Jamie’s hands left the fence and started to trail beneath the hem of my sweater. “I did try to teach Sadie and Milo once—with very mixed results,” he added, referring to his niece and nephew. “Milo insisted I hold the reins and walk him the entire time; Sadie took off at a canter after about five seconds in the saddle.”
I grinned, thinking eight-year-old Sadie sounded like my kind of girl. Though I hadn’t met her or her brother yet. “Are they here this weekend?” I asked, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands.
Jamie shook his head. “They’re doing the first half of Christmas break with their dad and the second half with Amelia.”
“Oh, that’s sad.”
“Not really. They do Hanukkah with him and Christmas with us. And Amelia and Dan still get along really well. It’s very low drama.”
“I would definitely not be low drama after a divorce.”
“Oh, I know.” Jamie huffed out a laugh.
“What does that mean?”
“Sybil, nothing about you is low drama. It’s just one of the many things I love about you.”
Before I realized what was happening, Jamie had plucked me off the fence and swung me into his arms, holding me bridal style. I let out a delighted shriek as he carried me along the meadow and behind the nearby stables, then into a thin patch of trees. When the world turned right side up again, he’d set me down beside a little hidden creek, barely more than a foot wide.
“This was always my favorite spot to hide as a kid,” he said, a bit sheepishly.
We sat down in the shady grass. “I can’t imagine wanting to hide if you lived in a place like this,” I told him.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. And then he added with a sly grin, “The creek is very peaceful, and has the added benefit of not being visible from the house. No one can see us right now.”
