Share the Moon. Sharon Struth
come straight to Duncan. She’d never asked him for help with anything so he said yes, with hopes they’d grow closer. He swept aside the past and his appetite went with it. His gesture for her praise hadn’t changed a thing.
Dad’s voice rose. “Still, why on earth would you move there, Duncan?” He popped the meat into his mouth and chewed.
Duncan’s soul cringed with each bite and, rather than answer, he stayed silent.
His father swallowed. “You have a beautiful townhouse in the city. A life. Friends.”
Mom nodded. “The business investment is one thing, but moving there?” Judgment covered every corner of her face. “I mean, with all due respect.”
The condescending phrase showed anything but respect and crawled under Duncan’s skin like a squirmy bug. He clamped his jaw tight.
“It’s a lovely place to visit.” Mom dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Will Patrick be happy living there?”
“He’s excited.” Duncan tried to sound upbeat, but their opinions, like raindrops on fresh snow, deteriorated his enthusiasm.
His father’s fork clanged as he dropped it on his plate. “In my opinion, it’s a huge mistake.”
Duncan’s forearms tensed. He’d heard these words from his dad before. When he’d announced attending law school was off the table and how the law firm his father founded didn’t suit his career path. Then again, on the night he’d taken them to dinner to share his plans to start his own property development firm.
“What would Elizabeth say?” His father’s glare demanded an answer. “She loved New York, the culture, the opportunities.”
Duncan’s gaze landed on the lace tablecloth. He lifted the fine stemware then took a slow sip of his wine. His last conversation with his wife, Elizabeth, was one of a few honest moments in their relationship. A comment of hers played in his head daily, like a ticker tape of life’s lessons, Start to appreciate the life around you, Duncan. Some day you might be sorry. I know you have a heart. Start to use it.
Those words had changed him.
Duncan put down his wineglass and stared at his dad. “I think she’d tell me to trust my heart.” He waited a long beat then turned to his mother. “Mom, would you pass me the bread?”
She glanced at her husband but did as requested. They resumed eating. After a long silence, she started to chat about the latest gossip at their country club involving a longstanding member of her tennis group who’d come out of the closet. While Duncan buttered his roll, he looked across the table. The old man watched him, his square jaw set in firm dissatisfaction. As a kid, Duncan would’ve cowered. This time he didn’t blink until his father finally looked away.
Chapter 5
Sophie glanced at the display on her ringing cell phone and pulled off Lake Shore Road near an empty field, where morning frost glistened from the sun. “Hi, Dad. Everything okay?”
She’d taken him to brunch over the weekend since he’d missed the hearing and insisted upon a face-to-face discussion about every last detail. This Monday morning call was out of character.
“All this technology sure takes the mystery out of life.”
“It sure does. Anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.” His annoyance carried through the phone. “Why?”
Ever since that horrible morning a year ago, when he’d called her at five AM saying he felt dizzy, cold, and clammy, unexpected calls from him were always met with an overreaction. Everyone in town knew Alan Moore as a sturdy, barrel-chested seventy-five year old who had never been sick a day in his life, at least until that day. She’d told him to call 9-1-1 and, thank God, he’d listened. The doctors found the blockage causing the problem and installed a stent.
She sighed. “You know why. Can’t a daughter worry about her father?”
“Yes, but I’m fine now, honey. I forgot to ask you on Saturday if Matt could help out at the shop on weekends during the holiday season. You know how traffic picks up between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jay decided it would be a good time to have a sale on our kayak inventory.”
Dad talked in detail about her brother’s plans for the boat sale but she stopped listening. From where she’d pulled over, she viewed the hillside where Tate Farms grew their grapes. The leafy green vines of the summer were gone. Instead, the trellis system, made of strong wooden end posts connected by a wired line in each row, sat vacant amidst scraggly, dried vines. Across the road, the cold waters of Blue Moon Lake shivered with a gentle breeze.
Her dad’s silence made her return to the conversation. “Sure, Dad. I’ll have Matt call you later today. Listen, I’m running late for work. Can I call you later tonight? From home?”
“Sure, sure. Bye.”
She tossed the phone into her purse but didn’t drive off right away. To the far right of the hilly fields, sat the old farmhouse where the Tates lived. In her childhood, they’d come here early June each year to pick strawberries in the produce fields on the flat land behind one of the property’s three barns. Far beyond the barn near the woods stood the cemetery of her ancestors, with tombstones dating back to the seventeen and eighteen hundreds.
Back in the late seventies, word got out that Ehren Tate, father to the current owners, might start wine production on his land. The governor had just lifted the ban on commercial wine production in the state, established during Prohibition. Up until then, the Tates sold their grapes to other wine producers out of state. That first summer, the new winemaker hired Sophie’s brother to work the fields. Jay loved the job and talked about nothing else. A few years later, the summer she’d graduated from high school, she got a job in their newly opened tasting room. Being an insider to the nuances and secrets of each bottled creation made her feel like a part of something bigger than their small town. Several years after Ehren died, wine production had ceased but they still grew and sold grapes to other winemakers.
Sophie’s gaze drifted across the street to where the Tates’ land extended to the water’s edge. A gentle ache rolled against her chest as she examined the memorial garden planted for her son, the summer flowers gone but evergreens still giving some color. Over the years, her trips to the garden had brought her a strange measure of peace. Sometimes she pruned the flowers or weeded the area, a way to still care for Henry. Many times, she simply sat nearby on Putticaw Rock, a local landmark named after a shortened version of the lake’s original Indian name. What would happen to the only thing left of her son if RGI’s bid went through? Would they destroy this garden?
She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, threw the car into drive, and her tires spun on the roadside dirt as she pulled away. Nope. She wasn’t done with this land and it wasn’t done with her, either.
* * * *
“Morning, Gabby.” Thirty minutes later, after a quick stop to get breakfast to go, Sophie pulled the drawer open on her old steel desk and dropped her purse inside.
“Hey there, Soph.” Gabby beamed bright. Her short pixie-cut, petite height, and need to bring homemade cookies to the office at least once a week had earned her a nickname as their honorary Keebler elf.
Sophie threw a pod of French vanilla into the coffeemaker. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad’s stroke. How is he?”
Her chin buckled with a frown. “We’ve got him in a nursing home. Time will tell.”
“Cliff thought you’d be out until Wednesday. I’m surprised to see you here today.”
“I needed a break from the nursing home. My brother flew up from Florida and said he’d stay a week or two.”
“If you need help with anything, let me know. When you’re ready, I’ll fill you in on what happened at the hearing. Boy, you sure missed a good one. It’s your story whenever