“Thanks, Good night,” I say to her and hang up.
Kayla feels like an older sister to me. I’ve even had the wish she would become my step-mom. She cares about my dad, too, but then, not every girl is into older men. Besides, my dad has no intention to remarry.
I close my eyes and toss and turn in bed. I think about the possibility of Gavin and me becoming a couple. What are the odds? He apologized for kissing me earlier. Did it mean he regretted doing it? I bet he did. But I don’t. Even if he wouldn’t touch me again, I’ll still have a piece of memory to hold on to. With that thought in mind, I fall contently into sleep.
Chapter 10
Gavin
I take longer than usual to shave and style my hair, even carefully choosing a t-shirt to put on instead of pulling out the first one on the stack.
My peppered sideburns in the mirror catch my attention. Damn. I’m an old man. It’s the first time I think of myself as old. I never paid much attention to aging because I was always busy working. Even when I realized I wasn’t a young man anymore, the fact never bothered me. I had everything I wanted, a career and a wife, so I thought. After the divorce, I didn’t want anything at all. I didn’t celebrate my recent birthdays, neither did turning forty-one and forty-two matter much to me at all.
Today, however, I feel the need to cover those greys. I should start dying my hair. This is crazy. I always thought old or middle-aged men without grey hair looked weird, and I wowed never dyed my own. I’m not going to change my mind. I brush my hair with my hand, trying to convince myself I look mature.
I look good, don’t I? Many women said that to me in the past. Some girls even called me “handsome” in college. I didn’t care about it much. I didn’t think looks were essential to a man. Having a successful career and being able to provide for his family were. So what’s happening to me? Why am I behaving like a vainglorious narcissist who can’t take his eyes off his image in the mirror? Ivy is going to laugh at me if she sees me like this…
Ivy. Jesus. She’s the reason I’m acting like a lovesick young man. She’s been on my mind all night. She was definitely the woman I made love to in my dreams. I woke up this morning with a pillow in my arms.
“Stop this madness!” I mutter as I spin around and leave the bathroom. Shit. Now I’m talking to myself, too, definitely going insane. You are twenty fucking years older than her, I remind myself.
My heart leaps when I catch the sight of Ivy’s beautiful face. She sits facing the door, smiling. God, she’s beautiful. My chest swells with joy as I walk toward her. She waves when her dazzling blue eyes capture mine.
And then, the person who she was smiling earlier, sitting across the table from her, turns to look at me, and I’m crestfallen. Louis, the young French fellow, grins. Unlike me, he isn’t clean-shaven. Yet even with his stubble, he looks so goddamn young. He doesn’t have a single thread of grey hair. I smile back despite my uncontrollable jealousy. I have to visit the drugstore ASAP.
“Good morning! Gavin!” Ivy says, blushing as she glances me up and down with affection in her eyes.
God. My blood flows south again with that gesture. Stop looking at me like that, Ivy, I want to say to her. I’m just an old man.
“Good morning!” I say to her as I sit down on the chair next to her. “How is your foot?”
“Oh it’s fine,” she says. “Thanks for asking.”
“Good,” I say and turns to Louis. “How was your night?”
“Fantastic!” he says.
“Where is Paul? Is he all right?”
“He is,” Louis says. “He stayed up watching American TV. He was showering when I came down. Should be here soon.”
As we’re speaking, Paul shows up, all freshly shaven. Damn. The need to shave is a sign of aging. Young men need a beard to look mature, but older men need bare faces to look young.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he says to Ivy.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Ivy replies with ease.
She’s so much more confident now, a vast improvement within just a day. I smile proudly.
After breakfast, I take my visitors to see the property in my six-passenger golf cart.
I would prefer walking among the fields, but Ivy’s shoes aren’t great for walking on the hilly terrain.
I drive around the operation and the visitor centers, showing my visitors the pool, the botanic garden, and the equestrian arena.
“Our vineyard is more old-fashioned. We do not provide so much entertainment,” Paul comments. “Wine tasting is all we provide the visitors. But I see having these entertainment items are good.”
“The property is two hundred acres in total. The vineyard has about a hundred acres,” I announce as I drive. My asking price is eighteen million dollars, which seems too low to me at the moment. I’ve spent a decade of my life cultivating this beautiful land.
I hear gasps and murmurs and turn to look at Ivy. The sparkles in her eyes fill me with pride. Diana never cared for my accomplishment so much.
I parked the cart by a hill, and we walk to the top to admire the birds’ eye view of the plantation.
“Merveilleux!” Paul says. “It’s as big as my vineyard in Médoc, although the geographies are a bit different. Ours is more hilly and higher above sea level. ”
I nod. Napa and Bordeaux have similar climates and geography. It’s why both are ideal for growing grapes. But to my understanding, Napa Valley is more diversified in its soil types. “We have a variety of soils, from sand, chalk, gravel, to clay, but mostly sandy loom. Another reason we produce more Merlot than Cabernet. But we’ve got all the varieties that are in demand. Chardonnay, Pinot noir, Sauvignon blanc, Zinfandel, you name it,” I say.
“Excellent!” Paul comments. “Why is it you don’t have your own winery?”
I shrug. “It was my dream to build one, but I didn’t have the capital or energy for it. I have the permit for it, though, and I’m actually planning to purchase one near San Francisco once I sell the vineyard.”
“I see.” Paul nods. “I will build one once I purchase the property, but I could also be your supplier if you wish.”
“That’ll be ideal,” I say.
“Très Bien.” He smiles. “I sense we’ll be great business partners. You can help me with the distribution.”
Seeing the excitement in Paul’s eyes, I have a mixture of feelings. My plan is going well. Paul is the right buyer. He recognizes the value of my hard work, and he knows how to operate the vineyard. I can trust him. Now he already agrees to keep supplying my imaginary winery as well. This is perfect.
But why am I not thrilled? Why am I having second thoughts?
I glance at the lush vegetation in front of me and recall the days I devoted my life here. I worked from dawn to dusk alongside my employees, from installing irrigation lines and preparing the soil, to training, pruning vines, and harvesting grapes.
A wave of nostalgia hits me suddenly. Am I really going to sell it?
Do I really want to close the last chapter of my life, to say goodbye to the dreamer inside me, and spend the rest of my life in an office to analyze stock portfolios or making sales calls? And why am I wavering now? It’s too late.