“Justin Timberlake.”
“Right. “Bring Sexy Back” or something. Well, I didn’t know sexy was gone. Now Carl wants me to be all creative. You know what he brought back from Costco last week? Eight cans of whipped cream, Faith. Eight.”
“That’s a lot,” Faith said. Time to swear off dairy.
“And it’s having the opposite effect. Right? Like, the storm of love I used to have has dried to a mist, because all of a sudden, plain old marital brevity isn’t good enough. Oh, and the other day, Abby walked in on us, and she’s not speaking to me at the moment. Last week, Faith, I had a mammogram, you know?”
Faith looked up sharply. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure! But I was looking forward to it! Like, that was my special alone time, just me and the boob squisher. I didn’t have to talk dirty to Carl or wear Vulcan ears—”
“Oh, boy.”
“—or deal with the kids, Dad wasn’t asking me questions and Honor wasn’t up my butt. The mammogram people were running behind, so I got to sit there in a bathrobe and read a magazine and it was the best time I’ve had in ages! Even when my boob was in the machine, I said to the woman, ‘No, no, take your time,’ and I meant it!”
“Pru!” Faith pulled her sister into a hug, and Blue, panting, joined in the comfort, nosing against the two of them, whining. “Oh, honey. Maybe you just need some time away.”
“I know that, Faith!” she barked. “But I can’t. We’ve got harvest, which is seven days a week till it’s done, then we have the ice wine harvest, then it’s the stupid holidays, and really, why did Baby Jesus have to be born in December? Because March is wide open! I’m just saying.”
“I think Jesus was actually born in—you know what? It doesn’t matter. You should get away for a few days. Alone. I’ll drive Abby wherever she needs to go, and make dinner for everyone or whatever you need. Really, Pru.”
Her sister straightened up and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt, then scratched Blue behind his ears. “It’s a nice thought,” she said. “But I can’t.”
“Well, you can. You’re choosing not to. Don’t be a martyr, Pru.”
“Please. You sound so California. And being a martyr is our family motto.” Her sister wiped her eyes again. “Let’s change the subject. Show me what you have in mind for up here. Come on. Chop, chop. I don’t have all day.”
“Sure.” Faith led her sister into the woods proper. The path was overgrown, but it was there. A squirrel chastised them from a tree branch overhead, and the smell of rain was thicker now. Blue led the way, his tail waving.
“I haven’t been up here in years,” Prudence said behind her. “Always too busy, I guess.”
“Do you remember the barn?” Faith asked, holding a branch back so her sister wouldn’t get whacked.
“Not really.”
“Well, here we are.”
They stood in front of what currently didn’t look like much: the rock walls of the old barn, which had been built in the early 1800s and burned when Teddy Roosevelt was President. The roof and interior had been destroyed in the fire, as well as the wooden doors, leaving a wide gap in the wall.
Faith went inside, Pru on her heels. “Huh,” her sister said.
Three walls of ragged stone surrounded them. The floor had long been taken over by forest grass and moss, and lichen had coated the rock walls. But the best part was—to Faith’s mind, anyway—that the lake-facing wall had crumbled, opening the space up to the most amazing view. Thanks to the steepness of the hills, they could see the tops of the trees in front of them. Past that were the fields of grapevines, the white buildings of Blue Heron—the New House, the tasting room, the barn where the wine aged in tanks and casks—and then more fields and woods, and finally Keuka, the Crooked Lake itself.
“So how would this work for weddings and such?” Pru asked.
“Well, this would be the space. You could get about seventy-five people in here, give or take. I’d level off the floor but maybe keep it grass. Then we’d build a cantilevered deck, so you could stand out there like you were on the prow of a ship, ten, fifteen, twenty feet off the ground as the floor extended out. Maybe take down a tree or two and open up the view.”
“What if it rains?” Pru asked.
“That’s the magical part,” Faith said. “You can get clear roofing material, and if Dad wanted to get really fancy, we could take the roof on and off, depending on the time of year or forecast. A fireplace over here for some ambience, build a little stone terrace out here for cocktails. Wouldn’t it be beautiful? So you’d be under the stars, dancing on air, all this beauty around you.” She looked at her sister. “What do you think?”
“Frickin’ amazing,” Prudence said. “Wow, Faith! You can do all that?”
“Sure! I’d make a parking area back there on the ridge, widen the path down here, get the doors replaced. You’d come in and boom—magic.”
“Parking? Kitchen? Electric?”
“I talked to the building officer about permits, and she doesn’t see a problem. We’d just need to dig a trench, lay down some PVC, run electric up from the road. The old well might still be usable. Over there, see that area? That’s where the milking shed was. The caterers could set up in there.”
And if it looked anything like what she had in her mind’s eye, it would be incredible, one of her most intricate projects as a landscape architect yet...and, finally, her contribution to the family business. Her little stone playhouse, transformed. “Think Dad’ll like it?”
“Dad would like the Superdome if it made you stay home, Faithie. And I already love it,” Pru said, putting her arm around Faith. “Mom would be proud.”
One of these days, those words wouldn’t kick her quite so hard. One of these days.
The rain that had been threatening began to fall, pattering gently. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride,” Pru said. “My truck’s at the cemetery.”
Halfway between the old barn and the vineyard buildings was the family cemetery. Seven generations of Hollands, from the soldier who’d fought in the Battle of Trenton with George Washington to the most recent burial—Mom.
Prudence cleared away some wilted flowers from Mom’s marker. Constance Verling Holland, age 49. Beloved daughter, wife and mother. Always a smile in her heart.
“You ever come here to talk to Mom?” Pru asked.
Faith blinked. “Oh, sure,” she lied.
“Me, too. Dad comes all the time, of course.” She straightened up. “Hey, thanks for listening.”
“You bet. That’s what sisters are for.”
At that moment, Pru’s phone buzzed. She looked at it and pressed a button. “Hi, Levi, what’s up?” she asked.
