“Sorry, Harold,” I tell him. “And yes, I’ll treat Delilah right.”
He puts the bottle on the barrel and starts looking at shelves again.
“Figured as much,” he admits. “I can’t imagine her wasting time on you otherwise.”
“Thanks, I think,” I say, and that gets a smile from the man.
“Would you grab a Malbec from over there that looks good?” he says, gesturing at the shelves I’m standing by. “Freckles is a tough crowd. Her mom was the same way.”
I grab a bottle from a shelf labeled Catena Zapata 2018 and bring it down. I’d forgotten that Delilah’s dad calls her Freckles, the only human on the planet allowed to do so.
“I never met her mom,” I say.
“No, I guess not,” Harold says, pulling out another bottle. “Don’t tell Freckles this, but she could be a carbon copy of Meredith. The spitting image. I still miss her sometimes.”
He frowns, puts the bottle back.
“What have you got over there?”
“Catena Zapata,” I read, and Harold nods approvingly.
“I’m happy with Vera, of course,” he goes on, pulling another bottle. “I wouldn’t trade her for the world. God knows Meredith and I got along better as exes than we did for one moment while we were married. But you know how it is. People leave their mark.”
“They do.”
“I never did tell the girls that you asked for my permission all those years ago,” he says, not looking up at me.
“No?” I finally ask.
I’ve spent so much time pushing the past away over these last few weeks that it’s strange to have it bubble to the surface like this, to talk to someone who treats it as a fact and not a secret.
“At first I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he admits. “But after you high-tailed it out of here that night and I never saw you again, I figured it was best to keep my lips zipped.”
“I appreciate it,” I say, because I do.
“It wasn’t for you, it was for Freckles,” he says, perfectly matter-of-fact. “She never did tell Vera or her sisters the truth, and I can’t say I blame her. Should we have the 2012 or the 2014 Plâce de Peche Cabernet?”
“The 2014,” I say with far more authority than I feel. Harold puts another bottle on the barrel.
“Should the circumstance arise, don’t ask again,” he says, sliding the 2012 back into its slot. “Freckles doesn’t need my permission.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I say, and can’t help but laugh.
These days, I don’t think it would cross my mind to ask him for permission, but ten years ago I was a college senior. Barely legal to drink. Determined to do everything just right, by the book. Dot every i and cross every t.
It still didn’t work. I haven’t let the possibility cross my mind again since.
“Should I bring up a port wine for a dessert tipple?” Harold asks. There are now seven bottles on the barrel, and he’s turning them one by one, looking at the labels.
“Delilah’s driving, so bring the whole cellar up,” I say, and Harold finally laughs.
“I knew I liked you,” he says, and claps me on the shoulder again. “Grab some of these and let’s go.”
We go back through the basement, climb the stairs, deposit the wine in the kitchen. Harold grabs a corkscrew, nods at me, and sets to work.
“They’re probably in the family room,” he says, dismissing me. “You remember where that is?”
“I think I hear them,” I say, and walk back through the huge house, past the formal dining room, past the formal living room, past the stairs.
Before I reach the doorway, I can hear their voices, echoing through the hall.
“ — invite Seth yet?” one says. Vera, I think.
“Not yet,” Delilah says, and she sounds annoyed.
I stop, just out of sight. Invite me where?
“Delilah,” a third voice admonishes. “You have to stop holding that poor man at arm’s length like this. I can’t believe you haven’t invited him yet. You’re thirty years old, how many chances do you think —”
“Could you not?” That’s Delilah.
I’m still, silent. Eavesdropping, but too curious not to.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m just pointing out —"
“Olivia. Spare me.”
“This is why —"
“Please?”
“Pterodactyls don’t TALK!” shouts a small voice, and the adults laugh.
“All right, what do pterodactyls do?” Delilah asks.
All I hear is, “Like this!” the sound of small running feet, and Delilah’s laugh.
I spent one more moment wondering where Delilah’s not inviting me, and then I push it from my mind and walk into the room where she’s standing at one end, arms out, gliding in a circle.
“We’re pterodactyls,” Delilah explains.Chapter Thirty-ThreeDelilahOlivia carefully butters a single bite of dinner roll, then inspects it as if it might somehow transform into mercury-laced unpasteurized cheese. At last, she eats it.
“If it’s a boy, sports, of course,” her husband Michael is saying. “If it’s a girl, I’m leaving that up to you, babe.”