The Starbucks latte she’d downed on shore an hour earlier threatened a comeback as Sunny gripped the metal rail of the seesawing ferry, her fingers turning an unnatural shade of blue against the peeling green paint. A boat? Really? Why on earth nobody had bothered to build a bridge between civilization and this godforsaken island was beyond her, as was the reasoning behind Jack’s decision to buy there. But, she could almost hear Jack saying, no passing judgment until you’ve seen it with your own eyes. That is, she thought, if you’re even able to see it through all this fucking fog and rain.
She remembered the time Jack had first told her about the place, back when they were both living in Kabul. He had just returned from one of his missions to the south, one in a string of many Sunny couldn’t seem to get a handle on. All he had really told her about his job was that he was a skilled negotiator, but she already knew that from personal experience, as he always seemed to get his way with everything before she even realized what was happening. It was a Wednesday night, the night when all of Kabul, at least the UN, embassy and NGO workers, the missionaries and journalists who were still bold enough to venture out that late, would gather at her coffeehouse to hear one of the speakers she’d brought in to draw business. The place was buzzing with Dari, English, French, and Italian, filled to the rafters despite the bitter cold that refused to stay outside where it belonged seeping through the windows and barging in full force every time the door opened.
And then in came Jack, all chin and smile, plopping himself down in his usual spot like he was the one who owned the joint instead of her. “Salaam dost e man,” he warmly greeted Bashir Hadi, her barista, cook, and self-proclaimed protector. “Two glasses of your finest, kind sir!” he added. Bashir Hadi smiled and gave the nod to Yazmina, who ducked behind the counter and returned with a ceramic teapot concealing what he had to know was the usual crappy Chianti Sunny managed to dig up only by scouring the Chinese brothels—the last places in town to have even a drop, thanks to the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice committee. Yazmina greeted Jack shyly, lowering her piercing green eyes as she poured the watery red liquid into the two demitasse cups she had hooked over her slender fingers. As Sunny rushed past his table, anxious to get everyone settled in time for the talk, she felt a tug on the back of her jeans. “Sit, woman! It’s time to enjoy the fruits of your labor.” Sunny tried to swat Jack’s hand away, but his grasp on her belt loop was firm, and down she went.
“Bully.”
“Happy to see you too, baby.” She glowered at him in mock indignation. He knew how much she hated to be called baby. “Ah,” he said, rotating his cup in a circle until its contents had spun themselves into a tiny red whirlpool, then lifting it to his nose. “A fine vintage. Perhaps a ’97, or maybe something a bit more recent, like an ’05?” Jack took a slurp and swished the wine noisily around his mouth as if it were a swig of mouthwash. Sunny rolled her eyes.
“It’ll do,” he said as he set the cup down with a thud. “But mine will be better.”
“Yours? What, did you get your hands on some black market Merlot or something? Hand it over, mister.” Sunny stretched out her arm.
“No. I mean mine. Really mine. Someday, I promise you, you’re gonna sit back and enjoy a bottle with the very name of yours truly slapped across the label.”
“What, there’s gonna be a Jack’s Big-Mouth Red?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. You’ll be sorry. Now you’ll be lucky if I share any of it with you. And mark my words, it’s going to be a helluva lot better than this rotgut.”
“Big deal. Even I could toss a bunch of grapes into that mop bucket over there and stomp around a little bit, and it would be an improvement on this crap.”
“No, my dear,” he said, leaning back precariously in the heavy wooden chair, “I’m serious. You just happen to be talking to one of the proud new owners of Screaming Peacock Vineyards, Twimbly Island, Washington, USA.”
Twimbly Island. There came a point in their relationship when she thought if she heard that name one more time she’d scream. You’d love it, Jack had told her over and over, going on and on about its golden sunrises, its miles of driftwood-strewn beaches, the snow geese, the eagles, the great blue herons, the orcas heading inland for the winter, so close you could almost touch them from shore, as he tried his damnedest to work his magic on her. She remembered how relaxed he had seemed each time he returned from a visit to the island, and could just see how his steely blue eyes had warmed up whenever he fantasized about making a life there. So she’d force herself to smile politely and just listen, summoning up any latent traces of a skill she’d struggled to master throughout her entire lifetime.
It wasn’t until after they finally packed their bags and sadly left Kabul behind that Jack’s fantasy became a possibility, one that freaked Sunny out as much as everything else was freaking her out at that point. For her, oddly enough, Kabul had been the only place that felt like home, and she had planned never to leave. But things had changed over the six years she’d been living there. Friends were gone, places were shuttered, and the deadly missives launched by the increasing number of returning Taliban were now becoming too frequent, and too close to home, to ignore. Jack had his concerns about foreigners becoming targets, but beyond that, he felt strongly that it was high time to give Afghanistan back to the Afghans. We treat them like idiots, he had said. And you know, and I know, that Halajan, Yazmina, Bashir Hadi, even Ahmet are not idiots, he added, speaking of those who worked with her, those who had become as close to family as it got for Sunny. We Americans infantilize everyone not like us. You’ve got to love a guy like that, who sees a world beyond his own concerns, who will do the right thing just because it’s the right thing to do.
And love him she did, so much so that before she knew it she had followed Jack back to Ann Arbor, Michigan, where his son was just starting college, and where he had landed a job as an international security advisor for a large NGO.
Worst. Decision. Ever. What had made Sunny think that she could go from Kabul hotshot to Michigan housewife just like that? Was she nuts? No, she was in love. And as the old woman Halajan, who owned the building where the coffeehouse stood, had once told her, reason is powerless in the expression of love. She—courtesy of her favorite poet, Rumi—sure got that one right, Sunny thought. But it wasn’t only Sunny who was having trouble adjusting. She knew that Jack felt like an overweight pet-store hamster trapped in a communal cage in his corner cubicle. The only missions he took now were down the hall to the break room for coffee and candy bars, which, in her opinion, he seemed to be doing way too often. He was miserable, and seeing as how his son was now so busy with his own life, between his classes and his new friends, after a year of sticking it out Jack proposed to Sunny that they hit the road. His destination of choice? Twimbly Island.
But the winery was Jack’s dream, not Sunny’s. So they made a deal. They’d take a time-out to explore, to travel the world and try things on for size. No decisions for one year. They’d both keep an open mind. No pressure. And if nothing spoke to them after that one year, they’d give Twimbly a try.
They spent twelve months hopscotching from country to country, city to city, house to house, taking advantage of all the friendships they had made during their years in Afghanistan. Jack saw tons of possibilities, but each and every opportunity Jack put forward, Sunny pushed back. A bar in some quaint seaside town in Maine? Too boring. An adventure travel company in Peru? No hiking, llamas or Sherpas for this girl. A civilian boot camp in South Africa? No dice. She’d sooner jump off a cliff blindfolded and naked than deal with the ticks and testosterone that would come with that job.
Twelve months turned into thirteen, then fourteen. But being the gentleman that he was, Jack kept his word and continued to indulge Sunny’s restlessness, even though he felt it was crucial that they start living a normal life, and the sooner the better. He’d seen way too many friends and colleagues who had become so addicted to living in war zones that they were now painfully restless and uncomfortable living anywhere else, and Jack told her he feared he was starting to see inklings of that in both of them.
After wearing out welcome mats from Cairo to Caracas, Sunny finally conceded to at least considering the winery, or so she told Jack. He’d been so patient that she felt it was only right to agree to take a look at the place. After one last fling, that is. Jack had been aching to go on a heli-skiing trip to Whistler with a bunch of his buddies, and graciously invited Sunny along. “I’m good,” she’d responded, opting instead for a solitary long weekend exploring Santa Fe. They would meet in Seattle, and from there it would be off to the island.
Now she stood alone as the dock disappeared from view. For Jack’s dream had evaporated on the side of a mountain when his heart gave out at eight thousand feet, causing hers, upon receiving that devastating call in the desert below, to shatter into a million little pieces.
Sunny swatted at the tiny rivulets of fog and rain dampening her cheeks, a gesture all too familiar from day after day of bawling at the drop of a hat. She felt like crying now, as the ferry barreled into the misty abyss. Would it have all looked better with him by her side? she wondered. “Damn you, Jack,” she said out loud as she pulled the tote holding the flimsy cardboard box containing his ashes a touch closer. She was almost grateful he wasn’t there to witness the stupid little hissy fit she was having with herself. The care he’d shown by placing her on the deed for the winery, despite his ex-wife’s legal maneuverings, now made her feel ashamed of her own selfishness. If only she had said yes to the place earlier, Jack might have had a chance to live the life he had wanted so badly. How she hoped Jack’s spirit wasn’t watching over her at this moment, that he’d never have a clue about her plans to rid herself of the place as quickly as possible. She’d spent the months since his death in a fog, not unlike the one that was now wrapping its fingers around the approaching shoreline, and all she could hope for was that selling off her share to Jack’s partner, Rick Stark, might offer a shred of closure. And maybe even a scintilla of clarity.
Sunny had never felt as lost as she did now, bobbing up and down in this dismal sea, as grey as the sky above. The path ahead seemed to be twisting into one giant question mark. Deep down she knew that, as much as she wanted to, she shouldn’t go back to Kabul. Jack’s predictions of escalating danger, particularly for foreigners, seemed to be coming disastrously true. She’d just read of yet another kidnapping, this time a French aid worker, and not long before that word had come of a US diplomat killed by a suicide bomber while delivering books to a local school. But none of that meant she might not still go back. She’d left the coffeehouse behind for Halajan, her son Ahmet and his wife Yazmina to run in partnership with Bashir Hadi, with wishes for their success and gratitude for their unflagging support, and for a friendship that meant more than anything in the world to her. Though it didn’t seem as though she was really needed, she had no doubt that they would all welcome her back with open arms, as was their way, should she ever decide to return.
But for now here she was, on a boat. Headed toward Jack’s dream. Without Jack. She took a deep breath and jammed her nearly numb hands deep into the pockets of her down jacket, where the latest letter from Halajan remained crumpled inside. Don’t grieve, the old woman had quoted from Rumi. Anything you lose comes round in another form. Well, Sunny thought, I’m good with that. As long as it doesn’t come around as a shitload of fog.