Isabelle
We pull up to the restaurant in the early evening on our way back, at the edge of Napa, the sun just starting to dip toward the horizon and painting everything in warm light. The morning was spent lazily in bed having sex. Slow, languid sex that turned frantic and desperate. I couldn't get enough of him, couldn't stop touching him, learning every inch of his body.
The restaurant is more stunning than anywhere else we've been on this trip. There's an instant rightness to it, that inexplicable feeling you get sometimes when a place just feelsgoodthe moment you arrive, when the energy is right.
The building itself is gorgeous—old stone and weathered wood, classic French provincial architecture transplanted to California wine country. Climbing vines cover one whole wall, heavy with some flowering plant I don't recognize, and a seating area in the back that overlooks rolling hills.
The entire property feels like the best Napa has to offer, and I hate how much I'm falling in love with it here, with this wholeregion. How California feels like medicine for my soul after years of New York's relentless pace and crushing pressure.
Being here makes me feel lighter and freer and more like myself than I have in as long as I can remember. And how Alex feels like the missing piece I didn't even know I was looking for, the thing that makes everything else suddenly make sense in a way it never has before.
There's a definite end date to all of this, though. Long distance is always an option for Alex and me, sure. Though long distance without a plan for how it ends is just a slow breakup with extra steps and phone calls. But none of that matters right now. I'm going to enjoy this while I have it and deal with the rest later.
He parks the car and we both just sit for a moment, taking in the view.
"Wow, this place is really something special," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt but not moving yet.
He looks with a soft smile. "I thought so too when I found it. Almost like a little piece of Provence dropped into California, so I couldn’t wait to take you."
We get out of the car, walking toward the entrance, and that's when I spot it—a fig tree growing beside a lavender border near the entrance, heavy with ripe fruit, the distinctive broad leaves unmistakable. The lavender isn't in bloom but the silvery-green stems are unmistakable.
"Alex!" I grab his arm, stopping dead, pointing with my other hand. "Look! I swear that tree looksexactlylike the one my grandmother had at her house. The shape is the same, and even the lavender planted around it, the whole setup. She always said figs and lavender were natural companions, that they liked growing together."
"Must be a little hello from her," he says. "A sign that she's still around somehow, keeping an eye on you."
I look up at him and he smiles, rubbing my back gentlybefore wrapping his arms around me from behind. I lean back against his chest, looking at the fig tree.
"You know, after my dad, and then later my mom, died," he continues quietly, "I looked for them everywhere. Signs, coincidences, anything that might mean they were still around somehow. I always liked the idea that they were still here in some way, sending me little messages, watching out for me and my brothers. Keeping tabs on us."
I lean into his arms, staring at the fig tree that really does look eerily similar to my grandmother's, down to the way one branch on the right side grows at a crooked angle like it's reaching for something. "That's a nice thought. Like they're still with you somehow, just in a different way."
He squeezes me tighter in his arms, and then we make our way inside and it's exactly what I was hoping for—old French country style that reminds me of Provence, of summer afternoons at my grandmother's house, of being young and happy and uncomplicated.
Exposed wooden beams, vintage French posters on the walls, fresh flowers on every surface, the smell of garlic and butter and fresh bread filling the air.
I turn to Alex, unable to contain my excitement. "I love it here! This is perfect!"
He laughs, delighted by my reaction, and puts his arm around my shoulder as we follow the hostess through the dining room to our table out on the patio.
It's beautiful. Couples and families dining under string lights, candles flickering on each table, gardens blooming with rosemary surrounding the space, and a view of the vineyards rolling away into the distance, purple in the fading light. Conversation flows happily around us and soft French music plays from hidden speakers somewhere, mixing with the clink of silverware and glasses.
We settle into our seats and I pick up the menu. I scan thewine list first, which I think Margot would thoroughly approve of. Small producers, interesting varietals, nothing boring or corporate.
The menu itself is a perfect marriage of French and California sensibilities, with dishes like duck confit with stone fruit gastrique, pan-roasted halibut with saffron aioli and fennel, beef bourguignon made with local grass-fed beef.
The entire thing makes me want to order one of everything based on the descriptions alone and the absolutely divine smells wafting from the tables around us. I keep scanning the menu, reading each item carefully.
"We have to get the ratatouille and share it," I hiss across the table, barely able to contain my excitement. "I used to have that as a kid all the time in Provence, my grandmother made it constantly in the summer when everything was in season. I don't know why I don't make it more often myself? But we absolutely have to get it here."
"Deal, but only if we also do the burrata with heirloom tomatoes to start," he says easily.
We're going to over-order and it's going to be glorious. "Obviously, and throw in the charcuterie board as well," I say. "We're going to eat so much we won't be able to move."
"That's the plan," he says.
The waiter approaches—a young guy with excellent posture and a crisp white shirt—and takes our order while we hand back the menus. We order a bottle of wine, a Rhône-style blend that sounds perfect.
Alex raises his wine glass to me. "To perfect days and even better nights."