The Underside of Joy

might just be the answer. I dropped the lid on the bin, pulled off my gloves, and ran up to the house. It was a crazy idea. But it might just work. I needed to call David. I needed to call Lucy. I probably needed to call a psychiatrist.

Chapter Ten
    ‘“Life’s a Picnic”? Isn’t that a bit ironic, considering the circumstances?’ Lucy stood at my kitchen counter, pouring a glass of wine each for David and me, a smooth pinot noir from her vineyard in Sebastopol. The label now had a black Scotty terrier catching a red Frisbee against a white background. I loved the label. Wineries were getting so creative all of a sudden. So why shouldn’t grocery stores too?
    David said, ‘Another lemonade-out-of-lemons story?’
    ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Only we’ve got sandwiches to go with that lemonade, and salads and spreads . . . all made from local organic vegetables, of course, and gorgeous picnic baskets and maps and blankets.’ I sounded like an overly zealous radio announcer, but I needed both of them to think it could work. And I needed David to help me make it work.
    Lucy and David were my closest friends. Long before I met them, they’d attempted to sleep together. They were in high school, back when David was still trying to convince himself he was straight. He told me all his doubts had been erased that night; if Lucy couldn’t do it for him, with her long black lashes, alabaster skin, and downright amazing breasts, no woman could. Lucy, on the other hand, told me she planned to stay single until George Clooney proposed to her.
    Lucy sat on the couch and said, ‘Before I forget, you both have to come see the vineyard again. It’s magical right now. Absolutely . . . Okay, Ella, you were saying? Lemons?’
    David swirled the pinot noir in his glass and raised it to the light. ‘A crisp, vibrant mouthfeel. Blackberries and rhubarb lingering in a long finish. Yes. The vanilla and spices add lovely complexity. Exceptional, really, Lucy.’
    ‘Oh God,’ I said. He could be such a lovable snob.
    ‘I feel more comfortable if you just call me David.’ He spread his fingers, examining his nails. ‘I can almost see this . . . picnics in the orchards, the vineyards, the redwoods, by the river, along the coast, we have it all. We team up with other businesses, inviting weekenders to come up and stay at the Elbow Inn, have a family-style dinner at Pascal’s or Scalini’s, and have an incredible picnic in the natural setting of your choice. It’s not just about going wine tasting anymore . . . But it’s a long shot, El. And it sounds expensive.’
    I had called them, spilling over with ideas to transform Capozzi’s Market into a store that catered mostly to tourists, a place they could stop and get all the fixings for an incredible picnic. We’d carry things you couldn’t get at the box stores. Local artisan organic everything. Heavy on the Italian, but not locked into it; I could also see California cuisine and Pacific Asian influences. We’d have an olive bar and some of Marcella’s stuffed sandwiches and salads – from baby beet with orange zest and dandelion greens to old-fashioned potato – that were perfect for picnicking. Bread from the bakery in Freestone, of course. A kick-ass wine selection, with a weekly featured winery hosting tastings on the store premises on Saturdays and Sundays. Lucy’s would be the first. I hoped David might be interested in taking on the role of full-time chef. And we’d have detailed, beautifully illustrated maps to the best local picnic spots, by our local recluse artist, Clem Silver, which might take some doing, but I was willing to try.
    Yes, the store would be called Life’s a Picnic – perhaps a bit tongue in cheek, perhaps a sort of middle finger to fate. Widowhood be damned. Lacking life insurance policy be damned. Collection notices be damned. I was going to figure out a way to do this. Plus, I was afraid to go off to a job when Paige was lurking around every corner. I needed to be able to work and have the kids close. Saving the store felt necessary in so many ways, some of which I was afraid to articulate to myself, let alone to Lucy and David.
    He stared at his empty wineglass. As I reached for the bottle to pour him more, he said, ‘I get it. Earthy sophistication. What this area’s known for. Fine wine. Hemp picnic blankets. Caviar and alfalfa sprouts. But I don’t know . . . I’m not really big into starvation. Do you think it would