The Sweet Spot

by Heather Heyford

  Sell the farm? Jamie struggled to wrap her head around it. That farm was the only home she had ever known. It had been built by her great-grandfather. She and Sally were the fourth generation to live there. The farm represented security in a world that seemed to be getting shakier with every report of breaking news.

  Dad looked down at his vein-roped hands. “I know it’s going to take you some getting used to. But it’s been four years that your mom’s been gone. With the price of milk being decided by the politicians nowadays, it’s harder than ever to make a living as a dairy farmer.”

  She looked at his shoulders, wondering when they had begun to sag the way they did. For a long moment the only sound was the distant hum of a car passing down the valley road.

  “I sold the herd to Jake. He’s coming for them this week.”

  Jamie’s cousin, who farmed in Chester County.

  “I asked him to wait till after your Easter break from school, so I could tell you in person.”

  “Have you told Sally?”

  His head bobbed up and down as he stared at his feet.

  Jamie, being the younger of the two, was the last to know.

  “What about you?” All her dad had ever done was farm. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

  “I’m looking at a town house over in Allendale. With the price they’re giving me, I can pay off your and your sister’s college loans and still have enough to live on. Maybe even leave you something, when that day comes. That’s more than my father could do for me.”

  “Your father left you this,” she said, gesturing toward the fields blanketed in spring green. “I’d rather have the house and pay back my loans myself.” She sounded like a petulant child, but she couldn’t help it.

  “It’s for the best. You and Sally’ll be able to start your lives without being saddled by debt; I’ll be able to pay off my bills and buy a little place to grow old in.”

  * * *

  They paused outside the winery.

  “How’d that make you feel?” asked Hank.

  “Like the ground was crumbling beneath my feet.”

  Hank pictured her there, coming to grips with her loss.

  “Dad gave me money out of the house sale to pay for this vacation. I guess that’s why he encouraged me to come, even after Kimmie backed out. He said it was a belated graduation gift, but it was really a consolation prize.”

  Hank got the tool he needed and Jamie followed him into the vineyard, where he selected a handful of individual grapes from several different vines.

  “Here, I’ll show you how to do it. Squeeze a drop of juice into the tube.”

  She did as he told her, popping what was left of the grape into her mouth.

  “It’s like a thermometer, only instead of temperature the reading tells you how much sugar’s in the grapes. What’s it say?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Now we’ll test these other ones and average the results. That’ll give us a good idea of how the whole block is progressing. On the day the reading, or Brix, averages twenty-five, that’s when we’ll pick.”

  “That very day?”

  Hank nodded. “When the time gets closer, we check the Brix three times a day. Usually we pick at night.”

  “Seriously? How can you see?”

  “The pickers show up around midnight wearing headlamps. From a distance they look like human fireflies hovering over the vineyards. A few hours later, they’re on to the next place. It’s as if they had never been here.”

  She savored the sweet-tart taste of another crushed grape. “It’s a miracle that something like this could come from a stick in the ground.”

  “It’s not random chance that makes these grapes taste the way they do. It’s terroir. Basalt on top of lava on top of ancient ocean floor. That and the maritime climate is what makes Sweet Spot wines so special.”

  Jamie laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m just wondering who it is you’re trying to convince of the unique quality of your land. Me? Or yourself?”

  * * *

  Another week passed.

  Hank left his journals lying open on his desk and took his refractometer out to check sugar levels.

  As he did every time he walked through the rows, he examined the clusters, checking for ripeness, color, and signs of disease. The grapes felt warm and voluptuous in his hand. He bent and inhaled their sweetness.

  Then he stood up again, awash in a good feeling. He had been right about removing extra leaves to offset higher humidity. He was glad he had stood his ground and not allowed Bryce to cow him into spraying.

  This time he picked random grapes from an assortment of vines, squeezed them into a cup, mixed the juice with his finger, and put a drop into the device.

  Twenty. The same level of sugar the grapes had had last year on today’s date, according to the journal. That boded well for another good vintage.

  Hank closed his eyes and exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. At least something was going as planned.

  Maybe Jamie was right. Maybe he could make a go of this.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Jamie’s hair whipped out behind her as she navigated the red ragtop into Newberry one last time.

  It had been a week of “lasts.” The last trail ride. Singing around the last campfire, toasting one last marshmallow with the very stick that Hank had whittled for her back on a June evening when all this had been new to her, when her feet had been clad in sneakers. Now the routine of the Sweet Spot felt as familiar as her broken-in Noconas.

  Her flight left tomorrow. But she couldn’t leave Oregon without telling Ellie good-bye. There was so much she longed to ask her. If only she could talk back. Maybe she could give her some answers.

  Never again would she see the way the afternoon sunlight glinted off the snow-capped Mt. Hood, across a middle ground of forest-green firs and filtered through the leaves on the corduroy rows of vines.

  Never again would she walk into a room lit up by Hank’s easy grin. Or watch his brow furrow with concern over his spreadsheets.

  After parking at the rehab hospital, she looked into the rearview mirror, dabbed her eyes with a tissue, and cleared her throat.

  She needn’t have bothered. She found Ellie looking the same as she had since she’d first taken ill a month earlier. The little-used notepad still lay forlornly on the blanket.

  Jamie sat down on the bed at Ellie’s side, took her hand, and began making small talk, as usual.

  But tonight Jamie had more to talk about than her herb garden.

  “I’m expected back at school soon. I found a new apartment. And guess what? It’s got a bathtub! It looks real pretty from the pictures online. It’s on the second floor instead of the fourth, like my old place was. Still safer than being on the first floor, but without as many stairs to climb. I’m looking forward to seeing my dad. I want to spend a few days with my sister and brother-in-law and my niece and nephew, too, before I get back to the grind.”

  Jamie paused, searching Ellie’s face. She’d been so hoping Ellie would be better by the time she had to go. But she was still stuck inside herself, powerless to get out.

  Though her eyes were open, there was no sign that she’d heard a thing Jamie said. Not a blink, not a twitch of a muscle.

  Gently, she released Ellie’s limp fingers and picked up her guitar.

  She played Ellie’s favorites. Then she sang the song she’d composed up on the Peak.

  She was on the last line of the chorus when her voice cracked.

  She took Ellie’s hand again and squeezed it. “Miss Ellie, they say you can hear. Listen to me. You have to get better. Hank needs you.”

  Through her tears, she thought she saw something move on the bed.

  It was Ellie’s finger, inching toward the notepad.

  “Ellie?”

  For the first time since her stroke, Ellie was plainly looking at her.

  “Ellie!” gaspe
d Jamie. Chills tingled through her. “What is it? What do you want?”

  Quickly Jamie set her guitar aside and stood hovering over Ellie, not knowing what to do. “Do you want to write?” She wrapped Ellie’s fingers around the pen, positioning the notepad under it.

  Her eyes softly closed, the pen sagging in her weathered hand.

  Maybe it was only wishful thinking. Maybe she had only imagined Ellie’s eyes looking into hers with comprehension.

  She kept hold of her hand for a while longer, stroking the thin skin with her thumb. But the hands on the big clock on the wall advanced until it was time to say good-bye.

  “I have to go now, Miss Ellie. I need to go back to work. My real work.” She smoothed Ellie’s hair from her forehead.

  Maybe she should call somebody to make sure Ellie was all right. She got up and stuck her head out into the hall, but it was empty and quiet.

  She went back to the bed. Ellie’s chest rose and fell. She looked to be sleeping calmly.

  Jamie put her guitar back into its case and slung it over her shoulder. Then she bent and kissed Ellie’s soft hair.

  Goodnight, Miss Ellie,” she whispered. “Thanks for everything.”

  * * *

  It was growing dark when Jamie got back to the inn.

  She called Hank the moment she got to her car, and again when she was halfway to the inn, anxious to tell him that Ellie might have shown a sign of improvement. A faint sign maybe, but anything was better than nothing.

  But he didn’t pick up.

  “Hank.” She jogged into the inn, calling out his name.

  There were a handful of guests in the great room, but no Hank.

  Homer padded up to her, wagging his entire rear end. There was always worry in his eyes these days. She crouched down to scratch his neck. “Poor guy. You’ve been lost without her, too, haven’t you?”

  “Hank,” she called, pushing open the door to the kitchen.

  Not there, either. She hung up the keys to the Jeep and wondered where to look next.

  Then she heard the heavy steps on the back porch.

  Hank came through the door with a stricken look on his face, flanked by Nelson and Bill.

  Jamie frowned, confused. What were they doing all together at this time of night in their hats and jackets, as if they were going out somewhere? “I’ll drive you into the rehab,” said Nelson to Hank.

  “I’ll call Joe Bear. I know she’d want him to do the services,” said Bill, punching a number into his phone.

  Bill spotted Jamie staring. “Hold on, Joe,” he said into his phone. He swept off his hat and clapped it to his breast.

  “The hospital called. Miz Ellie passed.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Not thirty-six hours later the airport van pulled into the inn at the Sweet Spot, right on schedule, to deliver the first wave of guests anxious to begin their wine country vacations.

  Those departing with early flights home would board the van for the trip back to Portland. Passengers booked on that night’s red-eye who would prefer to spend their remaining precious hours of vacation time sipping pinot noir on a patio overlooking the valley rather than in the airport would linger a few hours until the second shuttle arrived.

  Among the luggage in a corner of the great room waiting to be loaded onto the “late” van were Jamie’s suitcases and guitar case.

  The staff smiled to the faces of the guests. But behind the scenes, they went about their duties sad-eyed.

  Jamie cleaned the Sunflower Suite thoroughly and stood in the doorway looking around at it for a long moment, trying to memorize every last detail, before closing it with a quiet click.

  She couldn’t bear to sit in there and think while she waited for the afternoon shuttle. She’d rather work through her grief by doing the same thing she’d done all summer, helping out in any way she could.

  Every time she caught a glimpse of Hank, her heart went into her throat. She wanted to talk to him, to offer her condolences. But now, in addition to his work, he had Ellie’s wake to plan. He was always either surrounded by people, on his cell phone, or both.

  On the front porch, a housekeeper was doing her best to check in new arrivals, but the line was backed up and she was clearly becoming flustered.

  “You look like you could use a hand,” said Jamie.

  “But, this is your last day . . .”

  Wordlessly, Jamie smiled and relieved the housekeeper of the electronic tablet, to her obvious relief.

  As the next guest stepped up, Jamie peered down at the list of names. “Welcome to the Sweet Spot. And you are?”

  “Delilah Arnold.”

  Jamie’s gaze slid from her tablet to ten brightly painted toes, high-heeled sandals, then upward along slender calves, shapely knees, an expensive handbag in the crook of a well-creamed elbow, and finally, cat eyes in an unnatural shade of green.

  Somehow Jamie managed to choke back the nausea roiling through her. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find your name on our guest list.”

  “This trip wasn’t planned.”

  Jamie’s heart beat double time. “I’ll have to check our availability to see if we can accommodate you. Without a reservation . . .”

  The woman inched forward so slightly. Not enough to be noticed by the others standing around chatting, but enough to make Jamie uncomfortable at the invasion of her personal space.

  “Where’s Hank?”

  “I’m afraid he’s tied up right now. I know how to handle check-ins.”

  “Hank will understand. I’m a close, personal friend of—Hank!” Delilah waved wildly and ran past her so close that Jamie could smell her sultry, oriental perfume.

  Jamie looked over her shoulder to see Hank striding purposefully toward them with his sights set on the tasting room across the drive. When he spotted Delilah, he broke stride, obviously taken aback.

  “Hank,” said Delilah, throwing her arms around his neck. “I came as soon as I heard. I’m here to help in any way I can.”

  Hank blinked. “I’m on my way to check on the guys cleaning up around the pond for the wake tomorrow, and to make sure we’ve rented enough chairs.”

  Delilah tucked her arm into his. “I’ll go with you,” she said firmly, pulling him onward.

  Jamie was used to performing in front of an audience, but maintaining her cool while checking in the rest of the guests pushed her acting skills to the limit. The minute she was finished, she headed for the one place where she had never had to hide her emotions.

  Early that morning Joan and Theresa had appeared unbidden and set to work preparing for tomorrow’s wake. Now a bewildering array of dishes spread from the kitchen counters onto the antique sideboard. But there was no sign of either woman, just Homer lying in his usual spot, still waiting faithfully yet forlornly for his mistress to come back.

  Fond as Jamie was of Joan and Theresa, she was grateful for a moment alone in which to recover from the sight of Delilah’s arms around Hank’s neck.

  She pulled out her usual chair, but before she could sit down, Homer growled long and low in his throat.

  Between missing Ellie, neighboring vintners and growers dropping off gifts of food and wine, and the people involved in planning the wake, no wonder poor Homer was confused. It could be anyone he was growling at.

  Still, for once Jamie didn’t feel like making small talk or fielding yet another guest’s question.

  She slipped behind the pantry door.

  “Hello? Anybody here?”

  Delilah.

  Inside the pantry, Jamie cringed. Through the crack in the door she saw Homer stand up and bark.

  The screen door screeched. “Homer!” Theresa scolded. “Stop that. I’m surprised at you. Shoo! Get out.”

  Jamie heard the click of Homer’s toenails on the floor, followed by the slamming of the door.

  “Sorry! It’s been mayhem around here today. Between that and losing Ellie, poor dog doesn’t know what to think.”

 
“You are . . . ?” Delilah inquired.

  In the pantry, the ice in Delilah’s voice sent a shiver through Jamie.

  “Oh. Theresa. I’ve been filling in since Ellie got sick.”

  Light footsteps came and were gone.

  “That’s my daughter, Brynn,” said Theresa. “She works for Miss Ellie in the summers, bussing tables. When Ellie got sick, they recruited a couple of us moms to help out.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Hank wants me to make a certain recipe of Ellie’s for the wake tomorrow. Let’s see here, where was I? Stir in one cup grated . . .”

  Jamie leaned her head back against shelves of canned goods and closed her eyes, willing Delilah to go away.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Theresa’s voice sounded strained. “You’ll find some cold beverages out at the bar.”

  “Actually, there is.” There was a pause and deliberate footsteps. “My name is Delilah Arnold.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Delilah. And now—”

  “I prefer Ms. Arnold. I just spoke with Mr. Friestatt. There are going to be some changes around here. Now that Ellie’s gone, I’m the woman in charge of this place.”

  In the pantry, Jamie’s head came forward and her eyes popped open in her head.

  “Is that right? Since when? Until I hear it from Hank, I answer to no one but him or Jamie Martel. She isn’t even gone yet, and already here you are, thinking you’re going to fill her shoes?”

  “Jamie is nothing but a spare hand.”

  “Is that what you think? Well, I beg to differ. And it’s not just me. You can ask Brynn. She said Jamie and Hank—”

  “Jamie and Hank what?”

  Jamie strained her ears to listen, but before Theresa could answer, Delilah jumped back in.

  “Forget that. What I’d like is a little picnic basket made up. I’m not fussy—just some sandwiches, a vegetable plate, maybe something sweet. Do you have any desserts, Theresa?”

  “Desserts?” asked Theresa incredulously. “Well . . . er . . .”