Here With Me

by Beverly Long

  CHAPTER THREE

  “We’re not even there yet and you’re giving up?” he asked. Before she could answer, he let go of the door handle and turned his head to glance out the window. “Pretty country,” he said.

  It was beautiful country, so lush in the springtime. Summer would bring the heat, which would be almost unbearable, but so necessary if the grapes were to ripen and sweeten. Fall would bring the rains. There’d be a push to bring the grapes to harvest before that happened.

  “The closest bus station is less than a half hour from here,” she said, trying to get him back on topic. “I’ll drop you off and you can. . .uh. . .pick up your life where it was before I so rudely interrupted it.”

  “So grapes are the only crop?” he asked, his head still turned toward the window.

  There was no time for a horticulture lesson. “Mostly. There are a few olive trees, for the heck of it. I mean, after all, this is wine country.”

  “I don’t see any grapes on those vines,” he said, sounding concerned.

  “It’s too early yet. What will be grapes are now just buds.”

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing in the air.

  “A wind machine. Sort of a really big fan. Frost is a vineyard manager’s worst nightmare. These machines can mix the warmer air, which lingers somewhere about twenty feet above ground, with the colder air at the surface. Many times that’s all that’s needed to ward off significant damage to a grape crop.”

  He finally turned to look at her. “I don’t know much about growing grapes.”

  He should stop worrying. He wasn’t staying that long. “There are plenty of people here who do,” she said, dismissing his concern.

  “Like your aunt and uncle?” he asked.

  “Uh. . .no. Tilly and Louis mostly work on the business end and leave the grape-growing to others.”

  “You don’t sound all that fond of them.”

  Damn. Either he was more perceptive than most or she hadn’t been as careful as usual. “We’ve never been close. It’ll be even worse now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because of the baby. They weren’t able to have children. Tilly resented that her sister, my mother, was able to. It probably didn’t help that once my parents were gone, Grandmother doted on me. Now that I’m pregnant, it’ll be just one more reminder.”

  He glanced at her foot, which still rested on the brake. “So the father doesn’t want the child and your family will resent it. Seems like quite a burden for the unborn.”

  She pressed her hand to her abdomen. “I’ll protect my child,” she said. She frankly didn’t care what Tilly and Louis thought. She’d stopped doing cartwheels for them a long time ago once she’d figured out it was them and not her that were the problem.

  “Does your grandmother know that there’s friction between you and your aunt and uncle?”

  “She knows we’re not great friends but we’re all very civil to one another. As long as they’re nice to Grandmother, it’s not important how they feel about me.” It was her grandmother’s opinion that mattered. The woman had given her a home and loved her unconditionally. “Look, I’ll admit that it’s not the best circumstance,” she said, “but I can’t worry about the things I can’t change. I won’t waste my time.”

  “Speaking of time, shouldn’t we be going?”

  The enormity of what she was about to do made her chest hurt. She was about to take a stranger into her family’s home and pass him off as her husband. More important, from his perspective, she was about to subject this poor man to an inquisition better reserved for insurgent rebels. “George, I don’t think this—”

  Her cell phone rang and she grabbed it out of her purse. George jerked back and bumped his shoulder against the car door.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “You’re late. Your grandmother is worried and Louis and I have plans this afternoon.”

  As usual, Tilly’s voice was loud and just shy of shrill. Maybe that was why George was staring at the phone like it was about to sprout wings. “Tilly, please let her know that I’m close,” Melody said.

  “You know we eat at one o’clock.”

  “I know. I’ll be there in. . .” She looked at her watch. It would take her another hour by the time she turned around, dropped George off at the nearest bus station, and returned. “Go ahead and eat without me,” she said. She’d lost her appetite anyway.

  “You’re alone?” Her aunt’s voice rose, in interest and raw speculation.

  “I’m. . .”

  George put his hand on her arm. His skin was shockingly warm. She looked at him and he was shaking his head.

  She felt sick and dizzy and knew it was because she was teetering on the edge of reason. Was it really possible that she could pull this off, that she could convince her grandmother and the rest of the family that she was a happily married woman?

  She knew she had to try.

  “I’m showing my husband the grapes,” she said. “We’ll be along shortly.”

  She heard Tilly’s hiss and then the connection was gone. “Oh boy,” she said, feeling like her head wasn’t connected to her body any longer, “now I’ve done it.”

  George sat forward on the seat and grabbed the door. “We should probably be getting on. You need to have your noon meal. You’re eating for two now,” he said, his voice even kinder.

  Melody pounded her fist on the steering wheel. “Yeah, but, don’t you see? Now you’re stuck. I’m stuck.” She stopped pounding and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, willing herself not to cry. “I’ve never lied to my grandmother. Ever. Until now. I. . .” she sucked in a breath, “I don’t want her to die being disappointed in me.”

  She closed her eyes and focused on breathing and swallowing. It would be the icing on the cake if she lost her cookies, or more appropriately, her crackers, in the poor man’s lap. She heard him unlatch his seatbelt and then the sound of his door opening.

  And she knew that he’d decided that walking back to the bus station was preferable to sitting in the car with a crazy pregnant woman. It was what she wanted, right? How could it hurt so much?

  There was a soft knock on her window. He stood there, waiting. She reached for her purse. Of course, she’d owed him for his time this morning. He probably needed it for bus fare. She pulled out forty dollars, opened her door, and handed it to him. “Good luck,” she said and meant it. None of this was his fault.

  He ignored her hand and the money in it. “Take my seat,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re in no shape to operate this car. I’ll take us the rest of the way.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “I gave you my word.” He motioned with his hand for her to get out. “Please.”

  Feeling numb, she got out and walked around the car. By the time she got in, he was already behind the wheel, with his seatbelt buckled. He waited until she buckled her own belt before he pressed his foot to the gas.

  The engine of the car raced.

  A dull red crept up the man’s neck.

  “It helps if you put it in Drive,” she said.

  He stared at her blankly. She pointed to the console between them. He grabbed the lever and moved it to drive. They took off with a jerk and she was glad she was strapped in.

  “You don’t drive much, huh?” she asked.

  “Not much,” he said. His hands were wrapped tight around the wheel and he sat too far forward on his seat to be comfortable. He had, however, managed to even out the pace and now they drove a sedate twenty-five miles an hour down a road that most people took at sixty. She looked behind them and was relieved to see that they were the only car on the road.

  The man probably rode mass transit every day. Many of her friends in the city didn’t even have cars. “George, I guess I should know what you do for a living,” she said. “Since we’re married,” she added lamely.

  He drove for another minute. “I used to be a sheriff,” he said
. He said it simply, proudly.

  “But not anymore?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  She wanted all the details but knew she didn’t have the right to ask. He’d probably had a desk job and ultimately became a victim of the bottom line. Every community in the country was cutting back on their public services. No wonder the man looked down and out.

  “When this little charade is over,” she said, “I’d be happy to help you find something. I’ve helped people with job searches before.”

  He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Turn at the next right,” she said, directing him to the road that would take them out of the valley and up into the hillside. He took the turn, which was sharp, without braking. She grabbed the handle of the door, just as he had done for the entire morning, and hung on.

  She didn’t want to be bossy but she’d been driving this road since she was sixteen. “This gets pretty curvy and narrow in spots,” she warned. When he gave her a quick glance, she made a point to look toward his feet and added, “Gives the brakes a good workout.”

  They almost jerked to a complete stop at the next turn. She felt like she was back in driver’s ed. She’d been partnered with Judy Barnitski, who’d never really ever gotten the hang of the brakes either.

  “They can be a little touchy,” she said, not wanting him to feel bad. He didn’t answer and she braced herself for the next curve.

  It went remarkably well. She didn’t let go of the door handle but she did start to breathe again. He was clearly a faster learner than skinny Judy had been.

  “What name did you call your husband by?” he asked, after they’d negotiated two more turns successfully.

  It was nice of him to sort of pretend that there had been a husband. “Michael Johnson. I wanted something very common so that if someone tried to Google him, there would be a thousand hits.”

  He looked absolutely perplexed.

  “Not a lot of computers at the sheriff’s office, huh?”

  He didn’t respond. “Michael Johnson,” he repeated. “I guess I could get used to it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell them that your full name is Michael George Johnson but that you prefer to go by George. Then you only have to remember Johnson.”

  “I’ll remember. So you’re Melody Johnson?”

  She could feel the heat all the way up to her ears. “I guess I am.”

  He took his eyes off the road long enough to turn and smile at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.”

  ***

  The house was a pale gray wood with white shutters and white trim on the immense wraparound porch. It sprawled across the land, two or three stories high in some places, bigger than any house he’d ever seen before. It was surrounded by green grass. Off to the far right side, there was a fountain like he’d seen in picture books. It was built of stone and had to be at least fifteen feet wide at the base and twenty feet in the air. It was an angel in flight, and water flowed from her wings. The light breeze caught the spray and carried it across the empty bench that sat in front of it.

  He slowed the car down and turned to Melody. “This is your grandmother’s place?”

  She gave him the same wobbly smile that he’d seen on the beach. It made her look very young and he was more thankful than ever that he was there to help her.

  “I guess I didn’t mention that Grandmother owns one of the most successful midsized wineries in the Valley. Sweet Song of Summer wines are sold across the country. Song is my grandmother’s last name. This ranch is called Songbook Serenade.”

  “Ranch?” It didn’t look like any ranch he’d seen.

  “That’s what the people who live here call their land. It’s sort of a shorthand way to refer to a neighbor’s property.”

  “And your grandmother named it?”

  “Her father did. Grandmother kept her maiden name when she married my grandfather and my mother did the same. Pretty unusual for my grandmother’s generation but pretty much old stuff by the time my parents got married in the mid 1970s.”

  He’d married Hannah in the mid 1880s. She’d taken his name with pride. “And they named you Melody. Melody Song.”

  She rolled her eyes. “First grade was not a good year for me.”

  He understood. He’d stuttered until he was eight. “Children aren’t always kind.”

  She patted her stomach. “Mine will be,” she said. She waved a hand toward the house. “The house has been added onto over the years, but the original structure is almost a hundred and thirty years old,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

  He wasn’t all that far behind. “I guess I can,” he said. “What’s over there?” he asked, pointing to the largest of the outbuildings. It was painted red and had a steeply sloping, shiny tin roof.

  “That’s the wine shed.” She smiled at him. “Not a very fancy name, I know. There’s office space inside, storage space for extra barrels, and the bottling operation in the rear. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a large cement paddock behind the shed where the grapes are processed as well as a couple fermentation tanks, too.”

  It was a far cry from the corn and bean fields of North Dakota. He struggled to know which question to ask next. “How many people live here?”

  “Bernard and Gino each have suites in the east wing. Bernard is our winemaker and Gino manages vineyard operations.”

  “And your family lives in the rest of the house?”

  “Grandmother and Great-Aunt Genevieve share the central quarters, although Grandmother has always chosen to spend her time outside. You won’t find her in the kitchen. In years past, she worked the vineyard alongside my grandfather. More recently, she spends her time in the gardens.”

  There were beds of color—all kinds of pinks and purples—and large, practically overflowing pots on the porch. A sudden wave of homesickness came over him and he fought to control it. “Your great-aunt?” he asked.

  “I just call her Aunt—she said the Great makes her feel old. Anyway, Aunt Genevieve never married and she lives on the top floor.”

  “She doesn’t help your grandmother with the gardening?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in the garden. I mentioned before that she’s sort of a free spirit. I know it sounds crazy but sometimes she disappears for days. She locks the door of her bedroom and nobody goes in and she doesn’t come out. Then, unexpectedly, she’ll join the family for dinner and act like nothing happened. She’s sort of odd in that way.”

  “And your Aunt Tilly and Uncle Louis?” he reminded her.

  “They have the run of the west wing and,” she paused and pointed, “see that smaller building to the left of the shed?”

  It was gray like the house with a blue awning stretched across the front. There were chairs and tables out in front with more flowers. “Yes.”

  “That’s a small gift shop. We offer tours and wine tasting by appointment and Tilly handles that out of there. Louis has an office in the back. He works in sales and does most of the advertising and promotion work. When he’s not doing that, he whittles away the day by bothering Bernard and Gino. That is, whenever he and Tilly haven’t skipped off to Reno for a quick weekend.”

  “Reno, Nevada?”

  “Yeah. Don’t play cards with them unless you’ve got some money you want to lose. They’ve had a lot of experience.”

  Ah, gamblers. Not everything was different in this time. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a good-sized white building that stood another two hundred yards back from the gift shop.

  “That’s the bunkhouse. Years ago, the field workers lived on the property in that building.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “No. There are still field workers, of course. But Grandmother feels strongly that they will be more satisfied and stay longer if they have roots in the community. She helps them buy small houses in town. Many have been with our family for decades. The building isn’t empt
y, though. We store equipment inside and there’s a big table that we can use for meetings.”

  She pointed to the bricked circle drive. “You’ll want to park there.”

  He got her car stopped and tried to pull the keys out, wanting to make sure the machine wouldn’t lurch forward on its own. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach toward the lever between them and moved it forward, all the way to P. “That should make it easier,” she said.

  He yanked the keys out and dropped them into her pretty little hand. He hoped like hell that was the last time he ever had to travel like this. Because of what Sarah had told him about cars, he’d been prepared for the shape but not the speed at which they’d hurtled down the road. He’d watched Melody all morning and had thought he had it figured out, but obviously he’d missed a few things along the way.

  Give him a horse any day. He liked feeling the wind in his hair, the sun on his face. Liked knowing that with a sharp tug on the reins, he had control.

  Two brown-and-black dogs, their markings identical, ran toward them. They were big, full of muscle, and barking like crazy. “Do they bite?” he asked, thinking it was a damn shame if they did. He’d just have to take his chances because he wasn’t sitting in this car for one more minute than he had to.

  “Don’t worry. They make a lot of noise but they’re not mean. Unless you’re in Aunt Genevieve’s face. They’re pure blood German shepherd, and very loyal to her. She got them when they were pups. When she’s in her room, they plant themselves outside the door. Once I saw Louis try to get into her room and I swear, he almost lost a leg.” She smiled at him and he was once again struck by how pretty she was. “I think that’s why I’ve always had a soft spot for them.”

  The front door opened and out stepped a woman. Even from the distance, George could Melody’s resemblance to her. There was the same strong bone structure, the same tilt of her chin. The woman’s hair, thick and a brilliant white, blew around her face. “Your grandmother?”

  “Yes. Oh my gosh,” she whispered, her mouth barely moving. “She’s lost so much weight.”

  It didn’t stop the woman from practically running to the car. “Dionysos, Hermes, that’s enough,” she said, shushing the dogs. They stopped barking immediately. She jerked open the door. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said. “I’ve been wearing a rut in my living room rug.”