Here With Me

by Beverly Long

  “I think she’s glad to be here with you and Pearl,” he said.

  She looked him in the eye, then motioned for them to take the conversation out into the hallway. Once she closed the door, she turned to him. Her mouth was a tight line, her shoulders stiff. Over her shoulder, less than ten feet away, he saw Dionysos and Hermes waiting at the top of the staircase. They looked alert and watchful.

  “She needs to understand that she’s not going to have her grandmother much longer,” Aunt Genevieve said. Her voice was strained with the emotion of loss. “God help me,” she continued, “but I can’t tell her.”

  He understood. Because to tell Melody, Aunt Genevieve would have to say the words. And she couldn’t do that. “You don’t have to tell her. She knows.”

  Relief showed in her gold-brown eyes. “It’s still going to be hard on her,” she said. “You need to be here for her, George. You need to stand by her.”

  He wouldn’t make promises that he couldn’t keep. “I’ll do the best I can,” he said.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.” She plucked a feather from behind her ear and handed it to him. “Purple provides strength of purpose.”

  He took it from her fingers, considered it, then put it in the pocket of his shirt.

  “Good call,” she said, giving him her back. She started down the steps at a pace that belied her age, both dogs on her heels. “Arturo’s men will be quick to judge. You walk out there with a feather behind your ear and they’re going to think you’re nothing but a crazy old woman.”

  ***

  Arturo, who looked to be about thirty, sat on a bench in front of the bunkhouse. Dark-haired with skin tanned a deep red-brown, he had a slim, wiry build. He didn’t speak when Aunt Genevieve and George approached.

  Once they stood in front of him, Aunt Genevieve said, “Good morning, Arturo. You’ve spoken to Gino.” It was a question but phrased like a statement.

  Arturo nodded. He still hadn’t made eye contact with George.

  “This is George—Melody’s husband.”

  George put out his hand. “Morning, Arturo.”

  “Señor.” His voice was guarded, not hostile but certainly not friendly. His shake was brief.

  Aunt Genevieve looked first at George, then at Arturo, her gaze holding several seconds on each man. “There’s grapes to grow,” she said finally. Then she turned and walked away.

  Now what? George looked past Arturo, into the long rows of grapevines. The sun, just sliding over the horizon, gave the vines a soft golden glow. A vineyard in the early morning was a peaceful place.

  “May I?” George asked, motioning to the empty spot on the bench.

  Arturo slid over.

  For several minutes both men sat quietly. In the distance, George heard the familiar sound of horses waking up. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and said quietly, “I don’t know shit about grapes.”

  It took Arturo a minute to respond. “Gino told me that before he left.”

  There was just a slight trace of an accent in the man’s words and George realized the man’s earlier deferential Señor had been flavored with pretense. It explained the look that Genevieve had given Arturo. “So, about now, you’re thinking I’m going to be one giant pain in the ass to have around?”

  No response at all from Arturo, and George appreciated that the man didn’t pretend to be happy. “I’m going to need your help,” George added.

  “I will not tell the men,” Arturo said.

  George turned his head. “I don’t much care about that. What I care about is keeping these grapevines healthy and not making a mistake that’s going to cause trouble for Pearl Song or her family.”

  Arturo stood up. “Then you and I want the same thing.” His voice sounded less guarded and George thought he perhaps had passed the first test.

  “What did you plan to do today?” George asked.

  “The holding pond needs to be checked first. The pump has been giving us trouble.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Arturo led him around the wine shed. He caught a glimpse of the cement paddock area Melody had told him about. There were four very tall—at least fifty feet high—steel tanks. He could only assume those were the fermentation tanks that she’d mentioned. A smaller machine, probably ten feet high by ten feet wide stood next to them. “Is that a grape crusher?” he asked Arturo.

  “Yes. A crusher/stemmer. It was new a year ago. In the fall, when the grapes come in, Benito and his son, Montai, are the only ones who get to operate it.”

  George didn’t know if Arturo offered that last piece up as casual conversation or if it was meant to warn him to stay away from the expensive machinery. Sort of a gentle reminder that his incompetence might be tolerated in the field but not anywhere close to the wine-making process.

  They walked another hundred yards and got close enough that George could see the pond. The sun was now fully over the horizon and the water shimmered in response. It was much larger than he’d expected. “How big is this?” he asked.

  “It’s almost a 45-acre-foot pond.”

  “How much water is that?”

  “An acre-foot of water is about 325,000 gallons. So, maybe fifteen million gallons.” Arturo made a sweeping motion with his hand. “We have drains in these hills and we capture every damn drop of water that falls. When the grapes are processed in the fall, we recycle all that water, too. Water never goes to waste. I make sure of it,” he said proudly.

  In the car, coming up to Melody’s grandmother’s, he’d seen the big rigs out in the fields, irrigating the crops. “Then you spray it on the grapevines?”

  “No. Some vineyards still spray. But it can make your vines mildew. We have irrigation hoses that take the water to the fields and then drip lines buried into the ground that spread the water to the root of the plants.”

  Arturo walked to a small building at the edge of the pond and when he opened the door, George could hear the pump running. Arturo checked the gauges and appeared satisfied. “It looks okay. We’ll check it again later.”

  They closed the door and retraced their steps. “Now what?” George asked.

  Arturo walked over to the truck and opened a big toolbox that took up most of the back. He handed George what looked to be short-handled snips. “We need to join the men. They knew to go directly to Lot D. The vines are loaded with buds. Too many, in some cases. They need to be thinned out so that the buds that remain get the sun and air they need.”

  By ten, his shirt was drenched with sweat and his shoulders ached. But it felt good to work again, to have a purpose as simple as plucking off shoots and leaves. He’d just reached the end of one row and was rounding the corner to work his way down another path when he heard the sound of men’s voices.

  They were speaking loud and fast in what he assumed was Spanish. It was frustrating that he couldn’t understand a word of it. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh. Nobody needed to explain what that meant. He took off running, and found two men grappling in the dirt, blood dripping from both their noses.

  He grabbed the closest one by the back of the shirt and yanked, hauling him back several feet. Then he stepped between the two men.

  “Stop it,” he yelled.

  He didn’t know if they understood English but both men stayed where they were. He could see that they were young, probably just in their early twenties. Both had dirt in their dark hair and blood on their shirts. He looked at their eyes, expecting to see anger, and saw only fear.

  Arturo came running around the corner, almost skidding to a stop. His eyes took in the scene and he spoke quickly in Spanish to each man. Both answered Arturo without ever taking their eyes off George.

  George waited until there was a pause in the conversation before interjecting. “What’s going on here?”

  Neither of the young men answered. George looked at Arturo.

  “They fight over a woman,” Arturo said, his tone dis
gusted.

  George waited but Arturo didn’t continue. “And. . .?” he prompted.

  “She works in town at a hotel. She and Pedro,”—Arturo gestured at the man on George’s right, —“made use of one of the rooms last night.”

  There was a rapid burst of Spanish from the man.

  “At her invitation,” Arturo added.

  To which the man on George’s left spat on the ground.

  That made it clear enough. No doubt the man on the left had spent a night or two as well in one of those rooms. “These two ever get into it before this?”

  “No. Pedro and Rafael have worked side by side for three years.”

  George untied his bandanna, unfolded it, and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “Tell them to get back to work and to settle this on their own time.”

  Arturo looked down at the ground. “You need to know that Mr. Louis has a rule that anybody caught fighting gets fired.”

  Now George understood the fear that he’d seen in the men’s eyes. But he also understood that men had been fighting over women since the beginning of time and that it wasn’t likely to change soon. “Then I suggest that nobody tell Mr. Louis about this. Let’s get to work.”

  At straight-up noon, the men stopped working and piled into the back of the pickup truck. Arturo and George took the front, with Arturo driving. It took less than ten minutes to get back to the homestead. Arturo was quiet until they pulled into the driveway. He stopped the truck, pulled the keys, and turned toward George.

  “That was a decent thing you did,” he said.

  “What would happen to them if they lost their jobs?”

  “Their families would suffer. Señora Song pays her workers fairly. They would not find another job like this. There are not many vineyards like this one.”

  He was starting to realize that. “Arturo, if a man wanted to buy land here in this area, what would it cost?”

  Arturo looked surprised. “You thinking of buying?” he asked.

  “Just curious,” George said.

  “Land like this, known for producing a quality grape, has recently sold for a hundred thousand dollars an acre.”

  George had been doing arithmetic since he was six but he was coming up with one big number in his head. “That would mean that two hundred acres would run twenty million dollars?”

  Arturo nodded. “Got that in your pocket?”

  George shook his head. He couldn’t fathom having that much money.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Arturo said. “Not many do, except for people who don’t know anything about grapes but they’ve made their money in computers or maybe the stock market.”

  Computers. Stock market. He didn’t have a clue what Arturo was talking about.

  “They’re the dangerous ones,” Arturo continued on, “because they’re used to having their own way. All they think they have to do is snap their fingers and order the grapes to grow.”

  George shook his head and reached for the door handle. “Not many want to trim vines?”

  Arturo shook his head. “Señor, I think you are one of the few.” He motioned to the porch. “Maybe your wife waits for you?” he asked.

  George saw that Pearl and Melody were sitting side by side on the porch swing, gliding gently back and forth. Melody wore a light green shirt that hugged her body with a white skirt that showed her legs from the knee down. She wore the same shoes she’d had on yesterday, the ones that showed her toes.

  She stood up and extended her arm to her grandmother, helping the woman out of the swing. Arm in arm, the two of them came down the steps toward him. When he looked at Pearl Song, he knew how strikingly beautiful Melody would be in her later years. Strong bones, clear skin, proud stature. It was an appealing combination.

  When they got close, Pearl waved to him. “How was your morning?” she asked.

  He made a valiant effort to stop staring at Melody’s knees. “Good. We spent most of our morning in Lot D.”

  She smiled. “Oh, the Cabernets.”

  Yeah, that’s what Arturo had said. Not that George knew one kind of grape from another.

  “Those are my favorite,” Pearl added.

  He thought she sounded a bit wistful. Melody, apparently hearing it as well, turned her head to look at her grandmother. A gust of wind caught her hair, whipping it across her face, and his arm was half-raised before he remembered. No touching. He lowered his arm and put his hand in his pocket.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t even hear you leave this morning,” she said, looking at him.

  Good. Then maybe she hadn’t seen him standing over her, staring like some fool. Not wanting to dwell on the image of Melody in bed, he said, “What are you ladies up to?”

  “Just enjoying the day,” Melody said. “Do you. . .uh. . .happen to have a few minutes that I could talk to you?”

  Had he done something terribly wrong in the vineyard? Had word already made its way back to the main house? He looked at Pearl but her posture was relaxed. It was just Melody who seemed tense. “Of course,” he said.

  She grabbed his free hand and as hot as his skin had been under the full morning sun, her touch was warmer still. She must have felt it, too, because as soon as she’d led him around back of the sprawling house and through an arbor that was covered in fresh-blooming wisteria, she dropped his hand. The garden was an abundance of color and life. There were white daisies and orange black-eyed Susans and big yellow sunflowers. There were purple phlox and bright pink zinnias.

  His mother had taught him to love flowers. He’d grown up twenty miles east of Bluemont, North Dakota, in a place where most everybody had grown their own vegetables. His mother had done the same, but what she’d really loved was the flowers in her garden. When neighbors had come round for a visit, they’d always found themselves in the garden, picking a bouquet or digging up a plant to take home to their own garden.

  He’d worked those flowers from the time he was old enough to pull weeds and deliver water. And he’d told his friends he hated it.

  Then later on, practically in the dead of night, he’d planted flowers in the small garden behind his and Hannah’s house. He’d told everyone once they started to grow that they were Hannah’s flowers, that he was just tending to them to be helpful. Hannah, who thought flowers were a waste of time and energy, had gone along.

  He loved them. Loved watching them poke out of the hard ground and reach up for the sun. Loved watching them bloom and then lose their luster, only to bloom again.

  “This is a pleasant spot,” he said, not wanting to sound too interested.

  Melody drew in a deep breath. “I know. Don’t you just love flowers?”

  “I do.” It came out before he could stop it. He looked at her to see if she was embarrassed for him but she didn’t even seem surprised.

  “When I left home for the first time,” Melody said, “the first thing I bought for my apartment was three big flowerpots. I had a little deck off my living room and every night I would sit out there, close my eyes, and smell the flowers. It was like I’d brought a piece of home with me.”

  “It sounds nice.”

  “What’s your favorite flower?”

  In all the time he’d been married to Hannah, she’d never once asked him that. “I guess there’s nothing that smells much prettier than a lilac bush in spring.” He had several outside his back door at home.

  “Very true.” They walked another thirty feet before she spoke again. “Come over here; there’s something I want to show you.”

  She led him past bold pink flowers on strong stems that were almost her height and then past a wide patch of what looked like wild orange lilies. She stopped suddenly and said, “This is my favorite part.”

  He could see why. It was a pool of water, maybe thirty feet long by twenty feet wide with a waterfall at one end. Blooming lily pads floated on the water and purple hyacinth bloomed along the edge. Small fish, every color of the rainbow, swam near the surface. All in all,
it was one of the prettiest things he’d ever seen.

  “My mother had been working on the design of it before she was killed. Grandmother finished it in her memory. When I was living here, there was hardly a week that went by that I didn’t come back here. It’s the one place that I always felt safe. Loved.”

  His heart ached for the young girl who’d suffered so. “Perhaps that’s why your grandmother finished it. Maybe she knew you needed this place.”

  She blinked quickly and he knew that she was holding back tears. “You’re probably right,” she said. “She’s always known me better than anyone else.”

  It was the second time she’d said something like that. It might be true but it begged the obvious question. "If your grandmother knows you that well, how is that she didn’t know you weren’t truthful about having a husband?”

  She didn’t look surprised. Instead, she pointed at the bench that sat at the far edge of the pond. “May we sit? My back hurts.”

  That scared him. “Should we get back? I could carry you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Hoping for a hernia?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’m fine, really. I’m sure it’s from being in the car for so long yesterday. This last month I’ve noticed that if I sit too long, my back aches.”

  It was probably true what his mother had told him—that if men had to have the babies, there would be none. He let her lead him over to the bench and he waited until she sat. Then he lowered himself down, making sure their thighs were a foot apart. The no touching rule applied here, too.

  “At first,” she said, “I thought Grandmother was very suspicious and I was just waiting for her to push back, to force me to come clean. But she didn’t. When she started asking that we come home for a visit, I came up with all kinds of excuses. You were traveling for work. I was working extra shifts. You had the flu, I had a cold. Then, when I told her I was pregnant, I told her that I just didn’t feel good enough to travel.”

  “She could have come to see you.”

  “I kept waiting for her to say exactly that. Over the years, she’d been to visit me several times. When she didn’t suggest it, I thought it was because she was worried about the vineyard. We had very heavy rains here in late December and early January, to the point that most of the vineyards were under water. Because the vines were dormant, I think most everyone thought they’d come out of it all right but I knew it was still a worry. Now, because I know about the cancer, I think she not only wasn’t feeling up to making the trip, she was busy thinking about that.”