by J. T. Lundy
Beyond the abbey the sun beat down through the pure-smelling air and filled the endless grape rows with life. The abbey sat atop a small hill. On the church side, the land swept into a yellow valley and rose again to a plateau where the vintner’s house rested.
We drove the rental car over with our suitcases and pulled into the house’s pebbled driveway. Stumpy struggled to re-button his shirt. Lilacs outlined a stone patio and buzzed with honeybees and tiny white and yellow butterflies. Birds chirped; grasshoppers jumped and made helicopter noises. Other insects sang a low hum. There were no man-made sounds to be found here.
The house and the surroundings were so beautiful and peaceful. I felt relaxed and safe. It was like I was meditating on a happy place to go, but was actually there. Stumpy must have felt the same. He spun slowly around—a look of wonder on his face.
A squadron of nuns had been silently attacking the dust in the house all morning. Now they stood outside the front door, smiling and welcoming Stumpy and I as we approached. The dogs stood with the nuns as if they were part of the work crew, and as we passed they fell in and trotted next to Stumpy like guards.
Stumpy looked at it all in awe. “This is for us?”
The simple two-story rectangular farmhouse was made of sand-colored stone and had a faded red Roman-tile roof. Light blue shutters accentuated the windows, and the place looked, I dare say, romantic.
“Temporary,” I said. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
The house’s thick walls were cool on the inside, the same as the floor. We inspected the kitchen and main room, which had a fireplace. Upstairs, three bedrooms sat close together. A loft with a railing overlooked the main room. Simple French country furnishings decorated the house throughout.
Stumpy and I thanked the nuns profusely for their labor until they became embarrassed. The nuns left us alone, and we sat down on the patio and took in the view.
“The nuns are nice,” Stumpy said.
“Most people are when they first meet us,” I said.
The abbey sat majestically about four soccer fields away and slightly above us. The church steeple and cross reached high into the crisp, cloudless sky.
I sat on the concrete patio and tried to understand it all.
“It sure is beautiful,” Stumpy said. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t. Think cash. Cash is—”
“Cash is king,” Stumpy said without enthusiasm.
“Today we are vintners,” I said, trying to bring him around.
Stumpy smiled. “I like that. I like being a vintner. But we don’t know anything about vintning.”
“Exactly.” I slapped my hands and laughed. “We’re going to be the worst vintners ever.”
“But we could learn.”
“Rubbish. If those sisters won’t let us sell and are so keen on having us as ‘deep’ land partners, then God forgive their ignorance.”
Stumpy looked worried. “Jason, you’re not going to sabotage the wining and vintning, are you?”
“No. Of course not. Well, not on purpose, anyhow. But just think of all the jobs we’ve had, Stumpy, and think of how many times we’ve been personnel department fodder. Dereliction of duties could be at the top of our resumes. Those nuns have no idea what they’re up against.” I stood up, spread my hands apart, and laughed. “All we have to do is be ourselves. Those sisters will be begging us to sell in no time.”
I walked with Sister Claudette down a row of grape vines. Stumpy had gone with Sister Lucia to do some chores.
“We mow between the rows,” Sister Claudette explained, “to keep weeds and other growth under control.”
I cupped a grape bunch.
“In a few weeks they will be ready.” Sister Claudette picked a grape and rubbed it between her fingers. “When the skin is velvety smooth …” she plopped the grape into her mouth and I saw her face relax for the first time, “… and the sweetness is at its peak, that is when we harvest.”
I put a couple of the purple gushers inside the old muzzle, swirled them around, and did a crush. “Mighty fine. They taste about right to me.”
Sister Claudette held up one finger. “Not quite. The most important thing is that we harvest the grapes when they are sweetest. It will take many harvests for you to fully taste the changing grape stages and know when the time is perfect. Jason, you must learn to understand your grapes, their vines, roots, and soil.” She scooped up some sandy earth and dropped the pebbles into my hands.
I sifted my hands and let the rocks and silt fall through my fingers. I felt powerful. This was my land. I imagined the grape roots pulling at my feet—inviting me to be a part of their world. I felt that if I concentrated hard enough I could help them grow. Nonsense.
“The soil provides the true essence and flavor to the grape.” Sister Claudette waved her hand. “This ridge we are standing on has the gravelly earth necessary to produce our best wine.”
The way Sister Claudette talked about the land, it all sounded so good, so right. I looked further out and forced myself to think about the millions this place could be worth, and the fast times I could have with all that moola, and then felt like myself again. I had twenty-three days to pay the court. I needed to stick to the plan. “What about those slopes?”
Sister Claudette shook her head. “Those vines are shaded too long from the ridge across the vintner’s house. No, only this spot has the perfect terroir for our wine.”
“Terror wine?”
“Terroir, Jason. Terroir is the soil, the sun, the wind—all the natural elements that go into the grape.”
“What about all the other grapes?” I was trying to get a good assessment of the place, but Sister Claudette had a kinder interpretation of my question.
“You show an interest. That is good.” Sister Claudette gave me a nod as if it were a blessing, a stern show of approval much like Aunt Clara would have given.
“Most of our grapes we press ourselves, and then we sell the juice to Château Dubois Winery. We only use the very best grapes to make St. Sebastian wine.”
I picked another grape, chewed, and swallowed. Man, it sure tasted good. I couldn’t imagine the berries any sweeter. “I don’t know, Sister. They seem good enough to harvest now.”
Sister Claudette laughed. “You will see.”
We walked further. She stepped and clipped a growth from a vine. “We prune the suckers and pull any extra weeds by hand.” She handed me the pinchers. “That is something you can do. Walk the rows, pruning and weeding—communing with the fruit.” Sister Claudette spread her hands. “Go now, Jason. Walk the land. Care for the land. Understand and come to know the land. Constantly taste the grapes. Taste how they change through the vineyard. Taste how they change as we approach the harvest.”
It was quite a stirring speech. Sister Claudette was trying to sell me on this place, but I had been raised on infomercials, and I wasn’t buying. I’ll admit, the way she explained things—the way she connected it all—had an attractiveness to it, an attractiveness I had difficulty understanding. I had to remember that cashing in this vineyard would solve my current problems. “I’ll do my best, Sister.”
She turned to walk away. “I will leave you to the vineyard.”
I could hear a distant tractor putt-putting down a row. The dry air smelled like dusty leaves and rich soil. All right, I’d give myself a lonely tour. I’d had tougher jobs, and this land-walking seemed about my speed. I stopped after a few meters and clipped off a sucker, assuming I had done it right, but not caring a frog’s leg either way, as was my normal vocational inclination.
A high-pitched screech rose up from the field. “No!”
I looked up. Four rows over, the vines rustled and then collapsed. I could hear the tractor chugging and dogs barking. Another section of vines fell like dominos. I heard a scream.
Stumpy! I thought.
I looked down my lane and saw Sister Claudette dive through the vines and head toward the victimized row. I did the
same, and we arrived at the same time. The vines had swiped her black veil and white coif, and her gray hair spread like a peacock.
Sister Claudette ran after the rogue tractor. I sprinted and passed her. Stumpy was gripping the tractor’s steering wheel, his head bent low, his eyes closed, and his face grimacing. Grapes and vines and leaves flew in all directions. The poodles ran alongside, yapping all the while.
Suddenly Sister Lucia appeared, and ran next to the tractor shouting directions. She hopped on the side wheel well, reached across Stumpy, and pulled on his arm to turn the tractor, but his grip and confusion were too strong. The tractor bounced and Sister Lucia fell to the ground.
I jumped on the tractor and then on top of Stumpy. I headlocked the sweaty brute with my left arm to immobilize him, and reached with my right hand to turn off the ignition. The tractor stopped, and all was quiet.
I released Stumpy and jumped off. Sister Lucia lay on her side in the grass. Sister Claudette attended to her.
The dogs yipped at my heels, circled around me, and then barked into the air like it was all my fault. “Is she all right?” I said.
Sister Claudette helped Sister Lucia up to a sitting position. “Pas de problème. Ça va,” Sister Lucia said.
Stumpy wobbled to my side. Cuts and scrapes covered his skin. Grape juice splotches filled the gaps. He picked up a dog in each arm and they licked his face. Stumpy held a dog out to me. “This is Matthew. The other is Mark.”
I backed away. “Pontius Pilate and Judas, more like.”
Sister Claudette glared at us. “You must be careful. You must respect your work. Respect and care for the wine and the creation process.” She helped Sister Lucia stand. “Otherwise, careless accidents like this happen and people get hurt.”
Stumpy was nervous. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Someone could have been hurt badly,” Sister Claudette said. “Sloppiness causes injuries. And injuries or not, sloppiness is reflected in the character of the wine. You must care to work here.”
Stumpy and I had heard that quality-control speech before, but this time Stumpy dropped his head, loyal to management. “I’m sorry, Sister.”
Other nuns had arrived, and they were picking up the mess—carefully repositioning the vines that were still intact.
I picked up an errant grape and inspected it like it might hold a clue. “How much money is this accident going to cost, Sister?”
Sister Claudette’s wild gray hair and steel eyes were Medusa-like as she looked intently at me. It was like she was trying to understand my soul. I averted my eyes.
Later in the day, I sat in the abbey courtyard under the shade of a plum tree with Sister Claudette and Sister Lucia and listened to more smashing grape facts. The air smelled full of flowers. White butterflies air-danced around the fountain like mini-angels, landing but a moment on Saint Sebastian for a water sip before rejoining the ball. The bubbling fountain made me sleepy.
A nun walked into the courtyard followed by another woman who sported a fashionable charcoal business suit and walked with an authoritarian air. She had silky black hair pulled tight into a ponytail. Her suit skirt held tight against her thin waist and stopped, conservatively sexy, above her knees. She had—oh, forget it. I’ll cut right to the chase. She was awesome, and I was dumbstruck.
The sisters greeted her coldly and failed to introduce me, but she stuck her hand out my way and spoke rapid French. I touched her smooth white skin and said, “Enchanté. Je m’appelle Jason Barnes.”
Her eyes lit up and she switched to English. “Oh, Mr. Barnes. I have desired to meet you. I am Jacqueline Thibodaux.” She had a thick but lovely accent.
My eyes widened, and I might have made a humming noise.
Sister Claudette and Sister Lucia stood stone-faced.
I gathered my courage and squeaked, “What do you desire? I mean, why do you desire me?”
She paused and looked at me a moment in assessment. When a woman does this, it’s usually a signal for me to move on, but Jacqueline Thibodaux had her intentions. She handed me a business card. “I represent France’s Ministry of Energy.”
From Sister Claudette’s attitude, I figured the government folks were intent on meddling, as governments like to do. “I assure you, Madame, the vineyard’s energy facilities are up to date.”
Jacqueline laughed and then quickly composed herself. “I’m sorry for the disturbance.” She glanced nervously at Sister Claudette. “Monsieur Barnes, I was wondering if I could talk privately with you?” When she asked, her voice became quiet and her eye twitched. I could tell Sister Claudette intimidated her. Or perhaps I made her nervous? Was she attracted to me?
I nodded for what felt like a long time before I spoke. “I’d like to talk privately with you, too.”
“We could have lunch,” she said with a friendly smile.
“At a French café, perhaps?” I said eagerly and suavely like a true idiot. Why did I say ‘French?’
“Mais oui,” Jacqueline said with an enthusiasm that made me feel at ease.
“Mais non,” Sister Claudette barked. “If there is any lunch to be had it can be right here in the convent, with all of us, in the presence of God where there are no secrets.”
Wait, what? Sister Claudette just put a vintage crush on what I thought was a little flirtation I had going with Jacqueline. I couldn’t believe it. She was pulling an Aunt Clara on me. No girl was good enough for Aunt Clara. She treated them all with a vengeance, like they were all out to ruin my life. To think of all the fantastic dates I could have had if Aunt Clara was not around. “Goddamn it!” I blurted out.
Jacqueline’s eyes went wide, and she covered the rest of her face with her hands.
Sister Claudette’s face turned red, and her lips moved around like she was chewing on marbles.
Jacqueline removed her hands from her face, and I wasn’t sure, but I think she was trying to stifle a smile as she spoke. “Thank you, Sister, but I think it best I leave.” She gave a slight nod to us. “Bonne journée.” She turned and walked out of the courtyard.
I looked to Sister Claudette. She was fuming. I looked to where Jacqueline had been standing. I looked left, right, left, right.
Sister Lucia put her hand on Sister Claudette’s arm. “The Lord our God is merciful and forgiving.”
“Please forgive me,” I said in probably the least contrite voice they had ever heard.
Sister Claudette calmed, but stayed stoic.
Sister Lucia smiled at me and nodded. I took that as forgiveness and permission to leave. I ran into the convent, through the long hall, and out the front steps.
Jacqueline was about to get into her car. “Oh, Mademoiselle?” I looked at the card in my hand. “Ms. Thibodaux.”
She turned to face me as I approached. “I’ve dealt with the Sisters before. Est-ce-que vous êtes fou?”
“Absolutely,” I said, not understanding. “Can we still have lunch?”
She laughed. “Oui. I would very much like to have lunch and discuss an important matter with you. I am staying at the Hotel Duras. They have a very nice French café.” She laughed. “Shall we meet there tomorrow?”
“Mais oui,” I said, concentrating so as to not say anything else stupid. “Until tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 8
Jacqueline and I sat across from each other at a small table outside of the Hotel Duras. I was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. A short wrought-iron fence separated us from a lightly traveled sidewalk. We had exchanged pleasantries and Jacqueline was talking about how she had missed a train connection coming to Duras yesterday, or something. I don’t know; I just couldn’t stop staring at her. I didn’t mean to say anything, but the words just came out. “You are so lovely.”
Jacqueline was as surprised as I. She looked taken aback and may have even blushed. She opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped. She reached her hand out and I thought she might touch mine, but then she set it on the table and regained her compos
ure, smiling demurely.
The warm, fresh air was scented with a hint of the red flowers that hung down in pots from a green awning. Waiters bustled around the crowded tables where people talked quietly, clinking their plates with silverware.
“It is lovely here, Monsieur Barnes, but my interest in speaking to you is strictly professional.”
Jacqueline was not as intimidating as when we’d first met. She wore a light blue skirt and a white sleeveless blouse. Her black hair waved down onto her shoulders.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I assure you. My interest in speaking to you is strictly professional.”
“A professional lunch between two business people.” She said this like she was convincing herself.
I tried to look solemn. “A professional lunch between two business people.”
“Are you always so repetitive?”
“Repetitive?”
“There you go again.”
“Go again?”
“You’re repeating everything I say.”
“I’m repeating …” Good god, why was I such a dork? She had me so flustered. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m a repeater. Would you like to have some wine?”
“Yes, I was going to ask you if you’d like some wine.”
“Now you’re repeating me.”
“Monsieur Barnes—”
“Jason, please, just Jason.”
She smiled. “Thank you for meeting me, Jason.”
There was an awkward pause for a moment. I looked to a sidewalk chalkboard easel, which sat before the café: Plat du jour—Tête de veau. I realized I should probably say something. Jacqueline had waited long enough for me, though, and we spoke at the same time. “The reason I want to speak with you—” she said. “This area of France is gorgeous—” I said. We laughed. We each started again. “I—” she said. “I—” I said. We laughed. Things were going well.
Jacqueline looked at me with a kindness I had not seen from a woman in a long while. She was beautiful, and I felt drawn to her—but it was more than that. She had confidence and ambition, and seemed to know what she wanted in life. And I imagined she had a plan on how to get it. All these characteristics and energy that I lacked, wrapped up in a beautiful woman, intoxicated me. I wanted to learn more about her and keep the conversation personal. “Where do you live?”
