Saving Grapes

by J. T. Lundy

  Sister Lucia nodded. Sister Claudette remained stern, but she may have nodded, perhaps imperceptibly so.

  “I have the reputation of St. Sebastian and all the nuns to uphold,” Sister Claudette said.

  “I know that now,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “I want to apologize for my behavior.”

  The sisters looked at me, patient.

  “You were right. I did encourage Stumpy. I—I made him believe pursuing Sister Melanie was the right thing to do, but I see now I have disrespected you and the convent, and I’m sorry.”

  “Very good,” Sister Lucia said.

  Sister Claudette pursed her lips. She spoke with reluctance. “I must admit I am still angry with you, Jason, but I appreciate your honesty.”

  “Thank you.” I looked down and ground my shoe into the pebbles as I used to do as a child when Aunt Clara scolded me. “It’s just that … I saw them together and they looked so happy, like they were truly in love.”

  “It happens sometimes,” Sister Claudette said. “But the results are never good. Every nun is tempted sooner or later, and it is our job, our mission, to honor our vows.”

  Sister Lucia didn’t say anything, but she looked like she might cry. I guessed she had inherited the emotions for both of them.

  It might have been a bad time to toss the subject, but seeing as it felt we were all opening up the lockers for inspection, I gave it a shot. “Remember Jacqueline, the government lady?”

  The sisters did not respond, but their heads twitched like alert owls.

  “Please hear me out.” I talked quickly. “The government wants to buy the vineyard, the abbey—everything. They’ll move you to a new place in Provence by the sea. You’d be very—”

  Sister Claudette held up her hand before I could whistle it all out. “You would bury all this?”

  I didn’t know what she meant, but I didn’t let that stop me. “The new place is just as beautiful and more profitable. You could always come back here and visit. I’ll come back to see the cemetery, now that I know about it.”

  Sister Claudette smiled with indignation. “In a submarine?”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Or are you a scuba diver?”

  “A scuba diver, what?”

  Sister Lucia put her hand on my shoulder. “The government, they want to build a dam.” She paused and swallowed to contain her emotion. “They want to flood our land.”

  Sister Claudette panned her hand out across the vineyard like she was trying to capture all its essence for us to feel at once. “Everything would be gone. The convent, the vineyard, hundreds of years of memories.” She turned to me and placed her hand on my chest, like she was imparting the history of the vineyard into my heart. “Your family, Jason—your ancestors—would all be gone.”

  It felt like the ground shuddered. A cloud raced overhead, and as the shadow passed the hill appeared to move. The vine leaves shook, and I steadied myself. The vineyard. The land. My ancestors. I felt like they were all judging me.

  “We found out from some of our sources. And it might not matter if we want to sell or not. By law, they can force us to sell.”

  “Flood the land? Force us to sell?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you know from your meeting with that woman?” Sister Claudette said.

  I shook my head, embarrassed. Jacqueline hadn’t said anything about flooding the land. She had set me up. I was a fool. Was she conniving like Laura, too? Were all women? I should have never let my guard down. I couldn’t believe it. I thought we had made a connection. I thought she actually liked me for me—dumb old Jason Barnes.

  We turned to look at the view again.

  “I can’t imagine the vineyard under water,” Sister Lucia said. “It would be horrible.”

  As much as I wanted the money, I still had to agree. “You’re right, Sister. It would be a shame.”

  We were silent as we imagined the vine-covered valleys, the forest patches, and the rock outcroppings from the hills all vanishing from the view. “All my ancestors. I feel like I just met them.”

  The sisters nodded.

  “Would the chapel and abbey be underwater, too?”

  No one answered. The question was too difficult to consider. Sister Claudette folded her arms across her chest.

  Sister Lucia touched my arm. “What should we do, Jason?”

  There was a man in my brain with a Gucci suit and slicked-back hair that had been saying, sell, sell, sell. Sell the land, take the cash and run, but he was growing smaller. I thought on what Stumpy had said about balancing out what was really important in life. After seeing the cemetery, I finally felt I might have a place—a special place to connect me to this world—and the government wanted to drown it all. “They’re not going to force me to sell. We should fight them with everything we’ve got.”

  The Sisters’ eyes opened wide, and they stood up straighter.

  “Do you speak the truth?” Sister Claudette asked.

  I did. At least I thought I did. “Sisters, I know now you’ll never agree to sell the abbey or the land, no matter the price, and you shouldn’t, especially in this case. So my best option is to help you maximize vineyard profits. To do that we need to be a happy team, and I’m willing to help out all I can.”

  Sister Claudette looked almost kindly.

  Sister Lucia clapped her hands together prayer-like. “But what can we do? How can we fight the government?”

  “In court, for one. And for two …” I raised my finger into the air. “… Publicity! The public needs to know about our plight. This is not just our fight, Sisters. Our fight should be the fight of all the people in this area. Our fight is France’s fight.” I threw my arms toward the surrounding countryside. “This gorgeous land should not drown.”

  Sister Lucia clapped her hands.

  Sister Claudette reached her hand to shake mine. “Okay, Jason, we’re a team. I like your attitude, even if all you think about is money. We can work on that later, but for now you are welcome to stay and share in the harvest profits.”

  “And hopefully many more to come,” I said.

  She pulled me in and wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight. The last time Aunt Clara had hugged me I had just graduated high school. That was a long time ago. I hugged Sister Claudette back. Her embrace felt so good I wanted to cry.

  Sister Claudette pulled away from me and finger-pointed into my chest. “But keep your friend, Stumpy, away from the convent.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Stumpy and I rode an ancient tandem bike toward Duras. I steered. “Are you pedaling?”

  The sisters had encouraged us to take their tandem (single speed, fat tires, solid steel “woman’s frame”) into town for the weekly market day. Stumpy powered up on the idea, but I was less than juiced. The rusty black monolithic bike had gigantic wire baskets on the front and sides. We looked like dorks, but the scenery was beautiful, the air fresh, and the activity would keep Stumpy from brooding over Sister Melanie.

  “We’re lucky the sisters let us stay,” I said.

  “You’re lucky. I’ve been banned from Melanie.”

  Stumpy kept coasting when he talked. I breathed hard as I hammered on the pedals. “We’ve got to reap the cash on this harvest. I don’t want to lose the vineyard. Are you pedaling?”

  “Worry about yourself—you’re good at that.”

  I ignored the dig. “I thought Jacqueline liked me. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me about the dam and the flooding of our land.”

  “Women!” Stumpy said.

  The tires kicked up small stones and crackled against the road. “You think she was just playing me all along? Are you pedaling?”

  “Are you pedaling?” Stumpy asked. “Jacqueline might like you, but she has her job. Either way you’ve been a sap.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “No respect. You need respect.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you going to pedal?”

&nb
sp; “Let’s coast.”

  “Coast? We’re going uphill!”

  Stumpy looked behind him to check my assertion. “Holy tires, it’s the Tour de France.”

  It wasn’t the Tour de France, but a group of cyclists decked out in full regalia on aero-jet-like bikes. They overtook us easily and whistled and hollered as they passed. One guy shouted, “Petites filles!” and blew kisses.

  All of a sudden, our bike surged. I thought we might have been banged from behind by a car, but I looked over my shoulder and only saw Stumpy. He was red faced, flexed up, and pumping the pedals in a rage. I tried to match the pedaling madman, and together we Lance Armstrong-ed our way up to the cyclists.

  Stumpy picked out the quadricep of a man who had flicked the “little girls” comment our way. He shook his fist at him. “Petite this, spandex-boy!”

  The man sat up and rode no-handed. “Qu’est-ce-que vous faites?”

  “Fay you, too, buddy,” Stumpy shouted and gasped for air.

  The cyclist reached into his back jersey pocket and produced an energy bar of some sort. He handed it to Stumpy as a peace offering. Stumpy never stayed riled up for long, and free food was just the stick to make him genial. “Merci,” he said as he unwrapped the bar and stopped pedaling.

  The cyclist raced ahead of us. “Bonne journée,” he called.

  “Bonne journée,” I said.

  “That’s how you do it,” Stumpy said.

  Sweat dripped off my nose. “Pedal.” I breathed. “Do what? Scare energy bars out of cyclists?”

  “Respect. You’re too timid, Jason. Sometimes you first have to rile these French people up for them to listen to you.”

  “Start the engine back there again, would ya? And what are you wheeling on about?”

  “Sometimes you got to antagonize a classy broad like Jacqueline to get noticed is all I’m saying. You can work on the love part later.”

  “Are you serious? Are you pedaling?”

  “I’m seriously pedaling,” Stumpy shouted.

  I thought about what Stumpy had said as we haphazardly pedaled and limped our way into Duras.

  Stumpy and I parked the tandem and strolled down Duras’s crowded streets. The sun-soaked village was lined with vendors for market day and it buzzed with festivity. The aromas of sausage, cheese, and roasted chicken drifted among the different stands. Area wineries had wine tastings and were selling last year’s wine. We walked up and down the hilly, winding lanes, seeking refuge in shade when we could. We bought fresh baguettes, sausage, and cheese. We stopped at the St. Sebastian booth and offered to help, but the nuns shooed us away.

  Someone whistled a high-pitched whistle. “Jason Barnes.”

  I looked around.

  Stumpy pointed to the Duras Hotel. “Up there.”

  Jacqueline leaned out a second-floor window. The hotel was made of light brown stone like most of the town’s buildings. Vines grew up the side of the wall. Light blue shutters adorned the windows. Jacqueline had shouted over the hotel’s café, but she looked like she didn’t care.

  I waved nonchalantly.

  Jacqueline pointed at me. “Stay right there.”

  “She’s cute,” Stumpy said.

  “She’s at least five-foot-seven. Don’t get any ideas.”

  Jacqueline hurried out of the hotel and around tables at the café to reach us. She wore khaki shorts, flats, and a white t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back behind her ears and fell down to her shoulders in back. She held a folded newspaper in one hand.

  I did not smile. “Bonjour, Madame. Enjoying market day?”

  “No.”

  I put my arm around Stumpy. “This is Stumpy, my good friend I was telling you about.”

  She shook hands with Stumpy and greeted him matter-of-factly. “Bonjour, Stumpy. Is that an American name?”

  “Nickname,” Stumpy said. “It’s unique—synonymous with ‘player.’”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  The newspaper fluttered in Jacqueline’s hand. “I thought you were going to convince the Morceau sisters to sell? ‘Good at bullshitting old ladies’ you said.”

  “Ha,” Stumpy said.

  Jacqueline fleetingly looked at Stumpy and then at me. A vendor shouted behind us, hawking his foie gras.

  “I tried,” I said disinterestedly, “but I don’t think the sisters are going to come around.”

  “Come around?” Jacqueline unfolded the daily Duras Journal and held it in front of our faces. A photograph showed the Morceau sisters standing, with their arms defiantly crossed, in front of the abbey. “They are the opposite of coming around.”

  “I don’t understand what it says,” I said.

  Jacqueline pointed to the headlines. “It says.” Shoppers crowded around us as the market became busier. A couple holding hands bumped Jacqueline, forcing her closer to me. “It says—”

  A family pressed by behind me, and I was pushed closer to Jacqueline. Her shoulders leaned against my chest as she read, “The St. Sebastian Sisters Protest Government’s Hydroelectric Project.”

  I kept taking deeper breaths, she smelled so good. “I heard about this project. I’m surprised someone didn’t tell me about it sooner, though.”

  “I had my orders.” Her lips quivered. She looked beautiful, and I stared at her face as she talked. “I can understand the nun’s position, but I thought you and I were on the same side in this matter.” She tapped the paper lightly and read, “Monsieur Jason Barnes …” Jacqueline pointed at me. “That’s you, no?” She read on, “Monsieur Jason Barnes, the new vintner, says, ‘We will fight the government with every means available to us. This is not only our fight, but also Duras’s fight. This is a fight for the people of France to save their land.’” Jacqueline punched the paper. “And as you Americans like to say, ‘blah, blah, blah.’”

  I tried to touch Jacqueline’s arm, but she pulled away. “That’s not a small detail you failed to mention to me. Hydroelectric plant? A dam? You planned to flood the land? What did you expect our reaction would be?”

  “I told you there were things I couldn’t reveal.” She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes. Someone’s elbow bumped me in the back. “And like I thought you would really care with your cash-in-and-be-a-Paris-playboy talk.”

  “I, I,—”

  “Ay, yi, yi,” Stumpy said nervously, uncomfortable to be amidst the argument.

  “I told you negotiations could be tough. I’m sorry, but I have no choice.” Jacqueline pushed the paper toward me and made me take it. “It doesn’t matter if you want to sell or not. The government can exercise their right of eminent domain and force you and the sisters to sell.”

  “Another item you conveniently forgot to mention.”

  “We were hoping it wouldn’t have to come to that.”

  “If the government is going to try and take the vineyard then we are going to fight.”

  “I have a job to do. You are making this very difficult for me.” She turned to walk away.

  “Well I don’t feel like singing either.”

  She waved her hands chaotically and made her way into the hotel.

  “You did it,” Stumpy said.

  “I did it all right.”

  “No, it’s good. She really notices you, now. You have her respect.” Stumpy touched my shoulder. “She has strong emotions for you.”

  “She hates me.”

  “Hate is intense like love.” Stumpy looked around. “And we are in France. It all turns to love in the end.”

  “You are an optimist, my friend.”

  We started walking. A wonderful spicy smell filled my nose. Stumpy and I followed the scent into a hot tent-covered booth. A Spanish woman held a long wooden ladle and stirred a four-foot wide pan full of paella. Fragrant steam rose as she stirred the yellow Spanish rice, pink finger-length prawns, quarter-round sausages, onions, and peppers.

  “Oh, yes.” Stumpy pointed to a large pl
astic container. The woman smiled at us and scooped in at least four pounds of paella. Stumpy paid, and we left for home. “We’re going to feast tonight.”

  When we returned from town, Stumpy and I opened a bottle of wine and sat on the porch. We decided to save our paella for supper and instead ate fresh cheese, sausage, and baguettes. A breeze blew the recently formed clouds away and the sun warmed the patio. We clinked glasses and feasted on our simple fare. Stumpy’s mood brightened, and the wine went down.

  “I feel like Melanie is in prison. I want to break into the abbey and carry her off.”

  I swallowed a sausage-and-brie-topped baguette slice and took a sip of wine. “This is the life, huh?”

  “Living the dream.”

  “Look, we can’t blow this second chance. There’s only fourteen days until the sixty grand is due. Can you please hold off on Sister Melanie until after the harvest this time? Once I sign those papers and inherit the land, you can do whatever you want.”

  Stumpy grimaced.

  “If you can’t control yourself …” I opened my palm to the vineyard. “… this is all gone as far as we’re concerned.”

  “Okay, okay. I know.”

  The house phone rang. I walked into the kitchen and answered it. It was Jacqueline. She talked excitedly fast and it was difficult to understand her. “My bosses, you see. I feel horrible—not like me at all. You hate me for positive.”

  She sounded frantic. I had to interrupt. “Whoa. Ease back on the gas, girl.”

  “You don’t understand the position I—”

  “Jacqueline!”

  Silence.

  “Why don’t you come over here? Stumpy’s making paella. We can talk.”

  Silence.

  “Paella? I love paella.” She paused. “Okay, I suppose I could do that.”

  I walked around the house excitedly. “She’s coming over. We’re having dinner. It’s going to be like a date, except, you’ll be here.”

  “I’ll leave.”

  “No, no—too obvious. She thinks you’re making the paella.”