by J. T. Lundy
“That, too. She’s so mysterious.”
“Mysterious? Are you hiding some pieces? We’re talking about a nun here.”
Stumpy reared back his head and laughed condescendingly, like I didn’t know the difference between a Bordeaux and a Riesling. Well, neither of us did a few weeks ago, but that was beside the point—this nun was crazy.
“She’s not a nun,” Stumpy said.
“Not, what? Who not what nun?”
“Sister Melanie is not a nun and has no Sisters.”
I stared stupefied.
Stumpy became animated. “She’s not a nun. Never was. She’s some novelist immersing herself in her work. She calls it method writing or something like that.”
“What a load of crap.”
“No clue about the writing. All I know is she’s not a nun.” Stumpy shook my shoulders. “She’s going to stick it out until after the harvest and then we can date free and clear—no vows attached.”
Stumpy and I were both close to finding love, but Jacqueline and Melanie’s jobs were standing in our way. Jobs were always messing us up. “These women we’ve met sure are dedicated to their work.”
“They need us, Jason.” Stumpy held his hand up like he was clutching a strawberry. “They need us to bring romance into their lives; to show them how to really live.”
I laughed, reached over, and gave Stumpy’s noggin a push with the palm of my hand. “I sure hope they’re thinking the same thing.”
Stumpy laughed. “But seriously. Can you keep Melanie’s secret? She spent a lot of time creating a fake identity and applying to work during the harvest. She’d kill me if I ruined her research.”
“Secret! I’ve been delivering love notes and keeping quiet that you’re courting a nun—that could cost me a vineyard worth ten million, and you’re asking me if I can keep a secret?”
“Don’t forget, I’m risking ten percent. That’s a million.”
I pointed at him. “Don’t you forget.”
Early the next morning, when the sun was still low, I walked out of the kitchen with a bowl of granola. I was aiming for the sofa when I stopped. There stood Stumpy in his flannel pajamas talking to Sister Melanie. I shouted out a garbled, “Hey,” through my mouthful of toasted oats and other whole grains. Stumpy and Sister Melanie looked at me as I forcibly swallowed quicker than I had planned.
I shook my bowl at them. “What are you two doing?” Had she spent the night? Stumpy was risking everything.
“Melanie just arrived,” Stumpy said.
I noticed she was not in her usual nun garb. “Don’t think you can disguise yourself in civvies. I recognized you right off, Sister Melanie.”
“Don’t ever call me Sister again. It’s Goddamn Melanie.”
“Okay, Goddamn Melanie. You’re probably the only one.”
“I quit, boss man. Find another mule for your double hauler.”
“You said mule, not me.” She quit? Oh, man. The sisters would be all fired up.
“Melanie is leaving,” Stumpy said.
“Oh.” I should be nice. I didn’t want Stumpy to lose Melanie.
“I want to see my family, and I’m sick of this prison of prayers. All these rules could squeeze the soul out of a person.”
“Amen,” I said.
“Sorry I was a little cranky with you yesterday, but I was at my limit.”
I laughed. “I understand, now.”
Melanie had a suitcase by the door. “Do you have to leave?” Stumpy said.
“Are you going to write about us?” I asked.
“I do have to leave.” She looked at me. “I’m writing a novel.”
My head was turning. Maybe Melanie could do us some good. “I was thinking more immediate, newsworthy writing, like our current David versus Goliath conflict.”
Melanie considered. “I’ll think about it.”
She wrapped her arms around Stumpy and they kissed. “I’ll come back after the sisters have cooled off.”
We harvested for three days straight, working as fast as we could to pull in the grapes. I estimated we had two more days to go. I had eleven days before the court payment was due, but I tried not to think about it. I could only labor on and hope.
Pristine, sunny weather kept us cheerful, and the grapes remained sweet. I followed Sister Claudette around, and we continued to taste the grapes—directing which sections of the vineyard should be picked next. The tractors trailered the filled crates in from the fields. We put the bunches in a vibrating conveyor belt and sorted them by hand to pick out the sticks and leaves so only the finest grapes remained. After sailing the berries into the crusher, we pumped the juice into the tanker truck. When full, Sister Lucia and Stumpy would drive the truck over to Château Dubois.
The sisters were impressed with me. I could tell by their nods and lack of criticism. Stumpy had been goof-proof, too, for that matter, though he remained melancholy without Melanie.
It was the fourth harvest day. Jacqueline had gone back to Paris, and I hadn’t seen her since the cork-popping incident. She was scheduled to visit with two of her big-fish bosses today to look over the land, and even though it was under adverse circumstances, I could not wait.
I worked the vineyard all morning, but I was distracted with the thought of Jacqueline visiting. I kept looking toward the convent, waiting for her to show up. As the morning wore on, I worked my way over so I could catch glimpses further down the road.
And then her car pulled into the parking area. She got out with two gruff older men. My heart leapt. I wanted to run to her, but I forced myself to remain calm.
I escorted Jacqueline and her bosses around the vineyard. The nuns watched and bristled, silently voicing their displeasure at the government invaders. I felt guilty as Judas.
I wanted to talk to Jacqueline, to touch her, hold her, but I was forced to remain professional. Jacqueline, though, was having fun. Her bosses couldn’t speak English at all, and she translated all their questions for me, but she would keep adding things like, “He thinks you’re cute,” or “He heard you can sing. He wants you to fall to your knees and sing to him.” It was funny, I admit, but I was trying to be a respectable vintner, a fierce adversary that these guys were going to have to deal with.
We entered the winery barn where the crushing was taking place. The barn was lit up, white and spotless. Our one giant stainless steel cask stood off in the corner. Stacked empty oak barrels stood along the far wall waiting for this year’s wine. A stairwell led down to our natural cave cellar where wine bottles and oak barrels of St. Sebastian wine continued to age.
Sister Claudette and Sister Lucia came in with a tractor-load of grapes.
“These grapes are ours to keep, Jason,” Sister Claudette said ignoring the visitors. The sisters supervised the other nuns as they sorted these, our best grapes, into the conveyor separator and then crusher, making sure everything was perfect.
“These grapes are from our finest vines in the vineyard,” I explained. “These are the ones that we will make into St. Sebastian wine.” I took the hose from the crusher and fitted the stainless steel coupling into our cask. Jacqueline watched me as I completed the job. I was showing off, I admit. Her eyes sparkled at me, and I had to file away in my book of schemes that a woman really digs a hard-working man—a simple fact that had escaped me over the years.
When I walked them to the car I snuck a quick word with Jacqueline. “Can I see you later?”
“No.”
“Wait, what?”
“Tomorrow night.” She squeezed my hand quickly and walked ahead.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning the story broke. It was on the last harvest day. I woke early, anxious to get to work. The sun was just lighting up the drive when I picked up our French national paper, Le Monde. The headlines surprised me. My French was limited, but I knew Vignoble St. Sébastian, and I recognized our picturesque abbey on the front page. We were in the news.
I went online to read a tr
anslation. Melanie had taken my suggestion. In a short investigative piece, she highlighted our poor godly vineyard’s plight against the damn French machine. Panoramic pictures showed the rolling valley and the bountiful vines.
Melanie’s prose could have brought tears to a prison warden’s eyes. She really had done the nuns and the vineyard justice. Despite her hostility toward the sisters, I had to respect Melanie. She did the right thing when it counted. Of course Melanie had also thrown in a few banners showcasing her forthcoming book, some hogwash about a romantic comedy set in a vineyard that she hoped some hungry readers would turn the pages of.
Other news outlets quickly picked up the story. That afternoon the television trucks showed up. They filmed the vineyard and crowded around Sister Claudette to interview her. More news people arrived and then Jacqueline. I worried for her; she was about to be grilled. She smiled at me though, and looked unconcerned.
Once one newsman spotted Jacqueline, the rest surrounded her. She pulled out a piece of paper from her briefcase and read a prepared statement, which Sister Lucia translated for me: “After much consideration, the Ministry of Energy has determined that a planned hydroelectric plant to be located outside the town of Duras would adversely affect individuals and the land to a greater extent than previously anticipated. Therefore, the current hydroelectric project at this location has been cancelled.”
The government had given up. There would be no dam. There would be no flood. Sister Claudette and Sister Lucia hugged. A group of watching nuns cheered. The reporters pestered Jacqueline with more questions, but she refused them.
Jacqueline walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. She wore a charcoal-colored business suit, and her hair and makeup were pristine. “You win.”
The vineyard and my ancestors had been saved from the flood, but I must admit I was a little disappointed the government was no longer interested. I didn’t want the land flooded, but it’s comforting to have a buyer in the wings. “And you win as well, right?”
She nodded. “I failed my job, but yes, I feel good that this place will be saved.”
The reporters packed up their trucks and drove away. Jacqueline had handled herself with a professionalism I could never have mustered. “You didn’t fail,” I said.
“Thank you. You’re right. We’ve both won here today.” She looked over the vineyard. “It’s so beautiful. It’s such a relief I won’t have ruining this place on my conscience.”
I watched Jacqueline admiring the vineyard. She smiled and breathed in the land’s goodness. As I looked at her and the vineyard it felt like two puzzle pieces connected in my brain. I needed this place. I needed Jacqueline. I wanted Jacqueline and the vineyard, but as each hour went by I came closer to the day I could face jail and lose them both.
Jacqueline touched my arm. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, of course. It’s a relief.” I laughed. “But I am out seven million euros.”
“And I might be out a job.”
“They’re going to fire you? The low-down dirty bastards.”
She laughed. “Yes, but no. I’m going to quit. I can’t consciously displace people anymore. I’ll have to find something else.”
“I can help you. I’m an expert at quitting and finding jobs.”
“Thank you, Jason. I’d appreciate your insights. But right now the important thing is that the vineyard has been saved.”
I raised my hands in the air. “Hallelujah.”
Jacqueline clapped. “A celebration is in order.”
“Champagne?”
She held up her hands. “No champagne.”
We both laughed.
“A proper dinner,” I said. “With professional waiters.”
She became serious. “I leave in the morning.” Her smile returned. “But tonight. Can we go out?”
“Hotel Duras café?”
She kissed my cheek and we planned to meet for dinner.
Only a few other people were eating at the café. Quiet whispers flickered the table candles in the cool night air. Jacqueline and I smiled at each other and I felt content. The tall, lanky waiter uncorked a bottle of St. Sebastian. I covered my eyes and Jacqueline laughed. The waiter remained stone-faced and stuck to the task. He poured, and I immediately smelled the wine’s richness, and the fruit I had come to know. I declined to taste when offered. “I’m biased.”
Jacqueline took a sip. “Excellent.”
“Thank the Lord.”
“The sisters are getting to you.”
“What? No, well yes, but not in that way.” I liked the sisters, and we grew closer every day, but they could keep their rituals. Stumpy, the good Baptist, however, kind of liked the Catholic water and was slowly immersing himself into the bath.
“I wanted to be a nun once.”
“A nun! Wait, what?”
She nodded. “I was only eight years old. I thought it would be so much fun to live in a convent; like a never-ending sleepover party.”
“Then let me guess—you met a real nun and became terrified.”
Jacqueline laughed and we each took a sip of wine. “Not exactly. Mother took me to a convent to visit her cousin who was a nun.”
“And she was just horrifically ugly?”
“No! But we ate at the convent and the food was horrific. It was so awful I decided right then and there I couldn’t be a nun. I didn’t want to be rude about the food, so I told my mom and her cousin that I had decided not to become a nun because I didn’t want to turn into a virgin.”
I started laughing and nearly spit out a piece of bread I was chewing on. “Obviously you didn’t know what you were saying.”
“Yes, obviously, Jason.” Jacqueline rolled her eyes exasperatingly at me.
“So if the nuns made good food you’d probably be one?”
“Probably. What about you? What would it have taken for you to become a monk?”
“Ha!” The question was too absurd. “More than food.” But then I started thinking about it and my mind wandered. “Maybe I could be a monk for a short while. Say like if I was a young prince secretly sent to a monastery for protection, but then, right before my evil stepbrother was about to claim the throne, all my knights would come for me, and we’d march into, into … a big city, with me holding my glorious sword, Jazor, and I’d claim my kingdom.”
Jacqueline was laughing and clapping. “Please sit down.”
I looked around. I was standing, brandishing my butter knife as a sword.
The lanky waiter walked by me. “Will you be singing tonight, sir?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I sat back down. “Tell me another story about you.”
Jacqueline told another childhood memory, and then the food arrived. She had duck as thick as a T-bone. I had beef bourguignon, my favorite.
“Do you still want to sell the land and become a Paris playboy?”
I didn’t want to admit that if the harvest didn’t work out I would be in jail in nine days without any land to sell. “I don’t know. I’m concentrating on the harvest right now, but you never know.”
“You like being a vintner, no?”
“I like the work, but I worry if I’ll be any good at it. I have a lot to learn. And I’m still trying it out—you know? The vineyard is a great gift, that’s for sure, and it’s growing on me. I’ve got some ideas to bring St. Sebastian into the big time. We could use some serious marketing, especially in the States, maybe even Japan and China. And we need more capacity; God knows we have the grapes. I’d like to build a bigger winery and turn all our grapes into wine. With some fancy packaging and increased demand and fine wine prices, we could turn St. Sebastian into one of the grand vineyards.”
Jacqueline touched my arm and exhaled. She looked lovingly into my eyes. “You are a dreamer.”
“I’m a hard worker,” I said defensively.
She laughed and then sighed. “Yes, and you are a hard worker as well. I envy you.”
“You do?”
“Wait, what? I do?” No one had ever said anything like that about me.
Jacqueline laughed. “Yes, Jason.” She looked at me thoughtfully and I wanted to kiss her. “Haven’t you been listening to yourself?”
I thought back to what I had been saying, what I had been feeling about the vineyard. It all seemed so crazy. I had come to France to sell this place. What was happening to me? I shuddered. “What about you, Jacqueline? You’re the career-oriented one.” I loved saying her name, pronouncing her name in the French manner, Jacqualeen, such a beautiful sounding name. “What are your dreams?”
“I thought I wanted a career in the Ministry of Energy, but after this vineyard fiasco I don’t know. I want something else. I want to prove to myself and everyone else that I can make it somewhere in the big world.” She paused and thought. “I guess I want to make my parents proud.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “You’re lucky to have parents that care.”
The waiter brought dessert. We shared a rich crème brûlée infused with lavender that tasted so good I savored it in my mouth for as long as I could. “I just love the food here.”
“Me, too.” Her eyes lit up. “And the breakfast from room service is magnificent.”
“Omelets?”
“Omelets, oui, and quiche and croissants.” Her voice softened and her eyes narrowed seductively. “You should join me and try it.”
“But I would have to—oh.” Sometimes I’m not the quickest at key moments. Jacqueline laughed and looked at me coyly as if to say, “Well?”
“Yes, I agree,” I said stupidly.
We walked around town, holding hands, looking at the shops and buildings. We walked underneath dim street lamps, across darkened alleys, and between building shadows. The night was quiet and lonely. A pigeon fluttered, startling us. Jacqueline pressed closer to me. I held her hand, and she smiled. We walked along the outer wall and past the town’s castle.
We approached the Hotel, and our pace quickened. Our legs moved as one, propelling us toward our unstated mutual goal. We giggled our way through the lobby. The elevator doors opened, and we fell into the cab. Our eyes met, and when the doors closed our lips came together, slowly, as if on their own accord, touching softly. We pulled away and looked at each other in a magical moment, and then hungrily kissed each other.
