The Crush

by Heather Heyford

  Manolo’s thoughts leaped to Hoboken, to the restaurant he’d thought would always be there. But he’d think about that later.

  He grabbed her again, steadying her. “I do get it.”

  “How could you?”

  “Because my own family business is slipping away!”

  Some soldier he was.

  Junie frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget that.” He pointed down the road. “Look what’s coming.”

  Junie’s head whipped around to see the white truck. “The pizza oven! The grills!” She turned to him, her face radiant. “We’re in business!”

  Manolo returned her high five.

  Now what, though? He’d been hoping against hope that he’d be the only one present when the boxes came. His plan had been to store the appliances unopened in their original cartons until Sam gave him the word on whether their use was permissible. Now Junie was going to want him to install them right away.

  He helped the delivery man unload the boxes.

  Junie led the way. “Over here, on the patio.”

  Before the driver even got back in his truck, Junie asked Manolo if he had a box cutter in his tool box.

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll go get mine.”

  “Uh, hold on.”

  She stopped and sniffed. Just minutes ago, she’d been close to tears. “Why? I can’t wait to see them!”

  The thought of disappointing her was killing him.

  “I was just about to wrap up here.” He put his arm around her and turned her in the opposite direction. “Why don’t you go in and take a warm shower? You’ll feel better after you’ve cleaned up.”

  She frowned, looking over her shoulder. “Don’t you want to see what we got? At least make sure the order’s right?”

  “That can wait. I brought something.” He jerked his chin toward the house. “How’d you like to do a wine and pizza pairing tonight, to figure out what we should serve for the crush? I brought some green and red and yellow peppers, some fresh pineapple, ham, pepperoni. . . . How’s that sound?”

  “But . . .”

  “Go on now. I’ll be in as soon as I get this cleared up.”

  He went to the barn and got a tarp to throw over the appliances in case it rained.

  Then he sped through his clean-up ritual. He wanted to be ready with a confidence-boosting smile and an appetizer when Junie came downstairs, post-shower.

  * * *

  Later that night, Manolo and Junie sat around her kitchen table, laughing at all the variations on pizza and wine they’d tried. Barely an inch of table wasn’t covered with crumbs or bits of toppings or half-empty wine bottles.

  “Okay,” Junie said, waving her pencil around in a tipsy circle. “I’ve got your Margherita for my rosé, the Hawaiian with the Riesling, and white pizza with the pinot. Is that what we decided on?”

  “That’s it.”

  That bistro just had to be legal. Junie would be a basket case if it turned out not to be, after all this. Not only that, he would have sacrificed her trust.

  Junie dropped her pencil, drew one bare knee up under her chin, and craned her neck toward the window. “When did it get dark outside?”

  Manolo glanced outside out of deference, then returned his gaze to her, sitting there in her cut-offs and T-shirt.

  Junie played with the fringe on her napkin. Shyly, her soulful eyes met his, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he took her hand and led her upstairs, she would go willingly.

  Ever since the day he moved her mom out, Manolo had carried the memory of a blue patterned comforter lying in a tangled heap on Junie’s bed. In his imagination, it still held the warmth of her body.

  Junie’s damp hair was twisted into a simple topknot. Her face was squeaky clean from her shower, without a trace of makeup. He pictured loosing that hair, getting lost with her in those warm, blue covers, sampling her from head to toe.

  The tension in the room was palpable.

  Run, he told himself. Run while you still can.

  He rose and scraped back his chair. With shaking hands, he started gathering up the dirty dishes. “I’ll get this,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Saturday and Sunday nights after maneuvers, Manolo usually hit the hot spots surrounding Fort Belvoir. But this weekend he begged off.

  His buddies didn’t take it well. They coaxed and cajoled. “Your flight doesn’t depart till Monday morning. You just going to hit the rack?”

  But the thought of yet another night of carousing left him cold. He found himself sitting at a sedate bar, having a quiet beer with a couple of married officers.

  One of them pulled out his phone and showed Manolo a picture of a rosy-cheeked woman in a ski jacket. “This is my wife, Grace,” he said fondly.

  “I call her Amazing Grace,” chuckled the guy on the bar stool opposite him. “’Cause before her, he was a wretch.”

  A wretch like me . . . His phone vibrated, interrupting the old song lyric playing in his head.

  “I’m calling from the hospital. I thought you might be out on drill, but I knew you’d want to know,” said Izzy across the line.

  Fear shot through Manolo. He got up from the bar and strode to a secluded corner where he could talk in private. “What is it?”

  “Mom fell. She broke a rib, and it pierced her lung.”

  * * *

  Manolo sat at Reagan National Airport in his camos all night, waiting to nab a stand-by seat into Newark.

  Late Monday morning—Labor Day—he rushed into Hoboken University Medical Center. Far down the hall on his mom’s floor, he glimpsed the back of an old man meandering, as if lost. The man’s gait looked eerily familiar. Manolo hadn’t seen his dad for two years. But that couldn’t be him. Dad’s walk was directed, purposeful.

  In his quest to find Mom’s room, Manolo ignored the stranger. But when the man reached the end of the hall, he turned and walked back, toward Manolo. As his features came into focus, a cautious hope sprouted in Manolo. Might Mom’s fall have a silver lining?

  “Dad?”

  His father looked up, and Manolo’s hopes were dashed when, instead of joy at seeing his son, his father’s eyes held only bitterness.

  Hope vanished, and guilt, Manolo’s constant companion, filled the void. He steeled himself for a frosty reception.

  “Who told you?” Dad growled in place of a greeting.

  “Izzy. How’s Mom?”

  Dad resumed his pacing. “They got a tube down her throat so she can breathe.”

  “Is she—can she—?”

  “Any luck, she can breathe on her own in a coupla days.”

  Thank god. “Too bad it took a fall to convince her she needs a knee replacement.”

  “You know about her knee?”

  “I try to stay in touch.” Didn’t Dad know he called his mother once a week?

  Manolo pictured his mother when he was growing up. “She’s always on her feet,” he mused, half to himself.

  Dad stopped and barked, “You act like she works because I make her!”

  “Where’d that come from? I never said that!”

  “That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

  “You think I’m afraid of hard work?”

  A woman in scrubs passed, giving them a disapproving look.

  His father lowered his head and walked on.

  Manolo followed him. “Yes!” he spat when they were alone again. “You made me feel like being born into this family came with some kind of obligation!”

  “Poor you.” His dad dismissed him with a wave of his arm. “The only son of a successful businessman, having a profitable business handed to you on a platter. But no. That wasn’t good enough. You had to go off to Timbuktu, to do who knows what.”

  “I wanted my own life. I’ve tried explaining it till I’m blue in the face. What will it take to make you understand, to stop taking it personally? It’s nothing against you.”
/>
  “Easy to say, when you left me here with four women, one of who is now an invalid.”

  It was like this every time he came home. His father was implacable.

  Dad paused outside a door. “This is it. You goin’ in or what?”

  * * *

  It was another twenty-four hours before they took the tube out of his mother’s esophagus. Manolo timed his visit so that he could be alone with her.

  She was dozing when he sat down next to her. He gazed down at her sleeping form. She was the only person who had never rejected him for pursuing his dreams, never withdrawn her affection. Izzy tolerated his impulses, but even Izzy had suffered as a result of his abandoning the family. Mom was the one constant in his life of continual change. Her love never wavered. Even in a hospital bed, barely able to breathe on her own, she was still the center of his universe.

  Finally, her eyes flickered open. “Manolo.” Grinning, she took the hand he offered and kept hold of it. “I’m so happy to see your smiling face. Did you come just for me?”

  She’d been so out of it yesterday, she didn’t even recall his being there. “Of course. I got here as soon as I could.”

  “You know I cherish our phone calls,” she rasped, hoarse from the ventilator. “But it’s so good to see you in person. You look wonderful. You look—” She adjusted her vision. “Different. Like you’ve found whatever it is you’ve been looking for all these years.”

  If she saw something in him, he owed it to her to pay attention. To discount it out of hand would be a violation of something sacred.

  He tried to see himself in his mother’s eyes. And what he saw was a lonely man, still living the self-imposed life of a vagabond after all these years.

  Mom patted his hand. “Stop punishing yourself, Manny. All you did was search for what would make you happy. Your father didn’t understand. But I knew you didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. You deserve to be loved.” She closed her eyes, tired out by the effort of her speech.

  Love? What’s love but a noose around your neck?

  He hated to disturb his mom further, but who knew how much longer he would have her? There was something he had to ask.

  “Mom.”

  “Hmm?” Her eyes opened a crack.

  “Why’d you do it? Sacrifice your whole life to Dad, to the restaurant?” In the end, all it had gotten her was this—lying in a hospital bed.

  “Because I love him,” she said without hesitation. “It’s not a sacrifice when you’re in love.”

  Of course. She’d gotten that love too—and a family he knew she loved with her every breath.

  Everything in his life had been going as planned. He’d thought he could keep running from his feelings forever.

  Then came Junie. It had started with her side porch, then escalated until he’d gladly spent half his summer and half his savings on her property. He’d chalked up his behavior to nothing more than his usual desire to be helpful, combined with common lust.

  Soon, he’d be facing yet another major transition—an escape he’d carefully crafted. Why, this time, was he resisting running?

  A very pregnant technician appeared in the doorway, rolling an awkward piece of equipment.

  Automatically, Manolo jumped up to assist her, reality snapping him out of his sappy thoughts.

  He was getting all cornball because his mom was hurting. The reason he was feeling so out of sorts lately was simple. He’d violated his own principles. Let his feelings for a West Coast farm woman build up until they spiraled dangerously out of control.

  Mom’s head lolled toward him on its pillow. “One day, you’ll realize it’s not where in this world you lay your head. It’s whose head’s lying next to yours that’s important.”

  He turned to the pregnant lady bending to plug in an electrical cord as his mom’s prophecy sank in. “Here, let me help you.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Junie examined her farmer’s almanac. Tuesday. Only five days till the crush. Tonight’s moon was waxing, almost full. Grapes picked at the full moon retained their juice better than at any other phase.

  Her pickers were on stand-by. She’d been checking the sugar levels in her grapes morning, noon, and night, hoping against hope that the moment the Brix hit that magic number, her crew wouldn’t already be tied up, picking at another vineyard.

  When she wasn’t checking the grapes, she was tasting last year’s wine and trying to keep up with data entry and cleaning the tasting room for her increasing tide of visitors over the Labor Day weekend.

  She paused outside on the new patio to look helplessly at her appliances, sitting forlornly in what was supposed to be a bistro. She’d install them herself if she could. But there were limits to her abilities.

  Where is Manolo? Normally, he flew back from Reserves on a Monday. She’d hoped to have heard from him by now. But he was always guarded about his plans. And she had too much pride to call. Her emotions toggled between wishing she’d never met the man and counting the minutes until she saw him again. She tried to stop thinking about what he looked like in his uniform, grinning that fourteen-karat grin.

  Halfway out to the vineyard with her refractometer in hand, she noticed something unusual. Shielding her eyes, she looked up. A bank of gray clouds drifted slowly eastward, leaving behind a swath of pure sapphire blue.

  It was a sign.

  She picked a handful of single grapes from random bunches and tested their combined juice as usual. With growing anticipation, she tested from another row, and another. Then, trembling, she whipped out her phone and punched in the speed-dial number for her crew chief.

  “Adrian? How soon can you get out here? My Brix is at twenty-five!”

  “We’ll see you at three a.m. sharp,” Adrian replied.

  Junie punched the air and let loose a squeal she was sure could be heard all the way to Rory’s orchard next door.

  This called for a celebratory glass of wine—as soon as she checked her barrels. With a giddy blend of excitement and apprehension, she skipped down the cellar stairs, pulled up her spreadsheet, and snatched the wine thief. Forcing herself to remain calm, she withdrew a sample and deposited it in her glass.

  She’d been waiting patiently for this wine to reach maturity for a whole year. It was ironic that she didn’t want it to happen today. Not today, when the pickers would be arriving within hours!

  But wine didn’t adhere to anyone’s schedule. Like a developing baby, it was ready when it was ready.

  She sipped, noting its crucial characteristics, as she had been doing for months.

  Then she sipped again.

  With trembling hands, she pulled out her phone.

  This wine was ready—now.

  “When can you come?” she pleaded with the bottling man.

  “First thing Thursday.”

  Junie hung up, her heart pounding. This was exactly the situation she’d been hoping to avoid. There would be no sleep tonight. She needed to start racking her wine immediately to be ready for the bottlers. The pickers would be arriving even sooner—before dawn.

  But before the onslaught of people and machines and activity, there was something that couldn’t be put off.

  Solemnly, she poured two fingers of her best vintage and carried her glass out to the vineyard.

  “Here’s to you, Dad,” she said, raising her glass to the heavens. Then, in accordance with tradition, she poured half the wine onto the ground. “And here’s to a good harvest.” She downed what was left. “Let the festival begin.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Following the next-to-the-last inspection before the consortium’s grand opening, Manolo held open the door of Sam’s old house for him.

  “Soon as you figure out an alternative for that shrub that’s unavailable, I’ll get it ordered and the landscaping should be done just in time for the final walkthrough on Friday,” Manolo said.

  Sam pulled off his yellow hard hat. “I’m just thankful this weather finally broke in
time for the weekend. In fact, I’m inclined to start celebrating early with a beer when we finish here. Join me?”

  “I should get out to Junie’s, now that I know we’re a go. I appreciate your help with that.”

  “Easier than I expected. All I did was get the county interpretation of the state law.”

  “Clock’s ticking. Junie’s probably getting antsy to get her new pizza oven put in.”

  “You didn’t call her and let her know about your mom?”

  His answer was a sheepish expression.

  Sam shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re still keeping with that asinine rule not to call women that you made, years back.”

  “It’s served me well. Guess it’s ingrained in me now.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad your mom’s going to be all right.”

  “As soon as her lungs are strong enough, she’s going to have that knee replacement she’s been putting off.”

  Holly appeared from a back room. “I’ve got news,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Brendan Hart Vineyards is starting to pick.”

  Sam pulled up short on his way to his desk. “That is news. Junie tell you?”

  “No. I heard it from Rory. He got it from Heath, who heard it from Poppy down at the café. Poppy’s friends with Sage, who, rumor has it, has been seeing Junie’s crew chief.”

  Manolo’s head spun. “Are there any secrets in this town?”

  “Stick around,” Holly said. “You’ll be surprised.”

  “Well,” said Sam, “it’s official. Looks like the circus has begun. After months of relative calm, now comes the fifty-yard dash that will determine every winemaker’s reputation for the next couple of years.”

  “There’s more. Junie called Haggarty’s, too.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Manolo.

  “Chris Haggarty and his wife run a mobile bottling operation.”

  Manolo felt his heart skip a beat. “Junie’s picking and bottling at the same time? That was always her worst-case scenario.”

  Sam huffed a dry laugh. “The wine wants what the wine wants. Trust me, it’s going to be unabridged chaos. She’ll be racking twenty-four-seven until the bottler gets there. Then there’s the big festival on Saturday. Thanks to Keval’s promotional know-how, Clarkston’s expecting record crowds this year. Even hired extra cops to manage the flow of traffic in and out of town.”