by Blythe Stone
Sometimes I was used to it. Other times I would hear her say Babe and I’d have to stop and remember, that word was for me.
“I just want to see the valley,” I said. “You don't have to come if you don't want to.” While I said it though, I had her hand held tight in mine and I was stealing her.
We hit the edge of a vineyard and began to walk through a row of sprouting vines.
“See that hill?” I asked panting. “I've never been up there.”
It was ahead of us, there was a chain-link fence with an open gate at the end of the row, it'd take a little time.
“Have you ever toured a winery?” I asked. I knew idle talk would satiate her need for awareness. The ground beneath my feet felt lumpy and real. It wasn’t like walking on a solid road, or walking on hard sand. It was like knowing this ground had been given attention.
Every other row was like this. The ones in between had tall cover crops promoting health and irrigation. This rotation, in a sea of vines, was new to me. I’d never seen this before. I wondered why they'd done it, what it meant. Perhaps it was an accident?
I smiled at just the feel, my feet sinking onto the surface, breaking up the giving lumps. A lot of the vineyards around here were into making every little bit of their land picturesque and pristine. Usually they would plant grass between their growing rows, an invitation to explore, or let the land go wild out of laziness, but this vineyard hadn’t done that, they’d dug small trenches and tilled the soil for reasons unknown. If I had to guess, most likely, it was about the grapes and the health of the land, more about that than the need for some romantic setting or some picture they could take.
In the moment, I was completely obsessed with that knowledge. I wanted to look it up. I’d never seen rows of vines tilled between like this, at least, not right here.
More than anything, the difference reminded me of us.
The way we were with each other, constantly digging, constantly changing and sprouting, never satisfied with the superficial front of what we were or what we appeared to be for others. We personally needed to know what was healthy, what was intimately there, and we couldn’t leave one bit of metaphoric land untraversed.
That, like this, set us apart in every way.
Avery didn’t know but I’d been in pretty much every building for miles. I’d toured pretty much every winery in the area. Been in all the fine cellars, seen the ways in which people tried to create a certain feel with intention to compete. Some owners were all about money. They’d check off their boxes and know they’d done well. I imagine the owner of this place was humble, not about the tourists, or the money, just the land. They probably lived for the wine. I could see the wine as their friend.
That filled me inside.
I’d been everywhere though, it seemed. All without Avery. I wanted to be someplace new with her, some place that could be ours, that’s why I headed for the hill in the distance, the hill beyond the winery I’d never seen. There was no hesitation in me.
“No, I've never even been to a vineyard till now.” Her words hit me.
“Oh,” I said, stopping and turning back, with her hand in mine. “And here I am rushing you through this one,” I laughed bitterly. I’d already pulled her through to the other side of the gate. We were standing on the start of the trail, now facing back.
I was being hasty.
“We should go back,” I said. “We can go inside. I’ve never been in this one.”
I saw a man coming up towards us. He seemed to come out from nowhere.
“Afternoon,” he said, approaching. I noticed an old fiddle and bow hanging loose in his right hand. He had a canvas sack slung over one shoulder and he looked like he’d been outside for some time sweating and panting- as he walked- there was dirt and paint on his loose-fitting slacks.
“Afternoon,” I said, stepping out of the way to make room on the dirt trail.
“You going up?” He asked.
I looked to Avery, she pursed her lips. I smiled.
“Yes,” I said, turning back to him.
“Well, then, come on,” he said, a smile growing on him. “It’s not far. You’ll want to see. And I’ll play.”
I followed him, walking slower now to accommodate his speed. “Is this your land?” I asked.
“What, the hill?”
“No,” I laughed. “The vineyard.” The hill was too pristine to be owned and no one worked or tilled it. Even if he had owned the hill I wouldn’t like to have known it.
If the vineyard was his I knew what kind of man he was already and I adored him.
“It is, yes,” he smiled.
Avery was pretty quiet but I felt her warm hand in mine and loved her for letting me drag her around. Our moments before had been intense and far too personal. I might be ruining things now but I hadn’t the chance to debate it.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. A modest vineyard, not about the tourism or the competition.
“It’s not much,” the man laughed. “Have you been to the others?”
“Most,” I said. “But I bet your wine’s better. You work the land yourself.”
He laughed at that and smiled. “Trying to butter me up then, eh? I already told you I would play.”
“I can play,” I suggested, wishing he had two fiddles.
“That settles it then,” he smiled. “When we get up to the top you can play for me and I’ll let you taste what I’ve made.”
“Deal,” I said, loving it.
Nothing could beat today. All that had happened. I wondered where Avery was in her head. I hadn’t meant to pick up a stranger but he seemed interesting, hard-working. He had all the right wrinkles from all the right thoughts and wasted sun-days. I wanted to know him somehow. I could tell he’d have great stories to tell. I only hoped Avery wouldn’t mind. Before this trip she hadn’t been much for following me around. I’d been the one doing that.
We all panted and listened to the sounds of our feet on the dirt and our clothes being moved- the wind, blowing warm at our skin. The sun beat down but the warm wind helped to dissuade it. It wasn’t as cruel as it could be and all the exercise helped my body.
Halfway up the hill the man made an excited noise and pointed up at a flying owl.
“Look! There!” He said, nearly stumbling backwards in his excitement. The small rocks in the dirt beneath his shoes made crunching, rolling noises. “So rare! An owl!” He said, noticing the stubby tan-brown ombre wings and the compact yet thick avian build. No hawk could ever look like that.
“That is strange,” I said, touching my hand to my neck as I stared. I always found owls to be interesting; a bit terrifying. There were so many things to learn about just owls. They can spin their heads almost all the way around. Their eyeballs are different than ours, they have amazing depth perception. Their ears can move and they usually look different. Owls are excellent hunters.
The facts kept coming on. So much to learn.
“They’re nocturnal,” I muttered to myself. It was the most obvious of all the facts. After I said it though, I had to wonder if it was even true! There probably was some rare species of owl that slept in the night and flew in the day. Perhaps Napa had its very own species of owl. The more research I did on things like that the more often I realized that so many truths were actually falsehoods. History books could be so counterproductive. As a child, it’s hard to pick up on all that. Innocent, as we come, a person tells you what’s right, you believe, for a while…
Older now, I was so endlessly weary of definitive facts. So hesitant to trust in commonly known truths. Growing up was a perpetual state of psychological transformation.
I stared up at the sky and watched the small owl fly. No effort was expended from him. He didn’t fight the wind like a seagull or find himself thrown wayward like a dizzied bug. My gaze stayed locked on him, waiting.
“Nocturnal. Diurnal. Crepuscular,” I said out loud on accident, remembering a spelling bee I almost lost. The third word left
my lips, arresting proof of what I had been trying to find inside me somehow.
Crepuscular: Appearing or active in twilight.
I remembered the definition and the sample sentence that had pertained, at the time, to owls seen in daylight, around dawn, around dusk.
“What?” Avery asked in a secret hushed whisper. She had a queer smile on her face.
“Nothing,” I laughed, seeing her and feeling dumb. “I’m just crazy.” I rolled my eyes at myself, shrugging a shoulder. It was surely the truest of all my thoughts.
None of it mattered and yet it all did.
“Probably like us, I suppose,” the man mused, pulling me out of myself.
He was right. He had the right attitude. He was thinking of that owl and only that owl. Behaviors could be unique; singular.
Humans often stay up in the night and go outside and do odd twilight things. Why should owls be any different? We are all just animals. I could be surprisingly active in the middle of the night.
I thought of Avery and the many nights we’d spent awake together so far. A smile tickled my lips and took up residency there. It made me dizzy, in a good way, the thought of her and I alone in the night and oh so awake.
We kept walking, almost there, the heat hitting us. I tried to lose the distraction of the owl and the past; focus again on only her.
“Not many people come up here,” the man said, after some silence.
“I saw the hill from the museum,” I explained.
“Ah, so it called out to you.”
“It did,” I laughed, as we finally made it up over the hump to where we could look out at the valley. “Yes,” I panted, relieved. The view was spectacular just as I knew it would be.
“And what about you?” The man asked. Avery had been quiet the whole time. She’d been staring out now at the other side, seemingly serious before he asked her and looked to see her face upon viewing the valley from his hill for the very first time.
She was the strong one; the quiet one. I saw him notice. I loved seeing that realization in him.
Avery softened instantly.
“I followed the whim of the lady here,” she said, beaming and tugging on my hand. “And it is gorgeous land and I love a good hike.”
“So the lady’s in charge?” He smiled, commiserating with her.
It made me nervous. I didn't know what to say.
“Oh yeah, she’s the boss,” Avery said, teasing me.
“Hmmm,” the man hummed. “Well, alright then,” he smiled over at me, handing the fiddle over. “Let's hear what the boss has to play.”
I cleared my throat and took the fiddle, a little shakiness coming on from the nervousness and the heat.
Avery stepped back and watched me, her face expectant and alive with light. She hadn’t heard me play anything important since her dad came to dinner. Practice drills, accidental performances, nothing intent, on my part. Interloping was a trait she possessed but I tried not to lock myself away.
I hadn’t played in a while, not in front of her anyway. I breathed in the air and thought hard on the song I was about to perform. I’d dressed it up a lot over the years, changed it, embellished. I hoped it wouldn’t come off as boring, simple, or lame.
I chose a classic Irish fiddle tune called South Wind. One I’d played many times but learned long ago. The song was so ancient it was almost embarrassing that I knew it. It always made me think of what it would feel like to stand upon the cliffs of Moher and watch for ships in the night, the cold wind everywhere. What a life that would be, waiting for those lost to become found.
For whatever reason I associated the tune with another tune called The White Cliffs of Dover. Both songs were about different places. In my mind I combined them, mashed them up, gave them altered stories, altered meanings. It made no sense and yet it was so.
I shut my eyes and just let the song come. It wasn't perfect but I loved it all the same.
By the time I finished and opened my eyes I could see that the man had poured a cup of something and Avery had been drinking it.
The sight of the valley was almost shocking when I let myself see it again. I’d gotten carried away. I was back now though, it was impossible not to be back.
“Well,” the man said. “When you said you could play, I definitely wasn't expecting that.”
I handed him his fiddle back.
“What were you expecting?” I wondered, putting my sunglasses back over my eyes.
“I'm not sure,” he said. “But that was beyond.”
Beyond what?
I’d probably never know. It was positive though.
“Here,” Avery said, handing me the stainless steel cup.
The man took the fiddle up and began to play without preamble.
The song he chose instantly set my heart to race. I loved it so much and he’d most likely taken to heart what I had played in his choosing.
Without really intending to, I felt my voice singing along to the music while he played.
On the hill it was just too right. We were serenading the view, him and I
I hadn’t played much lately. It was tearing me in two… To remember...
The song was Carrickfergus. It was another Irish traditional folk song. We were two birds of a feather apparently, him and I.
This one had always made me very sad. It was too easy to empathize with the singer. I’d probably listened to every single version of this song.
I sang. I couldn’t even make time to drink the wine. The song was too good. The wind brushed and I stared at Avery beside me.
When the lyrics ended the man played a bit more, feeling it deeply. Only after he finished did he speak.
“How did I know you would know that?”
“I love that song,” I said.
Even though it was about the love between a man and a woman, that song could be related to Avery and I as well.
I would swim over the deepest ocean. The deepest ocean, for my love to find…
It echoed inside me even though it was gone.
“Well,” he said. “It’s nice to meet a soul like yours.”
It was sweet of him.
I raised the cup and finally sipped.
The wine was warm but exquisite. I was taken aback by how delicate it was; a treat.
“Mmm,” I said, almost angry at it for being so fine.
Avery was still staring at me now and I realized it, just like I realized my legs were shaky and weak from the random walk.
I was feeling too much. Every little thing was so packed today, so compounded. There was pressure on me, I think. Not from any one person or any one place. Just pressure. A difference. And it was everywhere; in the air, in my skin.
I laughed awkwardly, my eyes flickering as I looked back to her. She reached out for me. The music and our walk had made her even more calm, an unusual state for her but a state I could live in easily and never ever want to break away.
I took her hand and joined her side, closer.
The man played another tune, this one I did not know.
His technique was so impressive I felt a fool to have played at all. But the music healed that feeling. Music was for sharing. It was for moments, like this.
I pushed my lips to Avery’s temple and kissed her, holding her body close. We couldn’t have planned a better day.
We shared the cup of wine, slowly passing it, while the man played and we stared out at the valley noting the cloudless skies and the patterns in the vineyard lines.
When the man stopped it was like he was breaking a spell.
“Well, I must get back,” he said. He probably wasn’t telling the truth. Avery and I were definitely feeling cozy. “The wife will come looking,” he explained.
We both laughed. Secretly happy to lose him, I expect.
“Here,” I said, handing him back his cup.
“Thanks for the wine and the song,” Avery smiled.
“It was my pleasure,” he smiled back, taking her free hand an
d kissing it. Out of politeness he ducked a small head-bow of gratitude.
“And thank you,” he said, bowing towards me. He allowed his eyes to meet mine. He was silently asking for my name.
“Olivia,” I nodded, feeling his tight yet wrinkled hand in my own, skin paper thin except where he had calluses.
“Olivia,” he repeated. “Thank you Olivia.”
I just smiled and gave him a nod. I wondered if he wanted to remember my name. What if he just waited all day to find lovers going up his hill? If that was true he was a very sweet man.
I wanted to know...
Once he left I fell a little more into Avery and she held me.
“Only we would run into a guy like that in the middle of a vineyard,” Avery commented and turned her head into my neck. “I feel like everything is magic today.”
I laughed, lightly. She was right.
“I feel that too,” I sighed, tightening my arms around her and feeling the warm wind as it tried to push us away.
Now we could go. I’d be fine leaving. We could go see the art, do anything.
I just needed this and it happened and it was good.
I was up higher on the hill, I leaned my head back a little to look down on her. When she noticed and moved to see me too I took my hand to her neck and pulled her in for a very deprived and lingering kiss. The taste of warm wine was still fresh on my tongue and when I kissed her I knew she was perfect. Gentle touch filled with craving and flavor.
“We can go now,” I said, once she’d pulled away to look up at me.
“Okay,” she said, frowning and looking down the way we came one more time.
“We should take a picture first.”
She slipped her phone out of her pocket and got it ready, framing us inside, her arm craned out above us. Then, she nudged me, pulling me close.
I couldn’t stop looking at her. Even as she took the picture it was only her I could see.
I felt weepy now. It’d been too much good for just one day. My wonderful Avery quote had been breached.
She hit the shutter button and waited while the photo took and then she scrolled back to look at it. The sun was behind us, backlighting our faces and making the photo look as happy as we felt. Avery smiled at the camera while I smiled at her with nothing but love in my eyes.
