The Moment Between

by Nicole Baart

  “Who’s there?” Eli barked.

  Abigail pressed her hands to her heart in an effort to silence its furious thump. Maybe if she was still enough, he’d assume that the drafty building was playing games with him. Some of the waiters had caught a bird in the expansive rafters a few weeks before. Maybe Eli would chalk up whatever he had heard and seen to nature or to the predictable moans and grumblings of a large and aging building.

  But Eli wasn’t stupid. “Who’s there?” he called again. This time his voice was commanding, powerful.

  What choice did Abigail have? She had no intention of sprinting out of the building, tripping over her own feet in the darkness, and taking off across the fields. She had been caught spying, and while she could explain away her presence by expressing concern over the open door, she couldn’t justify invading a secret moment that Eli may never forgive her for uncovering. Hiding would only make everything worse.

  It was with a sense of resignation that Abigail stepped away from the wall and presented herself at the north entrance to the tasting room. She waited for his harsh reprimand.

  “Abigail?”

  She realized that he probably couldn’t tell who was standing in the shadows. The faint light of the candle didn’t reach her downcast eyes. “Yes, Eli, it’s me.”

  “What are you doing here? Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Abigail assured him, answering his questions in reverse order. “And nothing’s wrong. But I was out for a jog and I noticed that the front door was open. . . . I was afraid someone had broken in.”

  “I left the front door open?” Eli seemed puzzled by this revelation and sat still for a long moment, considering the woman before him through squinted eyes. Abigail couldn’t tell if he was glaring at her or merely trying to make out her features across the dim room. But then he smiled and pushed back from the table. He grabbed a second chair and placed it across from where he had been sitting.

  “Why don’t you join me?” he invited, indicating her spot by tapping his palms lightly against the curved wood of the chair’s high back.

  Abigail was stunned. Join him? Surely Eli didn’t mean it. Maybe this was a test of some sort, and she was going to be lectured for making the wrong choice. But even at such a distance, Abigail could tell that something like concern was mingling in Eli’s eyes. It reminded her of the first time they met, on the beach when Nan had knocked her down. Eli had given her the same indiscernible look then—it was a baffling mixture of worry, compassion, and . . . hope?

  “No.” Abigail hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I should get back.”

  “To the trailer? Nonsense. Sitting there alone is unhealthy.” Eli tipped the chair up an inch or two and let the back legs fall to the floor with a convincing thud. “Come. Sit.”

  Abigail didn’t want to move, but she found herself drawn to him. Her steps were tentative because she felt like she was nearing a table that had been laid for her. Yet there was no way Eli could have known she was coming. Abigail looked at the open seat, and although she acknowledged with a secret rush of affection that it had been

  placed there especially for her, she lowered herself into the chair almost awkwardly.

  Eli smiled at her and nodded once.

  They sat in silence, Eli studying Abigail and Abigail taking in the table before her. The bottle of wine at the center of the table glittered like melted rubies in the faint candlelight. There were two wineglasses beside it, each refracting the single flame into tiny rainbows that winked at her with a certain impossibly magical quality. Why two? But Abigail didn’t have time to contemplate the second glass because beneath the subtle scent of the wine, an earthy aroma of fresh bread stung the back of her tongue and made her mouth water. The brown object she had glimpsed from the door was a dark, crusty round loaf of bread dimpled with grains and seeds.

  “What are you doing?” she breathed.

  “I’m celebrating communion.”

  Everything clicked into place. Abigail’s eyes shot to Eli’s face. “You can’t do that. Only a priest can perform the sacrament of communion.”

  “Report me,” he challenged, his eyes flashing. “I’m a broken man. My church only administers communion a few times a year. A year. I need the body and blood a little more than that. What are you going to do about it?”

  “But—”

  “I love the Lord. I am a son of God, and his supper is a family meal. I don’t think he’d deny me his gift.”

  “It’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “Sacrilegious.”

  “I find it wholly reverent.”

  They frowned at each other, and Abigail almost made up an excuse so she could flee his questionable nighttime ritual.

  But then Eli grinned and shook his head at her. “You Catholics.”

  “Lapsed Catholic,” Abigail reminded him, unable to stop herself from smiling back.

  “Whatever. I do this for those times in between, those long stretches of waiting when I start to forget about the miracle. The mystery. The power of God for those who believe.” The corner of Eli’s mouth was still upturned mischievously, but his voice was tinged with awe. “It’s a mighty thing, girl.”

  Abigail didn’t know what to say, but the room was cool, the candlelight was soft, and she found that she didn’t want to leave anymore. Let him talk about miracles and mysteries. She knew they were fairy tales. Let him have his communion. She knew that no matter how you spun it, wine was wine and bread was bread.

  Eli eyed her suspiciously. “I see how it is. You think I’m nuts.”

  “No, I—”

  “A while back you told me about purgatory,” he broke in, “about contrition for our sins and the resulting consequences. Ultimately, I think, we were talking about judgment.”

  What did he want her to say? Abigail tilted her head in a halfhearted nod.

  “Just being sorry doesn’t fix it. But I also don’t believe it rests on our shoulders,” Eli explained. “I believe the cross was enough: it’s not about judgment; it’s about forgiveness.”

  Not for me, Abigail thought. Not for the things I’ve done. Or haven’t done. Not even for Hailey. “What do you need forgiveness for?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

  Eli wouldn’t be baited. He gave her a long, hard look, and Abigail knew that he was going to say something she would regret hearing. She raised her hand as if the physical act could stop him, but it was too late. Without a word of warning, without anything to prepare her for what she was about to hear, Eli said, “I killed a man.”

  Abigail’s heart stopped beating.

  “It happened thirteen years, four months, and eleven days ago.”

  Stuttering back to life with a few ragged beats, Abigail’s heart pounded so fiercely she was afraid she would not be able to hear Eli speak when he opened his mouth again. She decided to cut him off instead of learning what had happened. She didn’t want to know. “You don’t,” Abigail croaked, cleared her throat, and tried again. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “It’s no secret. Besides, sometimes I feel like I should tell my story. I feel like I should tonight.”

  “Really, I—”

  “I wasn’t incarcerated or anything. I’m not some psycho murderer.” Eli’s attempts to reassure her only made her more edgy, but Eli didn’t seem to notice. “It’s all pretty straightforward actually.”

  “Eli—”

  “I’d been a cop in Spokane for twelve years,” he said, cutting her off. “One night my partner and I pulled over an SUV for reckless driving. The vehicle stopped for us, but before we could get out of our squad car, the driver of the SUV hopped out and started coming at us. I shouted at him to stop, but he didn’t. He just . . . he just came.”

  The silence in the room was absolute.

  “I didn’t understand,” Eli continued, and Abigail could tell he was lost in a memory that had cost him much. “I didn’t understand, and I had never . . . Noth
ing like that had ever . . .”

  “Eli, no,” Abigail whispered. “Just . . . no. You don’t have to say any more.”

  “We screamed at him, both of us, but he kept coming.” Eli ran his fingers through his short hair in one quick, frustrated motion. “When the driver reached for something in his back pocket, I shot him.”

  “No.”

  “It was ruled self-defense. I wasn’t culpable for anything.”

  “He was reaching for a gun?” Abigail exhaled.

  “He was reaching for his wallet.”

  Abigail moaned.

  “I could have stayed on the force, but I couldn’t handle it, you know? They prep you for that sort of thing at police academy, but I don’t think anyone could ever be truly ready for . . . that.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  Eli didn’t say anything more for a while, and neither did Abigail. They watched the flame on the candle dance and sway, each dealing with their own demons, their own fears and sorrows.

  Finally Eli rubbed his face with his hands and took a few uneven breaths. “He was just a college kid. A total punk who thought his quick temper gave him the right to rule. . . . They told me he was a physical science major.”

  Eli’s expression glazed over, and Abigail could just imagine the invented life that Eli had constructed for his young victim. She had done it a thousand times with Hailey. What would her sister look like in five years? ten? Would she have married someday? filled Abigail’s life with sweet nieces and nephews? Abigail wanted to tell Eli that she understood, but she couldn’t get the words out.

  “I quit the force and moved back here to rot my life away in the place where I was born. End of story.”

  Abigail studied him for a moment. “No. Not really.”

  “You’re right, Abby. That wasn’t the end of my story.”

  “Abigail,” she whispered.

  “I think Abby suits you. May I call you Abby?”

  Abigail shook her head.

  Eli shrugged. “Okay.”

  “How could you . . . go on?” she asked, surprising herself with the question but incapable of stopping herself from asking it.

  “I tried to tell you about it this morning, but you weren’t in a chatty mood.”

  It was Abigail’s turn to shrug.

  Eli grinned. “I learned about wine.”

  “What in the world is that supposed to mean?”

  “When I took these vineyards over, I hardly knew a thing about growing grapevines. The first year, I was so miserable and so absorbed in my own grief that I just let them do their thing—I figured a plant knew how to grow on its own.”

  “Pretty common assumption,” Abigail mumbled.

  “Turns out, a grapevine needs someone to tend it if it’s going to produce any fruit.” He leaned forward in his chair, warming to his story now that the painful part of the telling was over. “Vineyards take a lot of hands-on work, a lot of time and patience and effort.”

  “Don’t all crops?”

  “To a certain extent, but grapevines are different. Basically, every spring Josh and I have to practically kill each vine. We leave the cordon—that’s the main vine—but we cut off nearly all the canes and burn them.”

  “Canes?”

  “All the other vines. Or most of them at least.” Eli narrowed his eyes at her. “You give tours, girl. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I’ve listened to every word you ever said,” Abigail said, straight-faced.

  Eli released a short burst of a laugh. “Sure you have.”

  “I just call them vines.”

  “Whatever. But you’re going to learn something now.” Eli pointed at Abigail with his index and middle finger, then brought the fingers to his own eyes. “Listen and learn. Where was I?”

  “Canes.”

  “Oh yeah. You wouldn’t believe how many canes we hack off. Then we get rid of the new growth and even remove many of the leaves to allow the sunshine in. It’s almost . . . violent.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Because that’s how you get a grapevine to produce fruit.”

  Abigail considered the man before her, watching the light in his face as it seemed to illuminate the table instead of the other way around.

  “Vineyards need a lot of care. They’re very susceptible to disease, they need just the right amount of water and sunlight, and if you want fruit, you have to work at it. But they are also very resilient—if a vine has a good root system, it’s almost impossible to kill it.”

  “It’s lovely to know all that, but what does it have to do with what you went through?”

  “Because Christ is the vine and we are the branches. You’ve heard the metaphor. You were a church girl once.”

  “It’s just a metaphor.”

  “Not to me.” Eli lifted the bottle of wine and tipped it in his hands so that it looked as if he intended to pour it over the table. When the scarlet liquid had slid to the very end of the long-necked bottle, Eli tilted it upright again. “Why do you think Jesus used wine to symbolize his blood?”

  Abigail didn’t know what to say, but she raised her shoulder slightly, an indication for Eli to keep talking.

  “I think the Lord used wine for dozens of reasons, but one of the most convincing for me is the fact that crafting a glass of fine wine is nothing less than a very intentional, almost sacrificial, act of love. The labor, the heart and soul that goes into first producing a fine grape, is only reflected in the further arts of harvesting and destemming, crushing, primary fermentation, cold and heat stabilization, secondary fermentation, aging . . . And then we test and blend, preserve, filter, and bottle. After that comes more aging.”

  Though Abigail wondered if she was supposed to be responding to any of Eli’s passionate musings, he didn’t really give her a chance. But she didn’t mind him rambling. Because she cared for him, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. She listened.

  “It’s the process of a lifetime, really. A few years to prepare the ground, several more for the vines to produce fruit . . . but a real fruitful vine needs years to mature. Then it’s another year or two before the wine is ready for bottling. After that, reds need a good

  decade before they begin to taste like all they’re capable of. If you want a really amazing wine, wait a quarter century or more.”

  Eli paused just long enough to regard the bottle in his hands. “This beautiful Bordeaux has been in my cellar for nearly eleven years. It’s a mix of cabernet sauvignon, merlot, and Shiraz, though I bought the Shiraz grapes from a fellow vintner since we don’t grow them at Thompson Hills.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow at Abigail and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I was experimenting.”

  “Is it any good?”

  Eli grunted. “What do you think? It’s excellent. It’s beautiful and complex and rich. It’s gone through a deepening, a process of hard trial, difficult growth, and a long journey in the same direction. That’s the Christian life: a long journey in the same direction. It’s about perseverance. Obedience. And a whole lot of grace. The hand of the master winemaker, forever pruning, producing fruit, and then making something profound and lovely out of our meager harvest.”

  Abigail was quiet. Her eyes were on Eli, but when he fell silent, she found she couldn’t look at him anymore. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it that way,” she finally said.

  “Neither did I until I took over this place. Then all of a sudden, here I was, pruned all but naked and stuck at a crossroads: produce fruit or be cut from the vine.”

  Part of Abigail wanted very much to believe all that Eli was saying, all that he was implying with his stories. There was something powerful about his metaphors, those full and living symbols. But they were nothing more than sentimental tales, emotional restructurings that helped him understand everything that had happened to him and why it had happened. Did he really believe all that?

  Hailey had believed. Or at least, there were definite points thr
oughout her short life when she tried. But wasn’t that the crux of it all? that Hailey had wanted to believe but that she was prevented from any kind of peace by the illness she had been born with? Could the master gardener grow a vine so sick and frail that he was compelled to sever the work of his own hands?

  Eli broke into her reverie with a few gentle words. “I’m getting way off track, talking about the life of a vine. We were supposed to talk about these things this morning.”

  Abigail wrinkled her forehead in confusion. “Did you plan this?” she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

  “No, but I hoped for it. I’ve been leaving that door open for months. I figured one of these days you’d walk through it.” Eli indicated the second wineglass. “It’s yours.”

  “But I can’t . . . I can’t have communion with you,” Abigail protested. “I haven’t been to confession. I’m Catholic.”

  “Lapsed,” Eli reminded.

  “No. I won’t do it. I’m not . . . I’m not ready—”

  “For what?” Eli interrupted. “I told you before, the Lord’s Supper is a family affair. We’re all invited to be part of the family; we’re all invited to the table.” He lowered his gaze. “And I’ve been watching you since that day on the beach. You’re about as lost and lonely as they come. You could use a good, old-fashioned family meal.”

  “But I—”

  “Remember what I said? I need it. I think you do, too.”

  Abigail’s chest collapsed against the knowledge of what he wanted from her—what he wanted to give her. She didn’t feel ready; she didn’t feel deserving. But wasn’t that the point? that she was undeserving? Abigail had sat in a church pew for almost twenty years, and she had absorbed enough to know that there was nothing she could do now or ever to earn what had been sacrificed in her name. Suddenly the song that Eli had been humming emerged bright and obvious from the shadows of her memory: “Amazing Grace.”

  “We are called out of death, Abigail Bennett. We are reconciled. And this—” Eli took the bread in his calloused hands and tore it so that two jagged pieces rested in each outstretched palm—”is the body of our Lord Jesus Christ. Who on the night he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and