East in Paradise

by Tif Marcelo

  “The drought’s really taken a toll on all the vineyards these last few years. California weather hasn’t exactly been good to farmers. It’s no wonder half your crop really hasn’t produced. The good news is the vines aren’t dead. They’re producing, but the yield you’re getting now is something you’ll have to get used to.”

  “Which is a problem. We need quantity as much as quality.”

  “You’ll have to change your expectations while you pull and replant the crop. Since it takes a few years to grow a vine for its fruits to be harvested, you’re going to have to be creative to get Dunford back to income potential. Just a thought.”

  The inside of my cheek is raw from me gnawing on it as I mull over his words. I came home thinking that getting this place up and running would entail wiping off the dust and fixing the equipment, maybe replanting a few of the vines and hiring more workers. But the problem is now deeper than I expected. Carter’s suggestions would require a partial overhaul of the crop, none of which my brothers and I have discussed. And none of which I have the money for.

  “Thank you, sir.” I shake Carter’s hand and walk him to his vehicle. I ask him to wait a second while I go inside and grab him a bottle of our gold label Syrah that dad bottled just for the family.

  When I slap the bottle into his hand, he breaks out into a grin, the first I’ve seen all day. “Wow, a 2010. You sure now? No take backs.”

  “I kept you the whole day. And I appreciate the advice.”

  “Only doing my job.” He lifts the bottle in acknowledgment. “I’m enjoying this tonight. You know, I never did understand why Dunford stopped making wine. Your father’s custom blends blew the socks off your neighboring wineries. They still would.”

  “You sound like my granny.”

  “Joanie is a wise woman. Admittedly, it’s a risk, especially with wineries popping up every year. But this is Dunford. Gold standard in grapes. And you know what they say—wine is only as good as the grapes in it.”

  Carter shuts his truck door and starts the engine. I stand in the same spot until his truck rumbles out of my sight, his words making their way through my thick skull. Switching from selling grapes to becoming vintners would normally require the three of us to be here: Levi, Cody, and myself. While I’m knowledgeable about plants, agriculture, and vineyards, I lack expertise in the science of making wine, which is Levi’s forte. And Cody is a natural salesman and marketer, the smile in front of the product.

  But my brothers have their lives elsewhere.

  Could I do it on my own? What’s stopping me from taking the risk? Is it just because I don’t want another fight with my brothers?

  Somewhere in all of the things Carter and Granny said, in my ruminations, there has to be an answer. I have to find it, or this place is as good as gone.

  A run should do me good. My skin’s humming with the beginnings of anxiety, and insomnia is sure to be my fate tonight if I don’t get my blood pumping. Stepping out of my boots in the mudroom, I spy the business card Levi tacked on the fridge the last time he was home. I pull the card from under the magnet.

  Adam Sullivan, licensed clinical psychologist.

  Sleep pulls at my eyelids, a reminder the last few nights have been long, torturous, and hazed with a torrent of facts about everything: Dunford, my brothers, my Army life, my neighbor down the hill. Kept awake until the sun came up, until I knew the next day would appear, then falling into a fitful nap.

  I dial the number before I can think twice about it. This isn’t new to me, this asking for help, but the devil on my shoulder is disappointed in me. I’d done the hard work of getting better, of learning coping mechanisms, and now to slide back?

  “Oh, yes, hello?” I respond when the receptionist answers the other line. “I’d like to make an appointment, please. Yes, tomorrow is fine.”

  With the time written on the card, I post it back on the fridge. Take one deep breath.

  I did the right thing.

  After a quick change into running clothes and lacing up my trail running shoes, I shoot Levi a text before striding out: Call me tonight. Need to talk about the lower vineyard.

  The summer sun is still scorching, so into the woods I go, opting for the shaded trail. This was my dad’s favorite way to get into town. He called it the scenic route because he could do a quick once-over of the property, staff, and equipment, adding a short half mile before heading down the hill.

  I jog past the nine-hundred-square-foot pitched-roof red barn where we keep all of our wine-making equipment, then the older wooden barn that houses our harvest equipment. The rest of the view? Vines.

  This is all going to be yours, my father used to say to the three of us.

  I can’t lose this.

  I won’t.

  A voice filters up the path, a sure sign Lavenderhill is nearby. The place has been hopping the last couple of days, the meadow packed with cars, though this time they look to be visitors rather than contractors. And I’m not gonna lie, the smells coming from their part of the property have been mouthwatering. At times, I can tell they’re cooking with garlic. Another time, curry. Right now, it’s the distinct smell of cinnamon. I know it’s par for the course. Bryn’s running a culinary retreat, for God’s sake. The article that was published in the paper a week ago foreshadows a culinary game that hasn’t been explored by anyone in our town.

  But goddamn, it’s a far cry from the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and boxed mac and cheese I’ve been making for myself.

  The voice rises and falls, and as I get closer to the garden, I determine it’s Bryn, hands in the dirt. Then she stands, turns on the faucet. A second passes where nothing happens, though I slow, captivated by her face, so hopeful and just so beautiful.

  Dammit. I should really stop it. Ever since the other day when we had what I think was a true conversation, albeit thirty seconds long, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to her than her stubbornness and quick tongue.

  Soldiers, as tough as they are, have that persona. Because of circumstance and necessity, they’ve had to rise up to meet challenges they wouldn’t otherwise have chosen in their civilian lives. What’s left is a layer of iron, a protection of sorts. But if you look them in the eyes, it’s as clear as a Sierra Nevada day. They’ve got enough of the gooey stuff that lets them have relationships with people, allows them to be empathetic, comfort others, and sacrifice themselves.

  And maybe that’s why Bryn doesn’t intimidate me, and why the more she pushes me away, the more I want to find out what’s under all that bluster.

  Water spurts and flies everywhere, waking me from my trance. Bryn’s in the middle of some kind of irrigation system malfunction. But instead of turning off the water, she heads into the garden itself, arms out and flustered.

  I know this woman doesn’t want any of my help, but I can’t watch this and not do a damn thing. Marching out through the bushes that separate the path and Lavenderhill, I cup my mouth with my hands and yell, “Turn it off!” When Bryn doesn’t look up, now in the midst of the sprinkler system, getting soaked, I yell it a second time.

  Finally, she spots me, hair flattened and shirt stuck to her body. After piecing together my words, she jumps up and turns off the faucet just as I get to the irrigation system.

  “Ah, you’ve been on YouTube.” I eye the rows of PVC pipe with connectors that scream DIY. Following the line of the hose, I say, “You also don’t have a pressure regulator at the end of that hose. Although I have to admit, this is very, very creative.” And because I can’t help my curiosity over how she put this contraption together, I bend down and start to unscrew the PVC pipe. As I look up, my words get stuck somewhere in my throat. Bryn’s black tank is glued to her skin. Nipples pebbled on the surface, the ridges of the outline of her bra begging to be touched. Below, I see a spot, the shadow of her navel and a bump—a belly piercing that has my imagina
tion conjuring images of what else is under all that wet clothing.

  She kneels next to me and picks up the tubes. “Ugh, it looked so easy. And it only cost me ten bucks.”

  Thank God she didn’t notice the way I ogled her, so I take it as a sign I need to get this business done and get the hell out of here. “It was a good idea to get a system in, but I think a drip system will be better. Installed by a professional.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay. Easier said than done, but being in a tiny town with only one garden center doesn’t help.”

  I avert my gaze so I’m not staring at her skin, still glistening from water. “Well, I’m here, so if you need any help at all—”

  And right on time, her face changes to a cold resolve. “I appreciate your help right now, but really. I would have figured it out eventually.”

  “Yeah, I suppose, after you flooded out Lavenderhill.”

  “It’s Paraiso. And no, nothing would have been hurt.”

  My day’s frustration and impatience is topped off with Bryn’s comment. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, in everything apparently. Well, fuck it, no more Mr. Nice Guy. “I don’t know why I try with you. You are just hell-bent on pushing me off the ledge. What is your problem?”

  “My problem is you. You keep coming down the hill using that damn shortcut when you should be using the front door.”

  “This place belongs to me.”

  “Yes, but it’s leased to me.”

  “So I should have just stood there and watched you without helping?”

  “I’m not helpless.”

  “I never said you were.”

  She threads her fingers in her hair at the crown of her head. Her expression turns apologetic. “Ugh. Can I . . . can I talk to you over there?” She jerks her head toward the path.

  “Uh . . . okay?” Dumbfounded, I follow her, though slightly dubious. She has to have something up her sleeve.

  But when we get to the path, Bryn’s visibly upset, pulling something from her waistband. She flips a switch on a little black box, which is connected to something else under her shirt . . .

  Is that a cord?

  She rakes her teeth across her bottom lip. “I have to tell you something.”

  “What’s up?”

  She leans in as if to whisper, and I bend down. Her lips are inches away from mine, slick and red. Her tongue darts out and licks her bottom lip, and like a yawn, I follow suit, needing to feel them against mine. “You . . . and I. We’re on live stream.”

  My head tilts sideways as I try to make sense of her words. “What do you mean, live stream?”

  “We’re being streamed live through the Internet, right now.”

  Her head turns so she faces the French doors, and it’s only then I notice a glare against the glass.

  A camera lens.

  9

  BRYN

  This situation went down differently in my head. I had thought of sitting Mitchell down with a cup of coffee sometime during the weekend, drawing on the truce we made the other day. I would have played on his empathy. If I had to—if I were desperate enough—I would have offered him some kind of agreement or deal to play along.

  But the kitchen needed unpacking. Flooring was picked out. Seedlings were delivered. Soil was dumped into the raised beds. I was in the middle of testing out a stupid irrigation system when he interrupted me.

  I didn’t have the time to tell him by the time the crew arrived Monday morning; I had been too busy. Right?

  I make no sudden movements and paste a smile onto my face. I give Mitchell a thirty-second explanation of the situation. “I’ve turned off the mic, but the camera’s transmitting live video, though I think we’re far enough away so it won’t catch who you are.”

  “Live video. Do you mean for the public?” His eyes narrow as he pieces together the facts.

  “Yes. Online, continuous footage.”

  “For people to watch.”

  I nod.

  “No. This isn’t close to remotely cool.” His nose flares like a bull’s, and he begins to turn around. To do what? Don’t know and don’t care. I grab him by the elbow to keep his body from rotating and put a hand up to his cheek, just like I used to with my little sister when she’d have one of her tantrums.

  His face stills in my hand. His skin is soft, with stubble on his cheek and chin. What I’m doing is absolutely wrong and unprofessional, but God, I can’t pull away. Mitchell is beautiful in all the ways the land is, in this old-soul way, where the roots of the vines have dug deep into the earth.

  I ignore the fluttering in my chest and focus on my words instead. “Please, I can explain all of this later, when they leave. But I’m begging. Don’t ruin this for me until I have the chance to explain fully.”

  He inhales deeply, though his face is placid. This expression is way worse than the frustrated looks he’s given me the last two and a half weeks I’ve lived here, because at least back then, I knew what he was thinking. Now I have no idea if he’s going to rush at the camera or tell me what an idiot I am to agree to a live stream. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

  Relieved, I lower my hands to my sides. “The only option is for you to go. You can’t be on camera without signing a permission slip.”

  “And when does the filming stop?”

  “About a half hour. I have to go inside in a few minutes and take a Skype call, an interview of a potential chef. They’ll want to stream that, but the cameras will be gone right afterward.”

  Moments pass as Mitchell contemplates what his answer is going to be. Today is the first day of the live stream. How many chances will my viewing audience give me before they click away?

  “Do you know how to make coffee?” he asks.

  The question bowls me over, and I snicker. “You’re asking me, a former manager of one of the best restaurants in San Francisco, if I know how to make coffee? I only have the best cappuccino maker on the market in that kitchen.”

  The man looks like he doubles in size. “Let’s make a deal. You make me a cup of coffee, and I’ll clean up the mess out here. I’ll make sure to stay relatively out of sight. They leave. Then we talk, but at my place.”

  I scrunch my nose at the trash and supplies littered around the vegetable garden. Toiling outside doesn’t sound fun while waterlogged. It’s not above me to sound grateful, because I am, sincerely. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  I point at his chest. “You. You’re being awesome right now.” My instinct is to touch him, hug him, or give him a high five. Something. But as I lean in, I catch myself.

  Holy hell. Get ahold of yourself, woman.

  I leave Mitchell to the dirty business of cleaning up while I rush to turn on my mic and head inside to get out of my clothes. I don’t look at the camera as I pass, hoping Joel won’t ask me about the loss of audio. Crap, will the camera follow me into my room? And then I remember that, no, bedrooms are off-limits, and when I close my door, I deep-breathe through the facts that scroll through my brain like the credits of a movie.

  I will have a camera on me for many, many hours.

  It’s going to catch me doing everything, undiscriminating of whether it’s right or wrong.

  There’s absolutely no editing, no take backs.

  And, oh shit. Everyone who comes in here will be seen on live stream.

  These words were on the contract, and yes, I signed my name on the bottom line, but I did it with my goal of financial stability overshadowing the cons of this entire deal.

  If the following days are anything like day one, this is going to be one of the most painful experiences of my life. Because somehow I’m supposed to be myself and not act a fool.

  Shivering, I peel off my shirt, bra, shorts, and panties and rummage for fresh clothes, still in suitcases. Until the small dwelling out
back is renovated and the live stream is over, I’ve settled in one of the two master suites in Paraiso. After deciding on leggings, a white tank, and a thin gray cardigan, I coil my hair into a bun. With ten minutes till the interview, I head to the kitchen and turn on the cappuccino machine.

  My job as the general manager of True North required me to be cross-trained. I could tend bar, host customers, serve and clear, and make coffee like a boss. For my birthday last year, my dad gave me this silver behemoth of a machine, and it’s become the centerpiece of Paraiso’s kitchen. Because the second choice of beverage for folks who want to relax? Coffee.

  The first, in my opinion, is wine.

  After making the espresso, I steam milk and froth it in perfect three-to-one, steamed-milk-to-espresso proportions, and scoop foamed milk on top. I peek outside—Mitchell’s about done, and he’s even raking the topsoil. It’s only now I notice he’s got running shorts on, with a shirt that has Redwood Race 26.2 written on it. A marathoner, with the legs of one. With muscles that coil and flex with every move.

  The man just can’t help himself, jumping in when he finds something amiss. Not that it’s a bad thing. There are worse qualities in a person, though it miffs me he noticed my weaknesses, and he did it without asking.

  But I must put my previous misgivings about Mitchell Dunford aside. The ball is now in his court. I’ve got to play nice now that he knows about the live stream. I can’t have him stand in the way of this potential income stream.

  I knock on the window, and Mitchell looks up. He puts away the last of the equipment as I walk out. He meets me at the side of the house.

  I hand him the mug, then reach to my waistband and turn off the mic. I wince while doing so, not knowing if Laurel will get wind of this. “Thanks for cleaning up. You didn’t have to rake the topsoil. I could have done that.”