Sour Grapes, page 10
I was too distracted by her reaction to realize that someone had passed me a shot glass. “Oh, I-I don’t,” came my weak protest.
Carlos flung his arm around my shoulders. “You do tonight, Jefa.”
I looked around the small kitchen and at the half a dozen smiling, expectant faces—well, mostly smiling. I could feel the heat of Lucia’s scowl even from across the room.
“Salud?” I offered up.
Everyone raised their miniature glasses and repeated the sentiment.
I brought the glass to my lips and took a tentative sip. While the others had tossed back their shots in a single, fluid motion, I was content to take multiple, conservative sips. I was relieved when Rolando resealed the bottle rather than allowing Carlos to set up a second round.
A tall, silver pot sat on the largest burner. Twisting wisps of steam filtered up from the oversized container. Clara used a crocheted potholder to lift the silver lid. A cloud of steam mushroomed out of the pot. She fished out empty corn husks with a set of tongs before reaching the tidy cluster of tamales at the center of the pot.
Oscar rubbed his hands together. “Clara, you’ve outdone yourself again.”
“I don’t want any leftovers,” Clara warned, “so I hope everyone brought their appetite.”
I grabbed at my abdomen when my stomach loudly growled. Instead of teasing me for the obvious noise, Aunt Clara rewarded my hunger with the same kind smile I’d seen so many times on her brother’s face. If Lucia had inherited anything from her father’s side of the family, it hadn’t been that gentle, accommodating smile. Her dark eyes narrowed in my direction.
“Jefa, you should go first,” Carlos grinned. “You might starve otherwise.”
I held my hands up. “Oh, no. Clara—you worked so hard. You should go first.”
“No, no,” she declined. “Guests first.”
“I really insisted,” I demurred.
“Oh for Christs’ sake,” Lucia interjected in a loud, booming voice. “She’s not Our Lady of Guadalupe. Somebody go.”
I bristled at Lucia’s volume and tone, but grabbed the long tongs from the stovetop. I carefully fished one of the delicate tamales out of the silver pot and set it in the center of my plate.
Aunt Clara clucked her tongue. “More! Come algo, calaca.”
I knew very little Spanish, but I suspected Aunt Clara was like so many maternal or grandmotherly types: Eat more, you’re too skinny. I helped myself to a second tamale, which seemed to give Aunt Clara great satisfaction. I spooned a rich reddish-brown sauce over the tamales and took my plate to the dining room table.
Once everyone had served themselves, we took our seats around the long, wooden dining room table. Aunt Clara sat beside me. The woman who had clung to Oscar’s arm, presumably his wife, sat on my other side. Seated directly across from me, Lucia dug into her tamales without ever looking up in my direction.
“Mija!” Aunt Clara sharply chastised. “Not until we pray.”
Lucia paused, mouth open, a square bite of tamale dangling from her fork. I heard her quiet grunt before she set her utensil on her plate and bowed her head.
Clara grabbed my hand and Oscar’s partner held the other. I didn’t consider myself religious or even mildly spiritual, but I also wasn’t in position to protest the pre-dinner prayer. Succumbing to the moment, I similarly bowed my head.
Aunt Clara’s version of grace was a mixture of Spanish and English. I waited with head bowed and eyes closed as she asked for blessings for those seated around the table and for the land and for our meal to be similarly blessed. She squeezed my hand with surprising strength.
“And we ask, Lord, that you watch over our new friend, June,” she continued. “And that she find peace and comfort in her new surroundings.” The touched smile on my lips stalled when Aunt Clara concluded the blessing. “And we ask that you provide a place at your Holy Table for Alex—taken away from this world before her time. We ask for the gift of forgiveness and understanding as we try to make sense of her death. We ask this in the name of your son, Jesus, through whom all good things come. Amen.”
The others at the dinner table repeated the prayer’s closing: “Amen.”
Despite the delicious-smelling food growing cooler on my plate, I was too stunned by the closing of Clara’s prayer to take my first bite. All around me, the other dinner guests dug into their meal. Utensils scraped across dinner plates, more food was passed around the table, and everyone praised Clara for a well-executed meal.
I stared at my glass of ice water and watched a single drop of condensation stream down the cup’s exterior. I swallowed hard and worked the muscles in my throat to keep my emotions in check. Most of all, I avoided looking at the woman seated directly across from me—the only person on the farm who knew the real reason why no one had ever met Alex.
I couldn’t help but feel like everyone at the table regarded me with new eyes. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing though. I didn’t want them to feel sorry for me. I didn’t want to be pitied. I wanted them to respect me.
I felt a soft touch to my elbow. “Eat up, June!” Aunt Clara encouraged me. “Don’t let it get cold!”
I shoved down complicated emotions and tried to snap out of my funk. I focused on the steaming food on my plate and cut into my first bite. Chairs and place settings had been assembled for eight, but it was clear that the table was really only intended for six people. My elbow frequently bumped into Oscar’s wife’s each time I used my knife to cut into the masa, chicken, and root vegetable filling. As I looked around at the assembled group, I noticed I had been the only one so modest with my plate. Everyone else—even the women—had helped themselves to at least three tamales.
“Clara, these are amazing,” I spoke in earnest.
My praise brought a pleased smile to Aunt Clara’s mouth. “Do you cook?”
“I love to cook,” I admitted, “but I haven’t done much lately.”
“Is my brother working you too hard?” she pressed. “You can always tell him no.”
“No, no. I want to work,” I insisted. “I want to learn everything they’re willing to teach me.”
Clara patted the top of my hand. Her skin was warm, like proofing bread dough. “You can help me make the tamales next time. It’s more fun that way. We can gossip about the boys.”
I heard a disgruntled noise across the table. “You’ve never offered to let me help with the tamales,” Lucia openly complained.
“You’ve never shown any interest,” her aunt calmly returned.
Lucia grumbled under her breath. The words were indistinguishable, but I sensed they were probably about me.
When the last of the food had been eaten, I moved to help clear people’s plates. Clara stopped me before I could take away anyone’s place setting. “No, no. You go outside with the others.”
“But you’ve been cooking all day,” I protested.
“Next time,” she promised. “Go outside now. You won’t want to miss the big fire.”
The others had already filed outside. I lingered a little longer to help Clara with the dishes, despite her insisting otherwise, before grabbing my jean jacket and going outside as well.
I walked away from the warmth and good scents of Rolando’s home to the oversized bonfire several yards away. The fire burned large and bright, cutting through the twilight that had fallen during dinner. The fire aggressively snapped and crackled from the dry wood that served as its fuel. A plume of ash launched into the sky before returning to earth every time one of the boys tossed an awkward shaped log into the fire.
Everyone seemed to have coupled up around the blaze. Oscar and Carlos each held their respective partners close as they gazed into the flames. I looked around, but Rolando wasn’t in sight. I considered that he might have gone inside to help his sister clean up while the younger people played with the fire.
Not wanting to stand by myself, but also not wanting to be a third wheel, I stopped and stood a few feet from Lucia.
“So you guys do this every year?” I asked conversationally.
I wanted to crack her code. I didn’t need us to be best friends, but I was hoping I could move the needle from outright hostility to her tolerating me.
“Yeah,” she nodded. She hugged her arms around her torso. “We do a bigger harvest party with all of the part-time workers at the end of growing season, too.”
I watched Lucia in profile while the bonfire held her attention. I was still too intimidated by her most days to really inspect her features. My friend Lily, who had always been more brave, hadn’t had the same hang-up about unabashedly staring before deciding that my assistant winemaker was, in fact, hot.
I didn’t think Lucia wore makeup, but her skin was visibly flawless. Her dark eyes were framed by expressive eyebrows and the dramatic sweep of lush eyelashes. Her face was narrow, almost pinched in its seriousness with defined cheekbones positioned high on her face. Her head was tilted back, her chin proud and slightly raised. My eyes swept down her long, elegant neck to the collar of her jacket.
Lucia stirred beside me. “I’m sorry if things are weird now,” she started to apologize. “I … it wasn’t my secret to share.”
“It’s not a secret,” I corrected, “but you’re right. It wasn’t yours to tell.”
I couldn’t help my feelings of betrayal. I hadn’t explicitly told her not to tell the others about Alex’s death, but I also hadn’t expected her to share such delicate information without my knowledge.
Lucia’s eyes dropped in shame. “I’ve never been a gossip. I don’t know why I told them.”
I chewed on my lower lip and stared into the hottest part of the fire. “Is it really so terrible that I’m the one who bought this place?”
Lucia didn’t immediately reply, but I wasn’t sure if I expected a real answer.
I breathed out sharply. “I’m going to get going.”
Lucia hollowed out her already thin cheeks and silently nodded.
I circled the bonfire in search of the party’s hosts. Rolando and Clare were just joining the fire as I came upon them.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” I praised, forcing a cheerful tone to my voice. “I’m going to head out.”
Carlos overheard my words of parting. “Leaving so soon, Jefa? You’ll miss Oscar getting drunk.” His grin looked more mischievous in the flickering light of the bonfire. “It’s like seeing an asteroid or a shooting star.”
A new voice, this one feminine, entered the conversation. “It really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Lucia stepped closer. I hadn’t seen or heard her follow me.
“Oh, I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” I begged off. “But thank you for your hospitality.”
“Lucia, walk June back to the farmhouse,” Rolando instructed.
“Me?” Lucia complained. “Why me?”
“Because you know this property better than myself,” he said.
“I’m really okay on my own,” I insisted. “I only had a little tequila.”
“I’m not worried about your alcohol tolerance,” Rolando clarified. I’m worried about mountain lions.”
“Mountain lions?” My voice practically squeaked.
I heard Lucia’s snarl, nearly a kind of lioness herself. “Okay, fine. I’ll take her home.”
Lucia began to stalk away with her shoulders slumped forward and her head tilted down. “Come on,” she grumbled.
The sky was inky blue and starless. Not even the moon had bothered to come out that night. I had no flashlight, not even my cellphone to help guide my way. Privately I was grateful Rolando had compelled his daughter to walk me home. Physically though, I was struggling to keep up.
I tried to pick my way across the rough terrain. The walk to Rolando’s house hadn’t been half as challenging, but I’d also had sunlight and my anxiety to distract me. Roots and ruts and the hard edge of dug up earth challenged every step. I had to focus hard to avoid tripping.
Lucia walked too quickly for my cautious pace. I was typically too proud to admit weakness, but the threat of mountain lions overcame my ego. I would have told her to go home and leave me—that I’d eventually find my way back—but I also didn’t want to be the top news story on the local news that night: “Bay area woman mauled in mountain lion attack.”
“Lucia?” I called out. “Can we go a little slower? It’s darker than I thought.”
Lucia stopped and turned to face me. She silently waited for me with her hands on her hips. When I reached her side, she looped her arm through mine like one might when ushering an elderly person across a busy intersection. I could have taken offense at the geriatric gesture, but I was too mindful of her sudden proximity to really protest. It wasn’t as intimate as if she’d been holding my hand, but it did force us bodily close—closer than we’d been with each other so far.
Despite Lucia’s assistance, I still managed to trip across the uneven terrain. My toes seemed to catch on every exposed root and rut in the hard-packed earth. “Couldn’t we have taken the road?” I openly complained.
“It’s a shortcut,” she claimed.
“It might be shorter, but my feet can’t tell the difference.”
The thin leather of my shoes offered no protection. I’d jammed my toes so many times I wouldn’t have been surprised if my toenails were black and blue afterwards.
“Who wears ballet flats in spring?” she wondered aloud.
“My boots would have clashed with my dress,” I offered weakly.
Lucia snorted, but thankfully didn’t continue to critique me and my unseasonable wardrobe.
I’d remembered to keep a few lights on in the farmhouse, and its illuminated windows beckoned me like a lighthouse to a lost sailor. I breathed a little easier when the ground became more tame as well.
“I’ve got it now,” I assured her.
“Nope,” Lucia resisted. “Not until we’re on the front porch.”
Her hand seemed to tightened around my bicep even more. It was part stubborn, but also a little chivalrous I thought. True to her word, she only released her vice-like grip when we reached the short set of stairs that led to the wraparound porch.
I released a thankful sigh when we made it to the porch. It felt like being back on solid land after months of being adrift at sea. “Thanks for walking me back.”
Lucia shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “It’s no big deal.”
I furrowed my eyebrows as a thought settled in. “Will you be okay getting back to your dad’s?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “You just have to be scarier than the mountain lions.”
“They don’t stand a chance,” I joked.
Lucia wet her lips. “You think I’m scary?”
“Intimidating,” I corrected.
Lucia’s features pinched with contemplation. I thought she might press me for more information, but she changed the subject instead: “How do you like living in the farmhouse?”
I looked up to the faded beadboard that covered the front porch. “It’s a little rough around the edges,” I pronounced, “but I’m dealing.”
“No granite countertops or stainless steel appliances; it’s a wonder you’re still alive,” she said drolly. “Still, at least you’re not under the same roof as your dad and nosey aunt.”
“Why didn’t you move in here when it was empty?” I wondered.
“I’m not here full time,” she explained. “When it’s winter in the valley, I’m usually someplace warmer that still has grapes. Australia. Chile,” she listed.
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “That’s got to be exciting.”
She curled her lip. “Eh, it’s no big deal. It’s not like I’m this jet-setting Instagram influencer. I work in the vineyards in exchange for room and board. I soak up as much as I can from each of the winemakers and bring it back here.”
I vaguely remembered Rolando’s surprise that she was ‘back.’ I hadn’t thought to consider from where she’d been back.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” The question felt dumb on my lips. I coughed in an attempt to cover my awkwardness.
Her head tilted to one side. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
My stupidity continued: “Cool. Me, too.”
“Cool.”
Lucia raised a silent hand in parting before turning in the direction from which we’d just come. I felt compelled—obligated—to watch her retreating form on the darkened horizon. I was just making sure she was safe, I told myself. I stayed on the front porch until I could no longer see her.
I stared out at the horizon and reflected on my complicated evening. Everyone knew that Alex was dead. There’d be no need to make up new excuses for her continued absence. I would have to overcome the sting of Lucia telling the others, but in a strange way, I could have felt indebted for her helping me avoid that awkwardness.
I thought more on the irritable assistant winemaker. Out of everyone on the vineyard, she alone continued to be the final holdout—the one person still plainly annoyed by my existence. Lucia might not have been ready to tolerate me yet, but after that night I felt the needle begin to move.
CHAPTER NINE
Just beyond the tasting barn was one of the more comfortable and welcoming spaces on the vineyard. When the weather allowed, we set up patio furniture on a relatively flat patch of grass with wooden tables covered by canvas umbrellas to provide shelter from the sun or the rain. It was a slow day on the farm with no tastings scheduled and no real pressing work to be done, so I’d decided to give myself the day off to sit in the sun and read a book. Gato sunned himself nearby, not close enough that I could ever pet him, but in the vicinity to keep an eye on things. Ever since I’d provided him with shelter that one stormy night, he’d been hanging around a little more frequently. He currently sprawled across the hot pavement with his skinny tail flicking back and forth.
