Sour Grapes, page 11
It still wasn’t quite hot enough to call the season summer, but as long as I was in the sunshine, I was comfortable in a tank top and shorts. The vines were growing greener and larger every day; soon enough the small, blooming flowers would become small, green grapes.
I opened my novel, but I didn’t get very far. The sound of a car’s engine pulled my attention away from the words on the page. A vintage truck, the body a deep green color, came to a stop a few yards away from where I sat. Unlike a more modern vehicle, this truck rode closer to the ground. I didn’t know much about old cars, but the radial whitewall tires and the rounded curves of the truck’s body looked straight out of a classic movie. The vehicle was in remarkable shape for its age. The exterior appeared as pristine as it probably had the day it rolled off the factory floor, maybe sixty or even seventy years earlier.
I peered over the top of my sunglasses as the driver’s side door opened and Lucia unexpectedly climbed out. Her hair was braided like usual, but instead of her typical work uniform, she wore a sleeveless t-shirt, cutoff jean shorts, and flip-flops.
“Cool car,” I greeted.
“Thanks,” she returned. “I just got it out of storage for the season.” She stood before me and rubbed at the back of her neck. The movement drew my attention to her bare arm and the thinly muscled bicep. “Mind if I use the hoses in the barn to wash my truck?” she asked. “I would do it in town, but it’ll only get dirty again by the time I drive it back to the farm.”
She looked uncharacteristically sheepish, almost embarrassed by the request.
“Oh, of course!” I enthused. “Go right ahead.”
She nodded curtly, still looking uncommonly flustered. I imagined it was humbling or at least annoying that she’d asked me for permission.
Lucia disappeared inside of the barn and I returned my focus to my novel. I had just begun to get lost to the book’s setting and introduction of central characters when more noises pulled my attention away from the printed pages. Lucia exited the barn with a black rubber hose hoisted over one shoulder. She carried a five-gallon bucket in her other hand. I paused my reading and watched her fill the bucket from the hose. Foamy soap suds peeked over the bucket’s top rim.
She turned the hose’s nozzle onto her truck and sprayed down the deep green truck. It hadn’t looked dirty to begin with, but I suspected she was just as much of a perfectionist about her vehicle’s appearance as she was about making wine.
When the truck was glistening from the first rinse, she turned off the hose and set it to the side. Bending over, she dunked an oversized sponge into the soapy bucket. The sponge connected with the hood of her trunk with a wet, slapping sound. The suds coated her arm, up to her elbow.
Lucia focused on cleaning the truck’s exterior with her typical intensity. I watched the soapy sponge reach every inch of the truck’s body. Her t-shirt darkened in spots from stray water or soap. It wasn’t exactly a wet t-shirt contest, but I couldn’t help noticing how the t-shirt material clung to her torso like a second skin. She normally wore button-up shirts that weren’t necessarily ill-fitting, but this was the slimmest I’d seen of her silhouette.
It felt strange to relax and read while Lucia worked right in front of me. I pushed my sunglasses up to my forehead. “Do you need any help?”
I didn’t expect her to accept my offer, but it felt like the right thing to do.
Lucia wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. The hair near her temples had curled from the day’s relative humidity. Flimsy soap suds clung to the wispy strands. “If you want.”
It wasn’t exactly a yes, but it wasn’t an outright refusal either.
I didn’t particularly want to wash her truck, but I literally jumped at the neutral response, eager for another opportunity to chip away at Lucia’s rigid exterior.
I hopped out of my lawn chair. “What can I do?”
“How about the rims?” she suggested.
She reached into the soapy bucket and produced a small scrubbing brush. It looked exactly like the brush she’d given me only a few days prior to eliminate the ‘wine diamonds’ from the fermentation tanks.
I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”
Lucia’s mouth curved up to form a sheepish grin. “It gets the job done.”
I snatched the scrub brush out of her outstretched hand and resisted the childish urge to stick out my tongue at her.
Lucia returned to cleaning the headlights and the truck’s front grill. I crouched down to wheel level and began to polish the solid silver rims. Like the rest of the vehicle, they didn’t look dirty, but I was willing to put in a little unnecessary work to stay on Lucia’s good side.
“Thanks for the help,” Lucia said after a while.
“You’re welcome,” I cheerfully returned.
Lucia paused her scrubbing, and I lifted my eyes when I heard her tired breath. She tugged at the lower hem of her t-shirt and lifted the bottom material up her torso to wipe at her damp forehead. I could see her dark blue sports bra and the modest cleavage of well-proportioned breasts. Above the loose waistline of her jean shorts, her stomach was flat with just the hint of a feminine abdomen. I quickly averted my eyes when she returned the t-shirt to its proper place. I hadn’t intended on staring for so long and hoped she hadn’t caught me gawking.
My focus temporarily returned to scrubbing the already gleaming silver rims, but it didn’t take long for me to glance again in her direction. Her legs had gotten wet from the sudsy water as she cleaned. Rivulets dribbled down her bare, bronzed skin.
“Let me know if I get you wet.”
I looked up sharply at her words. It took me a long, panicked moment to realize she meant the water from her sponge and not … something else.
“Oh, uh, sure. Y-you’re fine,” I stumbled.
Lucia returned her attention to cleaning the front of the truck, but I swore I could see a ghost of a smile painted on her lips.
I stood and stretched out the stiffness in my knees and legs. “So I was thinking,” I began, “we need to step up how many tastings and tours we’re doing every week. I’m going to manage our social media accounts from now on to get new traffic to the website, which I’m also going to be updating.”
I might not have known anything about making wine, but I did know a lot about marketing and public relations.
“We have social media accounts?” she questioned.
“See? That’s the problem right there,” I countered. “Why would someone buy our wine and not a bottle that’s ten dollars cheaper?”
Lucia stood a little straighter. “Because our wine is better?”
“I agree with you. But how are they going to know that unless we get our product in their glass?” I posed. “We need partnerships with local restauranteurs. We need to bring more traffic to the vineyard. Word of mouth, social media buzz—that’s what we should be focusing on.”
“I’m pretty sure we should be focused on growing grapes,” she snorted.
“I’m also looking into what it might involve to host functions on the vineyard,” I said, ignoring her words. “We can probably increase our revenue significantly if we start hosting weddings.”
Lucia scrubbed hard at what seemed to be a particularly stubborn spot. “We’re a vineyard,” she grunted, “not a party place.”
An urgent shout interrupted our conversation before it could take a turn from civil to hostile: “Coming through!”
Rolando, Oscar, and Carlos sped past us. The three men seemed to be collectively laboring.
Lucia dropped her sponge into the soapy bucket. “What happened?”
“Oscar’s wedding ring got snagged on the rototiller,” Carlos called out as they passed us. “Ripped his finger right off.”
Lucia and I hustled after the three men as they entered the tasting barn. Rolando laid Oscar’s slumped body onto the picnic table as if it was a hospital gurney. Carlos had said Oscar had lost a finger, but it seemed more serious than that. Oscar’s normally docile features strained under the shock and pain.
I was too stunned by the sight of so much blood to do much of anything. Luckily, Lucia and Rolando weren’t similarly paralyzed by the scene.
“Carlos,” Lucia ordered as she tended to Oscar’s blood-stained hand, “run to the house and get my Aunt Clara.”
Carlos nodded before sprinting back outside.
I hovered a few feet from the picnic table. “Why isn’t anyone calling 911?”
Lucia glanced briefly in my direction. “Oscar doesn’t have health insurance. Ice,” she barked out. “We need ice.”
“Ice,” I repeated, almost in a trance. “I can get ice.”
I turned away from the graphic scene and hurried out the barn door. My lungs were nearly bursting by the time I reached the farmhouse. I threw open the front door and raced to the kitchen.
“Ice,” I chanted, adrenaline pumping through my core. “Oscar needs ice.”
I ripped open the freezer door and grabbed everything in view: ice cube trays, bags of frozen vegetables, and reusable ice packs intended for sore muscles. With my arms full of frozen items, I tripped out of the house and back in the direction of the barn.
Aunt Clara and Carlos had arrived to the scene by the time I returned. My arms and chest felt numb from either the icepacks or the intensity of the moment—I didn’t know which.
Lucia held onto Oscar’s good hand while Clara bent close to the injured one. Oscar was quiet, but he squirmed uncomfortably on top of the picnic table. His face looked sweaty and pale.
“Is she a doctor?” I wondered aloud.
Lucia noticed my return. “No. But she’s good with a needle and thread.”
“I’ve got ice,” I announced.
Carlos approached me with a bounce in his step. He dug into the pockets of his work pants and fished out a long, slim object. My mouth went dry and my stomach lurched when I realized what it was—Oscar’s ring finger.
“Keep it cool,” he told me.
I gulped down giant mouthfuls of air to keep that morning’s breakfast from making a repeat appearance.
I found a clean-enough looking bowl near the bar area and dumped the ice cubes from their plastic trays inside. I gagged again when I placed Oscar’s finger on top of the ice cube mound. My mind went to someplace morbid and inappropriate as I stared down at the dismembered digit. The only thing missing were lemon slices and cocktail sauce. I was never going to eat seafood again, I lamented.
I brought the bowl back to the picnic table. “Here,” I said, still choking back the bile.
Lucia barely looked in my direction; she took the bowl from me. “Thanks.”
I took a few steps backwards so as to not crowd Aunt Clara and her work. Her features were serious, but unaffected as she threaded a wide sewing needle with dark, thick thread.
I covered my hand over my mouth and stifled a silent scream. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled out a hasty apology. “I can’t.”
I sucked in great mouthfuls of cool, cleansing air once I stumbled outside. I put more distance between myself and the barn before settling on my knees in the grass. I closed my eyes when the screaming began. I could have kept running until I could no longer hear Oscar’s audible struggle, but I remained in the lawn just beyond the barn. It was bad enough that I couldn’t stomach being in the same room; it would have been a greater dishonor if I ran away entirely.
Oscar’s cries eventually went silent, and I hoped for the best. The barn door opened and Lucia, still in her cutoff jeans and sleeveless shirt stepped outside.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
“Aunt Clara is handling it,” she said vaguely. I couldn’t help but notice the dark crimson splotches on the t-shirt’s grey material.
“That was … that was…” I didn’t have the right words.
“Intense,” Lucia finished for me. She sat down in the grass next to me and kicked off her flip-flops.
I shifted from my knees to my backside on the thick grass. “Do you have health insurance?”
Lucia nodded, looking thoughtful. “My whole family does, but we’re the exception to the rule.”
“But why not Oscar, and I’m assuming Carlos?” I wondered. “Were the Mitchells really cheap or something?”
“It’s more systemic than that, I’m afraid,” Lucia said grimly. “Only about two-thirds of Napa Valley grape growers provide health insurance for their fulltime employees. And only about twelve percent offer their seasonal employees any assistance.”
“I had no idea,” I marveled. “I just assumed you all had health benefits.”
“You’re new,” she remarked with a casual shrug, “how could you have known? Priority for the farmworker is survival, not health,” she said. “Insurance is expensive, and when you’re at the doctor, you’re not at work. Most hourly workers can’t afford those wage losses.”
I ran my fingers through the long grass, feeling particularly helpless. “I wish I could do more,” I opined. “But it’s not like I’m independently wealthy. My entire nest egg is invested in this property.”
Despite the sunny skies, a cloud seemed to settle over Lucia’s features. “People are an investment too, Jefa.”
CHAPTER TEN
A full, fat moon illuminated the landscape far from the farmhouse’s central location. I’d only been to the edge of the property once—with Belinda the realtor, and it had been during daylight hours—but the presence of hot springs on the property had tempted me ever since. After the harrowing activities of the day, I’d uncorked a bottle of wine and had traversed the property in search of the fabled hot springs pools. I parked my car as close as the gravel roadway allowed and carefully picked my way across uneven earth.
I pulled off my sweatpants and my zip-up sweatshirt and carefully folded them on a nearby rock. I poured a generous amount of wine into a pint glass and set it on the ground, within reach of the hot springs pool I’d decided on. The chosen crater was particularly well suited; it almost resembled a hot tub with its steaming aquamarine water and slightly raised edges. I dipped my fingers into the water to test its temperature. Finding it hot, but not scalding, I climbed over the slightly elevated ridge and eased into the mineral spring.
I scanned my immediate surroundings. The landscape was relatively open with a few rock outcroppings and some large, gnarled oak trees farther off in the distance. The vineyard’s property was relatively isolated, but the hot springs were located even farther from civilization. With a final look around me, I reached for the knot that secured my bikini top at the nape of my neck. I worked the material loose and unfastened the hook at the center of my back. I was no exhibitionist or nudist, but I felt safe to strip away all of my layers—literal and figurative—to enjoy my late evening soak. I lifted my hips and backside just enough to wiggle out of my bikini bottoms. I laid the whole beach ensemble over the edge of the elevated ridge, out of the way but still within reach.
I carefully lowered myself into the natural mineral water, mindful of temperature and not really knowing the small pool’s depth. It took my body only a moment to adjust to the heat. It was a natural-occurring hot spring, not manufactured; my feet passed along gritty clay and small, smooth pebbles on the pool’s floor. I found a relatively rounded corner to lean against. I sank a little deeper into the water to let the restorative water cover my shoulders like a warm blanket. The water didn’t bubble like a hot tub with jets, but wispy strands of steam twisted up and into the night sky.
I stretched to collect my wine-filled pint glass. I took a sip and swirled the liquid around in my mouth before swallowing. I’d purchased a bottle of our 2018 cabernet just for the evening. It was a good red wine: spicy with a hint of blackberry. I set the glass back on the ground to let the cabernet breathe like Natalie had once instructed.
I shut my eyes and released a long breath. With each deep breath and exhale, I let the stress of the unknown and the anxiety that came with that disequilibrium begin to fade. I dipped my hands beneath the water’s surface and lazily stroked my fingers across my naked breasts. The tip of my middle finger traveled in a slow, horizontal line to stimulate my right nipple. I hadn’t been able to get any kind of release since Alex’s death. My body was ready for orgasms, but my brain apparently wouldn’t allow it to happen. I could become aroused, aching really, but some kind of barrier was preventing me from truly letting go.
I passed the fingers of my right hand back and forth in an unhurried motion. I had no place to be; I could take my time. I could tease myself, bring myself to the edge, back off, and then start again. When I moved my hands lower to stroke my abdomen, anticipating what would follow, an involuntary sharp breath escaped my slightly parted lips.
An unamused feminine voice cut through the darkness and interrupted both my thoughts and my activities: “Wow. You’re really taking everything over.”
My eyes popped open and my hands stilled beneath the water at the sound. Lucia stood in her work denim, a few yards from my location, with a bath towel flung over her shoulder. I had no idea from where she’d come, how long she’d been standing there, or how much she’d seen.
I struggled to sit upright, but not so much that my breasts might appear above the water’s surface. I didn’t need to justify my presence—the hot springs were well within the boundaries of my property—but I continued to feel like a trespasser on my own land.
“Oh, I, uh … the realtor, Belinda, she said—.”
Lucia cut me off: “Do you mind?”
I had no idea what she was asking, but I hastily averted my eyes when I noticed her hands go to the buttons of her denim shirt and she began to undress. A wave of heat rushed over me that I couldn’t blame on the hot water.
I only looked up when I heard the sound of splashing, displaced water. I caught a flash of naked flesh before I furiously cast my eyes back to the water’s surface. Lucia had to have noticed my clothes scattered on adjacent rocks; why was she climbing into the water with me, and why was she also naked? I wanted to voice a protest, but I also didn’t want to make a big deal about us sharing the space.
