The Sweet Spot

by Heather Heyford

  One day, Tony, who played rhythm guitar, invited her to come and hear them play.

  “I’d love to. Where?”

  “Every Friday night. The Turning Point. On Main.”

  The tavern where she and Hank had first danced. “Something wrong?” Tony chuckled. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  She brushed away his concern. “What could possibly be wrong?”

  She’d spent every evening by herself for weeks. Was it worth risking running into Hank to stop by for a drink with coworkers and to hear them play?

  That first Friday night when she walked into the Turning Point, she held her breath, scanning the heads of the patrons for a certain ball cap with

  TEXTRON AVIATION on the front, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t see it.

  That night turned out to be the most fun she’d had since moving to Oregon.

  She went back the next Friday, and the next.

  The wives, teachers, and other followers of the band accepted her into their group.

  Gradually, she stopped looking for Hank there.

  “Maybe sometime we’ll get you behind the mic and see what you can do,” said Tony one day when they shared lunch duty in the cafeteria.

  “I’m not sure about that.” She chuckled nervously. It was one thing to sit in the audience, and quite another to draw attention to herself.

  “Don’t be so modest. I’ve walked past your room and heard you sing.”

  Let Tony believe it was modesty. Better than telling him that she didn’t dare put herself in a position where certain people might see her and be bound to talk. She just needed to lie low until the New Year. After Hank was gone, the coast would be clear.

  One morning close to Halloween, Jamie woke up to a world covered in white. The snow didn’t amount to much. The road to her school was clear by the time she pulled onto it from her development.

  After the three o’clock bell, Jamie routinely checked her email.

  Dear Jamie,

  This has been a strange year. To add to the weirdness, last night we had our first snowfall, much earlier than usual. I wish you could see how the vineyards look covered in white.

  The cold makes the horses frisky. I got up early before it melted, saddled Blitzer, and rode him up to the Peak to see the view.

  I sat there and watched the sun come up in the East, where you are. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

  By now the summer must seem like it was a long time ago. But I hope there are some things about it you’ll never forget.

  Hank

  Hank looked for Jamie’s reply to his email, but as usual, there was none.

  The last time he’d heard her voice was back in August when she was still at her sister’s place. When he called her again a week later and got a recording saying that her number was no longer in service, he’d tried twice more, not wanting to accept that she had changed it without telling him the new one.

  No doubt things were back to normal in her life in Philly by now. Maybe there was even someone wining and dining her. Someone who wore suits to work and always had clean fingernails. Whoever he was, Hank hated him with a passion.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  November

  On one of his daily walks through the vineyards, Hank noticed something lying hidden among the vines. He squatted to get a better look and saw that it was yet another dead gopher.

  Separating the cover crop of clover with his hands, he located his burrow. And sprinkled around it, grains of Molex.

  He stood up and yelled, “Bryce!” at the top of his lungs, even though he knew he was the only person within a hundred yards.

  He yanked his cell phone out of his back pocket.

  “Bryce? Block Nine. Get over here. Now.”

  “What the hell is this?” Hank said when Bryce came tramping up.

  “You think you can just ask those gophers pretty please to scram and they’re going to disappear,” said Bryce. “It doesn’t work that way. We’ve tried it. Only one way to get rid of them for good and that’s Molex.”

  “How could you take it upon yourself to go against the whole philosophy of this vineyard? You knew my father. You knew how much it meant to him to go green. How much it means to the quality of the wine. To our image. Our brand. I’ve been busting my ass trying to get biodynamic certification. We’re almost there. All I need is for the regulators to come out here and find this Molex and it’ll set us back who knows how long.

  “You’re fired.”

  Bryce didn’t bat an eye. “You can’t fire me. Your daddy promised me a job as long as I wanted one. Everyone in Ribbon Ridge knows he was a man of his word.”

  Bryce had known Hank since he was a teenager. He knew where to stick the knife to inflict the most damage.

  Hank only hesitated a moment. “Dad’s gone, and so is my grandmother. I’m in charge now. The Sweet Spot is mine to run, my way.”

  “Without me, who’s going to tell you when to pick the crop?”

  Historically, the final decision on when to pick had always been Bryce’s.

  “Not your problem anymore. Get your gear and get out.”

  “Good luck with that.” Bryce turned and stalked away, leaving Hank standing among his vines with shaking hands—and a growing self-confidence.

  * * *

  The next morning he and Nelson were working on winterizing the irrigation system.

  “Ever hear from that Miz Martel?” Nelson asked casually as he forced compressed air into a line to remove the water.

  At the mention of Jamie’s name, Hank’s nerves went on high alert. No one knew he’d written to Jamie once, let alone a dozen times.

  Without looking up, he shook the last drops out of the line. “Why’d you ask?”

  “Strangest thing. Seth Thompson said someone saw her down at the Turning Point last Friday night. Said she was there with some people watching the band.”

  “Seth Thompson likes to stir up trouble,” snapped Hank. “Hand me that end cover, will you?”

  As Hank capped the line, he asked, “How’s Seth even know Jamie?”

  “How should I know?” Nelson rose unsteadily from where he’d been squatting and went over to disconnect the compressor from the other end of the line.

  And then Hank remembered. After Ellie’s stroke, Jamie had made numerous trips to the post office.

  “You been ornery as a redneck fool ever since that woman left, back in August.”

  Hank made his way to the next line that needed checking. “I might be ornery, but you’re the one who’s taking Seth’s gossip seriously. You must’ve watched too many of them soap operas back when you were laid up.”

  “Now why’d you have to go and remind me?”

  They laughed, their squabble over.

  But as they finished blowing out the irrigation system, Hank couldn’t get past the rumor. He’d been avoiding the Turning Point all autumn. It brought up too many memories about a pair of new Noconas and an impromptu dance.

  * * *

  It was after one a.m. on a frosty Friday night when Hank and his friend and fellow vintner, Roy, finally shuffled into the Turning Point. They had already tossed back a few at a Newberry brewpub. Hank didn’t dare let himself believe that he’d actually find Jamie there tonight. If he did, he wouldn’t have wasted any time after his conversation with Nelson. So then why had he been priming himself, screwing up his nerve with the help of some liquid courage?

  Now that cold weather was here to stay, the social season was heating up. Winter was the time when everyone from the most renowned winemaker to the lowliest field hand came in from the outlying areas to party, and the townspeople were more than eager to renew existing friendships and expand their circle of acquaintances.

  The tightly packed throng stood three-deep at the bar. While Hank waited with Roy for their turn to order, an exotic, dark-eyed woman caught his eye and smiled. He had seen her somewhere before, on the periphery of his circle of friends who didn’t eat, drin
k, and breathe the wine industry. There was a time when he might have bought her a beer and worked his way over to her. Not anymore. Not tonight.

  From the opposite side of the long, narrow room came the sharp twang of a guitar. Hank looked behind him, but tall as he was, it was impossible to see the band’s faces through the crowd.

  “Good timing,” Roy yelled over his shoulder. “The band’s still playing.”

  Before Hank knew it, a guitar intro transported him back in time to a private performance before a crackling fire under a half moon up at the Peak.

  The skin on his arms puckered up. His hands grew moist. His pulse pounded in his head. And when the intro was over, he heard again that honeyed voice.

  “If I could turn back time

  Take you there with me

  Maybe then you’d see

  Into my past.”

  He had to see her for himself, to prove to himself that he hadn’t lost his mind.

  He clawed his way through the throng like a madman. How many long autumn nights had he lain awake, the memory of that voice sabotaging his sleep? Seeing again her hair blowing out behind her as she galloped Dancer through the meadow behind the vineyard? Her strong yet graceful hands clinging to Raven’s Rock?

  Now, here was Jamie, standing right in front of him, not thirty feet away.

  Her hair was full and flowing. Her arms were covered by a jacket, but she wore a skirt that cleared her knees with room to spare. If he lived to be a hundred, Hank would never forget the first time he’d seen those legs emerging from a voluminous white skirt, when all he’d ever seen her in before that was the jeans she’d brought in her suitcase for a two-week stay in wine country.

  On her feet were a pair of beat-up Noconas.

  “If you’d just take my hand

  Walk a mile with me

  Baby then you’d see

  The best things are those that last.”

  With the spotlights trained on her, she couldn’t possibly see him standing in the shadows.

  His mind raced. Had she never left Oregon? He’d never actually seen her leave. But that made no sense. He couldn’t believe she’d concoct an elaborate lie and stick to it all summer.

  So, assuming she had left, when had she come back?

  “What’s with you? You took off like a shot,” said Roy at his shoulder. “Here. You forgot your beer.”

  Hank’s hand curved around the cold bottle, his eyes never leaving the stage.

  Roy joined him in his rapt attention for a moment before nodding toward Jamie in admiration. “If that’s not whatcha call a flatliner, I don’t know what is.”

  Considering that Hank’s heart was about to pound through his chest, Roy’s description was right on the money.

  He could hardly wait to rush the stage the second she was finished, to take hold of her and study her face at close range and get the answers to all his questions.

  But—what if she wasn’t here alone?

  Hank searched the front row for likely suspects. There was no one obvious, as far as he could see.

  The ballad ended and Jamie slipped her guitar strap over her head and set her instrument upright in its stand back by the drum set, then whispered something to the rhythm guitarist.

  “Last call,” came from somewhere far away.

  What should he do then?

  Think. But his brain didn’t work. His thoughts were all tangled up with his emotions.

  Now Jamie was returning to center stage, enfolding the mic head in her hands. “Thank you so much,” she said to ongoing applause.

  Heads bobbed left and right for a better view as they listened eagerly, not ready for the night to end.

  “Thank you.”

  She waited for the applause to ebb and the voices to quiet before continuing. “This past year has brought a lot of changes to my life. It hasn’t always been easy. But somewhere along the road I learned that to get what you want, sometimes you have to take off the armor . . .” Her jacket slid off her arms to the floor, revealing two thin red shoulder straps connected to whatever was hidden beneath her black halter top. “. . . and go out on a limb.”

  The crowd clapped and howled its approval.

  “And so for my last number”—she smiled mischievously—“I’m gonna go a little sideways.”

  Whistles and fists pumps punctuated the close air as the well-oiled audience all but mobbed the stage in hungry anticipation, while Jamie carried the mic stand to the very edge of the low platform, planted her feet in a wide-legged stance, and with a nod to her guitarist, launched into a fierce rendition of a bad-girl chart-topper.

  She flipped her hair . . . cocked her hand on her hip, and flirted shamelessly.

  By the time she built up to the chorus, the whole room was rocking.

  The second verse allowed for a collective breath, but when Jamie picked the mic stand clean off the floor, leaned into it at an acute angle, curled her lip and belted out the second chorus, the Turning Point was in a state of pandemonium. Arms had breached the edge of the stage and she was forced to step back, out of the reach of grasping hands.

  It was a side of Jamie that Hank had never even dreamed existed.

  His body was covered with goose bumps. He couldn’t look away, even as the band took their bows, thanked the wildly appreciative crowd, and said their good-nights.

  It took a while until the applause finally tapered off and people began to filter out of the tavern into the night.

  “You ready to head out?” asked Roy. Both of their cars were parked within walking distance. Roy followed Hank’s line of sight to where the musicians gathered their equipment. “C’mon. I’ll walk out with you.”

  Hank didn’t budge. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later. There’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “Suit yourself.” Roy regarded Hank with apparent confusion. Then, his eyes lit up in a mistaken realization and he grinned and swatted Hank on the arm. “Good luck.”

  Onstage, the guitarist handed Jamie a bottle of water and tossed an arm loosely around her shoulders. Hank stared intently at the man’s face. He thought he knew everybody within twenty miles of the Sweet Spot, but he couldn’t place this guy.

  Reluctant as he was to let Jamie out of his sight again, he had calmed down enough to come up with a plan. He went out to his SUV near the bar’s rear exit and watched for her to come out.

  The guy who’d given her the water made a couple of trips out to a minivan, loading it with instruments and amps. At last, a bundled-up Jamie emerged from the bar, deposited her guitar case in the back, and hopped into the passenger seat. When they pulled out, Hank followed at a discreet distance.

  He followed the van across town into a new town-house complex behind Newberry Elementary, where he maneuvered into a space in the parking lot that afforded him a view of the unit whose door Jamie was opening with a key dug from her purse.

  Must be her place. Or . . . theirs.

  Through semi-open blinds he saw a light flick on inside the town house.

  Minutes ticked by while Hank watched the two converse. Occasionally the man gesticulated. Hank would’ve killed to hear what he was saying.

  Then his heart sank to his feet as Jamie opened her arms and the man stepped into them. They embraced—for how long, he never knew—because the next moment, Hank shoved the gearshift into drive and spun out of the parking lot, stone-cold sober despite the number of beers he’d drunk.

  At that pre-dawn hour, his was the only car on the road.

  Until tonight, he had been clinging to a scrap of hope.

  But now that hope was gone.

  No wonder Jamie hadn’t responded to his calls and letters.

  She had found someone else.

  * * *

  Inside Jamie’s town house, Tony poured out his troubles to Jamie.

  “It’s all my fault,” he moaned. “I promised Tracy I’d cut back on gigs to spend more nights at home with her and the kids. But we didn’t have anyone else who could
sing. Besides, the money’s good. That’s why I’m so grateful you were willing to front the band tonight. I need to start spending more evenings at home, helping her with the kids and all,” Tony explained. “The extra income’s nice. But lately, being pregnant again, she needs me more than she needs the money.”

  “I’m sure this is just a little lover’s spat,” Jamie assured him. “You’ll see. She’ll be waiting up for you when you get home.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Tony said.

  Jamie hugged her coworker sympathetically. The squeal of tires in the parking lot distracted them only briefly.

  “I’m sure I am, and I’ll be happy to fill in for you whenever you need me.”

  After all, thought Jamie, it’s not as if anyone else cares where I am on Friday nights . . . or any night, for that matter.

  “Now,” she said, placing her hand lightly on Tony’s back and pressing him toward the door. “It’s late. Go on home and tell your wife how much you love her.”

  “Thanks for listening,” Tony said, slipping into his thick gloves. “I needed a female perspective. Tracy’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

  “That’s what friends are for. Thank you for letting me make my big Newberry ‘debut,’” said Jamie, drawing air quotes.

  Tony left then.

  She lifted a slat in the blinds to watch his minivan drive off to his pregnant wife and his children, wondering if she would ever be so lucky.

  * * *

  The image of Jamie and her lover’s silhouettes embracing tortured Hank.

  Seth was right. All these weeks longing for Jamie, believing that she was gone for good, and the whole time she’d been only a few miles down the road.

  With hindsight, it was a good thing he hadn’t known. If he had, there’d have been more than one night when he might have caved to temptation and run to her, only to be crushed when she politely but firmly shut the door in his face.