Once Upon a Wine

by Beth Kendrick

“We have at least half an hour to sleep,” he mumbled.

  She rested her cheek against his, then kissed him. “This is a big day. I kept the grapes alive.”

  “Let’s celebrate.” He kissed her again, and she felt herself melting against him. “With sleep.”

  “I love you,” she said against his lips. “But I have to go.”

  He reluctantly let her pull away. “Love you, too.”

  She forced herself to stand up and start getting dressed. “I gave it my all this summer, but I still hate farming.”

  He stood up, too, and reached for a shirt. Neither one of them turned on the light. “Then it’s lucky you’re not a farmer.”

  “Yeah, but I’m surrounded. You, my aunt, Kat—it’s grapes and strawberries and tractors everywhere I turn.”

  “It’s not too late.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “You can still give in and be assimilated. Apple season is coming up.”

  “Never,” she vowed. “I love the Whinery, and my people need me.”

  “They do,” he agreed.

  “My people, who would rather sip champagne at midnight than wake up at dawn.” Cammie wrapped her arms around herself rapturously. “My people, who would rather scrub a bar top than walk the field and count the rows.”

  “Your people, who send back every mixed drink I make,” Ian added.

  “Mixed drinks are hard,” she said sympathetically.

  “There’s so many of them!” His voice grated with frustration. “Mojitos and mimosas and Manhattans. Some woman asked for a horsefeather the other night. What the hell is a horsefeather?”

  “Whiskey, ginger beer, lemon juice, and bitters,” Cammie rattled off.

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my life’s work. Don’t worry; you’ll get the hang of it.” She raised his hand to her lips and kissed his scratched, sunburned wrist. “If you ask nicely, I’ll give you a tutorial later.”

  He moved his hand to cradle the nape of her neck. “Give me a tutorial now.”

  She pressed her half-dressed body against his. “I can’t. I promised my cousin I’d help her—ooh. Ooh.”

  “Ten minutes,” he murmured into her ear.

  “I can’t. Help me find my shoes.”

  “I’ll help you find your shoes, your shirt, and your underwear. In ten minutes.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later . . .

  Cammie snapped out of her postcoital stupor long enough to glance at the clock on the nightstand. “Crap. I am so late.”

  “Worth it.” Ian sat up next to her.

  She sat up, too, and gave him a quick kiss. “And that’s why we’re together. Also why I’m late.”

  Ian watched her pull on underwear, jeans, and a sweatshirt. “I’m going to do a quick check-in with my brother about the fields, and then I’ll come help you with the harvest.” He handed her the shoe she was searching for. “See you soon?”

  “If my family doesn’t kill me.” She dashed into the bathroom.

  • • •

  “I’m going to kill you,” Aunt Ginger declared when Cammie dashed out into the vineyard. “We’ve been standing around waiting for you.”

  Cammie nodded at the line of unfamiliar cars in the driveway. “Who’s ‘we’?”

  Kat emerged from the house, carrying a stack of plastic laundry baskets. “Everyone.”

  And, indeed, it did seem as though half the populace of Black Dog Bay was lining up to take a basket from Kat. Cammie recognized Summer, Jenna, Brighton, and lots of the regulars from the Whinery, but there were several unfamiliar faces.

  “I set up a mailing list,” Kat said by way of explanation.

  “You’re so clever!” Ginger exclaimed.

  Kat shrugged. “Everyone kept saying they wanted to help with harvest, so I figured, Free labor. Why not?”

  “Always so enterprising.” Josh put his arm around Kat.

  “You know it. Now let’s get this show on the road.” Kat glanced at her watch. “We’ve got to get this done in the next two days, because our flight leaves Wednesday night.”

  Josh had decided to spend his upcoming sabbatical in France and Italy. While he reviewed literature from the Age of Enlightenment, Kat would be apprenticing at vineyards, learning about soil, sunlight, and moisture. Her goal was to be prepared to take over as chief grape grower by next spring. Jacques would be staying with Ginger and Cammie in Black Dog Bay, so his adoring fans could make pilgrimages to take selfies with him.

  After all the locals and tourists had equipped themselves with baskets, pails, or boxes, Aunt Ginger climbed the porch steps and held up her hand for silence. She addressed her attentive audience as if she were winning an Oscar.

  “First of all, I’d like to thank my niece, Cammie Breyer, for keeping the grapes alive.”

  Applause all around. Cammie curtsied, almost stumbling over Jacques, who was stationed at her side.

  “And my daughter, Kat, and my son-in-law, Josh, for working mechanical miracles with our tractor.”

  More clapping and cheering.

  “Before we begin, we have to make sure that the grapes are ready.” Ginger turned toward Cammie.

  “Oh, they’re ready,” Cammie assured her. “I would never have gotten up this early if they weren’t.”

  Ginger lowered her voice. “I know that, honey. But all these people showed up. Give them a show.”

  “Um . . .” Cammie was relieved to see Geoffrey approaching with a cluster of grapes and some technical-looking equipment.

  “Taste these.” Geoffrey made a big show of presenting her with the grapes.

  “Okay.” Cammie bit into the purple grape, noting the rich, deep color. When her teeth broke the skin, the grape popped, releasing sweet, crisp juice.

  “Not too acidic?” Geoffrey prompted. “Not sour?”

  “It’s perfect,” Cammie declared loudly. “Nice and . . . grapey.”

  “All right, then. Let’s check the Brix degrees on the refractometer.” Geoffrey produced a small red plastic box and started squeezing a grape.

  “Yes.” Cammie tried to look knowledgeable. “Let’s.”

  Eventually, Geoffrey decreed that the grapes were ready, and everyone raced to the vineyard, exclaiming as they went:

  “This is so romantic!”

  “It’s like that one I Love Lucy episode.”

  “Wait until I tell everyone at home that I worked in a vineyard—they’ll be so jealous.”

  They donned gloves and set to work, and it was fulfilling and exciting and almost magical. For about twenty minutes. Then the sweating commenced, the bugs came out, and they all started to notice the ache in their shoulders and the parched feelings in their throats.

  “Hey.” A Whinery regular wandered over from the next row of vines and handed her basket to Cammie. “I just remembered, I have an appointment this morning.”

  Cammie glanced at the few grapes that had made it into the basket. “An appointment?”

  “Yeah. Gotta run.”

  Ten minutes later, Summer’s sister-in-law, Ingrid, announced that she had a term paper to write.

  Two minutes after that, a pair of tourists experienced the shocking realization that they needed to dial in to a work conference call immediately.

  And then the floodgates were open:

  “Ooh, look at this cut, I should go to urgent care.”

  “I have to, um, get a cavity filled. I better get to the dentist.”

  “Have I told you I’m trying to break into acting? Yeah. I just took new head shots last week, and my agent might be calling. My cell has no bars out here. I’m going to head back into town.”

  Cammie collected their grapes and thanked them for coming. As the morning wore on, the harvesting group dwindled until only she, Ginger, Geoffr
ey, Kat, and Josh remained.

  But that was fine; her family was all she needed. She took a moment to stretch and assess the progress they’d made. This vineyard—this entire summer—hadn’t been what she’d expected. But it’d been exactly what she needed.

  As she stooped down to resume picking, she heard the rumble of tires on the gravel driveway.

  “Hey, Cammie!” Kat yelled from a few rows away. “Your boyfriend-slash–business partner’s here!”

  Ian got out of the truck and strode across the dirt to offer Cammie gifts more precious than diamonds or pearls.

  “Here.” He handed her a bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of cold water.

  “Have I told you lately that I love you?” She wrapped her arms around him. “How did you know I’d need this?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I’m a farmer.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She closed her eyes as he rubbed her lower back. “Ow. My back. My neck. My arms. Ow. My whole body hurts.”

  “I was wondering why you were so excited to get up this morning.”

  “Because I thought grape harvesting would be spiritual and satisfying.” She gave him a little swat. “Stop laughing.”

  “Why the hell did you think picking grapes would be spiritual?”

  “Because the movies. Stop laughing. In the movies, it’s all Tuscan landscapes and canoodling under the vines and, like, Russell Crowe and Keanu Reeves.” She took her ibuprofen, swigged the water, and tried to look on the bright side. “At least we had help. For a while.” She told him about the mass exodus of volunteers. “It was kind of entertaining, though. All the excuses.”

  “So now it’s just you and the grapes?” He grabbed a discarded pair of leather work gloves and picked up one of the empty pails.

  Cammie smiled. “It’s me, the grapes, and my family.” She kissed him. “And you.”

  “And the bar.” He kissed her back. “You’ve got a lot going on.”

  “Stop talking and get back to work!” Kat yelled from two rows away. “These grapes aren’t going to pick themselves!”

  “Leave her alone!” Ginger cried from somewhere off to the left. “She’s been working nonstop all summer!”

  Cammie rested her chin on Ian’s shoulder. Her gaze skimmed over the rosebushes and that’s when she saw it.

  “Hey.” She pulled away and turned him around so he could see the red blooms on the young green climbing rose. “Look at that.”

  He followed her gaze, resting his hand on her back. “I see it.”

  “That’s not supposed to happen.” She glanced up at him. “You said that wouldn’t bloom for another two years.”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “It’s too early. And summer is over.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “This is the wrong time.” She could smell subtle notes of the roses’ fragrance on the breeze. “It’s totally out of season.”

  “It sure is.” Ian looked unperturbed.

  “Then how . . . ?”

  “Nature doesn’t care what’s ‘supposed’ to happen. Things bloom when they’re ready to bloom.”

  The scarlet blossoms provided a vivid contrast to the field of green and gold. What had originally been a mistake had turned into something bright and beautiful and completely unexpected.

  “It’s official,” Cammie decreed. “These are the days of wine and roses.”

  “And tractors and French bulldogs,” Ian added.

  “And you and me.” Cammie put her scraped, dirt-smudged hand on Ian’s, and together they reached for the vines. “Living the dream.”

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  At various points in this story, Cammie is urged to “bloom where you’re planted.” How does this theme recur, both literally and figuratively, as Ginger, Kat, and Cammie struggle to adapt to life at the vineyard?

  Ginger decides to pursue her wildest dream only after she believes she has terminal cancer. If you received a similar diagnosis, what would you regret not having done?

  Cammie inherits money and the recipe for strawberry wine from her mother, and in the end, both of these shape her future. What are the most important legacies (material and emotional) you’ve gotten from your parents and grandparents?

  In the throes of an identity crisis, Kat puts her relationship in crisis. Do you have any empathy for the way she behaved at the beginning of the story? What relationship advice would you have given Kat if she had come to you?

  Bronwyn finished school before planning her wedding, but was initially willing to forgo a once-in-a-lifetime educational opportunity to be with her husband. In your opinion, are there certain items you should check off your “life list” before getting married? If so, what?

  Ian and Cammie started a habit of walking the fields and “counting the rows,” which Jacques the French bulldog eagerly joins in on. What do you think might be calming about this ritual, and do you have any similar rituals in your own life?

  Cammie and Ian parted ways at age twenty-two because they were drastically different people who wanted drastically different things. Years later, they reunite and agree to compromise, but they’re still very different. How did each one change to make compromise possible?

  Every year, Ian buys a copy of the Farmers’ Almanac, which he says is unreliable . . . “but it might be.” What does this superstition say about him and the farming life?

  Ginger spent most of her life trying to compensate for Kat’s lack of a father and Cammie’s lack of a mother. To what extent is she “owed” their support in her vineyard venture? At what point in a child’s life should parents be able to return their focus to their own goals and personal relationships?

  Read on for an excerpt from

  cure for the common breakup

  Available now from New American Library

  chapter 1

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.”

  “He’s so hot.” Summer Benson nudged her fellow flight attendant Kim. “Even his voice is hot.”

  “Welcome to our flight from New York to Paris.” Aaron’s voice sounded deep and rich, despite the plane’s staticky loudspeaker. “Flying time tonight should be about seven hours and twenty-six minutes. We’re anticipating an on-time departure, so we’re going to ask you to move out of the aisles and take your seats as quickly as possible.”

  Summer leaned back against the drink cart in the tiny first-class galley. “Ooh, I love it when he tells me what to do.”

  Kim, a petite Texan with a sleek blond bob, rolled her eyes and started checking the meals that had arrived from catering. “Get a room.”

  “As soon as we get to Paris, we will,” Summer assured her. “And then we’re going to walk by the Seine and go to the Eiffel Tower and eat croissants. If it’s cheesy and touristy, we’re doing it. I actually packed a beret.”

  “I was wondering why you had two gigantic carry-ons,” Kim said. “That’s a lot of luggage for a three-day layover.”

  “One bag’s half full of scandalous lingerie,” Summer replied. “I left the other half empty so I can buy more scandalous lingerie.” She frowned at a snag in her silky black nylons. “These eight-hour flights are hell on my stockings. This pair was my favorite, too. They’re all lacy at the top. Hand-embroidered.”

  Kim’s jaw dropped. “You’re wearing thigh-highs? All the way to Paris? Do you hate yourself? Do you hate your veins?”

  “When I’m on a flight to Paris with my boyfriend, I don’t wear support hose. Not now, not ever.”

  “And do you hate your feet?” Kim glanced down at Summer’s patent leather stilettos. “I don’t have a ruler with me, but I’m guessing those heels are higher than two and a half inches.” She shook her index finger. “Airline regulations.”

  “Airline regulations also state th
at we have to wear black shoes and black tights with a navy uniform,” Summer said. “That doesn’t make it right. Besides, France has laws against ugly shoes. You can look it up.”

  “You’re going to be begging for flats by the time you’re through with the salad service,” Kim predicted.

  Summer had to admit that her coworker had a point—international first-class service didn’t offer a lot of downtime. Between distributing hot towels, drinks, place settings and linens, appetizers, salads, entrées, fruit and cheese, dessert, coffee, cordials, warm cookies, and finally breakfast, a sensible flight attendant would wear comfortable footwear.

  Summer had never been accused of being sensible.

  “The only thing more high-maintenance than the meal service is me,” she said. “I refuse to be hobbled by a few plates of lettuce.”

  Kim ducked out of the galley with a pair of plastic water bottles. “Hang on. I’m going to go check if the pilots want anything before takeoff. Want me to say hi to your boyfriend?”

  “Sure, and ask if he has any M&M’s. I forgot to bring a fresh supply, and he knows I’m an addict.”

  Two minutes later, Kim returned from the flight deck, walking as fast as her polyester pencil skirt permitted. “I just saw Aaron!”

  “Score.” Summer held out her palm as Kim handed over a bag of candy. “He truly is the best boyfriend ever. I’ll have to keep him around for a while.”

  “For a while? How about forever?” Kim clutched Summer’s forearm and gave her a little shake. “He has a diamond ring for you!”

  Summer pulled away and braced both hands on the narrow, metal-edged countertop.

  “It’s gorgeous!” Kim squealed. “He was showing it to the first officer when I opened the door.”

  Where was an oxygen mask when you needed one? Summer inhaled deeply, smelling stale coffee grounds and the plummy red wine Kim had just uncorked for a passenger.

  “I . . .” She waited for her emotions to kick in. She should laugh. Cry. Faint dead away. Something.

  “He’s going to propose in Paris! How romantic.” Kim looked as though she might faint dead away. “A guy like him, with a ring like that . . . God, you’re so lucky.”