A Price Worth Paying?

by Trish Morey

  At least one of them would be thinking straight.

  His meeting had been interminable as plans were made for the upcoming harvest, and he wondered at the sense of leaving her for so long with a blank credit card. But she wasn’t still shopping. Instead, he found the three women sitting at a table outside the nearby restaurant, eating pintxos and sipping on Mojitos. ‘I do hope,’ he said, joining them and only half joking, ‘this doesn’t mean Simone has bought everything in the shop.’

  She coloured and gave a guilty smile, as if she’d been caught in the act, and he smiled too, not just because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman blush, but because somehow she looked different. She’d changed her top—out of whatever nondescript rag she’d been wearing before, for a flirty silk blouse patterned in orange and teal that he liked—but he was sure there was something else.

  ‘It’s our fault,’ one of the shop assistants said. ‘We have kept Simone so busy, we felt she deserved a treat.’

  ‘So busy,’ the other said, ‘but so efficient that we even managed to get her into the salon across the street. Do you like Simone’s new look?’

  So that was what was different about her? Now he could see not only that her hair had been professionally styled, but that highlights had been added, whisper-thin streaks of chilli and cinnamon that gleamed in the light and blended in with the natural honey-gold of her hair. Somehow it seemed to give her hair depth. He nodded. ‘I approve.’

  ‘I won’t hold you up,’ she said, her cheeks flaring now under his scrutiny as she awkwardly stood, reaching for her shopping.

  ‘Is that all there is?’ he asked, surveying the small collection of carrier bags nearby.

  ‘The gown needs to be taken up,’ said one of the women, ‘It will be delivered tomorrow.’

  ‘But that’s the rest of it?’

  One of the women laughed. ‘Your girlfriend is a very reluctant shopper, señor. We tried to convince her but she would not buy a fraction of what we picked out for her.’ She nodded. ‘You are a very lucky man.’

  The women excused themselves to return to their shop while she gathered up her bags.

  He leaned past her to collect up the last of them and he breathed in her scent, like warm peaches on a sunny day. Liking her perfume, even though it was probably just the shampoo the salon had used. Still, he liked the changes he was noticing about her. She was still not his type, but it would make it so much easier to pretend. ‘They think we are a couple.’

  ‘I know. I couldn’t see the point of correcting them.’

  ‘No, it is good,’ he said, leading her back to where he’d parked the car. ‘That is what everyone is meant to think. If they assume simply because we are seen shopping together that we are a couple, imagine what people will believe when they see us kiss.’

  See us kiss? ‘You were actually fitting me out with a wardrobe,’ she said, trying to find a shred of logic in a mind that wanted to hone in and focus on the prospect of him kissing her instead. When? How? How soon? ‘We weren’t “simply shopping” at all.’

  He shrugged. ‘Still, I think we will have no trouble convincing people.’

  They were almost at Getaria when she remembered to ask, ‘What was that about in the shop before, when you first asked about the dress?’

  He looked across at her. ‘When?’

  ‘You said something like “What about that one?” after they brought the first batch of gowns over and that one was set apart. But you were all speaking so fast, I couldn’t understand.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking. We have the dress, don’t we?’

  ‘I mean, was there a reason they didn’t include it in the first place? Did they think it wouldn’t suit me?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Apparently another of their clients had expressed interest in seeing it, that was all.’

  ‘Oh, you mean they had it reserved for someone?’

  He shrugged. ‘It makes no difference now.’

  ‘But won’t that person be disappointed that it’s sold?’

  He smiled. ‘Probably.’

  She settled back into her seat, tangling fingers in her lap, newly manicured fingernails painted bright red if he wasn’t mistaken. He had to hand it to her, she had been busy this afternoon.

  ‘I should thank you, of course,’ she said, ‘for the clothes and everything.’

  ‘I’m not sure you got anywhere near enough.’

  ‘You must be kidding,’ she said with a shake of her head, ‘there’s heaps, really there is. I just hate to think how much it cost. But in case you’re wondering, I paid for the salon. I don’t want you thinking I’d take advantage …’

  Was she serious? Or was this just another tactic to lull him into taking her and her story at face value and believing she wanted nothing more than to make an old man die happy? Because none of the women he knew were anywhere near as naive or horrified at the prospect of spending someone else’s money on themselves.

  But then none of the women he knew would go to such extraordinary lengths that she was going either. Why was she going to such trouble for her grandfather? He didn’t like that he didn’t know, but if he ended up with the vines and she ended up not pregnant and with no claim on the estate, he didn’t really care.

  What he did like was the way she blushed. Whether it was because of her fair colouring, or because she was harbouring some guilty secret, that was one thing he wasn’t used to. He glanced sideways at her. And he liked whatever the salon had done to her hair and how the sunlight through his roof turned her highlights to glistening threads of copper and gold. Not that he was about to admit that to her.

  In fact, given his misgivings about her motives, he was better off not giving her too much encouragement at all.

  He changed down gears as he headed into a tight bend, changing down gears on his thoughts at the same time.

  ‘You might want to save your money,’ he said, probably sounding more gruff than he intended, ‘for when you get home. You might need it.’

  Cold.

  He might just as well have tossed a bucket of icy water over her. And why?

  Moreover, why did she even care?

  Alesander was nothing to her but a solution to a problem.

  She was nothing to him but a means to an end.

  It was a mutual arrangement.

  So why did he feel it so important to remind her that this arrangement was not permanent?

  Didn’t he think that was how she wanted it?

  She turned to him, or rather to his profile, strong and noble and too utterly perfect to be real, as he negotiated the winding track up the hill towards her grandfather’s vineyard. ‘What are you so afraid of?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only that every chance you get, you feel the need to remind me that this arrangement is temporary. “You might want to save your money for when you get home,” you said. Well, I do know this is temporary because I was the one who insisted it would be from the start.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Just that you seem to be operating under the misapprehension that I either want or expect this arrangement to become permanent.’

  He scoffed her protests away. ‘I have only your word that you don’t want it to be.’

  ‘I am expecting to sign a contract saying exactly that! A contract which includes the condition I specifically demanded when I brokered this agreement—a condition that precludes sex between us. So when will you believe me? Because as clearly wonderful a catch as you so evidently are, I would rather not have to marry you. I don’t want to be your wife, other than to convince Felipe that his vines are as good as reunited. And when Felipe is no longer with us, I expect the quickest divorce from marriage with you that it is possible to get. I expect the contract terms to reflect that fact.’

  He changed down gears as he rounded the bend before climbing the hill up towards Felipe’s estate. ‘I will ensure
it will be provided as quick as is humanly or inhumanly possible. I will not make you wait to be free.’

  ‘Excellent. So we understand each other then.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘we understand each other perfectly.’

  The banging started the next morning while she was cooking breakfast. ‘What is that?’ a grumpy Felipe demanded, peering out of the window, searching for the cause.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered as she put a plate of eggs on the table for him. ‘I’ll go and find out.’

  The morning air was crisp and clean. It would be warm later, but for now the cool air prickled the skin of her bare arms and her nipples turned to tight buds. She should have grabbed her jacket before she’d set off, she thought, hugging her arms over her chest as she followed the sound down the driveway.

  Around a bend she found a four-wheel drive parked and someone working under the vines where part of the trellis had collapsed under the weight of the vines. And she remembered that Alesander had said something about getting that fixed. She hadn’t paid any heed to his words at the time but he must have meant it and sent someone after all, no doubt to ensure there was no more damage done before he took over the vineyard completely.

  But even if he was doing it for his own reasons, she could still be hospitable.

  ‘Buenos dias,’ she called out over the hammering. ‘Is there anything you need that I can get you?’

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ a familiar deep voice said, as Alesander pushed aside the tangle of vines with one arm to peer out at her.

  ‘You? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I told you I’d get this fixed.’

  ‘But I thought you’d send someone. I didn’t expect you.’

  ‘Well, you got me.’

  His eyes raked over her and her bullet-hard nipples suddenly had nothing to do with the cold because she was suddenly feeling hot.

  ‘I’ll get you that coffee,’ she said, discomfited, her cheeks flaring with heat.

  He smiled as she turned away. ‘You do that.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Felipe as she returned to the cottage. ‘Who’s making all that noise?’

  She poured coffee into a mug. ‘It’s Alesander. He’s fixing some of the broken trellising.’

  ‘Why? What is he doing meddling with my vines?’ He swayed backwards and forwards in his chair, gaining momentum and looking as if he was intending to get up and go and take issue with him. ‘They’re not his to meddle with!’

  ‘Abuelo,’ she said with her hands to his shoulders, squeezing gently, feeling a pang of guilt in her chest, knowing that soon they would be his to do anything he liked with them, ‘he’s being neighbourly, that’s all.’

  ‘Neighbourly? Pah!’ But he settled back in his chair, already wheezing under the strain of his efforts.

  ‘Yes, neighbourly. It’s about time this feud between the Esquivels and the Oxtoas was put to bed once and for all, don’t you think?’

  He muttered something in Basque under his breath. Normally she’d ask him what he meant, but not this time. This time she had a fairly good idea what he meant without the translation. ‘I’m taking Alesander some coffee. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘It’s the vines,’ he called out in his thin voice as she left. ‘He doesn’t want you.’

  She didn’t answer. Felipe might be right, but she didn’t have to tell him that. Not when she needed him soon to believe the exact opposite.

  Alesander was busy under the vines when she returned, intent on the task of replacing a broken upright, and she leant against his car and watched him work. She hadn’t pegged him as someone good at manual work, but he seemed to know what he was doing, every action purposeful and certain.

  She watched him manhandle the new post into position, liking the way his body worked and the muscles bunched in his arms.

  She watched him twisting broken wire together, increasing the tension on the wire supporting the heavy vines.

  He was good with his hands.

  And then she deliberately looked away while he finished the job, turning her gaze towards the view out to sea because she didn’t want to think of the man having clever hands, not when that was something she didn’t need to know.

  It was better not to know.

  It would be better if she didn’t think about it.

  What was it about this man who turned her thoughts carnal when her intentions were anything but? Thank God he’d agreed that there would be no sex between them. Never again would she have sex with a man who didn’t love her one hundred per cent. Never again would she experience that sickening fear that she might be carrying the child of a man she didn’t love with all her heart.

  She wouldn’t let it happen.

  ‘Is that for me?’ he asked, startling her, so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t heard him approach. She turned to see the job done, the once fallen vines now lifted high off the ground again.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, handing him the mug, pulling her hand away quickly when their fingers brushed. He sipped the coffee, thoughtfully watching her, and nodded.

  ‘Bueno. How’s Felipe this morning?’

  ‘Mistrustful. He wonders what you’re about.’

  Alesander smiled. ‘He’ll come around,’ and put the coffee to his lips again—good lips, wide and not at all thin—and she suddenly felt awkward, standing here, watching a man drink a cup of coffee. She wondered if she should go. She’d delivered the promised coffee after all. Then again, she’d only have to come back for the cup …

  ‘Why are the vines grown so high?’ she asked, finally falling on something to say. ‘It must make looking after them more difficult.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s the way here. The weather from the sea can be harsh. This way the vines form a canopy that protects the fruit beneath, making it more suitable for the grapes to flourish. And of course—’ he smiled ‘—up high they get a much better view of the sea.’

  And she blinked as she remembered a phrase from her childhood, a sliver of a memory she’d forgotten until now, some words an old man had told her as she’d trailed behind him around the vineyard asking endless questions while he’d snipped and trimmed the vines, answering her in faltering Spanglish. He’d told her his grapes were magic grapes and she’d asked him what made them magic and he’d told her what made them magic.

  ‘The sparkle of the sea.’

  His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. ‘Sí. The grapes with the view make the best wine. They say that is why our txakoli wine sparkles when it is poured.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Of course it is true. And also it is to do with the fermentation process as well. But why wouldn’t grapes be happy with a view such as this?’

  They stood together for a moment, looking out over the vista, as the vine-covered hillside fell away to the low rolling countryside to the coast. And the sea did indeed sparkle under the morning sun, just as her skin tingled where it was touched by the heat of him.

  ‘But I am boring you,’ he said. ‘When you care nothing for the vines. Thank you for the coffee. I should get back to work here.’

  She took the cup, still warm, cradling it in her hands. She didn’t care for the vines. And yet there was something about them that tugged at her. Maybe it was just the remnants of a short time in her childhood when the vineyard had been her playground. ‘Surely you have more important things to do? I thought you had a business to run.’

  ‘I grew up doing this work. I like it and these days I so rarely get a chance to do it. But it is good to be closer to the grapes.’

  ‘How are they—can you tell?’ And she surprised herself by caring to know the answer, even as she knew she was putting off returning to the house. ‘Do you think there will be any point harvesting them?’

  He nodded and looked back at the vines above his shoulder, where bunches of small grapes hung down from the vines. She tried to look at the grapes and not the Vee of skin at his neck where his white shirt lay
open. She couldn’t help but notice the man made an innocent white shirt look positively sinful, the way it pulled over his shoulders and turned olive skin darker. ‘It would be a crime not to pick them. The vines should have been pruned in the winter, of course, which is why they are such a mess now, but they are good vines—old but strong—they have still produced good fruit. Has Felipe had the grapes tested at all?’

  She looked blankly back at him.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I assumed not. But soon they should be tested for their sugar and acidity levels. That will tell when they are right for harvest. But it is only a matter of weeks. Two, maybe three at the most.’

  Her teeth found her lip. She shook her head. ‘Could I manage it, do you think? I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  ‘You can help, but the job will be bigger than just you.’

  She smiled stiffly. ‘Will you talk to Felipe about it, then? You know so much more than me about what is needed to be done.’

  ‘You think he will listen to me?’

  ‘At least you speak the same language. With me, our conversations are limited to the basics. I want him to see that all is not lost, that life goes on, that the vines go on.’

  ‘Then I will talk with him. I will come up to the house before I go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She turned to leave but he caught her hand. ‘I could ask you the same question.’ And when he caught her frown, ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You know already. So he has a chance to smile before he dies.’

  ‘Sí.’ He nodded. ‘But why? Why do you care so about a grumpy old man who lives halfway around the world and who you barely know? Why have you given up an inheritance for him?’

  She smiled at the ‘grumpy old man’ reference. There was no point in objecting to that. ‘He’s all I have left in the world.’

  ‘Is that enough to do what you are doing? I ask myself if it is enough and still it makes no sense. Why do you care so much?’

  Why did she care? She turned her face up to the wide blue sky. And suddenly she was back, that seven-year-old child with long tangled hair and an even more tangled family and a promise she’d made when her screaming mother had wrenched her in tears from her grandmother’s arms, their one brief attempt at bridgebuilding over, with a vow never to see them again.