by J. T. Lundy
Sister Claudette remained stoic. She arched an eyebrow. “For gambling debts or other nefarious purposes, no doubt?”
I sat up straight. “I assure you, Sister, my obligations are of the highest quality.”
Her demeanor did not change. “Well, then, Mr. All-Business, back to your question. Profits are distributed twice a year.”
“And the next distribution is?”
“After the harvest we will distribute profits.”
Oh boy, the hamster was sprinting on the wheel now. “And will I be part of that distribution?”
Sister Claudette pursed her lips and nodded slightly.
“Even if I don’t get my new passport by then? Even if technically I haven’t yet inherited the estate?”
Sister Claudette mini-nodded again. “You’ve worked, or attempted to appear interested in the vineyard. Clara clearly wanted you to have the vineyard and the profits. I’m the executor of the estate, and I will adhere to her wishes. I can think of no good reason not to distribute your share of the profits.” She paused. “Can you think of any reason?”
Eustace. Hammersmith. The judge. Eighteen days until jail! All these thoughts flashed through my mind. “No, Sister. I can’t think of anything.”
“Then you shall still receive your profits while we wait for the government’s rubber stamp.”
I raised my fist in the air. “Hallelujah.”
Sister Lucia smiled.
Sister Claudette’s eyes widened. “This is not a religious occasion.”
“Of course not, Sister, but I felt joy.”
“You felt the culmination of your greedy desires in an evil epiphany.”
Whatever. Sister Claudette was getting on my nerves, but I pretended like I didn’t notice her last uppercut. “So, you sell the wine right after the harvest?”
Sister Lucia laughed. “No, no, we sell the juice.”
“The juice?”
“We don’t have the capacity to make all our grapes into wine,” Sister Lucia explained. “So we sell the juice.”
“Eliminates some of the risk, evens out the cash flow,” Sister Claudette said. “Make sense to you, Mr. Business?”
“Sure, sure. What kind of cash we talking about?”
“Profits,” Sister Claudette said. “That is what we distribute, if any.”
“What do you mean—if any?”
The sisters looked at each other.
“Some years there are losses,” Sister Claudette said, her jaws clenched. She looked like she took losses as a personal failure, as if she and the nuns hadn’t worked hard enough, as if failure was a sin.
I wasn’t so hip on the idea of losses either, especially for this harvest. I rubbed my temples. “Oh, jeez. Losses?”
“But if the harvest is as good as last year, the juice profits should be sufficient.”
“Sufficient for what?” I said. “How sufficient are we talking here?”
“Lucia?”
“After last year’s juice sales, Clara’s share was forty thousand euros. Based on today’s exchange rate, that would be—”
“Fifty-six thousand dollars,” I said. With fifty-six Gs I’d be reaching for the champagne on the victory stand. I could borrow the extra four grand from Lucky Mike or maybe even Laura, and I could pop the cork. “But it’s possible the profits could be even more, right?”
“Or less, or nothing,” Sister Claudette said.
“Prices are high,” Sister Lucia said.
“But profits depend on how many quality grapes we can harvest,” Sister Claudette said.
I could feel that old beginning-of-semester drive—when all looked hopeful before the distractions prevailed. I stood up. “Why are we wasting time here? We have work to do. We have to be ready for the harvest.”
The sisters looked at me with kindly surprise, like a bad pupil they couldn’t help but like, and then they laughed.
I dropped the sisters off after our lunch and hurried over to the vintner’s house. Stumpy and I had to get serious. The sisters weren’t going to let me sell, but they were going to let me have the profits. I could work on the selling part later. Right now the profits were the key—the key to keeping out of jail.
We had to make sure all the equipment was ready to go for the harvest. The hoses and the sorting conveyor had to be cleaned. The hopper and crusher had to be cleaned and tested. Everything had to be perfect. Not a grape could go to waste.
I burst into the vintner’s house with rah-rah vigor. I rounded the hall into the main room, and lo and behold, Stumpy and Melanie stood together, holding hands with their eyes locked.
“Holy …” I was at a loss for a second word. “Holy hand holders,” I finally said.
Stumpy and Melanie stepped apart. Stumpy shifted his feet, embarrassed. Sister Melanie stared at me, oddly composed.
Due to my passport difficulties and Sister Claudette’s promise to distribute harvest profits, Stumpy’s nun seduction plan had to change. Or, ideally, be completely reversed. If the sisters found out about this wayward nun and Stumpy’s and my part in the process, the Champagne victory would be toast.
“You two should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Jason, say what?”
I pointed at Stumpy. “You, an honest churchgoing Baptist messing with a nun—a married woman!”
“Married woman?”
“Jesus!” I pointed at Sister Melanie. “She’s married to Jesus. Have you forgotten your vows, Sister?”
Sister Melanie put her hands on her hips. “Now wait just a minute.”
I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. “I don’t want to see your dimpled cheeks or fluttering eyes anywhere near this house or Stumpy again.”
Stumpy grabbed my shoulder, but I had too much momentum. I whipsawed Sister Melanie out the door.
“Have you gone mad, Jason? We’re in love. It’s right, like you said.”
“I said no such thing.” I shooed Sister Melanie away. “Go pray, Sister. Pray on the sanctity of your vows. Pray to save your soul.”
Sister Melanie gave me a venomous look. She opened her mouth and looked ready to let loose a tirade, but then her jaw clamped shut and she exhaled a deep breath from her nose. She breathed in deep and scrunched her little face, closed her eyes, and then relaxed. She turned and left. I had thought she might have been a tad more contrite, considering the circumstances.
Damage control with Stumpy would be difficult.
Stumpy’s chest heaved. He avoided my eyes and focused on my torso. His nostrils flared, and his ears twitched. One foot stepped back, and he charged.
“Stumpy, wait. Listen.” He was beyond hearing, much less reasoning. Stumpy had attacked me once before, back in grade school after I had called him fatso or something. Teasing each other was not unusual, but Stumpy and I at this particular moment had been crushing on the same girl, sweet Carol Jenner. As we waited in the cafeteria line Stumpy was showing his R2D2 pin to Carol when I flipped my teasing comment Stumpy’s way. All the kids, including Carol, laughed, and the next thing I knew Coach Williams, the lunchroom monitor that day, was pulling Stumpy off me to save my life. I ended up in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose and bruised eye and got a free pass home to cry over my wounds.
I stood in the vintner’s house paralyzed with fear. Coach Williams was nowhere around and probably too old to help anyway. Stumpy’s red face and wide body barreled toward me. Time slowed down. His fists pumped. The clock said 2:35. I noticed because I thought I might die and it seemed important, like I needed to record it or something. Crazy. A fly flew out of the room.
I snapped to. I dodged left, right, spun around and tried to run, but Stumpy had eyes on me like a bull to a matador’s cape. His head dropped and hit me square in the chest. I landed on my back on the Oriental rug. Stumpy sat on my solar plexus and pinned my arms with his knees in a classic playground maneuver. He had no intention of tickling me.
“Stumpy. I have a new plan.”
He slappe
d me. “I don’t care about your stupid plans.”
“But—”
He slapped me twice more. “You said I should love her.”
“I—”
Slap, slap.
“Okay, okay, I did. I told you to love her.”
Stumpy stood up and walked away.
“Stumpy, wait. I can explain.”
He turned angrily. “I’m tired of you, Jason. I don’t want your money. I don’t want to be your stooge anymore. I want Melanie, and nobody is going to stop me.”
CHAPTER 10
I figured Stumpy would get over Sister Melanie soon enough, and the syndicate would be back together. Sister? Surely Stumpy would realize his mistake and wake up soon.
Now that I was in on the harvest profits, I was all business. I covered the vineyard, pruning, weeding, and loving them grapes. I was the big boss with the big heart. I waved and smiled to the nun workers, encouraged them, and reminded them they were working for the good Lord.
The way Sister Claudette explained the old picking process was that once them purple berries sang sweet we needed to pick and haul ’em in as fast and careful as the nuns were able. I tested the crusher every morning and made sure it was ready. I had the two tractors tuned up, fueled up, and their trailers in working order. I had the nuns assigned to different crews prepared to work at any time. A mid-sized tanker truck was reserved and ready to go in Bordeaux.
The day after our wrestling match, I went down to see Stumpy in the shed. Light shone through the cloudy windows, but Stumpy worked at a bench in the dark shadows. Even though I gave a friendly ‘hello,’ Stumpy responded with the backside silent treatment as he worked on the crates.
“Now, Stumpy. I realize you’re still a little miffed over Sister Melanie, and I’m not saying you don’t have a point or two, but Stumpy, a job has got to be done here and we’re still partners and all, and I’d appreciate it if you’d listen to my ideas.”
Silence.
“Okay, then. What I’m thinking is a two-crate backpack. All we need to do is lengthen the straps and add connectors and we could stack one crate on top of the other and cut our hauling time in half.”
Silence.
I walked across the dusty wood floor to Stumpy. I took hold of a crate. “Let me show you.” I reached across him to fetch a buckle and he grabbed my arm. He looked at me with sad droopy eyes and I felt the guilt gorilla squeezing my heart. I tried to move my arm but Stumpy held on. “All right. All right, all right, all right.” He let go and I threw my hands into the air. “All right.” I sat down on a crate. “God help me, but if you like that cute nun I’m not going to stop you.”
“Her name is Melanie.”
“Yes, Melanie.” I spun my finger to signal a home run. “You and Melanie have at it.”
A huge smile spread across Stumpy’s love-struck face.
I stood up and opened my palms to him. “But can you wait a couple of weeks, or at least keep it under wraps until after the harvest?”
Stumpy put his arms around me and lifted me up. He set me down and tenderly patted my cheek. “Thank you, Jason. Of course. Nobody will know until after the harvest.” He ran out of the shed, undoubtedly in search of Melanie.
I picked up a backpack and went to work figuring out how to double it up. They stacked on top of each other easily enough. I found a couple clamps and screwed them on the bottom crate so it was easy to latch the top crate securely by hand. I weaved the straps from the backpack through the top crate, and the double backpack was complete. I strapped it on and walked proudly around the shed.
I wanted to show Jacqueline—see what I can do! I’d have to wait until tomorrow. Could I wear a double-crate backpack to the café? Naw, probably too contrived.
I walked out the door and marched with the backpack over to the convent to show off for the good sisters. I found Sister Claudette reflecting at the fountain in the center courtyard. The sun shone through the cloudless sky, and the courtyard was hot. The air smelled of dust, kicked up by silent nuns who crisscrossed on the pebble paths.
“You call it a double what?”
Sister Claudette had trouble grasping the name. “Double-hauler,” I said. I held up one finger and my thumb to signal two, French-like. “Twice as much. We can cut our grape-processing time dramatically.”
“But it will be too heavy for many of the nuns.”
“But not all of them. And they don’t have to fill both crates. Whatever extra each nun can carry will help.”
Sister Claudette rubbed her chin, intrigued. “We might not have to have so many visiting nuns.”
“I was more concerned about the processing time.”
“With the increased rate …” Sister Claudette looked at the fountain as if asking Saint Sebastian to help her calculate. “… The crusher will reach maximum capacity …” She rattled off a bunch of productivity rates and capacity algorithms and such until I had that old feeling I would flunk again.
Sister Claudette smiled at me, which took me off guard. “The dooble holer might work. We could increase processing speed and eliminate laborers.”
I was excited. “You’re all business, Sister.”
Her smile disappeared. “I do manage a convent. And there are a lot of mouths to feed.” She touched my shoulder. “But good work, Jason. Clara would have been proud.”
Yeah, I thought. Aunt Clara would have been proud. It felt good.
Sister Claudette’s fingers gently clenched me. Warmness radiated through me like a blessing. I thought she might give me a hug, but she straightened up and removed her hand. I wished she hadn’t.
I used to crave Aunt Clara’s approval, her love, her touch, but it never came. No matter how I tried, I could never get over the feeling that I was a nuisance. And maybe I was, but how did Eustace do it? She loved that Boy Scout with his straight A’s, expertly-made bed, and clean room. That neatnik won Aunt Clara’s affection in the few months he lived with us, and his perfection overshadowed my faults for the years to come.
The day had finally arrived. Noon—the Hotel Duras café. Jacqueline and I collided at the maître d’s stand. On cue, we greeted each other at the exact same time. “Bonjour,” I said. “Hi,” she said. We laughed and did the European hat-trick cheek kiss.
The warm air smelled like bread, wine, and garlic. Jacqueline’s face radiated happiness and anticipation. We caught each other’s eye, and then I saw the look. That was the moment. She gave me the look, whether she wanted to or not. It was the look that said she liked me. I might screw it up in the next hour, or week, but at that moment, the bobber was sunk. Be cool, Jason, be cool. Don’t sing. Don’t say anything.
I held out my hand, and she took it. Absolutely electric! Her eyes were springing with affection. I led her, and we floated over to our table. I sat down without bumping into anything.
We ordered some wine, exchanged pleasantries, and recapped our past four days. I sat, mesmerized—basking in her words, her aura, and her smile.
“What do you do for fun in Kanka—Kankakee?” Jacqueline looked at me, wondering if she had pronounced it right.
“You got it. Kankakee.” I tried to think. What did I like to do?
“Do you surf? Americans surf, right?”
I laughed. “Not me. I like to mountain bike. I have a Trek mountain bike that I ride all over the place.”
Jacqueline smiled, eager. “I love to mountain bike. I bike in the Alps every summer. What mountains do you ride in Kankakee?”
I thought of the hundreds of miles of flat cornfields. “None. I’ve never seen a real mountain in my life. A curb is the highest thing my mountain bike has gone over.” I felt guilty. I wasn’t a true mountain biker.
She smiled, though, and was still enthusiastic. “You should try the Alps, then. They are only a few hours from here.”
The blue sky and a cool breeze made the day refreshing. The café was crowded with people sitting close together. Waiters weaved their way around tables with trays piled high. Ja
cqueline and I laughed and talked about different things, but then our lunch came and the enchanted woman became all business.
“Back to your plans here in France,” Jacqueline said.
I thought she was still worried the J-man might pull the old kiss and split. “Like I said. I want to sell the vineyard and buy a smaller place—maybe in Paris.” I emphasized Paris, but she ignored the reference.
It turned out Jacqueline was all stirred up over the selling part. She looked into my eyes all serious-like. “I want to buy your vineyard.”
“Wait, what?”
Jacqueline gave a hearty, friendly laugh. “I mean the government does. France wants to buy St. Sebastian vineyard.”
My head snapped backward. “How much?”
“We are prepared to pay you seven million euros.”
The golden grapes were ripe. The cash was at hand. If I could sell the vineyard, I wouldn’t have to work. It wouldn’t matter what the harvest profits turned out to be. Seven million euros! That was ten million dollars! The French government was a legitimate buyer—able to pay actual cash. A potential sale seemed more possible now. If I could only convince the sisters.
I took a healthy, very un-French-like, gulp of wine. “I’m more than ready to make a deal, but there’s a stipulation: The Morceau sisters must agree to the new buyer. From the way they reacted to you, I don’t think they would like the government as a partner.”
The waiter took Jacqueline’s plate, and she placed her hands delicately on the table. “We know about the stipulation, and we don’t want to be partners with the nuns. We want to buy them out, too.”
She looked intently into my eyes. “We’ve found another vineyard—a more profitable one in Provence—with a castle that will make an excellent abbey. The owner is retiring and moving. The nuns could have the same arrangement as they do now. I think they would be very happy there.”
It sounded perfect. The sisters might reject the sale, citing tradition and all that crap, but at least this was a new angle, and an attractive angle at that. I mean, Provence!
The passport! Before I could sell, I needed my passport to inherit the vineyard. I might have to find a quicker way to pay off the court than waiting for harvest profits.