CABERNET ZIN (Cabernet Zin Wine Country)

by J Gordon Smith

  -:-:-:-O-:-:-:-

  Zack watched Claire walk up the drive from the parking lot. Hand-size grape leaves hung from the vines flanking the path and seemed to wave as if they motioned her along a parade route. “Glad you could join us.”

  “I’m happy you called me. I often wonder how grapes are picked to make wine. Now I’ll get to see it up close.” Claire settled her baseball cap tighter. Her hair stuck out the loop at the back of her hat in a smooth pony tail. The breeze and waning sunlight touched the edge of her neck. Desire for her seeped through his body. He wanted to lean into her, place his hand against her neck, and pull her close for a kiss – but he broke that thought, “Everyone is assembling on the patio. I’m waiting for Rutger and Frank. Frank picked up Rutger who’s plane landed late. They are not far.”

  “I can wait with you.”

  “– There they are.”

  Frank’s car drove around to the parking lot with the other cars. Rutger and Frank came up in their jeans and work boots, “Zack, I got some American flannel just for tonight!”

  “Good plan. You’ll fit right in. Do you remember Claire?”

  “Yes. Yes I do,” Rutger held his hand out to her.

  Zack said, “I called her away from a busy evening and promised we’d learn how to pick a few grapes.” He saw Rutger grinning. “Don’t spend too long shaking her hand – we’ve got grapes to harvest.”

  Frank said, “It’s like waiting for a mare to birth a foal, when the grapes are ready they are ready to go and won’t wait for no one.”

  Zack assembled everyone on the patio. He went over technique and safety issues they should expect. Including the stem clippers. “Don’t be too aggressive with these or you’ll cut your hands and fingers. We have a bin of mechanical clippers but I suggested we only use manual tools. You will have tired hands by morning but we’ll avoid hospital trips.” He showed diagrams of the field, how the tractors would move, and where everyone would pick the grapes. Everyone split into smaller teams. Claire joined Zack’s harvest team as everyone went out to the field.

  They worked with the blinding lights to their backs. Zack and Claire picked ahead on their rows faster than many of the others.

  “Did you bring a second lug?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah,” Zack took his gloves off and flicked the bottom nested tray down from the stack that he filled. He turned and pushed it under the trellis to Claire. She reached for the tub and her bare hand touched his. The touch sparkled through him. Her eyes came to his through the wall of foliage. Neither of them withdrew their hands. They stayed touching and searching the other’s eyes. The sweet smell of grapes filled the air. The wind rustled the leaves around them drowning away the sounds of the other people working and the drone of the diesel tractors at the edge of the lamps. Claire let go of Zack’s hand and pulled the tub into her row. They stood back up, a gap in the trellis like a window in a gate allowed Zack to lean toward Claire. She pulled at the wire and pushed her lips toward his.

  Rutger appeared “Hey Zack, I’m out of empty tubs. Oh. How about I take your full tub back.”

  Zack and Claire pulled away from each other and the trellis.

  “Rutger, always perfect timing,” Zack said. “Both Claire and I have a string of full tubs in our row back to the tractor. Do you think you could cart those back to the big bins? Bring a few more empty tubs to us? Claire and I are in a race and she gets ahead of me every time I carry tubs.”

  “Sure. My clipper hand has been getting sore anyway.” Rutger pulled off his glove and showed, “Here are the blisters too.”

  “Rutger, we’ll make a farmer out of you yet.”

  Rutger said, “Maybe soon all of fancy London will be scrubbed off?”

  Claire laughed, “Rutger, I thought only foggy and London went together?”

  “Foggy more than here, certainly.” Rutger took a tub and walked back toward the tractors.

  Zack and Claire returned to harvesting. Picking grapes and pushing the tubs along with their toes down the rows. When Zack was not watching the sharp end of the clippers or the tub position for the cut fruit his eyes found Claire. He liked that her eyes found his easily. A smile between them. He had little to offer her other than a run-down rental cabin and barely a job. Could he convince her to stay? What kind of mess would he be if she decided to leave him? She could have her pick of anyone. He feared his soul would crush if she did.

  “I can’t see the grapes any more. It’s too dark,” Claire said, standing back and wiping the back of her hand across her forehead.

  “We’ve picked beyond the lights. I can’t see either.” Zack bent and came under the trellis wire of Claire’s.

  “You’re taking my tub back? It’s not full.”

  “No. I’m doing something I should have done a long time ago,” he put his arm around Claire and pulled her close and pressed his lips against hers. Her hat fell back. Her gloves slipped from her fingers, freeing them to raise and slip through Zack’s hair behind his ears and around the back of his head, pulling him closer and not letting him go. He felt his heart pound against his chest as hers touched his. The slightly faster beat of her pulse throbbed with his. The tractor motor revved across the field as its hydraulics hoisted the heavy bin. The tractor and lights came closer along the row. Zack released Claire; his lips retained the feeling of her softness against them. The blood flow in his body swirled and ached for her. His voice came thick and hoarse, “I wanted to do that for too long –”

  “– Me too.” Claire whispered after him as he returned to his row. Her hand gripped the trellis wire and steadied her body. Then the tractor’s lights washed them in the ghostly vapors like an alien ship hovering in the field preparing to scoop them away. Zack kicked along his tub and clipped the next bunch of visible fruit.

  -:-:-:-O-:-:-:-

  The volunteer investors and their friends leaned heavy and exhausted against the cool walls of the wine cave entrance. The sun lit the horizon and tipped over the edge of the hill coloring the top half of the stainless steel crusher-destemmer with pink and gold tones. They watched as Martin ran the fork truck dumping the rows of bins they spent all night picking into the machine. The machine snorted and growled and clanged during its operating cycle sending precious juice through pipes into the first stainless steel fermentation tanks – beginning the wine making process. The morning scrubbed brighter across the sky until a cheer arose from the gathered crowd as the last bin emptied.

  Martin turned off the fork truck and leaned against its steering wheel, “We all appreciate everyone’s efforts on getting this harvest in so quickly. The chef waved out the gift shop window that he’s all done whipping up a farmer brunch for everyone in the west conference room.”

  The rabble of weary workers shuffled up the steps, through the tasting room, and to the conference room. Zack and Claire ended up near the end of the line and found the conference room seating filled. They walked down the hallway and took one of the standing tables at the edge of the tasting room. Customers would not arrive for hours yet. The sun streamed golden through the tall windows and warmed the dark wood trim and bar, sparkling from the glasses and bottles arrayed along the shelves.

  “I’m really sore.”

  “No blisters like Rutger?” Claire smiled into her orange juice.

  “No. Lugging those tubs. Both mine and yours.”

  “Builds character.”

  “Growly bear character, I think.”

  Zack loved Claire’s smile. He saw how every hair was in place on her head and as smooth as if she just arrived. Not like she had picked oh-so-many tubs of wine grapes. A few smudges of dirt marked her face and escaped being wiped off, but only he might see them because he studied her so often. She said, “This is where we first met.”

  “Yeah. The tasting room.”

  “This table in the tasting room.” Her finger pressed against the wood.

  Zack looked around the edges and the feet of the table, “I can’t tell this table from t
he others.”

  “This table has a scrape along the bottom of the center post. See there?”

  “I thought that is part of the design.”

  “No.”

  “A lucky lead-in. I have something for you.” Zack reached into the pocket of his jeans, “Here’s a key for when I’m in Detroit.” The shiny brass house key chimed on the table top next to Claire.

  Claire picked it up, “You want me to check on the mail?”

  “You can stay if you want to get away from your roommate, if you need to. It’s not fancy.” He slid over a piece of paper that showed an address and a sketch of a map.

  “I don’t know what to say. What’s going on?”

  “Claire.” He looked down the hall to the other investors and their friends and then back to Claire. “I’m probably going to be spending more time out here. I really like you – if you didn’t think that in the field.”

  “I – I want you too. But you have so much going on.”

  Zack sighed. “I’m expecting divorce paperwork any day, probably when I get back. If not I may have to dig up a lawyer and draft one myself.”

  “And then what happens? Your kids?”

  “I don’t know.” Zack spun the empty orange juice tumbler resting on the table between his fingers. He looked over his shoulder out the window and the tip of the mountain far to the south glowed alone with its golden hue. “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 17

  Zack hefted his trip bag; the night fused the chill with the damp and suggested more rain. He pushed his key into the deadbolt lock. The key did not turn. He pulled the key out and looked at it in the early Saturday morning light. He never liked having too many keys on his key ring to fill up his pocket but he checked again that he had the house key. He didn’t see any burs on the key itself. He pushed it into the lock again and tried turning it and it would not twist. The lock remained fast. He knew Lydia and the kids would be asleep. He had taken the overnight flight from California back to Detroit. He went around to the front door and his key did not work the lock there. Then he went to the swing door on the patio and that too blocked his key. He looked at the patio doorknob. The old doorknob held a brand new tumbler. The old tumbler had always been a finicky lock. So the locksmith fixed this one when you had him re-key the house, Lydia? Zack walked around to the back door and pressed the door bell.

  Lydia opened the door after a time with a mix of early morning grogginess and anger. She wore old ratty sweatpants and a shirt Zack had given her for her birthday that suddenly seemed like too many years ago.

  “Why doesn’t my key work?”

  Lydia said, “I had the locks changed.”

  “You have my kids in there.”

  “Here. This is for you.” Lydia pushed a thick packet of papers at Zack. “I’ll call you later about getting your stuff.”

  “My kids are in there. If you have any divorce paperwork in here then I know I have to sign to agree to anything.”

  “You do. But I don’t have to let you in.”

  “You’re going to hold my kids hostage?”

  “I’m getting the kids. You’ll see in that paperwork why.” Her fist rested against her hip. “Look, I’m giving you the winery investment - hasn’t made any money so no big deal. You were never around when you had all that winery stuff. Since I have the kids I’m keeping the house.”

  “Because you love it so much?”

  “No so I have a place to live.” She pointed at the envelope, “Read the ruling from the judge in that packet before you try fighting me on it. Go get a motel room. I’ll leave the credit card on for a while. I’ve already reduced the limits on your card though – so don’t get frivolous. And I’ve locked up the bank accounts.”

  “So what do you expect me to do?”

  “Get one of those regular jobs that pay regular money.” She slammed the door.

  Zack heard the deadbolt slam into its pocket. The light illuminating the back door clicked off, as did the kitchen light.

  He trudged to his car while the sky spat flecks of rain at him. He tossed the packet on the passenger seat and his bag in the back. He got in and drove the car away.

  Zack pulled into the parking lot of the nearby strip mall that half the shops had closed during this latest economic downturn. The rain came heavier now, washing in waves over his windshield. Zack’s sadness erupted with the rain. His heart ripped more than he could believe. His head knew this situation would happen but his heart had remained firm in disbelief. Now the certainty stabbed at him with jagged knives.

  He opened the packet and flipped through the divorce paperwork to sign. Extensive written descriptions of reasons included his not working, his absence due to a bad investment. Zack laughed at the next one where she described their loveless arrangements because it wasn’t for his lack of trying. It listed how she would have both kids because he didn’t have a job nor a recent history of working. While she worked, her mother could care for the kids. He did not have any close family and would be forced to put the kids in daycare, his close involvement with the alcohol industry, and how that was not conducive to raising kids, and a whole list of minor complaints. A judge wrote a recommendation for her to have both kids by default, not splitting them up, and the judge would reinforce that opinion if Zack filed any contesting motions in court. Of course, none of the documents showed how Lydia contributed unhealthy activities of hers toward the kids. Her long affair. The constant yelling and abusive screaming at everyone in the household.

  Zack watched workers show up to their stores and go in. Zack signed a lot of the paperwork because he knew fights would cost money and time and build grinding anguish in his children. I’m not going to squabble over everything - it’s bad enough for the kids that we are splitting.

  Flashes like television episodes pushed their way forward into his mind in rippling waves. His kids’ births, their first steps, their first days at school. When they drew on the walls with crayons and markers. He would be giving up all the rest of their firsts until they became young adults. Could he do that? Based on this paperwork he would have to. He couldn’t believe how Lydia had twisted the one spot of his happiness of the winery investment against him into something to cause him to lose his children. He had tried enduring Lydia, thought his patience and steady resolve might keep him unharmed. Now alone with nothing to solve his situation, no wife, no kids, no job. He only had that winery that had yet to produce any profits – and likely to need another capital call. Money that he did not have. He flipped through the paperwork and found the judge agreed that with the kids, with granting Lydia’s petition for more of their savings for home maintenance and the kids’ college educations. They gave him a pitiful amount. A note attached, written by Lydia, was that she reduced the balance in their shared checking account to that listed in the paperwork and removed her name from the original account. He looked around inside his car. How many other little details would he have to change? Driver’s license. Car insurance. “Do I need this car?” He looked at it. “I could drive it instead of flying to California.” While he knew he could buy a beater car out there, he knew the maintenance history of this one, it could last and he wouldn’t have to spend time trying to sell it here either. He could focus on the approaching harvest season at the vineyard. How would Claire react when he told her?

  He watched the rain drizzle down the windows and readjusted his life.

  -:-:-:-O-:-:-:-

  “Aaaargh.” James Vega wrestled himself out of his chair. He smacked the TV tray in anger, tumbling the tray and all its dishes with half eaten bits of meals and half empty beverages onto the carpet. He walked to the blaring television game show and kicked the console. His toe cracked the plastic covering the speaker. He put his foot down and banged against the screen with his fork until bright points of light pierced the room like stars in a dark night.

  “Dad!” Claire ran from the kitchen and tried taking the fork from his hand. He shoved her away, her body sprawled across the
couch, and the hard board strengthening its back bruised her side. She gained her feet and launched at him again. He turned to her and put his hand under the coffee table. He flipped the table toward her. She dodged the heavy wood and reached for his arms. She hugged her arms around him. “Dad! It’s me, Claire. Your daughter!”

  He growled again and wiggled under her grip. She couldn’t hold him and he burst free of her, clomping over the upside down coffee table with its legs splayed into the air just as sad as an upside down turtle. Her father kept moving. He grabbed the floor lamp as he steamed toward the front door. He dragged the lamp until the cord pulled tight at the base of the lamp. He stopped and yanked at the lamp. A spark flared near the electrical socket where the metal strands of the separated cord touched each other. The circuit breaker deeper in the house flipped and threw the room into darkness. Claire banged her shin on the coffee table leg as she chased her father. He reached the front door and opened it. The security chain rattled and banged as he pulled the door against it. He pushed his arm through the opening until his shoulder stuck. He pushed until another thought entered his mind. He gripped the lamp shaft in both hands and swung its heavy foot at the door.

  Claire tipped her chin back as the cast foot of the lamp brushed near her face. “Dad!” The lamp gouged into the steel security door with a loud thump. Her father pulled at the door and shoved his arm out. His shoulder stopped him a second time. She yanked away the lamp from her father’s distracted hand. Then she leaned into the door trapping him by his arm. She put both hands to her father’s face, forcing him to look at her, “Dad! You need to settle down. You’re scaring me. Dad, can you understand me?”

  He wrenched his shoulder up and down. Then he stopped. Tears came to his eyes and his head hung down toward her. She released pressure on the door and hugged him. She led him back to his chair. He cried and his body shook. He floundered to his chair where his hands came to his face, “I’m sorry, Claire!”