Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I place my mug under the spigot of the built-in coffeemaker and press the coffee icon on the panel. With my steaming mug of brew in hand, I step out the back door, cross the drive, and step over the low rock wall that surrounds the vineyard. The fall morning is crisp and musky, the organic scent of earth and vines like a welcome embrace. I sit on the wall facing the vineyard and sip my coffee. The deep magentas, ambers, and russets of the leaves on the vines are a fiery display of the Master's creativity. Since childhood, the peace of late fall following the activity of the crush has been my favorite season to be amongst the vines.

  I'm awed. Silenced. By the glory before me. The sun peeks over the mountains at the end of the valley, casting the light of a new day. I warm my hands on the mug and raise my gaze heavenward in an act of worship.

  The valley takes me back to my childhood. It's here that I'm most at home.

  I'm grateful for the time alone before Gerard, Jason, and Andee wake and the activity of the day begins. I think about Andee. Is Jason serious about his relationship with her? She's beautiful, but there's an edge to her. She isn't lacking in confidence, that's for sure. She is bold, in control, and . . . what? Something's nagged since spending the evening with her and Jason after they arrived last night. There's something under the surface that I can't put my finger on.

  I struggled last night to find common ground with Andee. Maybe I'll get some time alone with Jason. I'd like to understand what he's drawn to in her.

  I put thoughts of Andee aside, take the last swallow of my coffee, and then leave the mug sitting on the rock wall. I want to walk and spend some time with God amidst the beauty of His creation.

  I choose a row and amble between the vines. I stop now and then to watch a rabbit shoot between the stalks or to watch as a vine seems to lose its reluctant hold on a fall leaf as it spirals to the ground. Though I'm alone, I'm aware of the Presence walking and watching with me. I smile at the thought and sense His delight.

  I stop and look at the vines on my left. They are new vines, graphed this past spring. They won't bear fruit until next year. I think back to my days at Cal Poly in the school of horticulture and crop science. I graduated with a concentration in viticulture and winemaking, of course. Though I've never used the degree, the knowledge has served me well with both Gerard and Brigitte.

  The process of graphing, attaching a new vine, even a new grape variety, to an old stock always fascinated me. I rub a finger along the crown where the new vine was attached and a thought breezes through my mind. I am the vine; you are the branches. I think back to what I know of vines and branches. It is the vine or the stalk that nourishes the branches. I look at the visual before me and sense the Spirit's whisper.

  There's more . . .

  I tip my head. What do You want me to see?

  I wander further down the row and see vine after vine after vine. I lift my head and look around me—rows of grapes scale the earth for as far as I can see. I think of the passage from John and Jesus' metaphor of vine and branches. It was, I remember, one of my mother's favorite parts of Scripture. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I open the Bible app and scroll to the book of John, searching for the passage. I read words I've read a hundred times before.

  "I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not remain in me, he is like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned."

  I look back at the row of vines with the new branches graphed to them and think of the process of graphing. How the crown of the stalk is cut to expose the heart of the vine. Likewise, the new branch is cut, also exposing its heart. The two hearts are placed together and the nourishment from the stalk, or the vine, feeds the branch.

  None of this is new information to me, but for the first time, I see it with eyes of understanding. And understanding turns to longing . . . to be graphed to Jesus—for our hearts to beat in unison. To remain so close to Him that I'm nourished and strengthened daily. "Oh, how I need Your strength."

  I drop my phone back into my pocket and turn to walk back to the house, but as I go I have the sense that my business in the vineyard isn't finished. That God has something more He wants me to see. I stop again and look around. I wait. Then I reach for my phone again and return to the passage in John. This time I read from the beginning:

  I am the true vine and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.

  I still as a sense of knowing settles in my soul.

  Jenna, a season of pruning is at hand. Remain in Me.

  As clarity dawns, I shudder. What will God cut from my life? Then ashamed, I'm reminded that pruning brings health and fruit. I turn in a slow circle and look again at the thousands of acres stretched before me—acres of healthy, fruit-bearing vines. And fear is replaced with desire. "Yes, Lord. Cut away the dead branches and prune any that You know will bear fruit for Your glory."

  As I walk back to the house and take in, again, the vibrant fall colors, I know it's nearing the end of a season. Soon, all will seem barren and stripped. The branches will be cut and pruned.

  A cold, gray season of dormancy lies just ahead.

  I shiver and pull the fleece close.

  I stop at the wall, pick up my mug, and head back to the house without a backwards glance.

  When I walk in the back door, Jason is standing at the coffeemaker as coffee streams into his mug. "Hey, you're up early."

  "Yeah, it's in the genes. Out for a walk?"

  I walk to the sink and rinse my mug. "Just wandering through the vineyard. It's a beautiful morning."

  Jason looks past me out the window above the sink. "Looks like it."

  "I'm glad you and Andee joined us. I've wanted to get to know her."

  He chuckles. "Yeah? So what do you think?"

  I hesitate. "I don't know. She's . . . beautiful."

  "That she is, but beauty's only skin deep. We both know that."

  I nod and laugh. "I do now."

  Jason leans against the granite counter and sips his coffee.

  "Are you in love with her?" I ask.

  He looks out the window behind me again and seems thoughtful. "I'm drawn to her."

  "What draws you?"

  He laughs again. "The challenge."

  "Jason . . ."

  He sets his cup on the counter and raises both hands in a sign of surrender. "I know. I know." He wipes his palms on his jeans and then sticks his hands in the front pockets. "There's something behind all those walls she's worked so hard to build. I want to find out what it is—who she is. I want to get beyond the walls, because I think there's more there." He shrugs. "Crazy?"

  "No. But . . ."

  "Sure to get hurt?"

  I nod. "Yeah."

  "I don't know, Jen, sometimes I see something in her. I can't explain it, but—"

  "I know, I saw it too. I was thinking about her while I walked. She's wistful, or . . . I don't know. Something doesn't fit with the persona she presents."

  "Exactly. You know me, I've always loved a good puzzle."

  I nod and note the unsettling of my spirit. "Jason, be careful."

  Andee walks, or staggers, into the kitchen and yawns. She looks from Jason to me. "You're up? Coffee?"

  Jason turns, grabs a mug from the cabinet behind him, sets it under the spigot, and taps the coffee icon. Once the cup is full, he hands it to her. She takes a sip. "Ugh . . . got anything"—she lifts
the cup to her nose and sniffs—"stronger?"

  Jason laughs. "We could add a shot of something if you'd like."

  Andee sneers at him. "Espresso. Do you have any espresso?"

  Jason directs a smile at me. "She's not a morning person."

  I laugh. "I see that."

  Jason takes her cup, sets it on the counter, grabs a clean one, and starts over.

  "I'm a morning person. I'm just not a"—she glances at the digital clock on the coffeemaker—"barely post-dawn person."

  Jason hands her the fresh cup. "What are you doing up?"

  "I thought I'd write. Knock out a chapter or two before breakfast."

  Ah yes. She's a writer. "What are you working on, Andee?"

  "Another financial book, this one empowering women." She sips the espresso. "Now, this is worth drinking." She leans against the counter next to Jason and seems to almost relax.

  "Do you enjoy writing?"

  "Enjoy it?" She runs one hand through her mane of hair. "Huh, I've never thought about it. I enjoy the advances and the royalties." She laughs. "But the writing itself is too solitary for my taste."

  "Not enough action."

  Andee looks up at Jason and, for the first time, I see a flash of vulnerability in her eyes, but it passes. "You've got it."

  "What do you enjoy?" I take my mug out of the sink and head to the coffeemaker for a second cup.

  "Twenty questions? Okay, I'll play. What do I enjoy?"

  As she thinks, I notice her navy satin pajamas and matching robe and the way her blonde hair shines like gold against the dark satin. I look down at the too-big fleece and shearling boots I'm wearing over cotton striped pajamas and wish I'd given a little more thought to what I wore on my walk.

  "I enjoy financial security. I enjoy determining my own destiny—setting goals and attaining them. I enjoy advising others how to do the same."

  I nod.

  Jason laughs. "I think what Jenna may be asking is what you do for fun—hobbies, you know." I watch as any opening in Andee's fortress closes. Her defenses engage.

  "My fun is my work." Her tone is tight. "Speaking of which, I need to get to it. Thanks for the coffee. What time is breakfast?"

  I glance at the note Estelle left on the fridge. "Looks like breakfast is at 9:00."

  "Great." She turns to walk out, but then stops and turns back. "By the way, I have a meeting with a client this afternoon." She looks at Jason. "You'll be gone, right?"

  "Yeah, I'll be with Gerard for a few hours."

  "Great. You don't mind do you, Jenna? Thought I'd save myself a trip since I'm here."

  "No problem."

  Thank heaven. I had no idea what Andee and I would do with time alone together.

  Pride, a sense of self-importance, and self-reliance must give way to childlikeness and simplicity.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Andee

  THE CHATEAU IS all old-world French charm, good grief, and my guest suite is no exception. But I'll give the Bouviers this—they've spared no expense on this place. Brigitte's designer didn't miss a detail.

  I close the heavy oak door to the bedroom and cross the rich wood floor to the desk in front of the window. I'm glad Jenna had the foresight to offer me a room with a desk. There are also three guest cottages on the property for when the Bouviers entertain large groups. I sit in the upholstered chair at the desk and lift the lid of my laptop.

  Fun? Hobbies? Give me a break. Sure, I decided last night that I'd relax more. And I will, but that doesn't mean I need to take up knitting. I scroll through the list of new e-mails, open, read, and respond to a few that are important, and then open my manuscript file. I reread the last chapter I worked on, make a few edits, and then check my outline to see what comes next. My chapters advise readers on topics like checking and savings accounts, credit cards and FICO scores, retirement savings, etc. It's unbelievable to me how many women know nothing about the basics of finances. I shake my head.

  As I peruse my outline, I get an idea. How about a final chapter on enjoying money. How to spend what you've earned and saved. Fun? I can have fun. And I'll show others how to do it too, in a fiscally responsible way.

  I begin to jot notes for the new chapter but stop short.

  I think about how I've spent money. I purchased the penthouse and the Porsche. I wear designer clothes and own a few pieces of jewelry. I try to recall if I enjoyed purchasing the things I own? No. I didn't buy them for enjoyment. I bought them as symbols of success. To show I walk my talk. I know how to make money.

  So what have I enjoyed outside of my business?

  Not much.

  No, wait. I enjoy . . . Jason. Or I could, if I'd let myself.

  I save the open file on my computer and open my browser and type in the now-familiar blog address. I scroll through the archives until I find the post I'm looking for and I read:

  Reality

  Reality is a place I've avoided. It's stark. Uncomfortable. Painful. If I live there, I have to feel, and stretch, and grow.

  I've preferred the land of Denial. It's a dark, furtive place.

  Yet a place of seeming ease.

  But, I was wooed to Reality. My ticket paid for, at great price, by another. One whose call I could no longer resist. And Reality isn't a place one visits. No. Reality is a place of no return. But within its borders lies every good and perfect gift.

  I slam the lid of the laptop shut before I've finished reading the post. It's ridiculous. I stand, pace the length of the room a few times, then untie the belt of my robe, slip it off, and throw it onto the bed. I'll shower and get ready for breakfast and the day ahead.

  I go to the antique armoire where I've hung my clothes, choose a pair of slacks and a cotton blouse—business casual. Appropriate for the day, including my meeting with Bill.

  That's reality.

  Anyway, who is she to talk about real? What a joke! She isn't even willing to identify herself.

  Still holding the clothes, I walk to the desk, reach for a pen, and scribble a few thoughts about the meeting with Bill. Then I head for the bathroom attached to the guest suite. But a nagging question follows me into the shower: What am I denying by working so hard?

  BILL'S EMBRACE IS QUICK. "Good to see you again, Andee. Thanks for meeting me."

  Bill's rugged good looks are a glimpse of what's to come for Jason. Nice to know he'll age well if I keep him around for very long. "No problem. I've been looking forward to it since you called last night."

  "I thought it best we meet here"—he gestures to the little French cafe that appeals to valley tourists—"rather than my office. Just in case Jason and Gerard dropped by, or Jenna, for that matter. They wouldn't think to come here." He looks at the floor for a moment. "I'm not . . . I don't usually keep things from them, and I won't for long, just thought I'd—"

  "Bill, no need to explain. It's business, right? It's what we do."

  He nods as he reaches to pull a chair out for me at the bistro table he's chosen in a corner of the cafe. "Coffee?"

  "Espresso."

  "I'll be right back." He walks to the counter and places the order. He returns with a cup of coffee for himself and my espresso and sits across from me.

  "So Bill, how can I be of help?"

  He stirs his coffee and is silent for a minute. Then he clears his throat. "When Maria was dying"—he looks from his coffee cup to me—"Jason and Jenna's mom . . ."

  I nod, letting him know I've heard the story.

  "Well, that's when I started planting the vineyards. It took a chunk of change, but I sold off the cattle and reinvested the money into the vineyards, which helped. And we'd done well ranching and had money in savings.

  "But as Maria's condition worsened, the medical bil
ls mounted. Even with insurance."

  I nod again. I'm tracking with him and am pretty sure where he's headed.

  "I was pretty driven back then, not only did we plant but we bored a cave, set up a small processing plant—the whole nine yards. I put my energy into the vineyard rather than dealing with losing Maria." He clears his throat again. His pain, even after all these years, is etched in his features. "The grief was . . . well, it overwhelmed me. The vineyard became my outlet, so I kept expanding. I did too much, too soon—financially—and started to have cash flow issues."

  "So you took out a loan?"

  "Yup. The valley's smaller than it seems. We're all connected in one way or another, or at least we were back then. We had a friend, Duke, another vintner, who was advising me along the way and he could see what was happening. He pulled me aside one day and asked if I needed cash."

  "How much?"

  "Five hundred thousand. We set up a monthly payment plan, with interest. He handwrote a note that we signed. And that was that. About a year later, he knew I was still struggling—waiting for the first crop yield—and he came to me and told me not to worry about the payments. Said I could pay him in five years, ten years, whenever it worked for me." He folds the paper napkin he's holding into quarters. "For him, the amount was a drop in the bucket."

  I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. "What happened?"

  "I went to him five years later with a check for the full amount plus interest. I handed it to him and, wouldn't you know it, he tore the thing up. Said he was happy he could help and that he'd tear up the note too." He smiles. "I argued with him, of course. But he was a stubborn 'ol coot—said he'd made a wise relational investment and wanted to leave it at that."

  He looks past me and out the window of the cafe. "Duke died last year. Still miss him. He was a good man. And a good friend."

  "Bill, I'm not seeing the problem."

  "Oh, right. Well, last month, I got a call from . . ." He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and takes out a business card and hands it to me. "Said he was Duke's attorney and is working for Duke's daughter, Kelly Whitmore. They'd come across the note in some of Duke's papers and the daughter is demanding payment, including twenty-six years of interest."